CHAPTER THREE
The train was half an hour late into Paddington, but I’m not sure that’s why I felt so down as I wandered out of the station into a London morning that was too warm for autumn but plenty grey enough. The early start from Glastonbury definitely hadn’t helped. Plus the fact that I’ve never been a fan of our not so fair capital. The old nickname of the Somerset and Dorset railway – the Slow and Dirty – suits London down to the ground – and even more below the ground.
Not that I had any intention of descending into the bowels of the Bakerloo. It was the number 36 bus for me: a forty-minute trundle past Hyde Park and Buck Pal, then across the Thames by Vauxhall Bridge to The Oval. Why Rupe, a sworn enemy of all team sports, had moved so close to a major cricket ground was beyond me. The A to Z put Hardrada Road within strolling distance of the Hobbs Gates. Maybe he’d just enjoyed ignoring the place.
12 Hardrada Road was one of a terrace of three-storeyed yellow-brick Victorian houses. Smart but unpretentious, I suppose you’d say. But hell for parking. Number 12 didn’t look like its owner had run out on it, though. The top-floor windows were ajar. I rang the bell, feeling I ought to before trying the neighbours. Naturally, there was no answer. Of course, even if Rupe was still living there, refusing to respond to letters and phone calls, he’d likely be out at work at eleven o’clock on a Thursday morning. But since I had no idea where work might be now he’d slipped his anchor at Eurybia Shipping, that thought took me nowhere.
The harassed but helpful mother of two (at least) who opened the door to me at number 10 hadn’t seen Rupe in months. ‘Not that we ever saw much of him. I thought he was working abroad. Didn’t he tell me that? I’m not honestly sure. Ask Echo. She’ll know if he’s due back.’
‘Who?’
‘Echo Bateman. His lodger. She normally gets home about midday.’
A lodger! I had the sudden impression getting a fix on Rupe was going to prove easier than I’d anticipated. Little Miss Echo could sort everything out for me. To celebrate this happy thought, I ambled back to a pub I’d passed on my way from The Oval. I had an hour to fill and something was needed to knock out the headache too much coffee and too little breakfast had given me.
The Pole Star was your usual rag-rolled, stripped-pine piece of Nineties chic. A bit bleary and frayed at the edges, maybe, but that’s how opening time found the handful of customers as well as the bar, so there were no complaints to be heard. None that weren’t drowned out by the roar of a vacuum cleaner in the food area, anyway. Fortunately, hoovering up last night’s pizza crumbs turned out to be a token affair. Before I was halfway through my drink, tranquillity was restored. I decided to hedge my bets where the lodger was concerned and tap the barman for information.
‘Do you know Rupe Alder? He lives just round the corner.’
‘Rupe Alder? Yeh. Not been in for quite a while, though. You a friend of his?’
‘From way back. More way back than recently, to be honest. That’s my problem. We’ve lost touch and I don’t know where he is at the moment.’
‘Can’t help you, mate. But there’s a bloke who works here in the evening who knows him quite well. Used to, anyway. You could ask Carl about Rupe Alder.’
‘And will Carl be here tonight?’
‘If he wakes up in time, yeh.’
Things were looking better and better. They always do when my aimless ramble through life assumes the fleeting dignity of a plan. The plan I left the Pole Star with was to buy a packet of extra-strong mints from the newsagent next door, eat one on the way back to Hardrada Road (in case Echo was down on lunchtime drinking), hear what Echo had to say for herself, scout round for a cheap place to spend the night, maybe take in a film somewhere, then gravitate back to the Pole Star to catch Carl in mid-shift.
L.G., as we know, stands in my case for Lancelot Gawain. But sometimes I think it could mean Lucky Guy. Not often, but sometimes. This was one such occasion. A young woman was letting herself in as I hove to at number 12. Tall and broadly built, with short spiky black hair and big bush-baby eyes, she was wearing Post Office uniform and uttered a weary enough sigh in the second before she noticed me to suggest she’d spent several long hours pounding the pavements of south London that morning.
‘Echo?’
‘Christ, you made me jump.’ (Indeed I had. But that’s Clarks’ finest for you.) ‘Do I know you?’ The bush-baby eyes contracted as she turned to look at me.
‘Your neighbour told me your name. I’m a friend of Rupe’s. Lance Bradley.’
‘Have we met?’
‘No. But—’
‘Only you do look . . . familiar.’
‘I promise not to be.’
‘What?’
‘Familiar.’ I shaped a grin. ‘If you let me in.’
‘Is that supposed to be funny?’
‘Well, yes. I suppose it is. Look, could we start again? I’m from the sticks. Blame the hokey line on that. I’m looking for Rupe. His family are worried about him.’
‘His what?’
‘Family. Most of us have one whether we like it or not.’
‘First I’ve ever heard of Rupe’s. Anyway, you won’t find him here. But . . .’ She looked me up and down. ‘All right. Come on in. I’ve got you now. You are a friend of Rupe’s.’
‘I did say.’
‘People say all sorts of things.’ She pushed the door wide open and went in, gesturing for me to follow.
The first thing that caught my eye was a large, garishly coloured oil painting, hanging unframed on the wall just inside the door. The second was another similar painting further along the hall past the stairs. They were clearly the work of the same artist. I’d have put money on that. As to what the artist was trying to convey – in slashed lines and violent tones – I couldn’t have hazarded a guess.
‘They’re mine,’ said Echo, catching my gaze as she slammed the door behind me. ‘Don’t feel obliged to give an opinion.’
‘Right.’
‘Come into the kitchen. Do you want some tea?’
‘Why not?’ (I really was going to have to think of a better response to offers of refreshment.)
We moved past the Vesuvian canvases and two closed doors to the kitchen. ‘That’s you, isn’t it?’ asked Echo, prodding at a picture (framed, this time) on the wall to her left.
It was a photo-montage, like the ones Les produced to commemorate fancy-dress nights at the Wheatsheaf. Only this montage, I saw as I looked at it, was a collection of snapshots from Rupe’s life. Some of places – Glastonbury Tor, Durham Cathedral, Big Ben. And some of people – friends I recognized, friends I didn’t. Echo’s prod had landed on a photograph of me sitting outside a Pennine pub during some weekend jaunt from Durham circa 1983, a bottle of Newcastle Brown clutched firmly in my hand. (OK. What can I say? We all have to make our own mistakes.) ‘I’m surprised you recognized me from this,’ I muttered.
‘Maybe I wouldn’t have if you’d had the good sense to change your hairstyle.’ She filled the kettle and lit the gas. ‘Bag in a mug OK for you?’
‘Fine.’ (I could only hope the wince hadn’t shown.)
‘Now, what’s this about Rupe’s family? He’s never mentioned having relatives.’
‘A brother and two sisters. They live at Street, down in Somerset. That’s where Rupe was born. Me too. We went to school together. And university.’
‘Durham?’
‘Right. You’re quick, aren’t you?’
‘No. Rupe did mention that. Some time. But the family . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Not a whisper.’
‘How long have you been lodging with him?’
‘About a year. Not very much with him, though. He’s been abroad most of the time. That’s really why he suggested me moving in. I needed somewhere bigger for my paintings and he needed someone to look after the place while he was away.’
‘Away where?’
‘Tokyo. On assignment for the shipping company he works for. There’s no mystery. I don’t know why his family are worried about him.’
‘You aren’t?’
‘He’s in Tokyo.’ The kettle began to sing. She took it off the boil and filled our mugs. ‘What’s there to worry about?’
‘Well, they didn’t know about Tokyo for starters. You have some way of contacting him there?’
‘A phone number. Actually . . .’ She frowned at me, almost guiltily. ‘I’ve called him a few times lately. No answer. And he hasn’t phoned back. But . . .’
‘He’s left Eurybia Shipping.’
‘He has?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ The frown deepened. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Could I have my tea fairly weak, do you think?’
She seemed puzzled by the request, then suddenly understood. ‘Oh, sure.’ She hoiked the bag out and handed the mug to me.
‘Got any milk?’
‘In the fridge.’
I helped myself. ‘For you?’
‘Yeh.’ I poured some into her mug. ‘Thanks.’
‘Why have you been phoning him lately?’
‘Things.’ She sipped her tea. ‘Odd things.’
‘Care to share them?’
She crooked her head at me. ‘Can I trust you, Lance?’
‘Sure.’
‘Rupe said I could.’
‘Did he?’
‘We were talking once. About people you could really – really – trust. He named you. No one else. Just you. Something about a caving accident. Something about . . . going back for a friend you’ve left behind. Is that what you’re doing now?’
‘Hope not.’ I smiled, trying to lighten the mood. ‘What about those odd things?’
‘You may as well come through.’ She led me back into the hall and opened the door into the front sitting room. ‘My room’s upstairs. This is Rupe’s.’
It was sparsely but comfortably furnished, with minimal decoration. There was a well-filled bookcase in one corner, with a model sailing ship on top. As far as personal touches went, that was about it. But Rupe had never been one for surrounding himself with things. He’d been a minimalist before it came into fashion.
There was a desk beneath the window, on which stood a telephone and answering machine, alongside a neatly stacked pile of letters. Echo walked across to it. ‘I’ve got my own phone. Rupe was adamant I shouldn’t bother to deal with any of his calls. Or his post. So, I haven’t. But—’
‘What?’
‘I think someone’s been in here and taken some of the letters. Maybe listened to his phone messages as well.’
‘Somebody broke in?’
‘Not broke, exactly. Slipped a latch on a window at the back, then took a look around. I’m pretty sure there are some letters missing. And the books have been moved. Dust disturbed. You know? Nothing I can swear to absolutely. We’re not talking about your average burglary.’
‘What about the rest of the house?’
‘Nothing. Just down here.’
‘Have you reported this to the police?’
‘What’s there to report? It’s not much more than a suspicion.’
I leafed through the letters. Brown window envelopes, for the most part: nothing exciting. The only hand-addressed ones were from Win. The scratchy fountain pen and Street postmark gave her away. Whatever else there’d been . . . had gone. ‘You said odd things, Echo. Plural. What else has happened?’
‘You’ve turned up.’
‘I don’t count as odd.’
‘If you say so. Anyway, you’re not the first. Lately I’ve had three other blokes round here looking for Rupe.’
‘Three?’
‘Yeh. And liquorice allsorts they were. To start with, there was a bloke from Eurybia Shipping paying what he called a “social call”.’
‘Didn’t he mention Rupe had left the company?’
‘Nope. And he didn’t seem to know Rupe was supposed to be in Tokyo either. Said he’d been abroad himself.’
‘Leave a name?’
‘Charlie Hoare. Pretty typical middle-aged London suit. After him came the Japanese businessman. I’ve written his name down there.’ She pointed to a Post-it note stuck to the answering machine: Mr Hashimoto, Park Lane Hilton. ‘He called towards the end of last week.’
‘What did he want?’
‘To speak to Rupe. I told him Rupe was in Tokyo, but I’m not sure he believed me.’
‘And the third one?’
‘A couple of days ago. Some old bloke. He was pretty rough. Said he was looking for Rupe. Didn’t leave a name. Didn’t say much at all. Shifty. You know?’
‘And all this is what prompted you to phone Rupe in Tokyo?’
‘Yeh.’
‘But no answer. There . . . or here.’ I looked round the room, then back at Echo. ‘When did you last hear from him?’
‘When I last saw him. Some time in early September. A flying visit to London, so he said. He only stayed a few nights. Then, back to Tokyo – as far as I knew.’
‘Mind if we play back the messages?’ I tapped the answering machine.
‘Suppose not.’
I rewound the tape and sat down on the black leather sofa to listen to what it contained. Echo joined me. The first message was from a car dealer offering Rupe a wonderful deal, the second from a dentist’s receptionist saying his six-monthly check-up was well overdue. We ploughed on through several similar pieces of telemush. Then Win’s voice, raised and nervous, was in the room with us. ‘We haven’t received anything, Rupert. Is there something wrong?’ She was on twice more, the anxiety in her tone stepping up each time. Next was a cheesegrater cockney saying, ‘You said we were in business. What’s with the big silence? Give me a bell. Or I’ll come looking.’
‘That’s the old bloke who called round,’ said Echo.
‘Like he said he would.’
‘Charlie Hoare here, Rupe. We really do need to talk. So, if you’re hearing this, get in touch. Soon.’
And that was it. Apart from one more call from Win. And one from me, of course. ‘Where are you?’ I murmured as the tape clicked off. ‘That seems to be what everyone wants to know.’ I stood up, walked over to the telephone and dialled a number.
‘Who are you calling?’ Echo asked.
‘The middle-aged London suit.’
But the suit wasn’t in his office. All I could do was join the long list of people leaving messages. ‘I’ll ask him to call you, sir. What does it concern?’
‘Rupert Alder.’
‘He’s no longer with the company, sir.’
‘You’d better explain that to Mr Hoare. Just tell him it’s urgent.’
‘Is it?’ said Echo as I put the phone down. ‘Urgent, I mean.’
‘Not sure.’ I wandered back to the kitchen with my empty mug and she followed. ‘Getting that way, though, wouldn’t you say?’
I stopped by the photo-montage and looked at a picture of Rupe. It was about the most recent one on display. He was standing on a quayside somewhere, with a Eurybia container vessel unloading behind him. The glaring light and the linen suit he was wearing suggested a tropical location – the Gulf maybe, or the Far East. A breeze was fanning his dark hair and his eyes were narrowed against the sun. His even features and slight build preserved that look of the eternal schoolboy I knew so well. Put him in a Crispin uniform and he could still pass for a teenager mature just beyond his years, not the thirty-six-year-old he really was.
‘Seems he was always good-looking,’ said Echo as she took the mug from my hand.
‘Yeh. Lucky bastard.’
‘You’re the same age as each other?’
‘No need to make it sound so incredible.’
‘Is this bloke his brother or something?’ She tapped a black-and-white photograph towards the top of the montage. ‘I’ve looked at him a few times and wondered where he fits in. I suppose it’s the black-and-white that singles him out.’
I gazed at the picture. It showed a man of thirty or so in jeans and a reefer-jacket, carrying a bag over one shoulder, standing on a railway platform. His hair was short, almost crew-cut, his face pale and raw-boned, the jaw square and jutting. He was holding a cigarette in one hand, in that furtive cup-of-the-palm style between forefinger and thumb. He wasn’t looking at the camera and maybe, given that he wasn’t in the middle of the picture, the camera wasn’t looking at him either. Centre stage was actually taken by the station nameboard, a soulless piece of precast concrete bearing the words ASHCOTT AND MEARE. ‘Bugger me,’ I murmured.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Ashcott and Meare was a station on the S and D a couple of miles west of Glastonbury.’ Seeing her eyes widen uncomprehendingly, I added, ‘The Somerset and Dorset railway.’
‘So?’
‘It closed in nineteen sixty-six, when Rupe and me were just toddlers. This photograph must have been taken before then.’
‘But not by Rupe.’
‘Hardly. Howard would be my guess. His brother. Not in the picture, but taking it. A real rail nut, our Howard.’
‘Mystery solved, then.’
‘Yes. Except . . .’ I looked back at the faintly blurred face of the man in the reefer-jacket, then around at all the other more recent – and more colourful – images. ‘I never remember Howard with a camera. How did Rupe come across this, I wonder? And why did he want to keep it? Ashcott and Meare was just some peat-diggers’ halt out on the moors. Unless it’s the bloke waiting there he’s interested in. But I don’t recognize him. Never seen him before.’
‘So I’ll just have to go on wondering where he fits in.’
‘You and me both.’
I went on peering at the nameless man standing on the bare platform at Ashcott and Meare thirty-five or more years in the past: a phantom passenger waiting for a ghost train. Then, suddenly, Rupe’s telephone started to ring.
‘Bet you that’s the suit,’ I said, winking at Echo.
‘I never bet,’ she responded with the straightest of faces.
‘Very wise.’ With that, I scooted into the sitting room and picked up the phone.
It was the suit. ‘Mr Bradley? Charlie Hoare here, Eurybia Shipping. You rang a few minutes ago.’
‘They said you were out.’
‘Oh, I was. Just walked in.’ The chuckling undertone in his voice didn’t so much disguise the lie as proclaim it. ‘You’re on Rupe’s phone number, I notice.’
‘I’m a friend of his. Trying to track him down on behalf of his family.’
‘That’d be the family in Street, would it?’
‘Yes. How did—’
‘Lucky guess. I dug out his CV. It gives Street as his place of birth. Yours too?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘So, you’re an old friend of his.’
‘Since schooldays.’
‘Excellent. Am I to understand Rupe’s family haven’t heard from him?’
‘Not for a couple of months.’
‘Worrying for them. Technically, Rupe’s no longer on the strength here. But we like to think of Eurybia as a sort of family too. And you don’t forget about a member of the family just because they walk out on you. So, I’d like to help if I can.’
‘Do you have any idea where he is?’
‘No. But the situation’s . . . complicated. Isn’t it always?’ He laughed gruffly. ‘Perhaps we could meet while you’re in town.’
‘How about this afternoon?’
‘No time like the present, eh, Mr Bradley? Tell you what, we’ll meet at my club. The East India, in St James’s Square. It’s next door to the London Library. Can you be there at four? It’ll be quiet around then. We can chat in peace.’
‘All right. I’ll be there at four.’
‘Excellent. Ah, one thing, though. Jacket and tie. The club does insist on it.’
‘I can manage that.’
‘See you at four, then.’
‘Right. Oh—’ But he’d rung off. I’d been about to ask him if he knew a Mr Hashimoto. But it could wait. St James’s Square wasn’t far from the Park Lane Hilton.
‘You’re meeting him this afternoon?’ asked Echo, as I put the phone down.
‘Yeh. At his club.’ I rolled my eyes.
‘He’s keen.’
‘He is, isn’t he? Suspiciously so, you’d have to say. But—’ I shrugged. ‘We’ll see. Between now and then, I have to find somewhere to stay. So, I’d better be making tracks.’
‘You can stay here if you want.’
‘Really?’ I looked at her in surprise. This was better than I’d hoped for. The sort of accommodation I could afford wasn’t the sort I’d miss.
‘I could put some sheets on Rupe’s bed. He won’t be wanting it, will he?’
‘That’s kind of you, Echo. Thanks.’
‘Well, it’s only for a couple of nights at most, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And if whoever searched Rupe’s belongings creeps back for a second go, you’ll be on hand to sort them out, won’t you?’
‘Yeh.’ I smiled uneasily. ‘There’s that too.’