Days Without Number (26 page)

'Are you OK?'

'Not exactly.'

'What's wrong?'

'Best not to get into it on the phone. When are you arriving?'

'Four thirty.'

'And staying? I mean, you're welcome to slum it here, but--'

'I've booked a room at the Thistle.'

'Leith Street. I know it. OK, look, there's a place just round the corner from there. The Caf� Royal. It's a pub, despite the name. They'll direct you from the hotel. Six o'clock would be good for me.'

'Make it six thirty.'

'Six thirty it is. See you then.'

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The train reached Edinburgh no more than a few minutes late. Blue sky and a tearing wind greeted Nick as he left Waverley station and walked the short distance to the Thistle Hotel. His room was blandly functional, though it did boast a partial vista of the Calton Hill monuments. Nick decided there was time for a walk up to the summit before Basil's promised six o'clock phone call. Feeling in need of some exercise after the hours he had spent on various trains, he headed out.

He returned, refreshed by the climb and contemplation of a purple-clouded sunset over the city. But a clear head did not mean he knew how to handle his encounter with Tom, whose eagerness to see him had added a new element of uncertainty. Logically, Tom should have been trying to avoid him. Instead, he had given the impression that Nick was doing him a favour, which was not an impression Nick expected to last.

He sat in his room as six o'clock came and went with no call from Basil. The silence was a puzzle, but not a worry, given his brother's perverse reliance on Italian payphones. At six twenty, Nick left, switching off his mobile on the way; an interruption from Basil during his meeting with Tom was definitely not what was needed.

The Caf� Royal was literally just round the corner from the Thistle, in an alley off Princes Street. After-work drinkers sat in semicircular banquettes round two of the walls, while others propped up the island bar. Nick bought a pint, installed himself in the only empty banquette and waited.

Tom arrived within five minutes. He looked pale, his skin the colour of the smoke curling from his cigarette. His leather jacket, T-shirt and jeans, all in various shades of black, only accentuated the effect. 'Hi, Nick,' he said with a nervous smile, 'Good to see you.' There again was the hint of gratitude, which Nick found at once disarming and unaccountable. 'Good to see you, Tom. Can I buy you a drink?' 'Stay where you are. It'll be quicker if I do it.' Tom's deftness at threading his way to the bar and getting served 220

seemed to confirm this. He returned in short order with some kind of alcopop, swigging from the bottle before he had sat down. 'Never thought you'd come through with the visit,' he said, giving Nick a frown of scrutiny as he drew on his cigarette.

'A promise is a promise.'

'Yeah, but I wasn't sure you'd remember. You weren't exactly in regular orbit at the time.'

'Not sure I am now.'

'No? Well, you look it. A guy fully restored, I'd say.'

'Your mother said much the same.' Nick smiled. 'It's getting to be a conspiracy.'

'When did you see Mum?'

'I stopped overnight with Terry and her on the way up.'

Tom nodded slowly, apparently giving the modest revelation considerable thought. 'Right.'

'There are things I want to tell you, Tom, about your father and how--'

'No-one's blaming you, Nick.'

'Perhaps they should be.'

'Not the way I see it.'

'And how's that?'

'Something's going on. Something weird.' Tom dropped his voice to a husky whisper. 'It's tied in with the Tantris deal, but I can't figure out how. Where'd the money come from? Did you ask yourself that?'

'Well, I--'

'Let me tell you the story. See what you make of it.'

The last thing Nick had expected was for Tom to mention the Tantris money. Was he going to confess before he had even been accused? All Nick could do was guard his expression - and listen.

'When I went down for Dad's funeral, Mum and Terry picked me up at Reading and we drove the rest of the way together. You probably weren't up to speed with the practicalities. Well, we couldn't face staying at Carwether. The place was in a serious mess anyway. Dad had let things 221

slide. And Mum didn't reckon we should stay at Trennor. You were back at the Old Ferry by then. Anyway, we booked into the Moat House in Plymouth, up on the Hoe. You know it?'

'Of course.' Yes, Nick knew. In its previous incarnation as the Holiday Inn it had hosted Andrew and Kate's wedding reception, though whether Kate had mentioned that to Tom was an open question.

'Right. Well . . .' Tom stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. 'Christ, I don't know whether I should really tell you this, but I've got to tell somebody or . . .' He shook his head. 'How was the . . . atmosphere ... at Mariposa?'

'Fine.'

Terry . . . OK, was he?'

'Seemed to be.'

'Nothing on his mind?'

'Well, he's . . . worried about you.'

Tom snorted. 'I'll bet.'

'It's true.'

'Yeah. But not worried like you mean.'

'You've lost me.'

'Suppose I must have.' Tom sighed. 'All right. I'd better lay it on the line. The morning after the funeral I was up early. Truth is, I hardly slept. Anyway, I went out at dawn. Walked down to the Barbican and mooched about a bit. Started back round the Citadel and followed the steps up on to the Hoe. Where I saw them.'

Them?'

Terry . . . and Farnsworth.'

'What?'

'Farnsworth. You know, that creepy old mate of Grandad's.'

'I know him.'

'What was he doing in Plymouth the day after a funeral he definitely hadn't been invited to, rendezvousing at dawn with my stepfather? Exactly. What was he doing? And what was Terry doing?'

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'I don't. . . quite understand. You say they were together?'

'By the War Memorial. Standing and talking. Close together, like they didn't want to be overheard. And grim-faced. You know? Like it was serious, dead serious.'

'Perhaps they . . . met by chance.'

'Get real, Nick. It was no chance.'

'Then what?'

'I don't know. I just can't . . .' Tom shrugged. 'It beats me.'

It beat Nick too. If Terry Mawson was in cahoots with Julian Farnsworth, everything he had told Nick about the Tantris money was almost certainly a lie. It had sounded true. But Tom sounded as if he too was speaking the truth.

'I turned round when I saw them and went back down the steps, hoping they hadn't spotted me. I realized straight off something was wrong, of course. They're not even supposed to know each other. I couldn't work out what it meant, though. Still can't. But Dad went to Tintagel that day to see Farnsworth, didn't he?'

'Yes.'

'I reckon he'd rumbled them.'

'Farnsworth . . . and Terry?'

'Must have done. Lucky for them he didn't live to tell anyone about it. Unless . . .' Tom's eyes widened. 'You haven't remembered anything, have you - anything he said when you met him?'

'I've remembered everything. But it doesn't help.'

'I was afraid it wouldn't. Shit.' Tom rubbed his forehead. 'There's worse, you see.'

'Worse?'

'I was pretty confident they hadn't clocked me on the Hoe. But I couldn't be sure. Now, I reckon they must have. It's Farnsworth, you see. He's--'

'In Edinburgh.'

Tom started. 'You know?'

'He has a talkative housekeeper. Visiting an old friend up here, she said.'

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'Vernon Drysdale.'

That's him.'

'He was a professor at the University. Retired before my time. But I'd heard the name even before Farnsworth mentioned it.'

'You've spoken to Farnsworth?'

'Not much choice. He's stalking me, Nick.'

'What?'

'Everywhere I go, every which way I turn, he's there, grinning like the fucking Cheshire cat and saying' - Tom suddenly made a reasonable stab at imitating Farnsworth's voice - ' "What an extraordinary coincidence, young Thomas." Coincidence? Leave it out. He's on my case.'

'Because they know you saw them that morning on the Hoe?'

'Has to be.'

'But how could they, if they were deep in conversation and you were, what, fifty yards or more away?'

'Maybe someone was watching their backs for them. Maybe they spotted me.'

'That's a bit--'

'Paranoid? Too fucking right. Being stalked makes you paranoid.' Tom looked away. 'Sorry. My nerves are stretched that tight right now.' He sucked at his cigarette and looked back at Nick. 'I guess you know the feeling.'

'Not of being stalked. Are you sure about this?'

'He pops up wherever I go, Nick. What else am I supposed to think? He's old, right, and not exactly light on his pins. So, how does he do it? I reckon someone else - maybe that Elspeth Hartley I've heard so much about - is in on it. I reckon they think I know more than I really do. Well, I can't take much more of it. That's one thing I do know.' Tom frowned. 'You believe me, don't you?'

'Of course. But . . . it's . . . not possible, is it, that these . . . encounters . . . really are coincidental?'

Tom took a long swig from his bottle before answering. He spoke slowly, suppressing his voice with evident difficulty.

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His tone was low and clotted. 'Tell you what. There's this coffee-shop halfway between my flat and Princes Street. I drop in there for a caffeine fix most mornings around half nine. Most mornings lately, guess who's been sipping an espresso and leafing through the TLS when I've gone in?'

'Farnsworth.'

'Too right. So, why don't you judge for yourself? Robusta, in Castle Street. I'll give it a miss tomorrow morning. But it's a good bet Farnsworth won't. See how he explains himself. Then see if you believe him. My guess is you won't. And then you'll have to ask yourself: what's he really up to; what are they up to?'

The evening had grown blurred at the edges by the time they left the Caf� Royal. Tom was rushing his drinks and Nick was finding it hard to calculate how many he had consumed him'self. Over a pasta supper and a couple of carafes of Chianti in an Italian restaurant nearby, they swapped increasingly maudlin reminiscences of Andrew, the father and the brother they had lost. Somehow, after that, they made their way to Tom's flat.

It was the ground floor of an end-of-terrace house in Circus Gardens, plumb in the centre of the cobbled crescents and elegant edifices of the Georgian New Town, affordable for an unemployed Edinburgh graduate thanks only to the generosity of his mother and, of course, his stepfather.

'The lease is in Terry's name,' Tom explained as he hunted down the whisky. 'He can get me out any time he likes.'

'But he'd never try.'

'I guess that depends how much trouble I cause. Will I tell Mum about him and Farnsworth? Or have I already told her? I hope he's sweating about that.'

'Will you tell her?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because she wouldn't believe me.' Tom grinned, but Nick

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sensed that only intoxication enabled him to derive amusement from the thought. 'What do you reckon to the d�cor round here?'

'Very nice.' And so it was. The flat was so tastefully furnished and decorated in fact that it hardly seemed like Tom's natural home at all. Nick would have expected more clutter, more bachelor grunge. But there was none. Even the Oasis CD playing in the background sounded designer sanitized. There was scarcely any domestic impression of Tom at all.

'Mum's idea of how I should live. And Terry's idea of where I should live. If I'd just let them find me a job - career, I should say - everything would be perfect. From their point of view.'

'We all have to find our own way, Tom.'

'Yeah. But what happens if we lose our way?'

'We hope to find it again.'

'Like you did?'

'I suppose so.'

'Depends, though, doesn't it?'

'What on?'

'How far you've strayed.' Tom took a deep swallow of whisky. 'Too far ... and there's no way back.'

At some point Nick was tempted to tell Tom what Terry had said about him. Drunk as he was, though, he was not drunk enough to make that mistake. He had travelled to Edinburgh fully intending to accuse Tom of setting in motion the events that had led to the deaths of his father and grandfather. Now, it seemed, the accusation was misdirected. Terry was the culprit after all.

Or was he? Nick's head would have been swimming even without the alcohol he had taken on board. Some time after midnight, he stumbled back to the Thistle, buffeted by an icy wind, a new moon winking at him between scudding clouds. Truth had never felt more elusive, certainty never seemed further from his grasp. Even the things he had done 226

himself were questionable now. Even the few solid facts in his possession were beginning to dissolve.

The alarm roused him at eight the following morning. Only when he was standing under the shower did he remember that he had still not spoken to Basil. If Basil had phoned the hotel after Nick's departure for the Caf� Royal, he had evidently left no message. He might have tried Nick's mobile, of course, but that had been switched off all night. There turned out to be no message on that either. No matter; they would talk later.

Nick had known the wine was a bad idea after so much beer and the whisky to follow an even worse one. Now he knew why. Every movement of his head induced a painful throb behind his eyes. The morning was grey and cold, rain spitting in his face as he headed out along Princes Street. He needed to be at his best to outwit Julian Farnsworth, but he was a long way from that. He could not help hoping the good doctor would fail to show.

But Tom had read his man right. Robusta boasted few customers so early on a dismal winter Saturday, but Julian Farnsworth was one of them. He was at a table in the far corner, overcoat and scarf slung over a vacant chair, the preposterous deerstalker resting by his elbow, a half-finished double espresso in front of him. Only the reading matter did not chime. The TLS had given way to the weekend edition of the Dally Telegraph.

'Nicholas,' he said, looking up with apparently genuine surprise. 'What are you doing here?'