The Road Between Us (28 page)

‘Hi, it’s Martin Cullen from the
Guardian
.’

She puts the knife down and takes hold of the phone properly. ‘How did you get this number?’

‘Er, you gave it to me.’

There is a pause while she digests this. Then: ‘I did, didn’t I. Sorry. The press make me twitchy. We had them camped outside the house for … Were you wanting to speak to Dad?’

‘Actually, it was you I wanted to talk to. I was wondering if you fancied meeting for a drink.’

Pause.

‘A drink?’

Pause. ‘Sorry. That made it sound like I was … There’s something I want to ask you.’

‘Go on then.’

Pause.

‘Go on then and ask me, or go on then and meet me for a drink?’

Hannah tries to hide the amusement in her voice. ‘Go on then and ask me.’

‘OK. Have you heard of Friedrich Walser?’

The name grips, but Hannah cannot think why. ‘Remind me.’

‘He’s an investment banker. A German. CEO of Rheinisch-Westfälische Bank.’

‘What about him?’

‘A contact of mine in the City told me something rather interesting about him. After 9/11, he was one of the bankers who helped find and freeze al-Qaeda’s assets around the world.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘Someone in the back office of Walser’s bank came across a numbered account that had three million dollars sitting in it. Spare change in the financial world. It was registered in the Yemen.’

‘I’m sorry, why … why are you telling me this?’

‘I think a ransom was paid for your father. And I think I know who paid it.’

Hannah closes the kitchen door. ‘Who?’

‘The British government. I think they paid it into a secret account that had been set up by Walser on behalf of al-Qaeda. The one registered in the Yemen. He would have known how to channel the money to the kidnappers, you see.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Just before he was released.’

‘Did you tell my dad about it?’

Cullen hesitates. ‘No. When I asked him if he knew whether a ransom was paid he went quiet for a while, so I thought I’d better let that one go.’

Hannah breathes out slowly. ‘I think it’s something he broods on a lot, the question of why he was released … You think Walser had something to do with it?’

‘I suppose what I wanted to find out from you is whether your father has ever mentioned him.’

‘Not to me. I could ask Niall if he’s said anything to him.’

‘Sir Niall Campbell? No, best not to bring him into this. Not yet. I need to do a bit more digging.’

‘Have you tried contacting Walser directly?’

‘I’ve left messages, but he isn’t returning my calls.’

‘OK, well, if I hear anything, I’ll let you know.’

‘That would be great. My number should have come up on your phone.’

Hannah opens the laptop on her desk, Googles ‘Friedrich Walser’, and reads several articles about him. Next she keys in the name Martin Cullen and sees there is a brief biography of him on the
Guardian
website. It mentions that he read history at Trinity College, Dublin, that he used to play keyboards in a band called the Hormones and that when he was twenty-four and working for the
Irish Independent
he was named Young Journalist of the Year. That was five years ago.

She checks her reflection in the kitchen window, sees the mild smile touching her lips and composes a text to him:‘Where are you taking me for this drink, then?’ She changes this to ‘where u taking me 4 this drink then?’ and presses send.

Instead of a drink they meet a week later at the National Film Theatre to see a press screening of a digitally restored
Doctor Zhivago
, though they miss the start of it because Cullen is late, and then they leave half an hour before the end and head for the bar. There, as they drink bottled lager and share a bowl of olives, they talk about the film then move on to their favourite bands and writers. Hannah is the first to raise the subject of Walser, how he had offered her and her father the use of his château in France, either together or with other friends. Before they separate at Waterloo Underground, they joke about taking him up on the offer and then trashing the place by having a wild party there, announcing it on Facebook so there are hundreds of gatecrashers.

By the time she arrives home, Hannah has formulated a plan, and when she wakes in the morning it still seems like a good one. She takes from her drawer the card she had been given by Walser’s driver and rings the number on it.

A week after this, Hannah’s large rucksack sits beside her like an allegation as she waits in the kitchen sipping Diet Coke through a straw. She checks the clock on the wall for the fifth time in two minutes, then checks her mobile for a text from Martin Cullen. He is late again. Luckily Walser’s driver is also running late, and it’s not as if the flight is going to leave without them.

The flight. Just saying the words in her head fills her with excitement and panic. She and Cullen will be flying to Strasbourg for the weekend in a private jet. The two of them. No one else …

When she thinks about this now she pulls a face, then emits a snuffle of laughter. How could she have been so impulsive? And what will her friends think when she tells them? Perhaps she won’t tell them, just as she didn’t tell Walser’s driver the name of ‘the friend, or friends’ who would be flying with her – because, she said, she was waiting to hear whether or not they could come. It was a white lie. She does consider Cullen a friend, even though she has only known him for a couple of weeks. And it has even crossed her mind that, given time, they might become more than friends. Besides, after a week of text traffic between them, she thinks she has the measure of him. Thinks, more to the point, that she can trust him.

She eyes the envelope she has left for her father on the table. Unlike the one he left for her all those months ago, this one doesn’t contain disturbing news. It simply states she will be gone for a couple of days; that he isn’t to worry about her. She will explain where she has been once she gets back.

It will take some explaining. If Walser is somehow connected to her father’s release, she needs to find out how, and why, to put her father’s mind at rest, as well as her own. If he isn’t, she needs to know that, too. The château, she figures, might provide some answers. He must have invited them there for a reason – other than simply wanting them to take a holiday.

She has considered asking her father if he would like to come with her, but has decided against it. He doesn’t need to know about Walser, for the moment. And she doesn’t want to put him in a
situation he might find stressful, not when he has been making so much ground lately. Since that day he allowed himself to cry over the trapped fox at Twickenham, he seems to have turned a corner, become a different person. Besides, he might appreciate some time on his own without her in the house.

As for herself, she will have Cullen with her. And he strikes her as the sort of person who can look after himself, and others.

She checks the clock again. Where is he? If they don’t leave soon, her father will be back. When she hears the key turning in the front-door lock she jumps.

Edward appears in the doorway and looks at her rucksack with an expression of puzzlement on his face.

Hannah closes the door and whispers into her mobile. ‘Sorry, Martin, there’s been a change of plan. Dad’s going to come with me. He’s upstairs packing now. I’m really sorry.’

‘Did he know I was coming?’

‘I didn’t tell him. He thinks I planned it all as a surprise.’

The doorbell rings. ‘Look, I’m going to have to go. I’ll ring later and explain everything. And I’ll keep you updated on anything I find out about Walser. Sorry, sorry, sorry.’

As she ends the call she sees the letter she left for her father on the table, grabs it and stuffs it into her pocket. She then scoops up a couple of DVD boxes from the shelf and puts them in her rucksack. When she opens the front door she takes in the moustachioed man on the doorstep. He looks like he is more used to being in a gym vest than the suit and open-neck shirt he is wearing.

‘Morning, Miss Northcote,’ Mike says. ‘There’s been a slight hiccup. The Learjet is grounded in New York, along with my boss, so I’m going to drive you to Alsace instead.’

Hannah is momentarily thrown by this. When she regains her composure she says: ‘What happened?’

‘European air space has been closed again. Another eruption of ash from that Norwegian volcano.’

‘Well, we’ve had a change of plan, too. Dad’s coming with me
now, instead of my friend.’ As an afterthought she adds: ‘And I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention the bit about my friend to him.’

Mike makes a sealing gesture across his lips, picks up her rucksack and uses his key to pop open the boot of the black Mercedes parked outside the house.

As Hannah gets into the back seat, she looks over her shoulder at the house. Two minutes pass before her father appears carrying a suitcase in one hand and her guitar in the other.

As soon as the car leaves the London orbital, Hannah drops her shoulders, as if the muscles in her neck had been flexed against the capital’s gravitational pull. She presses a button and, when a red light comes on, she pulls a worried face at her father. In response to her gesture he makes as if to bite his nails. While this may lack conviction, it is at least an attempt at humour, she thinks. Another sign of improvement.

She tries to recall what he had been like when she was a child. Had he been funny? Had he played with her much? She knew he had played football with her in the park, and table tennis at home, and they had had running races on a beach somewhere, because there is family video footage of it …

Her thoughts are interrupted as a soft, slightly nasal voice comes through on the intercom. ‘It’s the speaker, Miss Northcote. That red light. Like in a taxi … Don’t worry; there are no ejector seats. You can press anything you like. Actually, one of them buttons does operate the seats. They are fully reclinable, so if you want to get some rest, once we’ve got through the tunnel, feel free. It’s about a five-and-a-half-hour drive the other side. There’s a picnic hamper in the boot. I thought we could stop for lunch somewhere around Reims, which is about halfway. By your feet you’ll find a cooler full of drinks. Wine, champagne, fruit juice. Help yourselves.’

‘Are you sure you don’t mind driving us?’ Edward says. ‘It seems an awfully long way.’

‘Not at all. Be my pleasure.’

‘Won’t Mr Walser need the car?’

‘Not while he’s stuck in America. He was the one who suggested
I drove you. By the way, the windows don’t open. A security feature. But you can control the climate inside using the system console in the armrest. It also operates those screens in front of you. There’s TV, music, internet. If you click on “movies” you’ll see a list of new releases. Same with the iTunes menu. Mr Walser tends to listen to classical, but we’ve got pretty much everything downloaded. I prefer country myself. Willie Nelson. Patsy Cline. You’re completely soundproof back there so it don’t make any difference to me.’

‘Life jackets?’

Mike angles his rear-view mirror and studies his passenger with an amused eye. ‘Under your seats, miss. Now, if you will make sure your tray tables are in the upright position I’ll point out the exits. They are here,’ he raises his hand above his head and directs a thumb at Hannah’s side of the car, then a finger at Edward’s, ‘and here.’

The red light goes off. Hannah puts on her sunglasses, presses her forehead against the window and inhales deeply. She then gives Edward a knowing, sideways glance – a tilt of the head, a dip of the chin. Up to this point she has found the driver a little intimidating – more to do with his moustache than his manner – and she suspects her father has been feeling the same because he is now studying the buttons in his door again, trying to avoid her eye. Hannah presses her intercom button and says: ‘Does he go to New York a lot then, your boss?’

‘Yep. New York, London, Frankfurt. Hong Kong sometimes.’

‘What’s the château like?’ Edward asks.

‘You’ll love it. It’s got a tennis court, gym, cinema and riding stables, though I think the horses might have gone away until the autumn. There’s an indoor swimming pool, but most people prefer to swim in the river. The garden is spectacular. I believe there were more than a hundred species of butterfly recorded in it at one time … Here’s one for you. Know how long a butterfly lives?’

‘Three summer days,’ Edward says. ‘According to Keats.’

‘Oh.’ Mike sounds disappointed. ‘Well, that’s my nature trivia used up.’

Hannah presses the intercom: ‘Mike? How long have you worked for him?’

‘Coming up to five years. I was doing security before that. That’s partly my job now. Personal protection officer. When the boss is over here. He has someone else to look after him when he’s in the States. Don’t worry, I’ve left my gun at home, otherwise it would take for ever to get through the tunnel …’ He looks over the top of his sunglasses and winks. ‘Joke.’

‘But something tells me you know how to use a gun,’ Edward says.

‘Yeah, I was in the army for eighteen years.’

Edward leans forward again. ‘Which regiment?’

‘2 Para. Iraq. Afghanistan …’ Remembering who his passenger is, Mike trails off.

‘My father was in the army,’ Edward says, trying to ease the tension that has crowded the car. ‘Not the Parachute Regiment. Although I believe he did fight alongside them at one point in the Second World War.’

‘Yeah? Whereabouts?’

‘To be honest, I’m not sure of the details. After the war, the French awarded him the Croix de Guerre.’

‘They didn’t talk about it much, that generation.’

‘No, it wasn’t that. He was a war artist so he was sort of freelance. Went everywhere. I wish he’d kept a diary. Some of his paintings are in the Imperial War Museum.’

There is a lull in the conversation as Mike negotiates a lane closed by an accident. Then he says:‘I was there not long ago. Great museum, that.’

‘Dad was wounded during a bombing raid in the early 1940s and spent the next few years convalescing. Then he got assigned to cover D-Day. That’s where he was with the Paras, I think.’