Never Tell (36 page)

Jen opened the door, Effie in her wake.

‘I’m sure your friend can help out,’ the man said. He had a very faint accent and greasy pock-marked skin. ‘Can’t you, madam?’

Jen’s eyes flicked anxiously between us. I hesitated, rapidly weighing up my options. Then I pressed Freddie into Jen’s arms, kissed Effie’s head and turned away. A black limo purred at the kerb, the windows darkened.

‘I’m really sorry, Jen. I’ll explain later.’

‘Are you sure this is wise?’ She looked worried. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Take down the number-plate,’ I muttered into her ear, ‘and if I’m not back by six, call the police.’

I followed the man to the car. ‘See you for pizza in a minute, kids,’ I called, waving cheerfully. ‘Do what Auntie Jen tells you, OK? And no fighting.’

The man didn’t quite push me in, but his hand was merciless, and when he slid into the front, he locked every door.

In an alleyway somewhere between the Houses of Parliament and Victoria Station, I was led past great stinking bins through a cramped and sweaty kitchen into a tiny dark restaurant.

A group of men, some of whom I recognised, were hunched over a table apparently finishing a meeting over a meal, papers and dispatch boxes strewn between carafes of wine, half-empty glasses, bits of bread and reeking, sweaty cheese. At least one was a Tory ex-cabinet member whom I had investigated in the past. I ducked my head instinctively, wondering what they were discussing now. How best to explain their latest expenses maybe, after the Conway and son scandal. Whatever it was, the tension was palpable in the small hot room.

The driver signalled our presence to Lord Higham, who sat in the middle of the table, calmly holding forth about something, the men at either end arguing and gesticulating. When Higham saw us, he quickly made his excuses to the other men, moving down the back of the room to greet us, brandy balloon in hand. His half-moon glasses gave his rather lugubrious face a professorial air.

‘Welcome to Pandemonium,’ he said wryly, and I stared at him in disbelief, the eerie echo of his son’s words from years ago in my ears. ‘You have caught us at a precarious time.’

The other politicians hardly glanced round, so immersed in their discussions, and I had a sudden ghastly vision of Lucifer’s council:
Vain wisdom all, and false philosophy
. Dalziel had been obsessed with the rebel angels.

‘Or possibly our last supper,’ Higham smiled wearily. He was older, of course, and thinner than I remembered from our brief acquaintance after Dalziel’s death. More stooped; more avuncular, somehow. I thought again how he looked nothing like his son. His face was much broader, the features cruder than Dalziel’s finely boned beauty, his skin now folded in on itself as if it had been neatly creased in the middle of his cheeks.

‘So good of you to come.’ His mellifluous voice was assured as he removed his glasses now, courteously inclining his grey head. Instinctively I crossed my hands before me.

‘I’m not sure I had much choice.’

‘Well,’ he smiled. ‘I should apologise for asking you here at such short notice.’

‘I’m not sure
ask
is the right word, but I’m intrigued, Lord Higham,’ I said casually. Inside I didn’t feel the least bit casual, but I couldn’t let him see that.

I followed him upstairs to another dining room, most of the tables upended, red velvet chairs against the wall, one young waitress busy folding linen in an office at the far end. The walls were dotted with framed photographs of politicians and singers, many signed to someone called Mario, interspersed with small watercolours of Italian and English countryside.

Higham indicated an unlaid table in the corner, the white tablecloth ringed with old wine stains.

‘Can I get you something?’ he asked, offering me a chair beneath a watercolour of the white cliffs of Dover. ‘A glass of Chianti? A brandy perhaps?’

‘I’m fine.’ My heart was beating uncomfortably fast. ‘I don’t have much time. The children, you know … ‘

‘Of course.’ He inclined his heavy head. ‘How many do you have now?’

How did he know I had any at all?

‘Three.’ I prayed my calmness belied the turmoil inside.

‘Three.’ He smiled and smoothed a hand across the tablecloth. He wore a heavy gold signet ring that looked like it should weigh his little finger down. I tried to remember the family motto. Dalziel had had a copy of the crest hanging in his hallway; something about Truth and Fortitude.

‘And you?’

‘Oh, you know.’ He met my eye, and the sheer insouciance gave me a sudden flash of his son. I dropped my gaze. ‘I lose count sometimes.’

I felt my past galloping at my heels; a faint sweat broke out across my top lip. I stared at the tired white rose in a small green vase on the table between us. I forced myself to speak. ‘So, Lord Higham. What did you want to talk about?’

‘I’ve been thinking …’ He gazed at the painting behind me for a moment. ‘There’s a nice little spot coming up on one of the red-tops. A kind of upmarket gossip column, if you like. More classy than those silly 3 a.m. girls. Do with it what you will. Make it your own.’ He looked back at me, reached into his inside pocket for something. ‘Might that appeal?’

‘That’s kind,’ I muttered, ‘but I’m not sure it’s really my field.’

‘You could make it your field, of course. If you so chose.’

‘I’m more current affairs, you know.’ I thought of Xav’s discomfort earlier. ‘Why are you making this offer now?’

‘Why not?’ He brought a cigar out now, rolled it between thick fingers. Each one sprouted a patch of springy hair. A goat, I thought, he’s like a large apparently benevolent goat. And then I thought of Azazel, devil goat; horrid Brian in that nasty mask bending over the insensible Huriyyah. I shuddered involuntarily.

‘I’ve just—’ I didn’t want to mention Xavier’s name. ‘I know there’s no place for me on the
Guardian
. So why now?’

‘Is it not good to have friends in high places, Rose?’ he smiled. But the smile went nowhere near his eyes. ‘And current affairs, well. There’s a time and a place. And this is most definitely not the time.’

‘High places?’

‘I imagine you’ve heard the rumours about the party. There’s likely to be an election soon; the government can’t possibly keep up this ridiculous charade. It’s time for new blood. Or rather,’ he tapped the cigar hard on the table, ‘old blood.’

‘What kind of old blood?’ I frowned.

‘Our own kind. Far too much new blood in this country. And so you see, well, we know, Rose – may I call you Rose? – we know there are some things that need to stay in the closet, as it were. And of course,’ he took my hand. I felt a wave of nausea, ‘of course, I like to take care of my own.’

I couldn’t suppress the sound of disbelief. He looked at me, his eyes steely, and the fatherly air dissipated.

‘I’m so sorry about your husband’s arrest.’

‘Oh.’ I stared at him stupidly. ‘You’ve heard.’

‘Of course. I met young James at Oxford, you remember. He’s done well, I believe. A great entrepreneur, no doubt. But – prison, I believe … not fun.’

‘No. Not fun.’

‘Poor man. Oh dear, Rose.’ Higham let go of my hand as quickly as he’d taken it. He turned the vase around until the flower drooped its weary head towards me. ‘O
Rose, thou art sick!
I remember that poem from my schooldays. Pretty creepy, I always thought.’ He smiled at me, a rather ghastly smile. ‘Are you the sick rose, Mrs Miller?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I mumbled.

‘And if so, who, I wonder, is that nasty little worm?’

‘There isn’t one.’ Panic was building slowly but inexorably in my chest. I felt like I was headed into a tunnel and I could just about see the light at the end.

‘Isn’t there? You’re a fan of Blake, I suppose?’ he said.

‘Not really.’ And the end was about to be blocked before I reached it.

‘My son liked his later work, of course. All the nationalistic stuff about poor Albion. I have great sympathies for that, especially today.’

‘Why?’ I held his gaze.

‘Who would ever have believed the BNP would be ascending as they are now? Such oiks really, which is a shame. Still, overcrowded and buffeted Britain.’ Higham downed the last of his brandy. ‘We have to make a stand, don’t you think, Rose?’

‘Against what?’

‘Immigration? Integration?’

‘No, actually.’ I felt sickness in my craw. ‘I really don’t.’

‘That’s a shame.’ He sighed deeply. ‘But I digress. And I’m forgetting how well you knew Dalziel. You would remember all his little foibles.’

‘I’m not sure that I did actually.’ I looked at his father. ‘Know him that well, I mean.’

Where was this all going?

‘Dalziel loved all those dreadful flouncy angels flapping about in Blake’s art.’ He tapped his cigar on the table again. ‘Before he became obsessed with bloody Milton, anyway. Ridiculous obsession. I never understood it.’

One of the cream petals had a tiny stain of burgundy on it. Like wine. Or blood. I stared at it.

‘Dalziel once told me,’ I cleared my throat, ‘he once said he thought his mother was a fallen angel.’

‘A fallen angel?’ Higham let out a short bark of laughter. It had less joy or mirth in it than any laugh I’d ever heard. ‘That bloody lunatic? Christ. Poor misguided boy.’

‘I think he identified with something in the poem – in
Paradise Lost,’
I said quietly. ‘The moral choice between heaven and hell. He was really struggling at the end.’

For a moment we gazed at one another, and I knew we recognised our mutual shame, shame for the roles we had inadvertently played that cold spring evening so many years ago.

‘I still miss him, you know,’ I said. ‘I really do. He was – he was amazing. Despite what happened in the end.’

Our gazes locked. There was no place to hide.

‘He was flawed,’ Higham said coldly. ‘Deeply flawed, poor boy.’

Downstairs the guffaws grew: presumably indicating the meeting was drawing to a close. Higham checked his watch. ‘So – the job?’

‘And what’s the condition, Lord Higham?’

‘Straight to the point. I like that in a woman.’ The waitress appeared at his elbow now with a lighter. She was very young. ‘Come now, Rose. You must know what the conditions are.’

‘Must I?’

‘Oh, I think so, my dear Rose. I mean, you’re a bright girl. You must know what serves you best. Especially with your husband so far out of reach.’

‘I think I’d better go now.’ I stood.

‘Must you?’ He pulled the waitress’s hand down to cigar level. ‘Got to sort out the little worm, eh? I must say, it’s really not a good idea to send people in to threaten me.’

‘Sorry?’ I felt wrong-footed suddenly. Scared even.

‘Have you met my youngest? Charlie?’ He changed tack abruptly, dropping the name in like we were at some kind of social gathering.

‘Not really.’ My stomach clenched. ‘He came to a party at my house, but I didn’t know who he was.’

‘Charlie is my latest worry.’ He gazed at me. His eyes bulged unattractively, like congealed aspic. ‘Despite a brilliant education, he’s gone off the rails. I’ve had to cut the ties for a while. Financially, I mean. I fear – I fear he might be going down the route his brother did.’

My mind was racing, trying to make sense of his words.

‘So you understand me?’ Higham smiled a grim smile. ‘Sending people to extort money is never going to be wise.’

‘You’ve lost me.’ But with a sinking heart, I remembered the photos in the cupboard. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I lied.

He stared at me. And his eyes, they suddenly reminded me of someone else – I just couldn’t think who. Not Charlie with his limpid dark eyes. Not Dalziel, whose amber eyes had been slanted and beautiful. Someone I’d seen more recently.

‘Well, it’s been delightful meeting you again, after all this time.’ He was still holding the girl’s hand. ‘You know, I have such little time now for R & R. So little time for family. Though of course,’ he let her go now, ‘I do what I can to protect them.’

‘I guess everyone has to make sacrifices,’ I said. ‘Sometimes.’

‘Sacrifices,’ Higham said slowly. His eyes were blank now; blank and staring like the dead. ‘Not one of my most favourite words, Rose.’

I thought back to Oxford; to the little boy in the bed. The little boy Charlie. I wondered exactly what he remembered today. Christ, what a family. What a mess.

‘Really?’ I looked back: I held my nerve.

‘Think on the job. You’ve a few days to decide.’

We both knew that I would never work for him. I turned towards the stairs.

‘Oh, and, Rose?’

I turned back.

‘Dear sick Rose. Do send my love to your children. Hadi Kattan told me they were delightful.’

‘Mr Kattan? He never met them,’ I stammered.

‘Oh – didn’t he?’ Higham stood now, brushing imaginary crumbs from his trousers, cigar clamped between his teeth. ‘I must have got him confused with someone else. Easily done.’

‘When did he say that? What’s your link with Kattan?’ I asked. ‘Are you friends?’

‘All these questions, my dear. Anyone would think you were a journalist.’ His tone was mocking.

‘Just answer the question, please.’ I bit the inside of my lip. ‘Please, Lord Higham.’

‘I’m not sure “friends” would be quite right, my dear. We’ve known each other – well, for ever, it seems.’

I thought of Peggy’s cuttings. ‘Because of the oil embargo?’

‘Maybe. I knew his wife, Alia, briefly. A long time ago. And her son, Ash.’ Higham smiled again now, his arm around the young girl who blinked impassively. I hated him at that moment. ‘Actually, Kattan rented my Cotswolds house recently. Perhaps you know it?’

My skin crawling, I paused for a second, looking down the stairs, racking my brain.

‘Do you remember the end of Blake’s rose poem?’ I pulled myself up tall. ‘If my memory serves me right, it’s:
And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy
. Pretty apt, I’d say.’

Then I ran down the stairs and out of the restaurant. The driver opened the passenger door of the car as I passed.

‘I’ll walk, thanks,’ I said. The evening was clear, the sun a dusky pink orb just dissolving behind the city’s skyline. I knew I was setting off into my own howling storm.