Requiem (42 page)

Bennett cleared his throat. ‘Even allowing for your very admirable wish that nothing like this should be permitted to happen again, I am concerned that the inquiry will fail to deliver the appropriate sort of warning. I am concerned that the wrong message will come through, that you will be disappointed.’

David appeared briefly at Nick’s elbow and pushed a cup of coffee into his hand. Nick stared at it for a moment before nodding his thanks and draining the cup in one gulp. He stared out into the park, towards the wide spread of one of the larger cedars, its branches unbalanced by the loss of a lower limb in a winter gale. At some point he had meant to ask Duncan to prop up some of the more fragile branches, but could no longer remember if he’d ever got round to it. This memory, like so many of the recent and not so recent past, was lost in a haze that seemed to have invaded every part of his brain. The worrying thing was not that the fog existed, but that he had developed a strong need for it. Whenever it lifted he had to take steps to bring it back again; drink or Librium usually did the trick or, more effective still, both.

Bennett came back onto old ground. ‘Peace of mind is worth a great deal, Mr Mackenzie.’

Peace of mind? Nick couldn’t begin to imagine what that must feel like.

‘We go ahead,’ he said.

A reproving silence while Bennett regrouped. ‘Just so long as you appreciate that I’ll have very little control over what might come out in court.’

‘What might come out?’ There was a roaring in Nick’s ears, like being under water. ‘What do you mean – what might come out?’

Bennett held up both hands placatingly. ‘I meant merely that we will have no control over the evidence that the procurator fiscal might introduce.’

‘There’s nothing to come out,’ Nick retorted, refusing to be mollified. ‘Except that my wife was half killed by a dangerous chemical, and that’s exactly what I
do
want to come out!’ Marching up to his chair, he dropped the cup and saucer onto the tray with a clatter. ‘The only thing that can come out is the truth! What did you mean – what might come out? Christ.’

‘The London psychiatrist, Carter …’

‘Just one opinion!’

‘But that will not stop them from introducing the evidence, will it, Mr Mackenzie! It will not stop those sorts of ideas from being discussed in public.’

‘Well, it’ll be your job to stop it, won’t it!’

His anger was senseless, he knew it, senseless and destructive.

‘I’ll do my best, Mr Mackenzie, of that you may be sure.’

Sinking into his chair, Nick rubbed a hand over his eyes, and fighting for equilibrium said in a calmer voice: ‘I accept the risks.’

Bennett reached for his briefcase and said regretfully: ‘Very well.’

David, professional smoother of troubled waters, stepped in and asked Bennett how long he thought the inquiry would last.

Nick’s gaze fell on the envelope that he’d carried in from the hall. He pulled it out from under the tray and, opening it, glanced down the handwritten letter. Daisy Field. There was no date and the envelope bore no post mark. He read the letter grudgingly.

An airfield, an aerial spraying programme. She asked if he’d considered the possibility that it wasn’t Reldane at all, that Alusha had been affected by another substance altogether? There was a boy with similar symptoms, and a couple of other people who might be affected.

He rapidly lost interest. This sounded like the theory of that man Campbell, or a variant of it. The very thought of Campbell caused him to tighten his grip on the paper.

With time and resources we hope to get firm evidence,
she wrote. Which meant she had no evidence at all. Just like the Reldane situation: all wishful thinking and wild promises and nothing to back it up.

She finished with an offer to give evidence at the inquiry if he thought that might help. She gave the telephone number of a hotel in Inveraray.

Bennett was getting up. ‘Forgive me for mentioning it, Mr Mackenzie …’ He gestured a slight apology. ‘But tomorrow – a suit and tie might be a good idea.’

Ah, thought Nick, mustn’t have the widowed husband looking degenerate.

Seeing the dangerous gleam in his eye, David interposed: ‘They were rehearsing till six this morning. They’ve only just got up.’

‘Of course,’ Bennett said, with an indulgent smile to show that, as a man of the world, he understood the ways of artists.

Nick showed him to the door, grateful both for an end to the discussion and for the chance to slip upstairs and grab a nip of Scotch.

When he came down again he was revived and anaesthetized, and feeling a little more able to face the day, though this didn’t stop him from needling David at the first opportunity.

David was standing in the hall waiting for him, wearing that mournful, mildly reproachful expression that Nick knew so well. It was the one he’d used in the old days when Nick had done things like falling downstairs and not getting up again.

‘Well?’ Nick demanded defensively.

David looked wide-eyed. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why’re you looking at me like that? What’s the problem?’

‘There’s no problem, Nick,’ he replied, sounding hurt. ‘There’s never a problem.’

‘I’ve managed to get another three bookings,’ David explained, pouring himself another cup of tea. ‘Chicago, Detroit and Philadelphia. All cancellations from that Rotten Apple tour. Some tight logistics, I’m afraid, but otherwise good.’

‘That’s it then, is it?’

‘Can’t get any more bookings, not at this sort of notice. Lucky to get what we have.’

Nick got up and stood in front of the fire. ‘How many’s that then?’

‘Seven. Start and finish at Madison Square. Well, not quite – actually Detroit will come last.’

Nick stared into the flames. ‘It’s going to work out, is it?’

What did he mean? David took a guess and replied: ‘Sure. The Madison Square dates sold out straight away – I knew they would. We could have filled the Shea Stadium. Well – given more notice we could have. Next time, eh?’

‘The material. It worries me.’

‘In what way?’

‘The new stuff.’

‘What about it?’

‘Not enough.’

‘What – three songs? That’s plenty, Nick, for this sort of gig at least. A major tour – well, that would be different. But with a low-scale comeback like this, most of the fans’ll be coming for the old numbers anyway, you know that.’

Nick shook his head.

‘It’ll be okay, Nick, don’t worry.’

But he was miles away, wearing the sort of look that rang alarm bells deep in David’s memory.

‘I’m booking the European tour, Nick. Is that all right?’

‘What?’

‘I should go ahead, should I?’

Nick pulled himself back from whatever had been detaining him. ‘Sure.’

David thought: Give me signals, Nick. Let me know if you’re going to make it. Let me know if you’re in trouble.

He said: ‘If you’ve any doubts, then you only have to tell me.’

Nick ambled back to his seat. ‘No – fine. Go ahead.’

‘What worries me is the timing, Nick. Will there be enough time to do the album? I worry that you’re taking on too much.’ He thought: I also worry that you won’t be able to deal with it.

‘It’ll keep me out of trouble.’ He grimaced at the platitude.

‘So long as it’s what you want, Nick. So long as it’ll make you happy.’

‘It’s what I want.’ He didn’t sound too sure. In fact it seemed to David’s sinking heart there was an edge of panic in his voice, an underlying appeal, like a child who can’t admit to having made a mistake. Nick had always been stubborn. It was his greatest strength, and his greatest weakness. But desperate though David was to get an accurate grasp of the situation, this wasn’t the time to press Nick, not on the day before the inquiry.

‘I had an idea,’ David said brightly. ‘How about a one-off gig in London before you start the European tour. A sort of warm-up welcome-back we’re-here date. It’d coincide with the announcement of the UK tour. Great publicity, particularly if it’s a charity do – you know, handshaking with some royals and all in a good cause.’

‘If you think so.’

‘Well, I’ll leave the idea with you, shall I? Then we’ll bounce it off the others. Just thought I’d sound you out first, Nick. You’re the boss.’

But he wasn’t listening. He was staring at the fire, his hands moving relentlessly on the chair arms, a crossed leg swinging frenetically back and forth. David wasn’t surprised when a few moments later he made a show of looking at his watch and, getting up, sidled towards the door in that hesitant way of his. ‘Got to call someone. Have some more tea, David. Make yourself at home.’ He hovered at the door for an instant.

‘Won’t be long.’ Then he was gone. He hadn’t looked David in the eye.

David sank back in his chair, thinking: We’ve been here before, Nick. I recognize the signs.

Booze. Uppers. Downers. All three maybe. What difference did it make? The whole scene was like a rerun. Everyone knew their parts, everyone knew their lines. Everyone knew they had to pretend it wasn’t happening. Everyone hoped it was going to be different but knew it was going to be just the same.

But the ending – that wouldn’t be the same. This time there wasn’t going to be anyone to catch Nick when he fell.

Mrs McKay’s bed-and-breakfast establishment was at the far end of Balinteith, a dark two-storey villa of small proportions but grand design, set back from the road behind a damp garden of tall shrubs. Campbell chose to stay in the car, presumably to nurse his hangover, though Daisy hadn’t enquired too closely about that.

A low gate with a broken latch and a short concrete path led to a porch and a glass-fronted door exhibiting a No Vacancies sign and the badges of two bed-and-breakfast associations. The bell sounded deep in the house and was met by a long silence. The glass door panels were draped with thick lace curtains, as were the windows on either side of the porch, and the whole place had a closed-up air to it, as if the owner had gone away. Daisy was hovering irresolutely on the path, searching the upper windows, when a large woman with a shock of white hair pulled back into an extravagant bun rolled in through the gate, a bulging shopping trolley in tow.

‘Mrs McKay? Aye, that’s me – for my sins. Only one McKay round here.’ She laughed as if it were a great joke and, scrabbling deep in her bag, came out empty-handed and threw up her hands in a theatrical gesture of despair. She reached under the frayed door mat and pulled out a key. ‘I’ve no idea why I bother,’ she exclaimed, her eyes dancing. ‘The whole place knows where I keep it.’

Parking her trolley in the hall, she waved Daisy into the house with great sweeping movements, like a policeman directing traffic. The hall, dark with ancient furniture and elaborate wallpaper, smelled strongly of lavender polish.

‘Now what can I do for you?’ asked Mrs McKay, fighting her plump arms out of her voluminous plastic raincoat to reveal a tent-like floral dress that flowed over her bosom like water over a dam.

Daisy explained that she was trying to trace Peter Duggan, and invented an acquaintance who was anxious to find him.

‘Come.’ The great sweeping movements led Daisy to a parlour with four circular tables laid for breakfast, with overturned cups sitting neatly in their saucers, marmalade and honey jars and solid stainless-steel cruet sets.

‘You’ll be taking a cup of tea?’ Mrs McKay sang gaily, waving Daisy to a table and disappearing into the adjoining kitchen. ‘Peter Duggan – aye, he stayed here quite a wee while,’ she called through the open door. ‘A bit of a rascal if you ask me.’ She gave a chortle. ‘Not that I’ve the evidence for that statement, you understand.’ She popped her head round the door and winked heavily. ‘Just ma canny old instincts.’

‘Did he leave a forwarding address?’

‘No, no – not that one. Travel light, travel free, no questions asked. They’re all the same.’

‘Did he ever say where he came from?’

She pulled a thoughtful face and disappeared again, returning with a tray of tea things which she plonked noisily on the table. ‘Now that you come to ask, I’m not sure he ever said.’ She poured out the tea and sat down, exhaling noisily. ‘That’s strange, is it not?’ she declared, affecting a look of cheerful puzzlement. ‘I usually get the entire story, you understand – the
entire
story.’ She giggled girlishly, raising a shoulder to her plump cheek.

‘You must have some tales to tell, Mrs McKay.’

‘Indeed. But I’m careful who I tell them to,’ she said, her eyes darting up to Daisy’s.

Daisy wasn’t sure if this was an announcement or a warning. ‘Did he say where he used to work?’ she asked. ‘The name of a company, an airline?’

Mrs McKay shook her head vigorously, so that her bun wobbled precariously on her head.

‘Nothing like that?’

‘I regret not.’ She drained her cup and, under cover of her habitual smile, gave Daisy a long and careful look. ‘This acquaintance of his,’ she said drawing the words out like beads on a string, ‘he just wants to get in touch, does he? Or might it be a she?’ She wriggled her eyebrows suggestively.

‘The friend simply wants to contact Peter,’ Daisy confirmed. ‘That’s all.’

‘Many would find that an unlikely story,’ she crowed. ‘Many would suspect that this friend might be a woman from his past, or mebbe someone in a wee dispute about money …’

‘Nothing like that, really.’

‘Many would not believe you,’ she echoed, ‘but then I’ve always gone where angels fear to tread.’ She leaned across the table and tapped Daisy’s hand. ‘I always go by instinct. It’s not let me down yet.’

Daisy ventured: ‘So, Duggan – you might have some idea where …?’

But the ebullient hands were making flamboyant hushing gestures, the eyes closing, the face, absorbed with sudden concentration, tilting towards the ceiling. A moment of silence then, with a sudden flash of the eyes she announced: ‘He had family – ’ Her hands described windmills in the air. ‘Somewhere in Surrey. Began with a D. Do-Doo-Da – ’

‘Datchet?’

‘Dorking!’ she cried triumphantly. ‘A sister. In Dorking. His only family, he said. I got the impression he was fond of her. The sister was on her own. She’d married a free spirit.’ She lowered her voice waggishly. ‘That is, a man who felt free to go off and leave her with three children. Peter played the uncle. He liked that. Fond of the kiddie-winks, he was. Bought them presents.’