Fault Line - Retail (31 page)

‘I’ve had my ear to the ground, yes. I expected her to be here, see. We had an appointment.’

‘Concerning what?’

‘No offence intended, but that concerns something between me and her that’s none of your business.’

‘And what’s
your
business, Mr Thompson?’

‘Oh, I’m retired. Drawing my hard-earned pension.’

‘So, you’re here on holiday, are you?’

‘Not exactly. I still keep my hand in. And Mrs Lashley …’ He
broke
off and grinned at me. ‘It’s lucky you dropped in, actually. Saves me trudging over to the villa. I was planning to, see. This very morning, as it happens.’

‘Why?’

‘I wanted to give Lashley a last chance to square with me … before I go to the police.’

‘The police?’

‘What else can I do? Mrs Lashley goes missing when she’s asked me to come all this way to discuss an urgent matter. Mr Lashley won’t tell me where she is. The word among the tradesfolk is she’s gone to look after her sick aunt in Cornwall. But the aunt isn’t sick and thinks her niece hasn’t left Capri. Which is where Mrs Lashley’s daughter also thinks she is. But she isn’t. Apparently.
Misterioso
, as the locals would say.’

‘Mr Lashley’s not obliged to explain his wife’s comings and goings to you.’

‘That he isn’t.’ Another grin. ‘The police might be a different matter, though.’

‘They’ll tell you to go away and stop wasting their time.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘You’ll certainly have to disclose the nature of your business with Mrs Lashley to them.’

‘And I will.’

‘So why not disclose it to me first … and avoid making yourself look an idiot?’

‘That’s what you think I’ll look, is it?’

‘Mr Lashley knows nothing of your “appointment” with his wife.’

‘Not unusual in my line.’

It seemed to me that could mean only one thing. ‘Are you a private detective?’

‘Confidential inquiries agent is what I used to call myself, Mr Kellaway. Retired, like I told you. But still on call … for a few trusted clients.’

A private detective, by any other name. Thompson had admitted it. And the significance of his admission was like the disappearance
of
the ground beneath my feet. Suddenly, I remembered Terry’s description of the man who’d been asking questions about me at the Builders’ Arms in Walworth back in the summer of 1969. ‘
Your average middle-aged square. Not tall, not short. Not fat, not thin. Smoked a pipe. Fussy little ’tache. Never took his hat off, so he might’ve been bald
…
or he mightn’t have been
.’ It was him, fifteen years older, fatter and balder. It was Fred Thompson, confidential inquiries agent. There wasn’t a doubt of it in my mind.

‘Are you all right, Mr Kellaway? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’

‘Are you saying … you’ve done some work for Mrs Lashley in the past?’

‘I have, yes.’

‘What sort of work?’

‘The confidential sort.’

‘Following people? Checking up on them?’

‘Confidential means confidential.’

‘When did you first work for her?’

‘She’s my client, Mr Kellaway. You aren’t.’

‘Fifteen years ago? Or more?’

‘Privileged information, I’m afraid.’ His smile was more of a smirk now. He was enjoying himself. At my expense. ‘Where’s Mrs Lashley? That’s all I want to know: where she is and how she is. I’m worried about her, see.’

Lashley had instructed me to buy Thompson off if I had to. Perhaps it was what the fellow was angling for. Perhaps he’d tell me everything I wanted to know if the money was right. Distasteful as it was, it had to be attempted. ‘You’ll have incurred some expenses coming all this way, Mr Thompson. And no doubt you have a standard daily fee. Mr Lashley would be—’

‘Don’t say it, Mr Kellaway. You’ll embarrass me. And yourself. This is what I’ll do for you. For your boss, that is. I’ll give him twenty-four hours. Meet me in the Piazzetta at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll be at one of the café tables. You can tell me
then
where Mrs Lashley is and why she isn’t here. I’ll decide what to do about it. I may still go to the police. We’ll have to see. It depends. What doesn’t depend is this. Stand me up or feed me a load of bull and I’ll go straight to the station and make a full report. Fair enough?’

I hurried back to the Villa Orchis, angered as well as humiliated. I’d been comprehensively outmanoeuvred. To make matters worse, I felt horribly certain Thompson knew more about me than he was telling. The same applied to Lashley, of course. I had nothing but bad news for him.

Jacqueline was breakfasting on the terrace. She invited me to join her. But I had to see Lashley without delay.

‘He’s in his study, working,’ she told me. ‘He has business papers faxed to him daily.’

‘Of course.’ He would have. He was a man who liked to stay in touch. ‘I’ll have to interrupt, though.’

‘Adam hasn’t surfaced yet.’

‘No?’

‘Did you speak to him last night? I’m a light sleeper and he woke me coming in. I thought I heard him talking to someone downstairs.’

‘That was me.’ I grimaced. ‘Maybe he’s friendlier when he’s sober.’

‘Not so you’d notice. Just quieter.’ She smiled at me sympathetically. ‘But we must make allowances.’

I smiled ruefully back. ‘That we must.’

Lashley too would have to make allowances. This he rapidly appreciated when I told him how my encounter with Thompson had gone: just about as badly as it could have.

‘Damn the fellow,’ he said when I’d finished, stubbing out one cigarette in Francis’s old onyx ashtray and lighting another. ‘What could Muriel have been thinking of?’

‘As to that, sir, I wondered if you had any idea.’ I’d omitted to mention my suspicion that Thompson had been on my tail in
London
fifteen years before. If he really had been working for Muriel then, Lashley surely had to know.

‘I might have, Jonathan. When Vivien went up to Cambridge, Muriel was worried about how she’d cope. Understandably so, in the circumstances. I needn’t remind you of the overdose she took after Oliver’s death. Anyway, Muriel convinced herself Vivien was likely to “fall in with the wrong set”, as she put it. The papers were full of scare stories about drugs and God knows what. Muriel insisted we should … well, check up on her. Make sure everything was as … stable … as she assured us it was. Vivien was seeing a psychotherapist, but she was quite capable of pulling the wool over his eyes. Muriel had just lost her son. She was determined to do whatever she could to protect her daughter. I let her have her way, rather against my better judgement, to be honest. But CCC’s takeover of Wren’s was making a lot of demands on my attention at the time. She consulted a detective agency in Plymouth. They had some kind of reciprocal arrangement with an agency in London. An operative was detailed to carry out … discreet monitoring of Vivien’s activities … and associations.’

‘Thompson?’

‘I think we must assume so. If the name was ever mentioned to me, I don’t remember it. But Muriel certainly went to Plymouth to be given some reports in person on a couple of occasions. I couldn’t spare the time to accompany her. Thompson may have travelled down from London to meet her.’

‘Would I have figured in his … monitoring?’

‘I’m afraid you may well have. I’m sorry, Jonathan. Muriel didn’t say and I didn’t ask. The exercise seemed to put her mind at rest and I was happy to leave it at that.’

‘Why would she contact him again after all these years?’

‘That’s just what I’ve been asking myself. I believe there can only be one answer. Paolo Verdelli. I didn’t hide from her the rumours I picked up about his Camorra connections. She may have heard things herself. She spends more time here than I do. Perhaps she was worried for her safety. For Adam’s, too. Vivien’s as well, come to that. And little Dylan’s. I can only suppose she decided to call in
Thompson
to take Verdelli’s measure and assess what threat, if any, he posed. Alas, it seems the threat was greater and more imminent than either of us imagined.’ He leant back in his chair and turned to gaze into the sun-dappled garden. ‘Muriel’s captors have made it very clear to me that if they get wind of police involvement there’ll be no deal. They haven’t spelt out what that would mean for Muriel, but I think we have to assume the worst. Thompson may be genuinely concerned about her, but any intervention by him could easily be disastrous. He mustn’t be allowed to talk to the police.’

‘How can we stop him?’

‘I don’t know, Jonathan. Let me think about it. We have a little time to play with. Let’s just hope it’s enough.’

TWENTY-SEVEN

I’D NEVER HAD
any liking for Muriel Lashley. She was a cold, proud, narrow-minded woman. It should have been less surprising than it was to learn she’d hired a private investigator to keep track of Vivien’s activities. No doubt she really had been worried about her daughter. But she’d also wanted to be assured Vivien was mixing with the right people. And I was one of the wrong people. It was as simple as that. What she’d have done to split us up if we hadn’t done such a thorough job of it ourselves, I don’t know. But she’d have tried her damnedest. I was sure of that.

The irony was inescapable. The man Lashley had asked for help in freeing Muriel was a man Muriel wanted to have nothing to do with her family. My dislike of her was overridden by the severity of the situation. I’d do my best for her out of common humanity. But after we’d secured her release, would she be capable of thanking me? And how would I respond if she did? There would have to be a reckoning of some kind between us.

The day passed slowly and anxiously as Lashley pondered how best to deal with Thompson. Despite the crushing heat, I took a long walk out round the south-eastern shore of the island. The exercise was a palliative of sorts. But it only smothered my immediate concerns by bringing unwelcome memories to the fore. Every step I took on Capri was shadowed by recollections of the weeks I’d spent there with Vivien.

My route back to the Villa Orchis took me past the gates of the Villa Erycina. I peered through them along the colonnaded drive towards the house. White roses trained round the columns offset the deep red of the surrounding bougainvillea. There was a scent of jasmine in the still air and a murmur of bees. It was the siesta hour and Countess Covelli would be resting. This was no time to call. I beat a retreat.

Siestas hardly figured in the night-owl routine of Adam Lashley. He was in the kitchen, fixing himself a late, late breakfast when I entered the villa. The gutturally dubbed episode of
Bonanza
he was watching on a portable TV while ploughing his way through an enormous bowl of cereal deafened him to my arrival. I went upstairs and took a shower, then fell asleep, lying naked on my bed as the ceiling fan rotated at a slow purr above me. The afternoon vanished.

It was nearly dinner time when I woke. I dressed hurriedly and went downstairs. I found Lashley with Jacqueline in the drawing-room. There was a perceptible lightness to their mood. Something good had happened. ‘We’ll talk later,’ was all Lashley said in answer to my enquiring look. And I knew better than to press him.

Adam deigned to eat with us that evening. Jacqueline dutifully asked him some questions about literature. That his answers stopped short of sullen dismissiveness seemed largely due to his father’s presence. I kept telling myself he was masking his fears for his mother with this show of indifference. But I didn’t really believe it.

Lashley told Elena she could leave early: we’d clear up after ourselves. Once she was gone, he immediately announced he’d had another phone call from Muriel’s captors. Terms for her release had been agreed.

I sensed Adam wanted to ask what figure his father had settled for, but all he actually said was, ‘You think this will work, Dad?’ He sounded young then, almost like a child – young and vulnerable.

‘I’m confident it will,’ said Lashley. ‘They’ll call again tomorrow night with arrangements for the exchange. Remember: it’s in their financial interests to ensure this goes smoothly.’

‘You’ll be seeing your mother again soon, Adam,’ said Jacqueline.

If the remark was intended to reassure Adam, the scowl it was rewarded with showed it had failed. Lashley appeared not to notice this. Or else he pretended not to. ‘All we have to do,’ he pressed on, ‘is hold our nerves for a little longer.’

‘Not quite all, surely,’ I said cautiously, uncertain whether he’d told Adam about Thompson.

But he had. ‘He means the private dick, Dad,’ Adam said, flashing a scornful glance at me.

‘I’ve given the Thompson problem a good deal of thought,’ said Lashley, flattening one hand decisively on the table. ‘It’s imperative we dissuade him from going to the police. The surest way of doing that, I believe, is to tell him the truth. Once he appreciates the gravity of the situation, he’ll fall into line. There’s an element of risk in confiding in him, of course, but less than the risks we run by concocting a cover story or simply daring him to do his worst. Do you agree, Jonathan?’

I was surprised. I’d thought Lashley might jib at such a move, but I should have known better. He was ever the realist. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘As far as I could judge, Thompson’s genuinely concerned for Muriel’s safety.’ But would he believe me? That was the crucial question. ‘Perhaps I could show him … the photograph you received.’

Lashley nodded. ‘By all means. He needs to be convinced. Which is why I think a suggestion Jacqueline made to me earlier is eminently sensible.’

‘I’ll go with you when you meet him, Jonathan,’ she said. This was a still greater surprise, as my expression must have made obvious. ‘I’m a disinterested party. And a woman. My presence will …’

‘Bolster your credibility,’ said Lashley. ‘We need Thompson on our side, Jonathan. It’s absolutely vital.’ He made a fist of his hand, tightening it until his knuckles turned white. It was the first sign I’d
noticed
of the strain I knew he must be under. ‘Do you think you can manage it? I’d speak to him myself, but I fear that might be counter-productive.’