Days Without Number (23 page)

Nick said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He stared fixedly at the seat-back in front of him.

'I put everything back as I found it. If it was filled in with concrete and painted over - as it'll have to be before the house is sold - no-one would notice anything amiss. Of course, as one who's also seen the video, I have little doubt as to what was there when you and Andrew . . . came across it. I assume removal was Andrew's idea. He was always too headstrong for his own good. I quite understand why you co-operated. It must have seemed a simple solution to a complicated problem. You might tell me: approximately how long had it been there, do you think? You have the advantage of me. You know what condition it was in.'

Nick forced himself to turn and look at his brother. 'Ten years or more,' he whispered. 'At a guess.'

'Thus is Dad's reluctance to sell explained at a stroke.'

'Yeah.'

'Poor Nick. It must have been a harrowing business:'

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'It was.'

'Had you and Andrew seen the video before he went up to Tintagel that day?'

Nick nodded. 'A copy was put in my car during the wake at Trennor.'

'You suspected Dr Farnsworth?'

'And/or Davey.'

'Plus Miss Hartley.'

'Yeah.'

'An unholy alliance formed in pursuit of ... what exactly?'

'Haven't a clue.'

'I spoke to Dr Farnsworth the day after the accident. He told me about an old army buddy of Dad's: Digby Bray bourne.'

'Did he, now?'

'Present whereabouts unknown.'

'Like one or two others.'

'I telephoned Dr Farnsworth a few days ago. After seeing the video, I was suddenly curious to learn more about the long-lost Mr Braybourne.'

'Get anywhere?'

'Don't tease, Nick. You had more or less the same conversation with his housekeeper as I did. She was hardly likely to have forgotten the name Paleologus. Why do you think Dr Farnsworth's gone to Edinburgh?'

'To visit an old friend, the housekeeper said.'

'I know what she said.'

'It could be true.'

'And the Pope could be infallible. But you don't believe it. Which is why you're going to Edinburgh. To find out what Dr Farnsworth is up to.'

T'm worried about Tom.'

'With good reason, I'd say. Irene tells me you'll be seeing his mother before going up there. Is that right?'

T'm staying with Kate and Terry tonight, yes.'

'Will you be mentioning any of this to them?'

'What do you think, Basil?'

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'I think pretending the problem will go away is a fool's counsel. These people aren't going to give up until they've got what they want.'

'And what's that?'

'I've no more idea than you. But we have to find out. Which is why I'm going to Venice. And why you're going to Edinburgh. Isn't it?'

No more was said until the train left Exeter. Nick sifted his options slowly and carefully, while Basil, sensing he needed to be left to do so, leafed contentedly through a Michelin guide to Venice. Nick could not decide how much to tell his brother. Basil had been right about everything, of course. There was a time when Nick had been reckoned the most brilliant of Michael Paleologus's children, but now he realized that all along, brilliant or not, Basil had been the cleverest of them, happy though he had often seemed to be thought the most foolish.

'We could both be taking a big risk,' Nick said at last, as the train gathered pace through the flooded water meadows of the Exe. 'You do understand that, don't you?'

'Sometimes doing nothing is the riskier choice.'

'But only sometimes.'

'And this is one of those times.'

'What will you do when you reach Venice?'

'Locate our cousin's abode. Spy out the land. Consider how and whether to approach him. I think I will find a way. For one Paleologus not to call upon another could almost be considered impolite. If he is there, I believe I can create an opportunity to make his acquaintance.'

'And if he isn't?'

'I shall learn what I can. Certain it is that I shall learn nothing without trying.'

'Be careful.'

'I will be. And I trust you'll do likewise.'

'Do you have my mobile number?'

'Of course not.' Basil grinned and handed him his train

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ticket. 'Write it on there.' Nick obliged. 'I'll call you tomorrow and let you know where I'm staying.'

'Do that.'

'Much of what's happened has been our own fault, Nick. I don't need to tell you that. If we hadn't destroyed Dad's will . . .' Basil shrugged. 'Who knows?'

'Clever of you to memorize Demetrius's address.'

'I thought I might have need of it.'

'Is he Tantris, do you suppose?'

'Possibly.'

'If he is, you'll be stepping into the lion's den.'

There are a lot of lions in Venice. Bronze or marble, for the most part.'

'You will call tomorrow, won't you?'

'I said I would.'

'I might have some valuable information by then, you see.'

'So soon?'

'I'm meeting a guy I know in London.'

'From whom you may learn . . .'

'Quite possibly nothing.'

'But then again . . .'

'It's a stab in the dark. Let's leave it at that.'

'Very well.'

'I'd thought I might have to go to Venice myself, you know. After Edinburgh. Depending what happened.'

'You may still have to go.' Basil chuckled. 'There's just no telling what trouble I'll get into on my own.'

They parted at Paddington. As was only to be expected of a confirmed aviophobe, Basil was travelling the whole way to Venice by train. It would be Friday morning when he arrived. The next leg of his journey was the Eurostar to Paris. He ambled off down the steps leading to the Underground, pausing at the bottom for a farewell wave and toothy grin. As an eccentric middle-aged backpacker, he was entirely convincing. As a brother, he was the only one Nick had left. And Nick had never fully understood how fond of him he was 197

until he saw him turn and lose himself in the Tube-bound crowd.

Nick left the station on foot and headed south towards Hyde Park, reckoning he had time to walk to his rendezvous with Marty Braxton. A former and fleeting colleague of Nick's at English Partnerships, Braxton was a fast-talking chancer with a barely veiled contempt for the observances of bureaucratic life. He had moved on and up since they had shared an office in Milton Keynes into the more fitting and remunerative domain of a West End advertising agency. To counter his many vices, he had some stubbornly endearing characteristics, notably a willingness to repay favours. As it happened, he was substantially in Nick's debt, on account of the blind eye Nick had turned to his use of the office telephone and computer systems for the operation of a customized numberplate mart. And the time had finally come to call in the debt.

They were to meet at the Windmill, halfway between Bond Street and Regent Street. Braxton had described it as a pub he knew but seldom used; he doubted he would bump into anyone he knew there. Nick hoped he was right. He also hoped, very much, that he would have something to report.

Braxton was already installed at the bar when Nick arrived. Judging by the inroads he had made into a steak and kidney pie and a pint of beer, he had been there for quite a while. He had put on weight since Nick had last seen him, but was carrying it well. There had always been something faintly phocine about Marty Braxton. Now he had acquired an extra layer of sleekness to go with the honking laugh and smug expression.

'Hi, Nick,' came the greeting through a mouthful of pie. 'You're looking well.'

'That's a minority view at present.'

'Really? Well, dare to be different is my motto, mate. Pint?'

'OK. Thanks.'

'I can recommend the snake and pygmy.'

T'm not hungry.'

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'Suit yourself.' Braxton signalled to the barmaid and a pint was pulled. 'Want to stay here - or slope into a corner?'

'Wherever you're comfortable.'

'In the circs, we'd better slope. Come on.' Braxton piloted Nick off to a table near the stairs and toasted happy days as soon as they had settled. 'My finely tuned emotional antennae tell me they aren't so happy for you, though, Nick. Is that right?'

'Family problems.'

'Can't help you there. My earliest memory's the underside of a gooseberry bush.'

'I was hoping you could help me, actually.'

'Ah. No time for foreplay, then?'

' Traid not.'

'The direct approach wouldn't do you any good in the advertising game, I can tell you.'

'I'm not in the advertising game.'

'Nor ever likely to be, with that attitude.'

'Marty--'

'OK. No more arsing about. Was I able to work the magic on a certain solicitor's computer system? That's what you want to know, isn't it? Did I hack it, so to speak?' Braxton grinned. 'When did I ever not?'

'You mean . . .'

'It's more of a colander than a computer, mate. Not much of a challenge. Still illegal, mind.' With an effort, Braxton dropped his voice, the intended whisper emerging as more of a growl. The things I do for an old pen-pushing pal, hey?'

'I'm grateful, Marty. Really.'

'So you should be. Especially since I went the extra mile for you. Just to make it worthy of my attention.'

'What do you mean?'

'It shakes down like this. That cool half million paid out by Hopkins and Broadhurst on twenty-six January? The payee was a company called Develastic. Know them?'

'I don't think so.'

'Jersey-based. Probably just a shell. Info's thin on the ground.

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But that goes with the territory. I managed to get the names of the directors, though. Just in case you were interested.'

'I might be very interested.'

'There you go, then.'

Braxton handed Nick a slip of paper, on which were written three names:

MAWSON, Terence MAWSON, Catherine RAMIREZ-JONES, Clive

'Friends of yours?'

'Not exactly.'

'But not exactly strangers either, unless you've gone pale because that pint's off.'

Nick took a swig from his glass and looked Braxton in the eye. 'There's nothing wrong with the beer.'

'Thought not.'

'But something else' - Nick glanced back down at the slip of paper in his hand - 'is wrong.'

Nick made dismal company for the rest of Braxton's lunch hour, as Braxton more than once complained. It was a relief in the end for both of them when they parted. Nick headed south, down through Green Park and St James's Park towards Westminster Bridge, his thoughts moving faster than his feet, but with a vastly inferior sense of direction. He had feared Braxton might have nothing for him. Or nothing of much use, while hoping with little confidence for a direct lead to Elspeth Hartley, or maybe to Demetrius Paleologus. But neither his fears nor his hopes had come to pass. Instead, enemies had appeared from the least expected quarter. His brother's ex-wife and her present husband were the source of the Tantris money. One or both of them had helped Elspeth Hartley pull off the deception. Or she had helped them. There was no way to tell who the prime mover was, nor what his or her motive might be.

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Though not necessarily for long. Nick had warned Basil that, by going to Venice in search of their cousin Demetrius, he might be stepping straight into the lion's den. Ironically, Nick was now the one about to put himself in harm's way. Kate's invitation had suddenly acquired a sinister connotation. Was his visit an opportunity for her and Terry to decide whether he posed a threat to them? And what would their response be if they decided he did?

But he could not cancel the visit without arousing their suspicion. Nor could he deny to himself that an opportunity for them to take the measure of him was also an opportunity for him to take the measure of them.

He phoned Kate from the concourse at Waterloo to tell her which train he would be on.

'It leaves in a few minutes. Due into Sunningdale at a quarter past four.'

'I'll pick you up at the station.'

'I can get a taxi if it's easier for you.'

'Don't be silly. It's no problem. I'll be there.'

'OK. Thanks.'

'How are you?'

'Oh ... All right.'

'We've been worried about you.'

'You have?'

'Naturally. We were glad to hear you were feeling better. You are feeling better, aren't you?'

'Yes. I am.'

'Good.'

'Well

'See you soon.'

'Yeah. 'Bye.' Nick rang off and glanced up at the departure board. His train was ready. There was no time to be lost. He started walking.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Andrew and Kate had met on a diving course at Fort Bovisand. They had married while Nick was still at school and thrown themselves into making a success of Carwether Farm. Things had only begun to go wrong after Tom was born. By then things were going wrong for Nick as well. The final break-up of their marriage had passed him by. As far as he could recall, Terry Mawson had not been on the scene at the time, though he shortly after was. Kate had married him in the mid-Eighties, just as his Devon-based building business was transforming itself into a nationwide property company. He had made a medium-sized fortune before the boom turned to bust and timed his exit from the housing market to perfection. Since then he had invested here and there and God knows where to ever better effect, such that he and Kate now led a semi-retired life of leisure, divided between a big house in Surrey and a scarcely smaller villa in Spain, with a golf course on both doorsteps.

It was difficult to begrudge them their prosperity, though naturally Andrew had. The fact was that Terry had worked hard for what he enjoyed and freely admitted that what had looked like shrewdness had often been luck. He was a genially blunt-mannered bear of a man, fond of cigars, golf and fast cars. The stereotype did not extend to a roving eye, however.

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He was a devoted if not uxorious husband, despite a lack of children which had reputedly led him to spend a lot of time and money on exotic fertility treatments - to no avail. Andrew's one consolation for losing Kate had been her failure to bear Terry a son to compete with Tom.