Play to the End (21 page)

"Because he blamed Sir Walter for the cancer that was killing him."

"With good cause."

"Yes, Toby. With good cause." She went on staring at me. "You think Roger's answerable for his father's cavalier attitude to the health of the Colbonite workforce?"

"I think Roger aided and abetted his father in evading responsibility for the consequences, Jenny. By which I mean financial consequences. I also think Roger may have taken extreme steps to silence Derek Oswin on the point."

"Rubbish. I don't believe for a moment Roger's even been to see Oswin."

"Where's Derek gone, then?"

"How should I know?"

"You say Roger told you about all this a long time ago?"

"Yes."

"How come you didn't recognize Derek's surname when I mentioned it to you, then?"

"Roger never actually told me the name of the man who killed his father, as far as I can remember. If he had, I might well have forgotten. I didn't think it mattered. I still don't."

"What about the cancer cases, Jenny? Not a penny paid in compensation.

How does Roger square that with his conscience? How do you?"

"Sir Walter resorted to undeniably shady tactics when he wound the company up. Roger makes no secret of that. He protested against them at the time and fell out with his father as a result."

"We only have Roger's word for that, presumably."

"I believe him."

"Naturally. And let's suppose it's true. Just for the sake of argument. Suppose Roger really did advocate coming clean about the chloro-anilines but was overruled by his old man. Why didn't he do something about it when Sir Walter died and he inherited the wherewithal to pay out some long overdue compensation?"

"He considered the idea. He took advice."

"Oh yeah?"

"To pay out in one case would mean paying out in all. It would have bankrupted him."

"Well, we couldn't have that, could we?"

"As a matter of fact.. ."

"What?"

"He has .. . helped ... in a few of the more desperate cases. With hospice fees and the like. He's had to be ... discreet about it."

"To avoid admitting general liability?"

"Yes. So, is that what you're accusing him of, Toby? Trying to repair some of the damage his father did without ruining himself in the process?"

"No. That's your gloss on what I suspect he's really been up to. And I'm not the only one who suspects it."

"Ian Maple said you'd spoken to Roger's uncle."

"Yes. Informative fellow, Gavin. See a lot of him, do you?"

"I've never met him. But I know his version of events can't be trusted."

"And how do you know that? Because Roger told you so, perhaps?"

"His sister Delia says the same."

"Does she?"

"Yes. And I can arrange for her to say it to you as well if that's what it'll take to make you call off this .. . ludicrous campaign."

"Denis is dead, Jenny. And Derek Oswin is missing. I'm not making any of that up. I think Roger is a dangerous man to know."

"Ah. So, you're trying to protect me."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Why indeed?" She sat back and shook her head at me. "Surely you can see you're deluding yourself, Toby? Denis died of a heart attack. It's sad, but it could have happened at any time. As for Derek Oswin, so what if he's gone walkabout and left his house in a mess? You can't blame Roger for that."

"Can't I?"

"You're not going to believe anything I tell you, are you?"

"Are you going to believe anything I tell you?"

Jenny sighed. "For God's sake .. ."

"It cuts both ways, you know. You think I'm deluding myself. Well, that's exactly what I think you're doing."

"Yes." She almost smiled then, some of her old exasperated fondness for me bobbing briefly to the surface. "I suppose you do."

"Tell me what you'd accept as proof."

"Proof?" She thought for a moment, then leaned forward again. "All right. Delia has no axe to grind. Certainly not in Roger's favour, anyway. He bought her Colbonite shares as well as Gavin's and ultimately netted a substantial profit on them. So, she should resent him on that account. Agreed?"

"Yes," I responded, suddenly cautious. Gavin had portrayed his sister as a fellow victim of Roger's machinations. He'd even suggested I ask her to corroborate his story. But Jenny seemed oddly confident Delia would back up Roger's version of events. If she did, I wouldn't have proved my case. In fact, I'd have gone a long way towards disproving it.

"Come and see her with me. She knows the history of all of this. And she's an honest person. I can assure you of that. If she sides with you ... I'll have to take it seriously."

"And if not?"

"You'll have to take it seriously."

"How do I know this isn't a set-up?"

"You have to trust me, Toby. That's how."

I drank some coffee, studying Jenny's face over the rim of the cup. She was right, of course. I had to trust her. If I didn't, I was lost.

But she'd misunderstood me, anyway. It wasn't her I suspected of setting me up. Not that it mattered, really. I'd left myself without an escape route. "All right. Let's do it."

"When?"

"You tell me. There's a matinee today, so I'm pushed for time, but I'll fit it in."

"I'll have to give Delia some notice. How about this afternoon between performances? She lives in Powis Villas. It's a short walk from the theatre."

"I know where she lives. Gavin gave me her address."

"All right. I'll phone her and explain."

"Why not phone her right now?"

"Why not?" Jenny smiled at me defiantly, took out her mobile and dialled the number. A few moments passed; then she started speaking.

But only to leave a message asking Delia to call her urgently. She rang off. "I'll let you know what I fix up. It may have to be tomorrow, of course. I can't speak for Delia's availability. I'd better be going now. I've left Sophie in charge long enough." She stood up and reached out for the photocopies, then changed her mind.

"You can keep those."

"Thanks. It'll spare you the effort of hiding them from Roger." I regretted the remark instantly. But there was no taking it back.

Jenny looked down at me with a kind of baffled pity. "You really don't understand, Toby, do you?"

"Don't I?"

"No. And it seems, God help me, that I'm going to have to prove that to you."

I tried Ray Braddock again after Jenny had gone. Still no answer. I had his address, of course, but there was no point going there if he wasn't in. I walked back out into the cold, clear, late-morning air, where the shadows were long, but sharply etched. I looked across at the minarets and onion domes of the Royal Pavilion and spared a sympathetic thought for sad old fat George IV. All he'd really wanted to do was enjoy some cosy domesticity with Mrs. Fitzherbert, who happened, after all, by every seemly definition to be his wife. Yet they were forced to live apart. Their separation was in many ways George's own fault, just as losing Jenny was mine. But culpability doesn't make such miscarriages of life easier to bear. Quite the reverse, actually.

It was just gone noon and there was little I could usefully do before joining the three musketeers for lunch. Why I gravitated to the Cricketers I'm not sure, except that it had become something of a midday habit. What I hadn't realized was that it was also a midday habit for my self-appointed friend Sydney Porteous.

"Great to see you, Toby. Couldn't keep away, hey?"

"Something like that."

"Allow me the distinct pleasure of buying you a drink. Pint of Harvey's best?"

"I'll plump for tomato juice, thanks. There's a matinee this afternoon."

"So there is. Very wise." He ordered a Virgin Mary and a top-up for his own pint. "Shall we huddle by the fire? It's brass monkeys out there today."

Drinks in hand, we went and sat down. Syd smacked his lips at another swallow of beer, while I sipped my under-Worcestered tomato juice and glanced wincingly around at the ever tinselier auguries of Christmas.

"Wrecks the whole month, doesn't it?" said Syd, evidently reading my thoughts. "Piped carols and office parties. Who needs them, hey? Not pagans with no office to go to, that's for sure."

"Quite."

"Still, my Christmas is shaping up to be a little less throat-slit tingly depressing now Aud's on the scene. She's really looking forward to seeing you on Sunday, by the way."

"Sunday?"

"She's cooking you lunch, remember?"

Now I did remember. Yes, of course. Sunday lunch with Syd and Aud.

How had I ever agreed to that? It was a good question. But the rhetorical alternative I actually posed was, "How could I forget?"

"You've got a lot on your mind, Toby. A spot of forgetfulness is only to be expected." He lowered his voice confidentially. "How goes the campaign?"

It struck me as odd that he'd used the same word as Jenny to describe my activities. What made it odder still was how unlike a campaign they felt to me. "I'm making steady progress."

"Excellent. Decided yet whether you'll need me to ride shotgun for you when you drop in on the fragrant Delia?"

"I won't need to impose on you, Syd."

"It'd be no imposition."

"Even so .. ."

"Your call, Toby. Entirely your call."

"I appreciate the offer, but..."

"You'd rather go it alone. Understood. I suppose I was just angling for an excuse to renew our acquaintance."

"How were you acquainted?"

"Oh, well, Gav invited me out to Wickhurst Manor a few times during our schooldays. Delia's a couple of years older than us. I remember her first as a Roedean sixth-former. Awesomely ladylike. She taught there for quite a few years, you know, after finishing school and Oxford or Cambridge, I can't honestly recall which. I always fancied her and there was a period in my late twenties and her early thirties when ..

." He spread his hands. "Well, I blew my chance, that's what it comes down to. But I don't reckon I ever had much of one. I wasn't really in her league. As I've not an itty-bitty doubt her sister-in-law made crystal clear to her. Ann Colborn was always down on me. And she and Delia were like that." Syd wrapped his index and second fingers together.

"Ann Colborn died young, didn't she?"

"Fairly."

I waited for Syd to expand on the remark, but he didn't. Such reticence was uncharacteristic. "I looked up Sir Walter's obituary in the Argus, Syd," I said by way of a prompt.

"Ah. So you know, then?"

"That his wife died in nineteen eighty-two, yes. When she can't have been much more than fifty, judging by Sir Walter's age."

"Didn't it mention ... how she died?"

"No."

"So you don't know."

"Know what?"

"Suicide, Toby. Ann Colborn took her own life. Drove her car off Beachy Head. Nice car, too. Jaguar two point four."

"She killed herself?"

"Well, it definitely wasn't murder."

"Why did she do it?"

"Depression, I think they said. You know, "while the balance of her mind was disturbed". Let's face it, it'd have to be disturbed for her to take the Jag with her. Mind you, it's a classier exit than going under the wheels of a Ford Fiesta."

I've thought about that last comment of Syd's since. Yesterday, he claimed not to know that the driver of the car that killed Sir Walter was charged with manslaughter. Strange, then, that he should none the less remember the model of car involved. When he dropped it into our conversation at the Cricketers, I made nothing of it, still dismayed by the realization that Roger Colborn's mother had committed suicide.

Looking back, however, I see it as proof of what I've begun to suspect: that Syd's garrulous manner conceals rather more than it reveals; that he knows rather more than he's so far chosen to disclose.

"I think Delia was still living at Wickhurst Manor then. Ann's death must have been a real blow to her. She's married since, of course. And married well, according to Gav. So, if reasons are what you're looking for, you could ask her, I suppose. She's had twenty years to get used to what happened." Syd thought for a moment, then went on. "Say, you don't think Ann Colborn topping herself is ... connected with all this, do you?"

"No. Do you, Syd?"

He shrugged. "No way to tell. Doesn't seem likely, does it? I certainly wouldn't put a lot of money on it. But, then again .. ." He grinned. "I might risk a fiver."

I reached the Hotel du Vin ten minutes late thanks to my brain-picking session with Syd. My mind was still focused on the distant mysteries of the Colborn family. I was in no mood and poor condition to make up a foursome with Brian Sallis, Melvyn Buckingham and the demigod of the West End himself, Leo Simmons Gauntlett.

They were already at their table in the large and busy restaurant when I arrived. Melvyn was all smiles and 'dear boys' after several pre-prandial gins, but Leo looked as if his ulcer was playing him up again. A man of notably un theatrical appearance more accountant than impresario he can charm and schmooze and fly kites with the best of them when he has to. His natural temperament veers more towards the plain and practical, however, and sometimes the downright pessimistic.

It was immediately apparent to me that he hadn't arrived in Brighton with the highest of hopes. But, canny financier that he is, he doesn't like to give up on any investment unless he absolutely has to. This was my chance to persuade him that in this case he might not have to.

Unfortunately, not only did I feel unequal to the challenge, I also felt signally indifferent to the outcome.

"Melvyn thought he saw something new in the show Tuesday night," he said over his doctor's-orders salad after I'd ordered a starter and a mineral water to keep them company. "Did it feel like there was something new in it to you, Toby?"