Days Without Number (32 page)

pigeonholed Tom's death as a drugs-related suicide. The postmortem was a formality. So, in that sense, was Nick's statement. The version of events he signed his name to was the same as the one Terry wanted him to present to Kate. And it was accurate. As far as it went.

When he left the police station, he realized to his surprise that he was very close to Rankeillor Street. He had assured Una he would break the news to Sasha without thinking through the how and the when of it. Now the opportunity had presented itself to him he could hardly pass it up. She might well have left for classes at the University, though. He walked along to number 56 with no great confidence that he would find her in.

But the front door opened as he approached and Sasha smiled out wanly at him in greeting. Her eyes were moist and full, her jaw clenched. She knew.

'I saw you coming from the window. I must have been sitting up there for an hour or more staring out, just thinking about Tom.' She shook her head. 'The stupid bastard.'

'How did you hear?'

'I phoned Una. I was worried about him.'

'Did you sense something?'

'No. It's simpler than that. And worse. If only I had sensed something. You'd better come up.'

Sasha's flat was standard-issue student digs, complete with broken-backed furniture, Blu-tacked posters, unwashed crockery and an atmosphere scented with joss sticks and cannabis.

'I got this in the post this morning.' Sasha passed Nick a letter written in a jagged hand. 'It's from Tom.'

'He wrote to you?'

'Yeah. The first letter he's ever sent me. He even went to the bother of finding a box with a Sunday collection. Didn't want me to hear at second-hand, I suppose. But he didn't want me to hear soon enough to make a difference either.'

'It's a suicide note?'

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'More or less. See for yourself. There's a message for you in it.'

Nick sat down in the nearest armchair and looked at the letter. It was a solid jumble of words, with a lot of crossings out. But the writing was legible enough.

Hi Sash. You won't understand why I'm doing this. You'll think it's a waste. As if. Truth is, there's no other way out. Everything's fucked. I didn't know it would go down like this. I promise you that. Maybe Harriet did. Maybe she planned the whole thing this way. Total wipeout. Could be. I've seen that side of her. But it's too late. For me, anyway. I can't deal with what I've done. It's too much. They'll be coming for me. But there'll be no-one at home. If you see my uncle Nick, tell him to let it go. I've sent him something. He should take it as a warning. There have been too many victims. But there won't be any victors. This is a no-win scenario. I'm getting out the only way I can. I'm sorry for hurting you. But this will be the last time. That's one promise I'll keep. I love you. Sash. If you want to do me a favour, get over me fast. Remember the laughs we had. No-one can take those away. Have fun. You're better at it than me. I've got to go now. This is it. All my love, Tom.

Nick's fingers were trembling when he handed the letter back to Sasha. He tried to speak, but had to clear his throat first. 'I didn't realize he was so unhappy. If I had I'd have . . . gone easier on him.'

'What did Harriet drag him into, Nick?'

'Old family secrets. So secret I don't know what they are.'

'Dangerous secrets?'

'Apparently.'

'Will you let it go?'

'I don't think I can.'

'But you haven't seen what he's sent you yet, have you?'

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'No.' Nick stood up. 'I'd better get back to the hotel. It could be waiting for me there. Whatever it is.' 'A warning, he said.' 'Yeah. Somehow, though ... I doubt I'll heed it.'

'This arrived for you earlier, sir,' said the receptionist at the Thistle half an hour later. She handed Nick a letter along with his key and he recognized Tom's writing at once.

He waited until he was upstairs, in the privacy of his room, before opening the envelope. There was no note inside, just a blown-up photocopy of a newspaper article. Maybe a photocopy of a photocopy, to judge by the degradation.

Nick sat down on the bed and looked at the pageful of print. In the top left corner was the title of the newspaper and a date: Birmingham Post, Thursday October 5, 2000. Beneath that was a double-column headline: ESTATE AGENT'S MYSTERIOUS HOLIDAY DROWNING. Nick read on.

An inquest at Sutton Coldfield Magistrates' Court returned a verdict of accidental death yesterday in the case of Birmingham estate agent Jonathan Braybourne, who died while on holiday in Venice earlier this year. The coroner dismissed a suggestion by Mr Braybourne's sister that he may have been murdered as groundless.

^ Mr Braybourne, 43, a partner in the long-established $

city-centre firm Oldcorn & Co., drowned in one of the Venetian canals on May 30. The Italian police failed to establish how Mr Braybourne came to fall in. There was <�

no evidence that he was intoxicated or that he had been a 1

�

victim of crime. Bruising on his left temple suggested he ^

may have struck his head as he fell, perhaps causing him to lose consciousness. The incident occurred at night in a poorly lit district and Mr Braybourne's body was not discovered until the following morning.

Emily Braybourne, the deceased's sister, s.aid in evidence that she believed the Italian police had not

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investigated all the circumstances of her brother's death. She said he had gone to Venice to visit an acquaintance who lived in the city and that this acquaintance had not been properly questioned. She believed him to be implicated in her brother's murder.

The coroner, in his summing-up, said the British Consul in Venice had written assuring him that the police investigation had been diligently carried out. There were no grounds for suspecting the person named by Miss Braybourne. He suggested that Miss Braybourne was allowing her natural feelings of grief to cloud her judgement and urged her to accept that her brother's death was nothing more than a tragic accident.

As Nick reread the article, its implications piled up in his mind. He reckoned he knew who Emily Braybourne was. Also the 'acquaintance' of her brother's, coyly left unnamed by the Birmingham Post. And this, he supposed, was Tom's warning. Go on digging and Nick could end up like Jonathan Braybourne and the man in the cellar, like Andrew and his father, like Tom himself. The list of the dead was growing. The accidents were becoming too numerous. The threat was not imaginary.

If that was true, Nick's position was nothing like as perilous as Basil's. He had alerted Demetrius Paleologus to his presence in Venice. He was suddenly a sitting duck. Panic seized Nick. He jabbed at his mobile, but there was no message from Basil. He rang international directory enquiries and gleaned with difficulty a telephone number for the Hotel Zampogna in Venice. He dialled it.

'Pronto!' The voice was female, the tone abrupt.

'Hotel Zampogna?'

'Si.'

'I need to speak to one of your--'

'Pronto?' came the bellowed interruption.

'Mr Paleologus. Can I--'

'ChiparlaT

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'Listen. It's very important. Molto importante. I'm Mr Paleologus's brother. I need to--'

'// telefono non � per i clienti.'

'But--'

But nothing. The line was dead.

What was he to do? He devoted several seconds to cursing Basil's aversion to modern technology, but that took him nowhere. Basil might be sipping an espresso in a caf� in St Mark's Square. Or he might be at the bottom of a canal. There was no way to tell.

Nick tried to calm himself with long, slow breaths, like the therapist had taught him. It helped, but not much. Basil might call him later and ask what all the fuss was about. Or he might not. If Nick simply waited, he might be doing the best thing. Or he might be frittering away the short time he had to save his brother.

He dialled another number. It was a call he was due to make anyway, though he no longer felt confident of managing it as sensitively as he had planned.

'Old Ferry Inn.'

'Irene, this is Nick.'

'Hi. Good to hear from you. How's it going in Edinburgh? You are in Edinburgh, aren't you?'

'Listen to me, Irene. I'm sorry to have to tell you this. Tom's dead.'

'WhatT

'It looks like he killed himself. A drugs overdose. Kate and Terry are up here. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, but--'

'When was this?'

'Over the weekend. But never mind that.'

'Never mindT

'Have you heard from Basil?'

'Basil? No. What are you--'

'Is Anna at work this morning?'

'I think so, yes. Look, stop talking about Basil and Anna, Nick, will you? Tom killed himself 'I

'You can contact Kate and Terry at the Balmoral Hotel.

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Find out from Anna if she's heard from Basil. Will you do that for me? It's very important. I'll call you later. I have to go now.'

'Hold on, I--'

'Sorry, Irene. I will call later. 'Bye.'

He put the phone down and started to pack hurriedly. Suddenly, what he had to do was clear to him. Weighing risks and waiting on events was a hopeless course to follow. The only way to be sure Basil had not walked into a trap was to follow him to where the trap might be set.

He wrestled the GNER pocket timetable out of his coat and checked for the next southbound service. A glance at his watch told him he would never make the noon train, but he did not propose to miss the one o'clock. Yet he still had to explain his abrupt departure to Kate and Terry and he owed Kate an account of her son's death. What was he supposed to do? He could not cover every debt. He would have to go via Milton Keynes to pick up his passport. He phoned British Airways and they told him there were three flights daily to Venice from Gatwick, the last of them at 19.20. The scantiest of calculations told him there was no chance of his being on it. He tried to book a seat on the first flight the following morning, but it was full. Frustrated, he settled for the 13.15, due in at 16.25. Move as fast as he liked, it was still going to take him thirty hours or so to reach Venice. And a lot could happen in thirty hours. He only had to think about the last thirty to appreciate that.

The telephone rang. He picked it up, hoping it was not Irene and praying it might be Basil. It was neither.

'Ah, Paleologus. Vernon Drysdale here.'

'Professor Drysdale, I--'

'I wanted to say how very sorry I was to hear about your nephew. I may not have been able to convey my sentiments adequately thanks to Mr Mawson's belligerent manner, which I'm happy to attribute to the shock of his bereavement, but this is a historical as well as a personal tragedy. I can only imagine how you're feeling.'

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Nick strongly doubted if Drysdale had the remotest clue how he was feeling. 'I can't talk right now, Professor. I'm going to have to ring off.'

'Don't do that. You see, I've reappraised matters in the light of this latest loss to your family and I'm forced to conclude that there may be some contemporary significance in events which I chose to make nothing of in my most widely read publication on the subject for fear that they'd be wrenched from their proper context by less scrupulous scholars than me and given an unwarranted and frankly unwelcome prominence. Where I did explore them in a more soberly academic treatment, there was no explicit cross-reference, you must understand, so unless--'

'I'm sorry, Professor, but I just don't have the time for this. I have to go, all right? Goodbye.'

'But--'

Nick put the telephone down, stuffed the last of his belongings into his bag and made for the door.

'You're leaving?'

Kate stared at Nick across the sitting room of her and Terry's suite at the Balmoral. She looked to have aged several years since Nick had last seen her. Her face was drawn, the skin stretched around her jaw and cheekbones, her eyes bloodshot and swollen-lidded. Wrapped in an oversized Balmoral bathrobe, she seemed to have become slighter and frailer overnight. Tom's death had killed part of her too.

'When are you leaving?'

'Now. Right away.'

'Can't you wait until Terry gets back? He won't be long.'

'No. I'm sorry. I have to go.'

'Why?'

'I can't explain. It's too complicated.'

'But there's so much I wanted to ask you . . . about Tom.'

'I told Terry everything.'

'I wanted you to tell me. The way it was. Anything that could--'

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'I'm sorry, Kate. I can't do this now. Believe me. I've got no

choice.'

'How can I believe you if I don't understand?'

Nick gazed helplessly at her for a second or two, then said

all he could. 'I don't know.' And then he turned away.

Thanks to its departing ten minutes late, the one o'clock train left with Nick on board. Before it had cleared the outskirts of Edinburgh, Terry rang him on his mobile.

'What the bloody hell's going on, Nick?'

'I can't get into it, Terry. I'm doing what I have to do to make sure this doesn't get any worse than it already is.'

'What could be worse than Tom killing himself?'

'Go see Sasha Lovell, his ex-girlfriend. Fifty-six Rankeillor Street. He sent her a note. That tells you about as much as I know. Before you do, though, you'd better tell Kate the truth.'

'I can't do that. Not yet.'

'We're out of time. You and me both. Face her with it. That's my advice.'

'Some advice.'

'It's all I can offer. Goodbye, Terry.'

Nick was sorely tempted to turn his mobile off, but he had to keep it on in case Basil called. Basil did not call. Nor, following their terse exchange, did Terry. When a call next came, as the train glided out of York station, it was from Irene.

T've spoken to Kate, Nick. She's devastated. And your behaviour isn't helping. Where are you going?'

'Has Anna heard from Basil?'

'No. But Basil can look after himself.'

'Do you know where he is?'

'Greece. Or on his way there. Why?'

'He's in Venice.'

'You're mistaken. He told Anna--'