CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It’s an invariable rule of life – well, my life, anyway – that, when you’re feeling bored and lonely, a chance encounter with an old acquaintance just never happens. Whereas, when you’re trying to keep a lower than low profile, it’s hideously likely.

At least I didn’t see anyone I knew on the plane, which was just as well since they might have thought it odd when I filed into the non-EU passport queue at Heathrow. With that potential catastrophe in mind, you could say I got off lightly, although when the words ‘Hey, Lance,’ roused me from my reverie aboard the train into London, lucky was the last thing I felt.

Simon Yardley – for it was indeed my old fair-weather drinking pal – sat heavily down in the seat opposite me, grinning as if our paths crossing had really made his day. Which was ironic, since it certainly hadn’t made mine, and the last time I’d spoken to him, seeking clues to Rupe’s whereabouts, he’d given me an unceremonious brush-off.

He was looking thinner-haired and jowlier than I remembered, with a sizeable stomach straining his Jermyn Street shirt. And though his suit had undoubtedly been made to measure, the measurements were in need of amendment. ‘Well, this is a turn-up for the books. I thought you never stirred from deepest Somerset.’

‘I break out occasionally, Simon.’ (The good news was that he clearly knew nothing of my involvement in several recent violent deaths around the globe. The bad news . . . was what I was bracing myself for.)

‘I’ve just flown back from LA.’ (I uttered a silent prayer of thanks that it hadn’t been San Francisco.) ‘What about you?’

‘Oh, I’ve been, er, seeing someone off.’

‘It’s a bugger, this travelling, but you’ve got to go where the money is, haven’t you?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Anyway, it’s great to see you after all this time. How long’s it been?’

‘I’m not exactly—’

‘Too long, that’s for sure. Are you staying up in town?’

‘Er, no.’

‘Well, what say we slide off for a few jars when we reach Paddington? No sense my going into the office this afternoon. It’s Friday, after all.’

‘Sorry, Simon. I’ve got to push on.’

‘Really?’ The idea that I was in a hurry when he wasn’t clearly puzzled him. ‘That’s a shame.’

‘Some other time, maybe.’

‘Yeh. Let’s do that.’ He contemplated the possibility for a vacant moment, then said, ‘When you’re next up, we ought to arrange a threesome with Rupe.’

I may have winced. I certainly felt as if I had. ‘Good idea.’

‘A boys’ night out. Like the old days.’

‘Sounds great.’

‘Used to see quite a bit of Rupe. I don’t know what’s happened to the old bugger. I really don’t. Have you—’ A thought struck him. ‘Hold on. You were trying to track him down a few weeks back, weren’t you? You called me at the office.’

‘So I did.’

‘Any luck?’

‘No.’ (Well, that was certainly true.)

‘Pity. Rupe’s always good value.’ A grey slab of Hayes-cum-Southall glided past the window as Simon reflected on the point. ‘I haven’t seen him in six months or more. Not to speak to anyway.’

‘Have you seen him . . . without speaking?’ My curiosity was suddenly aroused.

‘Mmm?’

‘When I phoned, you said you hadn’t seen him for quite a while.’

‘That’s right. Like I say. Not to speak to.’

‘But you have – technically – seen him?’

‘Well, more recently than six months, yeh. But—’

‘When?’

‘When?’ Simon puffed out his cheeks. ‘Not sure. Back in the summer, it must have been. Late summer. Yeh, around then.’

‘Where was this?’

‘The City somewhere. Does it matter?’

‘Just . . . interested,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘It could be a pointer to where he’s living these days.’

‘Shouldn’t think so. It was, er . . . near the Monument. Rush-hour time. I was heading for Liverpool Street. He was on the other side of the road. There was too much traffic to think of getting his attention.’

‘Which way was he going?’

‘South. Towards London Bridge. I remember . . .’ Simon frowned at the recollection. ‘He was grinning. You know, a real ear-to-ear job. Not at anyone. He was on his own. It was a bit odd, really. The evening commute doesn’t normally fill people with glee.’

‘But he seemed . . . happy?’

‘Looked over the bloody moon. Faintly cracked, to be honest. Maybe he’d just found out he’d won the Lottery. That would explain why he’s gone AWOL. Wouldn’t want old chums down on their luck trying to touch him for a hand-out. He’s probably on Copacabana Beach even as we speak, sipping something long and strong out of half a pineapple and practising his Portuguese chat-up lines.’ Simon gave his Latin fantasy ten seconds or so of rumination, then beetled his brow at me. ‘Here, is that why you’re so keen to contact him?’

I got rid of Simon at Paddington, where I claimed to be catching a train back to the West Country. He vanished into the Underground. That left me free to make a phone call. It was my second attempt of the day to contact Echo and I got the same result as at Heathrow: no answer. Oddly, there was no longer an answerphone cut-in. Not that I’d have left a message if there had been. I didn’t want any record of Lance Bradley’s return home.

I sat in the station café, drinking my way through a couple of double espressos to ward off jet lag and trying to apply some cool logic (not normally my speciality) to the problem of where Rupe had hidden the letter. Simon’s sighting of him in the City shortened the odds on a safe-deposit box in some Lombard Street strong-room. But where was the key – or whatever he needed to access it? 12 Hardrada Road had to be the likeliest answer. Cunningly concealed, obviously, since his furniture and belongings had already been searched to no avail. But there, somewhere, surely.

Unfortunately, 12 Hardrada Road was a risky destination for me. The neighbours might have been asked about me by the police. I couldn’t just roll up there unannounced, especially in daylight. I had to speak to Echo first.

But that didn’t seem to be an easy thing to do. She still wasn’t in – or wasn’t answering – when I rang the number for a third time before leaving the station and booking myself into the unprepossessing but suitably anonymous room-for-cash no-questions-asked Hotel Polaris in Craven Road.

From the lobby payphone I drew a fourth blank before heading out into the mid-afternoon murk. My next move wasn’t exactly risk-free either and might have been better left until after I’d tried my luck at Hardrada Road, but with the weekend about to close on my window of opportunity I couldn’t really opt for delay. Philip Jarvis of Myerscough Udal had made it obvious he wouldn’t admit to knowing me officially. I had to hope that, unofficially, it would be a different matter. Because Myerscough Udal struck me as about the likeliest people to know where Rupe might have squirrelled away an important document.

Their offices were part of a drab Seventies block, out of which early leavers eager for the weekend were already trickling when I took up position in the next doorway along and tried to melt into the masonry behind an Evening Standard. Jarvis was neither slack nor obsessive. I had him down as a five-thirty man, maybe five on a Friday, which left me with anything from half an hour to more than double that to wait. If I was really unlucky, he’d taken the day off or was at home in bed with flu or had a meeting elsewhere. On the other hand, I didn’t have anything better to do.

It was, in fact, on the dot of five-thirty that I spotted him emerging into the dank autumn evening. With a scowl at the nose-to-tail traffic and a twitch of his raincoat collar, he turned and strode towards me – and Holborn Tube station.

I fell in behind and let him put a bit of distance between us and Myerscough Udal before quickening my pace to overhaul him. ‘Mr Jarvis,’ I called, tapping his elbow with my rolled-up Standard.

He stopped and looked round, instant recognition lighting his features. Then, suddenly, it changed, like a switch being flicked. He tensed and drew back. ‘What?’

‘Mr Jarvis, I have to speak to you. I’m sorry, but it’s really very important.’

‘Who are you?’

‘You know who I am. We met in Hyde Park with Mr Hashimoto.’

‘Who?’

‘Hashimoto. Come on. A couple of weeks ago.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘There’s no need to play games. I realize you have to be careful, but—’

‘I have no idea who you are or what you want.’ He’d raised his voice unnecessarily, as if to make a point to some unseen observer. ‘Leave me alone.’

He turned on his heel and strode away at a pace little short of a jog. ‘Jarvis,’ I shouted. ‘For God’s sake.’ I started after him, but stopped within ten yards.

There was no point pursuing him. The certainty hit me that he’d insist he didn’t know me however persistent I was. And I couldn’t afford to be too persistent, as he might well know. It wasn’t what I’d expected, but somehow, now that it had happened, I felt strangely unsurprised. Even the fear that had quite clearly gripped him was, in its way, predictable. It was also more than a little familiar. I was beginning to know the look.

I couldn’t imagine Echo doing a Simon Peter on me. But if she never answered her telephone, it might amount to much the same thing. My last piece of advice to her had been to move out. If she’d already acted on it, I was euchred. That would explain the answering machine being disconnected, of course, a disturbing thought to nurse along with a couple of Carlsberg Specials in a jam-packed pub in Covent Garden. What was I going to do if she’d gone?

Then another still more disturbing thought struck me. Jarvis had spoken – when he’d been prepared to – of Myerscough Udal being pressurized by some corporate entity far more powerful than they were. But Stephen Townley was a quintessential loner. He couldn’t have brought such pressure to bear. So, who or what were we talking about? Caribtex Oil? Or some giant corporation of which they were just a minor subsidiary? And why? Why should anyone, other than Townley and his family, care about him being tied into murder and robbery all those years ago?

I left the pub around eight o’clock and walked across to Leicester Square. I’d decided what to do, but the time to do it hadn’t yet arrived and drinking until it did was a recipe for disaster. Whether sitting through a film about a guy with short-term memory loss was a much brighter idea turned out to be academic, because I fell asleep during his second fugue and woke to find the end credits rolling. Time hadn’t so much been killed as erased.

I managed to get a taxi at Charing Cross. When we reached Kennington, I asked the cabbie to wait for me in the next street east from Hardrada Road and made my final approach on foot. With early starts at the sorting office, Echo was no night-bird. If she was still living at number 12, she’d be home by now.

But she wasn’t. The house was in darkness and there was no response to a succession of lengthy stabs at the bell. What was worse – and more conclusive – was that the curtains were open on all the windows. I took a squint through the letter-box and couldn’t make out the outlines of any of her paintings among the shadows of the hallway. All I made out, in fact, was emptiness.

Next morning, dull and early, I was on an empty 36 bus as it trundled over Vauxhall Bridge through what still looked and felt like the middle of the night. I wasn’t feeling too good and had difficulty focusing on much beyond the bleary perception that I didn’t have what it took to be a postman.

From the southern side of the bridge I trudged down Wandsworth Road in thickening drizzle towards the sorting office. It was nearly seven o’clock, but still as dark as the inside of a mailbag. Echo was probably having a second breakfast in the staff canteen before heading out on her round. Unless she was off sick, of course, or on holiday. Those possibilities didn’t bear thinking about, so it was just as well, really, that I wasn’t up to thinking about much at all.

The enquiry desk didn’t open till eight, according to the sign next to the shuttered door, so I cut round to the loading yard at the back, buttonholed a bloke just going into the sorting office and talked him into asking postperson Echo Bateman to step outside for a word.

‘I knew it had to be you,’ was her opening remark as she emerged into the yard. ‘I’ve been wondering if I’d ever hear from you again.’

‘The past ten days have been kind of hectic.’

‘More than hectic, Lance. The police contacted me.’ She left the rest unsaid, but rolled her large eyes at me.

‘You moved out of Hardrada Road.’

‘Your idea, as I recall.’

‘Yeh. The thing is, Echo, I need to, er, take a look inside. Do you still have the keys?’

‘What’s going on?’

‘I can’t get into that.’

‘Now now, maybe.’ A van started up nearby, followed by a series of loud warning honks as it began to reverse. ‘Anyway, I haven’t got the keys on me. And I’ve got to get out on the round. Come to my new place around midday and we can talk then. Actually . . .’ She hesitated, staring at me as the van went on honking. ‘Maybe it would be better if we met somewhere else.’

‘Should I take that personally?’

‘What do you think?’

I shaped a smile. ‘I think it’s probably a sensible precaution.’

The Ferret and Monkey was far enough into Clapham to guarantee Echo and me total anonymity amidst the young and boisterous Saturday lunchtime crowd. It was difficult to hear each other speak above the piped music and general clamour, but at least that reassured me that it would be even more difficult for anyone else to hear.

‘The police wouldn’t tell me anything, Lance. But they weren’t messing around. It was pretty obvious you were in serious bother. That and your phone call from Berlin clinched it for me about moving out. Radway Road’s down a notch from Hardrada Road, but at least I know if I’m broken into it’ll be by genuine burglars. Now, what do you want the keys for?’

‘I need to search the house.’

‘Hasn’t it been searched enough?’

‘Rupe hid something there. I have to find it.’

‘What is it?’

‘Can’t tell you. Honestly, Echo, it’s best if you—’

‘Don’t know. Yeh, I remember the line. It’s wearing thin.’

‘It’s the only one I’ve got. I’m glad you moved out. I’m glad you’re not involved. Stay that way. I wish I could.’

‘Too late to quit?’

‘Far too late.’

‘Your Japanese friend ended up dead, didn’t he?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘The police were a bit more forthcoming with your father. He was up here last weekend, trying to find out what had happened to you.’ (My heart sank. Dad blundering around was bad news – for him and for me.) ‘Have you been in touch with him?’

‘Not yet.’

‘But you will be? He’s very worried.’

‘It’s a promise.’

‘Have you learned anything about Rupe?’

‘He’s not coming back, Echo.’

‘Never?’

I shook my head and mouthed ‘Dead’ at her.

‘Bloody hell.’

‘What about the keys?’

She just stared at me for a moment, apparently still absorbing the meaning of what I’d told her, then took the keys out of her pocket and plonked them on the table. And still she stared at me. ‘You’ll be careful, won’t you?’

‘Oh yes.’ I grinned. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘I will worry.’

‘That’s nice to know. Look, I’d better be going.’

I picked up the keys and we both stood up, smiling awkwardly. Echo’s smile turned to a frown. ‘I nearly forgot. You have another Japanese friend, this one alive and well. The neighbours sent him round to me from Hardrada Road. He’s anxious to contact you.’

‘Name?’

‘I wrote it down.’ She handed me a crumpled piece of paper, on which was written, in her enormous capitals: TOSHISHIGE YAMAZAWA – ARUNDEL HOTEL, MONTAGUE ST, WC1.

‘When did he turn up?’ (And what the hell, I wondered, was he doing in London?)

‘The day before yesterday.’

‘I’ll, er, call round later.’

‘You do know him, then?’

‘Yeh.’

‘And he is a friend?’

‘I think so.’

‘Well, seems to me you need every one of them you can get.’

‘I certainly do.’

‘I’m one too.’

‘I know.’

She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Good luck, then . . . quitter.’

As far as I could tell, I made it to the door of 12 Hardrada Road unobserved. I let myself in with a sigh of relief and closed the latch carefully behind me.

Minus Echo’s possessions, the contents of the house were noticeably sparse. Rupe had never been one for putting down domestic roots. The photo-montage still hung in the kitchen, of course. I took it down and prised off the backing. There was no letter hidden behind the photographs. There weren’t any other picture frames to check. Everything else on the walls had belonged to Echo. I’d searched Rupe’s sitting room and bedroom before – albeit without knowing what I was looking for – and turned up nothing. I went over them again, though, more thoroughly. But the result was the same. None of the books in the bookcase had anything slipped between their pages or wedged behind them. There was no roll of paper concealed in the hold of the model ship.

Checking every potential hiding-place as painstakingly as I needed to was a time-consuming business and I was already worried that I wouldn’t finish before it got dark. I certainly couldn’t afford to start turning lights on. I decided to try the loft next and was halfway out of the cupboard under the stairs with the step-ladder when the doorbell rang.

I crouched back into the cupboard out of sight, but caught the top of the ladder on the lintel above my head, lost my grip and winced helplessly as it crashed against the wall on the other side of the hall. ‘Shit,’ I murmured. (Inaudibly, for what little that was worth.)

The bell rang again. I stayed where I was, hoping the caller had somehow failed to hear the noise. (Being stone deaf was about the only way they could have done.) There was a third, longer ring. Then the letter-box creaked open.

‘I know you’re in there, Lance.’ The voice belonged to Carl Madron. ‘Why don’t you quit fucking about and let me in?’

It’s not nice when somebody has you at a disadvantage. When that somebody has the leery smile, rodent-like gaze and acid-drop manner of Carl Madron, the experience feels like having a healthy tooth drilled without anaesthetic: excruciating and unlikely to be of long-term benefit.

‘I somehow thought you’d be back, Lance, you know that? I’ve got an instinct for these things. You were just waiting for Echo to up sticks, I’ll bet, so you’d have a free run of the place.’

‘What do you want, Carl?’

‘A friendly little chat would be nice. Least you owe me, really, seeing how I put you on to Bill Prettyman. But it can be unfriendly if you insist. We had a deal. You were supposed to keep me posted. So, how is it I have to rely on a nosy neighbour to tip me off that you’ve shown up again – after two weeks of resounding fucking silence?’

‘There’s been nothing to keep you posted about.’

‘Is that a fact? Not according to the filth, it isn’t. They reckon you’ve been a very busy boy. A trail of murder and mayhem leading halfway round the world is the tale they tell – if you ask them nicely. But I’m sure you’d rather not talk about that, so I’ll keep it simple. What’s it worth for me to stay shtum about you being back in town?’

‘Why don’t you tell me? I’m sure you’ve already decided what the price tag is.’

‘That I have.’

‘Well?’

‘Comes down to this, Lance. You’re caught up in something big. Something fucking huge, as a matter of fact. I know one of the dead guys in Berlin was called Townley, so don’t bother to deny there’s a tie-in with the Townley Rupe was looking for. That means there’s also a tie-in with some vintage crime: the Train. What are we talking about? The high rollers behind it crawling out of the woodwork – or being pulled out? There’s this guy I know from one of the Sundays. He’s talking serious money for an exclusive on the whole can of worms. By serious I mean there’s a lot of noughts on the end. You ought to be interested, believe me.’

‘Oh, I believe you.’

‘But just in case you need something to kick-start your enthusiasm for talking to him, here it is: I’ll keep my mouth shut if you’ll open yours.’

‘To your Fleet Street chum?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And do I get a cut of that . . . serious money?’

‘More a sliver than a cut. But enough to buy yourself some distance from the forces of law and order.’

‘Which I’ll certainly need if my story gets splashed across the press.’

‘You said it.’

‘When would you want me to meet him?’

‘Sooner the better. I’ll give him a bell now if you like. If you’re definitely accepting my generous proposition.’

‘How could I resist a sales pitch like yours, Carl?’ (Easily was the truth, but it would be like Carl to believe everyone’s motives were as base as his and stringing him along was about the only way I could see to buy the time I needed.) ‘I reckon bringing the media into this is probably the only smart move left.’

‘You bet.’

‘But I have to fit one last piece into the jigsaw first. A piece that could multiply those noughts for you. Maybe for me too.’

‘What is it?’

‘A letter, implicating Stephen Townley in the robbery.’

‘Robbery, as in Great Train?’

‘Yeh.’

‘Rupe hid it here, did he?’

‘It’s the only place left to look.’

Carl glanced through the open doorway of the kitchen where we were standing, at the step-ladder propped in the hall. ‘Attic job, is it?’

‘Maybe. I have to check everywhere. Want to give me a hand?’ (I was skating on thin ice now. The last thing I wanted was for Carl to take up the invitation. But the only way to get rid of him was to convince him I was willing to go along with his plan. I was betting on him being too arrogant to demean himself by doing any of the work he felt he could rely on me to do.)

‘How long’s it going to take?’

‘How long’s a piece of string?’

‘Why don’t we find out?’ (Well, I never was a very successful gambler, as the bookmakers of Glastonbury could attest.) ‘You carry on, Lance. I’ll watch – just to make sure you don’t miss any corners.’ (So, I’d judged his character correctly, but misjudged how to manipulate it.)

‘We could be here a fair while.’

‘That’s OK.’ He grinned. ‘I’m in no hurry.’

As it happened we soon found what we were looking for. I found it, actually. Carl was as good as his word and confined his contribution to watching and telling me where to try next.

He was standing on the platform of the step-ladder, with his head and shoulders above the level of the loft hatch, disdainfully observing my dusty scramble between the joists, when the beam of the torch, which I was using to supplement the inadequate reach of the single light bulb, fell on something I recognized.

It was a short strip of red-and-white caving tape. Rupe and I encountered taped stretches in the cave system he’d led me into that day in the summer of 1985 that had nearly ended in my death. ‘They’re to protect vulnerable areas,’ he’d explained. ‘Keep-out signs, if you like.’

Keep out – or come hither? The strip was nailed to a rafter, low down near the eaves, where headroom was minimal, deep in the shadow cast by the water tank, which handily blocked Carl’s view of me as I trained the torch on the area around the tape. I couldn’t see anything, just wood and felt and cobwebs. Then it occurred to me that maybe the tape, hanging vertically as it was, might be a pointer to something below. I flashed the torch down to the joist immediately beneath it. Still nothing. But the tape was clean enough to suggest it hadn’t been there long. It had to have some significance. I crouched down and stretched forward, exploring with my hand the insulation-filled gulley next to the joist.

And there it was. A small padded envelope, parcel-taped to the side of the joist. I smiled to myself in a small moment of satisfaction as I ran my fingers across it, while the ankle I’d broken in that long ago caving fall twinged sympathetically.

What to do? It was the question I’d been chewing over since Carl had insisted on sticking around. I could pretend I’d found nothing and hope to shake him off, then come back later. But I wasn’t sure he could be shaken off, or that I could bring myself to leave the house without the envelope. Sharing the contents with him was both repugnant and risky, since they might well fail to amount to what I’d told him they did. That left only one option, in many ways the riskiest of the lot. But it was the one I went for.

I ripped the envelope free of the joist and backed away until I could stand upright. ‘I think I’ve got something,’ I said, turning towards Carl.

‘You have?’

‘Yeh. An envelope. And a letter inside, I’d like to bet. Let’s go down and take a look.’

‘OK.’

Carl started to descend as I reached the hatchway. Wedging the envelope into the waistband of my jeans, I sat down on the hatch frame and lowered myself towards the platform of the step-ladder. Even as I did so, I saw my chance. Carl glanced down to check how many steps there were to the floor. Bracing my arms, I swung my feet and struck him a solid blow around the jaw. He grunted and fell, hitting the floor with a thump and lying where he’d fallen, shocked and winded. I kicked the step-ladder, which toppled onto him, then jumped down and turned towards the stairs, while Carl moaned and rolled over, struggling under the weight of the step-ladder.

I took the stairs two at a time and had already reached the bottom when Carl bellowed after me, ‘You fucking bastard.’ I saw the banisters vibrate as he grabbed the landing-rail to haul himself up. But I was way ahead of him. I pulled the keys out of my pocket, yanked the front door open, plunged out into the street, slammed the door behind me and turned the mortice key in the lock to slow Carl down as much as possible.

Glancing round, I saw the woman from number 10, laden with children and shopping, staring at me in bemusement. ‘Hi,’ I found myself saying. Then I turned and legged it.

Lucky in love, unlucky at cards. Well, I’ve never had a lot of luck in either department. But buses are a different matter. My faithful stand-by, the 36, was just pulling away from the Harleyford Road stop when I jumped aboard. Looking back from the platform as it accelerated away, I could see no sign of Carl. He was probably still trying to force open a ground-floor window at 12 Hardrada Road to climb out of. I was rid of him – well rid.

I slumped down on the empty bench seat just inside the bus, panting heavily, and paid my fare to the impassive conductor. Then I tugged the envelope free of my jeans and took a look at it. There was nothing written on the outside to give a clue to the contents but I could feel something small and hard inside. I edged a finger under the flap and tore it open.