5

8 November 1999
London
Britain

 

 

Michael had spent the morning staring into space.

The weather on the return journey from Scotland had been even worse than the drive north. Rain had slanted onto his windscreen, necessitating his wipers to go at double speed all the way while his car went at half speed. He had, at least, enjoyed company on the journey. As he had been putting his bag in the boot of his car, Helen Matthieson had emerged from the hotel, swinging a bag.

‘Any chance of a lift?’

‘Where you headed?’ he asked, thinking she was just making the short journey into Annan.

‘Well, New York’d be great, but I’ll settle for London.’ She smiled.

‘So, you’ve realised that catering isn’t the correct career path, then?’

‘I guess so. I’ve worked non-stop for the last few months and need a break. Jacquie’s a bit annoyed with me, but that’s tough. Anyway, I’ve got an old friend in London who’s had a baby and I’ve been meaning to pay her a visit. So, what do you say? I’ll pay half the petrol.’

‘No need for that. Chuck your bag in the boot.’

And so, they talked most of the journey and the time passed quickly as they cut through the morning traffic and skirted Birmingham by early afternoon. He dropped her off around four at a tube station on the outskirts of London.

‘Give me a call, Michael,’ she said, leaning in the window of the car. ‘It’d be nice to see you again, when you’ve got everything sorted, I mean.’

‘I will, Helen. You have a good time.’

She leaned into the car, kissed him on the cheek, smiled and was gone, lost amongst the commuters.

 

Now he sat in the flat, deliberating what to do next. The trip to Scotland had left him even more confused than before. He had come home and searched through the file that contained all of Rosa’s bills and receipts, ready to be passed to her accountant at some future date. My God, but she was organised, he thought, as he removed the rubber band that held together the papers that related to September.

He was searching for her credit card statement, just to confirm once and for all that she had, indeed, stayed at the Lighthouse Inn.

His heart raced as he found the bill. There it was; a receipt for £180.46 debited to the Lighthouse Inn. So, there was absolutely no doubt. She had stayed there. It had been her.

He had lain down on the bed and that was where he remained, staring at the ceiling, the minutes passing. Eventually he looked down at the statement once more, as if hoping that there had been some mistake, as if he perhaps had misread it first time. But no, there it was in black and white. His eyes strayed up and down the column, taking in the account of a part of her life during those last few months. Petrol, clothes, all laid out with their cost tidily totted up beside them. Another entry caught his attention, however. It was a charge for £650 from Rogerson & Gilchrist, the very upmarket jewellers in Kensington. What was that for? She had not talked to him about such a purchase and surely she would have, if she had bought something costing that much. Although they were certainly comfortably off, that was still a substantial sum and she would have told him about it.

Ninety minutes later he was in a shop doorway on Kensington High Street, ringing a bell on the door of Rogerson & Gilchrist.

The shop front was like a remnant of another century. Around it were the cloned fascias of the typical nineties high street – identical shops filled with exactly the same items at exactly the same prices occupied streets the length of the country. That was what made Rogerson & Gilchrist so unique. Elegantly carved dark wood surrounded the windows on which the name of the proprietors was painted in gold. Above the door a brass plaque announced the shop name quietly and confidently, as if to say, if you have to ask you have no right to be here. And it was not a shop into which just anyone could wander. A doorbell had to be rung and the door opened to let a prospective customer enter, this presumably only after perusal by a hidden security camera.

A dark-suited, bald man opened the door to Michael. He, himself, looked as if time had forgotten him, as if it were still the late eighteenth century within the confines of this shop. His suit looked as if it longed for tails and his shirt collar was starched and shiny. A thin, dark blue, silk tie hugged his throat and he seemed to bend at the waist unconsciously.

‘May I enquire as to the nature of your business, sir?’ he asked, eyeing Michael’s leather jacket and jeans suspiciously over the top of a pair of small spectacles that hung precariously on the end of his nose like a fence at the edge of a cliff.

‘I wish to purchase something, but, erm, it is a little delicate. May I come in and explain to you what I require?’

‘Why certainly,’ said the bald man, not at all happy to be letting Michael come in, but rendered curious, all the same, by the hint of delicacy. ‘Please follow me.’

He led Michael through what turned out to be a foyer, lined with leather chairs and with glass tables on which society magazines were carefully laid out. The wallpaper was heavily striped and a small chandelier threw light dimly into the corners. An upmarket waiting room, thought Michael.

They entered a large, high-ceilinged room beyond in which there was a desk in each corner. The desks were highly polished and ornate. At one of them sat another dark-suited, dark-tied, grey-haired man, busily writing. He barely looked up as Michael and the bald man came in.

‘Please take a seat,’ said the bald man, going round to the other side of his desk. ‘Now, you say it is a delicate matter, sir …?’ He left the sentence hanging, unfinished.

‘Well, it is a little delicate. I’ve placed myself in a rather difficult situation and I’m hoping you can be of help.’ The bald man shifted in his chair and looked at Michael even more sceptically. ‘I hope I can trust you to be discreet …?’

The bald man raised his eyebrows, put his head to one side and spread his hands on the table. ‘Of course, sir.’ he said.

Michael continued, ‘I am married, to a wonderful woman. However, I have been having a … how can I put it … a liaison with someone else. My erm, friend sent me an item of jewellery purchased from you, but my wife found it before I had a chance to open the packet, read the accompanying note and threw it out of the car window at eighty miles an hour on the M4. My problem is that I have to see my friend tomorrow night – she has been away – and she will expect me to thank her for what she gave me and even to be wearing it. As I never even got to see the item, I have no idea at all what it was. What I want to do is buy another one and then she will be none the wiser. So, I was wondering if you could check your files to find out what she bought and I will simply buy another of the same, if you have one.’

‘I see, sir. I understand the, erm, delicacy of the situation, but I’m afraid we may not be able to help. You see, Rogerson & Gilchrist is not like a high street jeweller, mass-producing items of jewellery. Most of the items we sell are unique, hand-crafted.’

‘But would it be possible for you to just check for me? Please? Even if I knew what it was, everything might be alright.’ Michael looked at him imploringly.

‘Well, it is a bit irregular, sir.’ His gaze shot over Michael’s shoulder, presumably to his colleague, scribbling away at the other desk, ‘but, given the delicacy of the situation in which you find yourself, I think we can certainly try. Now, if you could provide me with the date of the purchase and the name?’

Michael gave him the information he needed, trying not to sound too precise with the date as it might seem suspicious if he knew the exact details.

The bald man took a pad from a drawer in his desk and wrote on it. ‘If you will excuse me, sir …’ He stood up, pushing his chair back and went through a side door into an adjoining room. At this point there was a loud buzzing from downstairs – another client seeking entry into this sanctum. The other dark-suited man stood up, said ‘Excuse me, sir’ in Michael’s direction and left the room.

The bald man returned two or three minutes later, clutching a sheet of paper.

‘We keep full records of every purchase made so that we can be of as much help to our clients as possible,’ he said sitting down and pulling his chair closer to the desk. ‘Now, this would appear to be the only purchase ever made from Rogerson & Gilchrist by Ms Keats,’ he said, his eyes darting to the paper in his hand for confirmation of the name.

‘A lovely piece that your … friend purchased for you. A diamond-studded tie-pin, sir. I have a photograph of it.’ He removed a paper clip and detached the picture from the sheet of paper. ‘At Rogerson and Gilchrist, we retain photographs of each item we sell for our own records, sir, as well as for insurance purposes for our clients.’

It was, indeed, a beautiful piece, but certainly not something that Michael would ever consider wearing, even on those rare occasions that he wore a tie. It took the shape of a golden vine leaf, in the centre of which lay a cluster of small diamonds.

‘24-karat gold, sir, with a cluster of small diamonds set in the centre. A French piece and, I am afraid, sir, as with most of the pieces we sell, one of a kind. I regret, therefore, that I am unable to supply you with a replacement for the one which has been so sadly lost.’ A look of satisfaction spread across the bald man’s thin face, as if he were rather pleased that Michael had been mired in this situation and there was no way out.

As for Michael, he was delighted that there was no other example of the vine leaf tie-pin. He had feared that he was going to have to shell out £650 for it, had Rogerson & Gilchrist been able to provide one.

‘Oh, well, I suppose I will just have to face the music,’ said Michael, pushing back his seat and beginning to rise.

‘Er, there is just one other thing, sir. The address to which the tie-pin was delivered, sir. According to our records it was sent to an address in Italy, and not to an address in England. Do you live in Italy, sir?’ The bald man put his hands together in an attitude of prayer, resting his chin on them.

Michael stared at him, blinking and attempting to come up with an answer. Could he carry it off, he wondered? The address of Rosa’s boyfriend must be on that piece of paper lying across the desk from him. He had to get it somehow.

‘Oh God!’ He slumped back into the chair and held his face in his hands. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. It’s just … she … my wife … she’s been having an affair … I can’t stand it anymore. I had to … to find out …’ Amateur dramatics, he thought, but perhaps it would be enough. He looked up, his eyes moist, where he had rubbed them furiously with a finger while his face was covered, but unable to produce tears. He was not that good an actor. His antics were having an effect, however. The bald man had sat bolt upright in his chair, shocked at such a show of emotion. Michael buried his face in his hands once more and began to sob. Was he overdoing it? Perhaps not, because he heard the chair across from him being pushed back on the pile of the plush carpet.

‘I’ll … I’ll … get you some water, sir.’ Michael looked between his fingers and saw the retreating back of the bald man heading for the door. As soon as he was out of sight he reached across the desk and grabbed the piece of paper that lay across it, hurriedly reading its contents. There it was at the bottom. Delivery address: Box 98432, Milano Centrale, Piazza Duca d’Aosta, 20124 Milano MI, Italy. Damn! A box number at the post office in the main station of Milan.

He stuffed the piece of paper into his pocket as the bald man’s footsteps returned. Lifting his head from his hands he saw him enter the room, a glass of water in his hand.

‘Oh, there’ll be no need for that,’ said Michael rising from his chair, apparently miraculously recovered from his emotional collapse. The bald man stood with his mouth wide open as Michael walked past him saying, ‘Don’t worry yourself, chum; I’ll see myself out.’

A box number. For a moment in that musty old room he had thought he was at least going to have a name to put to this anonymous man. Somehow that would have given him some satisfaction. Now, he was no further forward – but he was not even sure whether he really wanted to be any further forward.

He turned down Kensington High Street and headed in the direction of the offices of the London Evening Post.

 

Harry Jones’s office bore witness to an amazing career in news journalism. The walls were lined with his great stories, yellowing in frames and, indeed, they were the world’s great stories. He had given Londoners their version of history for nearly forty years, spending that entire time with the same newspaper, the last twenty as news editor. Rumours suggested that he had been offered the editorship of the Post – and a number of other papers – on numerous occasions, but would not leave his beloved newsroom, with its banks of hardened hacks banging away on typewriters and latterly on word processors. It was a sight he often described as the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Harry was on the phone as Michael was shown into the office by his secretary. He beckoned to him to come in and sit down while shouting down the line at some poor, benighted journalist who seemed to be singally failing to understand the story Harry wanted.

‘Christ, Michael, it would be easier if I were to write the bloody articles myself,’ he said in his rich Welsh voice, putting the phone down. ‘How are you, lad?’

‘Oh, I’m alright in the circumstances, Harry.’

Michael’s relationship with Harry had always been an easy one. He had rarely given him occasion to lose his ragged temper at him and they had bonded early on in Michael’s career over countless whiskies in anonymous hotels, as they tried to record the boredom of party conferences or the corruption of local councillors.

‘Very sad, Michael, very sad. Life can be so bloody cruel.’ He blinked at Michael and Michael thought Harry was about to burst into tears, his Welsh sensibilities getting the better of him. It passed, however. ‘What are you planning to do then, lad? When are we going to have you back, giving us the benefit of that fine purple prose of yours?’ Harry asked, reaching for the cup of coffee on his desk.

‘Or …’ looking straight into Michael’s eyes, ‘perhaps you’re not coming back?’

Suddenly, Michael realised that Harry was right. He was, indeed, not coming back to these offices. Rather, he was returning to Italy to pursue the golden tie-pin and its owner. Why he wanted to do that and when he had made the decision, he did not know, but that was what he was going to do.

‘No, I’m not, Harry.’

Harry stared at him. ‘I feared as much. What are you going to do then? Spend the bloody insurance money?’ He was rattled that his prediction was true. He also found it difficult to imagine anyone not wanting to work anymore in his beloved newsroom.

‘Well, not exactly …’ replied Michael, a little taken aback by Harry’s outburst. ‘There’s Rosa’s book to finish. Perhaps I’ll write one of my own. You know I’ve always wanted to.’

‘But to give up on this, Michael, to pack in your career. I have to admit I’ve been a little peeved at the time it’s taken you to return and I was half afraid that when you did finally get back into the land of the living – and I use that term completely unadvisedly – you wouldn’t like it and would try to make your exit. You’re good. I don’t want to lose you. These kids I’m forced to employ these days, some can write, I’ll give you that, but there aren’t many that come along who have that extra spark that you have, that can invest a story with a bit of spirit, with the stuff that makes the punters want to come back for more. You’re good, lad, you’re good. If it’s money …’

‘No, Harry, the money’s irrelevant.’ Michael leaned forward in his seat. ‘Look, I’ve always been straight with you. Let me explain what’s really going on.’

And so, Michael recounted to Harry what he had discovered about Rosa’s relationship with the unknown Italian. He explained that he had to find out more about her life in the last few months. ‘And, of course, I do also need to get her book finished. I’m meeting with the publisher this afternoon. I just feel it will be a lasting memorial to her.’ He looked down at his shoes, musing on his lack of anger. ‘Her work deserves it, in spite of what she might have been doing to me personally.’

Harry sat back and shook his head. ‘My God, lad! That’s terrible. Terrible.’ His Welsh accent drew out the first syllable of the word ‘terrible’ as if it were a mussel being pulled from a shell on the Anglesey coast. He looked at Michael, shaking his head. ‘You’re sure of this? You know you’ve been through rather a lot in the last few weeks.’

‘I’m not going mad, if that’s what you’re hinting at, Harry.’ And then, a little angrily, ‘I’m not bloody paranoid. That’s what has been happening and I want to go back to Italy to find out who this guy is that Rosa was having a thing with. I need to find out why it happened and learn how I could be so stupid as to not see it happening right under my nose.’

Harry leaned back in his seat and was silent for a moment. ‘You know, old Leo Tolstoy once said something very interesting, Michael. He said: ‘All newspaper and journalistic activity is an intellectual brothel from which there is no retreat.’ An intellectual brothel, Michael …’ He left a space in the conversation for emphasis.

Harry often spouted quotes – Michael suspected he devoted some of his time to learning them at weekends, so that he could impress young staffers with his erudition. However, he often misunderstood their meaning, as at this time. ‘But you can generally walk out of brothels, Michael – a little unsteadily, mind you …’ He smiled as if at some distant memory. ‘… but just the same … If you are good at this work – as you undoubtedly are, Michael – there will be no escape. You will end up writing for some newspaper somewhere. And that will piss me off something rotten.’ He paused, thinking for a moment. ‘Look, here’s a thought. I want you to carry on working for me. You want to go to bloody Italy. We can make this work for both of us, make a virtue out of bloody necessity, as it were. You know that kidnapping? The Ronconi daughter? It was not far, I believe, from where your family live, down by Como, somewhere. Old Luigi Ronconi has heavy links with all the right people in Italy, as well as – if we believe the whispers, Michael – all the wrong people. The trail has gone completely cold and the Italian police are beginning to look even more stupid than they usually do. Why not go freelance for me and see what you can dig up? It would make those cretins upstairs happy. They’re trying to persuade me to get everyone to work on a freelance basis. Where’s the bloody loyalty, I keep asking them?’

‘Well, I hadn’t really thought …’

‘Oh, come on. At the very least it will give you the opportunity to speak to me every now and then. You can tell me about the sunset over the Alps or whatever the bloody mountains are over there. What do you think?’

Michael considered the offer for no more than a moment. ‘Alright, Harry. You’re on. I’ll see what I can dig up. I’ll do it.’

‘Great, lad, great!’ said Harry as a sharp knock on the door was followed by his secretary walking in.

‘His Lordship rang down asking if you would just pop upstairs, Mr Jones.’

‘Bloody hell. What does he want now?’ he asked, shaking his head.

They both stood up.

‘I’ll get someone to organise a freelance contract for you, Michael.’ He extended his hand and they shook across the ash-dusted desk. ‘You take care of yourself, now, you hear?’

 

He wanted to leave almost immediately. Walking out into the street, he felt as if London had virtually ceased to exist for him. He crossed the road and entered Kensington Gardens and watched pigeons clustered around a ragged looking woman who was feeding them crusts of bread. Their wings beat against each other in their furious haste to get as close to her outstretched hands as possible. A smile of utter bliss was etched on her face and she was completely oblivious to the fact that the worn velvet hat she wore was slipping from her head.

Once it would all have meant something to him – the uniformed nannies pushing expensive prams through the park, the red buses making their way along Bayswater Road – none of it mattered to him anymore. All that mattered … Well what did matter? Rosa’s infidelity was a fact. Perhaps getting away and throwing himself into her book and this kidnap story would help clear his head of it all. A drive down to the Channel and then through France – that would help. Long straight French roads, hyphenated by plane trees, the bark peeling from them and that characteristic white necklace of paint a few feet from the ground. That had always helped.

By the time he returned home it was set in his mind. Tonight, he would pack and he would leave for Milan first thing in the morning. He would not tell Renzo and Giovanna. He really did not want to see them so soon, and felt that he should create some distance between himself and the bad time of the last month. Making contact with them would only put him back in the midst of it all once more.

He fell asleep early, at last in the bed he had shared with Rosa. He felt apprehensive. As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered where he would be at this time the following night and through which wall the blue car would come crashing with the limp body of Rosa crucified on its bonnet once more.

He awoke early and felt refreshed. It was the most sleep he had enjoyed in weeks. He had had the dream, of course, but, having wakened with the first intimations of daylight, he gulped down a glass of cold water, pulled the quilt around himself and had fallen asleep again almost immediately.

Around eight he stood, looking out of the kitchen window, drinking a coffee. Everything was ready – bills paid, a postcard sent to John to let him know he was off on a job, but not indicating where he had gone, windows locked, electricity switched off.

As he carried his suitcase to the door around eight, a large envelope fell through. He recognised John’s handwriting on the address label and realised it would be the contact sheets from the rolls of film he had given him a couple of nights ago. He picked it up and put it into the zippered pocket on the outside of the bag, waited until he heard John’s car drive off, opened the door and stepped out of the house.