‘What?’
‘Uh, you know, putting on a brave face. I think the break might be doing him some good, giving him time to think about things. You know what they say – absence breaks the heart but cures the head.’ His own head was hurting with the pretence. Christ, he needed to lie down.
‘Who says that?’
‘It’s just a saying.’
‘Hmn,’ she mused, ‘it’s one I haven’t heard. Well, maybe the punishment is a little harsh. He’s a sensitive boy, he needs his mother.’
‘To tell you the truth, Evelyn, he was only saying last night that a man has to stand on his own two feet occasionally, to get away from hearth and home to get a proper measure of himself.’
‘Samuel said that?’
‘It made me smile, I gotta admit. He looked so serious, as though he’d taken on a couple of years.’
‘I’ve never heard him speak like that before. Hearth and home?’
‘Yeah, well, they weren’t actually his words, but that was the gist of it. In fact, he said it would be fun to stay with his dad for a while.’
‘Oh did he now?’ The temperature of her voice had dropped considerably. ‘I don’t think it’ll be long before he changes his mind about that. Oh no, not when he starts to miss his creature comforts. Things like a freshly made bed, regular meals, someone to dote on him like a bloody fool! We’ll see how long it takes him to get fed up with dear Daddy and his slummy ways. Wait ’til he wants a nice clean shirt to wear, or something other than junk food to eat. Then we’ll see what his’ – she parodied the words – ‘proper measure is.’
Creed’s attitude was very reasonable. ‘I think it’s only fair to let him—’
‘Fair? What do you know about fair? Fair to you is when everything goes the Joseph Creed way. My, my, wait ’til you find out what it’s like to be responsible for another human being twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It’ll soon put a damper on your usual fun and games having to look after your son. Let’s see how you cope, let’s see how you take care of him.’
Oh bitch, if only you knew. ‘We’ll make out just fine,’ he said, all bravado. ‘Don’t you worry about us.’
‘I won’t. I’m going to have the time of my life, believe me. For once I’ll be free to enjoy myself, to do what I want to do. This is the first time in I-don’t-know-how-many-years I can just please myself! I can’t tell you what a good time I’m going to have! If he needs more hankies I’ll put them in the post.’ With that, the line shut down.
He breathed out, a long sigh of a breath. Tomorrow she’d want Sammy back home. He had to do something about the situation by then.
Creed can stew in his own juices for a bit while our attention is turned to someone else who figures (albeit peripherally for the moment) in the story. Antony James Barnabas Blythe was a man who was easy to despise. Born of fading gentry, schooled at Marlborough, stiffened by a brief spell in the Household Cavalry, he had armed himself against the common rigueurs of everyday life with the right connections before embarking on an uncloistered career. (The same connections had counterbalanced a lamentable lack of funds earlier on, for the economic realities of the ’seventies had taken their toll on the family wealth and, furthermore, his father had been inconsiderate enough to join the angels when a socialist government was in power and death duties were at their meanest.) His entrée into journalism was as a stringer to an established diarist, feeding through and often inventing tittle-tattle gained from his own society contacts, until eventually to take on the prime role himself after one costly libel case too many against the newspaper had tugged the rug from under the incumbent columnist.
Because of certain effete affectations, his prim lips, and acute sense of dress (nothing unstructured about his Savile Rows) plus a suspicious sensitivity regarding his own private life, it was generally assumed that Blythe was homosexual. That assumption was not quite correct for, whilst there had in the past been ‘dalliances’ with others of his own sex, particularly in the Guards, and he had accumulated an inordinate amount of Cinderella friends over the years, genuine lack of desire and haemorrhoids had long ago cooled any inclinations he might have had in that direction. In truth, and in practice (or non-practice, as it were), Antony Blythe was asexual. It’s a condition that precludes many problems in life.
Like Joe Creed, he was not well-loved by his peers but, unlike the photographer, neither was he respected. After all, who really likes gossips beyond a superficial level? Not only do you automatically know they can’t be trusted, but they also make you feel guilty for listening. Besides which you can never be sure you won’t be the next target. It was a bitchy profession, and Blythe was more bitchy than most.
He was good at his job, though. He had a nose for scandal, an ear for hearsay, and an eye for spying. Unfortunately, the fast-growing popularity of litigation had tamed his and other gossip columns somewhat in recent years, although occasionally, just occasionally, his Diary reports were so scandalous they merited front– or second-page features. Those were the ones that Blythe loved best, for ultimately these were his raison d’être. You see, he was someone who liked to damage, to sneer rather than praise, to hurt rather than help. It’s a common enough qualification for his particular trade, but one that was developed to its highest (or lowest, whichever way you look at it) degree in Blythe. The pocketbook Freud might say it had something to do with the individual’s own sense of inadequacy, a need to drag others down to his or her own level, or possibly below it. Antony Blythe was full of insecurities, although to look at him you’d never know it; in fact, he hardly knew it himself, so arrogant was his nature. He looked up to no one, and constantly endeavoured to prove to himself that there was no one to look up to. A real sad case (something else he himself wasn’t aware of).
If he was more irascible than usual this morning (and he was usually pretty irascible at any time of day) it was because the contents of the envelope that Prunella had left for Joe Creed had nagged at him most of the night. Creed, whom he seemed to loathe a little more than almost anyone else, was on to something and Blythe wanted to know what. Something (instinct? His nose for dirt?) told him it was newsworthy, and his own eyes had told him it had to do with a mourner at Lily Neverless’ funeral who looked like a murderer (he remembered the photograph Creed had shown him) hanged half a century ago. Creed wouldn’t waste his time on a story that wasn’t going to earn for him. But he was only a snapper, for God’s sake. His job was to take pictures. Real stories were best left to the pros, to those who really knew how to dig deep, to those who had the right contacts. Professionals like, well, like Blythe himself.
From his cubby-hole office, he spotted Prunella making her way to her shared desk. He caught her eye and beckoned, curling his finger in the manner of a schoolmaster summoning the class clown.
He started pleasantly enough. ‘You are exceedingly happy in your chosen profession, aren’t you, my dear?’
His affability made her nervous. ‘Of course, I—’
‘That warms me, Prunella. Sometimes one becomes concerned for one’s employees. You do work for me, don’t you?’
Prunella, her small mouth contracting even tighter, her pallid skin blanching even paler, regarded the diarist with doleful eyes. What had she done wrong this time? She hated Blythe when he was in this sarcastic mood, which was most of the time, for it always seemed to be her who took the brunt of it. Just because she was the junior on the Diary team, it didn’t mean that he could constantly bully her. Someday she’d tell him exactly what he could do with his job and his waspish remarks. Not today, though. ‘Of course I work for you, Antony.’
‘Aha. Yes, that’s what I believed. Foolish of me to suppose otherwise.’ He rested his elbows on the desk, supporting his chin with fingertips. ‘Then why, I wonder, are you moonlighting for someone else? You do know what moonlighting is, don’t you, Prunella?’
‘I do, but I don’t know what you’re insinuating,’ she replied resignedly.
‘I
’m referring to your extracurricular activities for Mr Scumbag.’
‘Mr . . .?’
‘Joe Creed, Prunella. The grubby little person you left an envelope for yesterday.’ His voice had ascended a scale or two as if astonished at the gravity of her misdemeanour. ‘It was full of old newspaper stories about some vile creature who had a penchant for chopping people up and preserving their parts. Is it coming back to you, my dear? It seems so odd that when I request a teensy piece of research of you it requires such an effort and generally takes you most of the day, yet when our friend Creed – excuse me, I should say, your friend Creed – asks for the same you have no difficulty at all in providing envelopes absolutely loaded with details and photocopies and everything he could possibly need.’
‘Oh, Antony, it took me twenty minutes or so, and I did it in my lunch break.’
‘I don’t care when you did it. What matters to me is that you did it at all. You . . .’ he pointed a finger to make sure there was no mistaking whom he meant ‘. . . are here to serve me. Just me. No one else. Your duty is not to God, nor to our proprietor; not even to our dearly beloved editor. On these premises you are mine, my sweet. Is that perfectly clear, I wonder . . .?’
‘It wasn’t that import—’
He placed a finger before pursed lips to hush her. ‘I wonder why Creed wanted such information on this particular nasty excuse for a human being.’
‘Why did you open the envelope I left for Joe?’
He sighed. ‘Spare me the indignation. This is a newspaper office – our very function is to pry. Besides, anything you do during working hours comes under my jurisdiction. Nothing you do with your job can be private from me, Prunella.’
She opened her mouth, about to reply, then thought better of it. The creep was going to win whatever she said in her defence.
‘So will you please answer my question: Why did Creed want information on Nicholas Mallik, and what is the connection with the man he photographed at Lily Neverless’ funeral?’
‘I honestly don’t know. Joe didn’t tell me anything.’
He eyed her coldly. ‘I see. You’re not willing to say.’
‘No, it isn’t like that. I really don’t know.’
‘Hmn, perhaps you don’t. After all, why should he confide in you? Use you, yes, but take you into his confidence? I doubt he’d be so foolish.’
He wagged his finger at her, and Prunella fought back the urge to smack it away. ‘Fortunately you have a chance to redeem yourself,’ he said. ‘Find out what Creed is up to and let me know. In the meantime, I’ll make some enquiries of my own.’
Blythe tapped out a name on the small electronic organizer he’d taken from a desk drawer, then picked up the telephone. Receiver in one hand, he looked up at her as if wondering why she still stood before him. His other hand dismissed her with an airy wave.
19
The building was in one of those rising streets close to where Billingsgate fish market stood before property developers, those infidels of tradition, set their greedy beady eyes on the site. Creed drove by, slowing down and scrutinizing the open doorway before finding somewhere to park. It was an old building, narrow and made of coppery red bricks, wedged incongruously between later styles; entering was like walking into a large dank cave, the hollow smell and the cold echoes of his footsteps chilling his thoughts as well as his flesh.
On a wall inside was a rubber-ridged noticeboard on which were pressed incomplete company names, the black spaces as unsightly as gaps in teeth. However, the name he was looking for was there in its entirety. LIABLE & CO. He checked the address in his hand. No mistake. Seventh floor. He hoped the lift was working.
It was one of those ancient affairs with contracting iron doors and metal latticework caging the shaft itself. He pressed a button and somewhere high above machinery clunked into life. The lift heralded its own approach with regular heavy thumps and groans, and while he waited Creed looked round at the high-ceilinged and municipal-tiled hallway. He suddenly had a yearning for sunshine and people.
The building appeared to be unoccupied, the only noise apart from the complaining elevator to be heard coming from somewhere outside; the muted sounds of drilling and crashing masonry somehow were reassuring. There was only one door in the hallway, this made up of two sections so that the top half could be swung back on its own. He assumed that a porter or janitor was usually stationed there to be on call or to answer enquiries. Creed went over and rapped on the top section, but there was no answer. He was about to try again when a final metallic groan announced the arrival of the lift.
He returned and pulled back the iron door with some effort; the matching door to the car itself was a little easier. Creed stepped inside and closed both doors again, feeling as if he’d just voluntarily shut himself up in a cell.
The buttons for each floor were round and prominent, like discoloured eyeballs, with serif numbers as pupils. He pressed 7. After a moment’s consideration, the elevator rose with a shudder, then proceeded smoothly enough (although the clunk-thunk it made as it passed the floors was somewhat disconcerting: it was as though the shaft itself had shrunk over the years and the car had to squeeze past each level). The higher he went the gloomier the corridors outside became.
What was he doing? This had to be crazy! These people weren’t normal. Nobody sane would kidnap a boy just to get back photographs of themselves. They – he – could have had them anyway. All they had to do was ask nicely. Or even just ask.
Machinery above whined and the elevator jolted to a halt, causing him to shift footing. He peered through the bars of the gates into the corridor beyond. Light from a grimy window at the far end barely had a say in the gloaming, and the urge to press the G button was powerful. You’ve got no choice, he reminded himself. You can’t fail Sammy now. His very life might depend on it. Talk to them, agree to turn over everything, and then you could all go home. But would it really be that simple? In his heart he knew it wouldn’t. Not now . . .
Creed yanked back the lift door and then the outer one.
No more thinking, he told himself. Just get the fuck on with it. Action was what was needed here, and thinking only diminished resolve. He hummed to himself as he left the elevator, something from The King and I, but even he didn’t know what it was. There were four doors in the corridor, two on either side, and he strode resolutely to the first. Faded gold lettering told him this wasn’t the one he was looking for, but he tried the handle anyway. It was locked.
Crossing the corridor to the next, he struck out again: also locked.
The third door, further along, had no title on its dusty speckled glass, but it opened at his touch. He poked his head in first.
It wasn’t much brighter than the corridor in there, for blinds were drawn on the two windows. He could hear the faint drone of traffic rising from the street seven flights below as well as distant sounds of building works, but the office itself was as morbidly quiet as a tomb.
‘Anyone home?’ he called out.
There was no reply and he wasn’t too disappointed. He opened the door wider and hesitantly stepped across the threshold. It was difficult to make out the room’s contents, so poor was the light. Bookshelves, a filing cabinet, a couch against one wall, a desk – he could just about identify those. Oh, and one other thing – a figure sitting behind the desk.
‘Close the door,’ a low – a very low – voice said.
‘It’s dark in here.’ Creed refused to move far from the doorway. ‘Let’s have some light.’ He half turned, looking for a switch.
‘Wait.’ The figure at the desk rose, an indiscernible shape among the shadows, and Creed took a step backwards, tensed to run. The voice was not that of the man he’d met in the park the night before, and perhaps it was curiosity as well as fear for his son that prevented him from bolting. It had a certain roughness to it, like the other man’s and it was just as deep-pitched; but it was . . . different. He realised how different when slatted blinds snapped o
pen and daylight filtered through (the windows were filthy with grime).
The woman was almost in silhouette, the day’s greyness outlining long dark hair, her shoulders, the swell of a hip. It flashed through his mind that it was Cally standing there before the window, but of course the voice wasn’t the same, the hair was dark . . .
‘Close the door.’
It was a command he still felt no inclination to obey. ‘I’d rather not,’ he said.
He thought he heard her laugh – no, a smaller sound, a snigger? She may have just coughed.
‘Very well. Will you at least take a seat?’ She moved back to her own chair. ‘Or will you continue to be difficult? I think we have the advantage, you know.’
He’d been wrong: there was no roughness to her voice, just a deep huskiness that made it, well, seductive. Judas, he said to himself, what was he thinking here?
‘I want to know about my son.’
‘We’ll discuss your son when you’re seated.’
What the hell could she do? She was only a woman. But was she alone? He inspected the office, grim daylight at least throwing some relief. Just him and her, although across the room there was another door which obviously led to an adjoining office. Could the two freaks be lurking in there?
‘The couch,’ the woman said.
Creed shrugged. No big deal. Anyway, the couch was close to the open door if he wanted to get out fast. It smelled of age rather than leather when he lowered himself on to it, rising dust spoiling the air, the material itself creaking dryly. It finally dawned on him that the building and its offices were not really in use at all; the whole place was probably waiting its turn for the demolition squad.
‘What’ve you done with Sammy – with my son?’ he asked mildly enough. Inside he was scared, he was seething, he was distraught.
‘The boy is unharmed.’
A sudden flare and her countenance was lit up. The end of her cigarette glowed and the lighter flicked off. Smoke caught the light as it rose from the shadow of her face.