The Valley (10 page)

‘Sorry, have I woken you up? What’s the time there?

‘God knows, I’m so jet lagged it could be midday. We were in Mumbai yesterday. Anyway I’m awake now, so what do you want?’

‘You,’ is what I wanted to say, ‘I want you, because you’re the only one I can talk to, and I think I love you and I’m tired of living alone.’ But I knew that if I mentioned any of these things I would scare her off so instead I told her about Karen’s invitation to Max, and my unease about it.

‘Are you frightened of Max?’ she said.

‘I’m not frightened of him; I’m frightened of depending on him. There’s a difference.’

‘Are you jealous of him?’

‘I’m envious of some of the things he has. But not of his whole life.’

‘You’re happier holed up in your Valley, are you?’

I laughed: ‘I suppose so. At least my family are here.’

‘So what are you going to get Jack for his birthday?’

I mentioned Karen’s idea of the fun alarm clock.

‘A friend of mine bought her son one that takes off and flies around the room,’ Angela said.

‘That sounds good.’

‘I’ll give my friend a call to see where she got it from.’

‘Thanks. I’ll tell Jack you helped to buy it.’

‘Don’t,’ Angela said immediately.

‘Because you’re a pilot, and it flies, he’d –’

‘No, don’t mention me. I mean it, John. Please don’t.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘But Karen knows about you, too. She even asked whether you wanted to come to Jack’s party.’

There was quite a long silence before Angela replied ‘What did you say?’

‘I said you couldn’t.’

‘Is that all?’

‘I said we had a complicated relationship.’

‘That’s one way of putting it,’ she said. ‘I’m going to be stuck out here for a while. ’

‘How long is a while?’

‘That’s something I was going to talk to you about. I’m coming over on 6
^th
October. I’m staying the weekend at a cottage with some friends of mine in Hampshire and –’

‘I’d love to come.’

‘I haven’t asked you yet!’

‘Well, go on ask me, then.’

‘Before I do, I want you to realise something: it’s not going to be a dirty weekend. We will even be in separate bedrooms. My friends who own the cottage are going to be there as well. One of them is actually my boss when I’m over in the UK, so I’ll be on my best behaviour.’

‘I still want to come.’

‘Definitely?’

‘Definitely.’

The next morning, when I arrived at the office, I had an email from Angela. Its subject line was ‘Our very clean and respectable weekend’. Inside were details of where the cottage in Hampshire was, and at the bottom was a link to a website that sold an alarm clock that not only took off and flew, but could also roll around a room, playing music from an iPod. And it could be delivered to my office, already gift wrapped, within twenty-four hours.

I came to Jack’s eighth birthday party clutching it. For a kid’s party in The Valley, it was quite restrained. It started with a five-a-side football game on Wandsworth Common refereed by me, and then tea back at Karen’s house, with everything prepared by Karen, her au pair and one of the other mums.

By the time I led the footballers back from the Common, they were just finishing making the sandwiches. And in the middle of them, shockingly out of context, was Max, wearing a grey suit and a dark tie, looking completely happy and completely at home, as he buttered some bread.

To my surprise, he turned out to be a brilliant guest, discreetly helping Karen and saying all the right things to the other mother and the au pair. His present to Jack was a pair of remote control tanks that Jack and his friends instantly loved, particularly when Max played with them. In the eyes of my children, the only thing he did wrong was leave early, but even that had a touch of glamour: he was catching a flight to Spain, so he could sail his yacht back to England. On his way out, he asked whether he could have a quiet word with me outside.

‘I need your help,’ he said, as I closed the door behind us.

‘Sure.’ I said.

He looked up and down the street and then whispered to me: ‘I’ve found them.’

I looked at him blankly. It was nearly dusk and Max’s eyes were gleaming.

‘I found them, John, I found the people who killed Lucy.’

There was a brief pause and then his words came tumbling out.

‘You’ll help me, John, won’t you? You promised me you would. You’re the one person I can count on.’

‘Of course I will but –’

‘Someone who can lead us to them is coming sailing with me. It’s why I’m taking the boat back to the UK. We can persuade him to talk. I know we can.’

‘Max, you should tell the police.’

‘I can’t, not yet. But you will come? It’s Friday, 5
^th
October. I’m getting moorings near Southampton. You can come down by train. In fact why don’t you stay the weekend?’

I suddenly remembered Angela’s invitation. It was for the same weekend.

‘I’m sorry Max. I’m going away that weekend.’

‘Okay just for the Friday then? You can make that at least, can’t you?’

I hesitated. Angela had said the cottage she was staying in was in Hampshire so it could not be too far away from Max’s yacht in Southampton. And having a destination to move onto would give me the perfect excuse to leave early, if Max tried to involve me in something stupid.

‘What do you propose doing, Max?

He glanced up and down the street. ‘It’s complicated. I’ll tell you everything when you come down. If you don’t like the sound of it, I promise you can walk away, or call the police, or do anything you want. But please say you’ll come on the Friday?’

‘Tell me now, Max.’

Just then Karen poked her head around the door. ‘Max, I thought you’d gone,’ she said, before turning to me. ‘John, your son is just about to blow out his candles, and it would be nice if you were present.’

As she retreated into the house, Max gripped my shoulder.

‘Please,’ he said.

I looked into the house and saw Karen beckon me.

‘I’ll have to leave that afternoon,’ I said.

Max‘s eyes lit up. ‘You’re a good friend John, And Jack, what a wonderful boy he is. Can I have your permission to leave him all my money in my will?’

I laughed. ‘Actually, we were thinking of making him take a vow of poverty.’

‘No, I’m serious,’ Max said. I tried to see whether he really was, but he was staring into the autumn sky, as if he was searching for a star that he knew was there but could not actually see.

‘The lawyers keep telling me I have to re-do my will because of Lucy,’ he mumbled, before looking at me and grinning. ‘Anyway, I can’t leave everything to the Game Conservancy Council, can I?’

I tried to think of a reply, but he gripped me in a bear-hug, and whispered into my ear. ‘Friday, 5th October. I will send you more details. Don’t say anything to anyone.’

I saw the
Glen Avon
for the first time at nine o’clock on a crisp October morning. It was moored in a private marina, ten miles south of Southampton. Five days earlier, a courier had arrived at the PropFace office with a parcel which he said he had to personally deliver to me. Inside was a marina crew member’s pass in the name of Mr Andrew Browne, and a sheet of A4 paper with typed instructions, telling me exactly which train to take from Waterloo and what directions to give to the taxi driver. At the bottom was a hand-drawn map of the marina, and a scribbled note: ‘Pay for everything in cash. Any problems call me on 07887802769. M.’

I had already defied the first part of my instructions, by driving down rather than coming by train. It was the only way I could get from the marina to the cottage in the South Downs where I was still due to meet Angela that evening. My old Volvo had recently been belching smoke even more than normal, so I had hired a car. It was only a Ford Focus, but it had a new car smell and new car gadgets, which made it feel like a luxury to me: exactly the sort of luxury that reminded me of the debt I owed to Max.

I parked in a public car park about half a mile away from the marina, put Andrew Browne’s pass around my neck, and followed the directions on Max’s map, walking past the main marina entrance and along a gravel path that skirted the perimeter wall until I reached a small doorway beneath a sign, saying ‘Staff and Registered Crew Only’. The door was unlocked and it led through to a busy office. To one side, a security guard in a green blazer stood chatting to two men in blue fleeces; on the other side, three women were gathered around a computer. I marched past all of them, heading straight for the large turnstile in the corner, where I swiped Andrew Browne’s pass over the electronic card reader. There was a satisfyingly loud click, so I pushed against the barrier and stumbled into the private enclave beyond, breathing in an aroma of sea air and freshly cut dewy grass.

I strolled down a bleached-gravel path to the quayside. Max’s map identified exactly where the
Glen Avon
was moored. Whenever Max had talked about his boat at our lunches, I had always pictured a sort of tea-clipper, made from teak and canvas. Instead it was all chrome and fibreglass. Its bullet-shaped hull was at least thirty metres long, and it stretched back further than the other yachts. On top was a swept-back cabin that seemed to be moulded into the deck and an enormous steel mast that glistened in the sunshine. And sitting in its shadow, peeling potatoes, and grinning from ear to ear, was its owner, dressed in an old rollneck jumper and frayed khaki shorts.

I come on board, crossing a narrow gangplank, and sat down beside Max on the seat-high locker that circled the main cabin. Before I forget, I handed over an envelope containing Jack’s thank-you letter for his birthday present. Max smiled as he read it and then his smile froze.

‘Did you tell Karen you were meeting me?’ he asked.

‘Yes, but she thinks we’re going to have lunch in London sometime.’

‘As we shall,’ he said. ‘And you haven’t told anyone else, have you?’

‘No.’

This was almost true. The exception, as always, had been Angela, but I had only told her I was meeting Max near Southampton, implying that we were going on some sort of corporate awayday.

Max carefully folded up Jack’s letter and then turned to me. ‘So how’s PropFace?’

‘Okay. I spoke to Ian about the cashflow problem and –’

Max stood up. ‘Do you want a tour of the boat?’

‘Will your tour include some explanation of why I’m here?’

‘Sure,’ he said, and picked up the potatoes, flinging the peelings over the side.

Downstairs was a huge living room that Max called ‘the mess’ at the rear of which was a kitchen which he referred to as ‘the galley’. He put the potatoes into a large fridge which was already crammed full of cold meats, smoked salmon, salads and various sauces and dressings, and then showed me around the mess. Apart from the thick steel base of the mast in its centre and the lack of windows, it resembled the open-plan living area of a stylish loft apartment, with every mod-con and plasma screen imaginable, but Max delighted in demonstrating how everything could be wiped clean or packed away in an instant, and how the floor was gently convex with small gutters running down the sides. When he asked me what I thought of it, I told him it was the only lounge I had ever seen that could be cleaned with a high-pressure hose.

He laughed and walked over to one of the small cabins that adjoined it, opening the door. ‘You can see a slightly different interior design in here.’

Inside, below a porthole, was a double bed with four puffed up pillows, a large white duvet, and a curtained off wet-room. Max reached behind the curtain and pulled out a white fluffy hand towel, which he threw over to me. Embroidered into its corner, in red and black lettering, were the initials MFG and LJG, entwined into a motif.

I looked up at Max and saw him grinning affectionately.

‘Lucy bribed one of the crew to sneak these on board. I nearly threw them off the side when I saw them. But now…’

He let his words fade away as he took me back into the mess, explaining how the table in the middle could be used for anything, from formal meals to surgical operations.

‘Where’s your crew?’

‘They were due a long weekend off,’ he said, opening the door to another cabin. There was no bed – just a hammock and a desk with a computer and a Bloomberg screen.

‘You don’t still sleep in a hammock, do you?’

‘At sea it’s lovely. You should try it sometime.’

I shook my head and followed him back to the narrow staircase. Max pointed downwards. ‘Do you want to see the engines?’

‘No. But thanks for telling me they exist.’

‘I wish they didn’t, but it’s too impractical.’

We walked upstairs to a large room above the deck that Max called the control room. A sturdy chair was fixed into the floor behind a big wheel and a dashboard that would not have looked out of place on a fighter jet. Above it, a Perspex windscreen gave 180 degree vision to the front and to both sides. To the rear was a much smaller window, leaving space below it for even more gauges and radio equipment.

We walked out onto the deck. Along the edge of the boat, two thin steel cables at ankle and hip height formed a safety rail. I held onto the top wire, feeling the boat gently rock up and down, as Max pointed to various lockers that were aerodynamically moulded into the bows.

‘You still haven’t told me what I’m doing here,’ I said.

‘I want you to pretend you’re my new deckhand-cum-cook.’

‘Aren’t you forgetting that I can’t sail and I can’t cook?’

Max smiled. ‘You couldn’t garden, but that didn’t stop you from being a gardener once.’ He looked me up and down. ‘Could you pretend to be injured? It’ll give you an excuse not to do too much.’

‘Easily,’ I said, patting my knee. ‘There’s enough scar tissue on this to persuade anyone I can barely walk.’

He nodded appreciatively and led me back down to the mess, where he reached into a large overhead cupboard and pulled out an old walking stick with a handle carved out of bone. I leaned on it, letting it take my weight.

‘This was my father’s,’ he said. ‘If you use it and limp, no one will expect you to do anything except drive the boat. And whilst you’re doing that, I’ll charm and gently question our guest, until he tells me what happened to Lucy.’

‘What happens if he doesn’t?’

‘Then I’ll bribe him. Everyone has a price and I suspect Gerry’s is rather low.’

‘And if he turns you down?’

‘Gerry’s over fifty, small, fat and wheezes. I could tear him apart with my bare hands. I might just let him know that.’

I looked at Max. He had always been tall and strong and when he was angry, he looked like a blond Viking, hell bent on revenge. Over the years, his hair may have thinned and his body thickened but not many people would take him on.

‘Who’s Gerry?’ I asked.

‘He’s just a middle man.’

‘And he’s just going to walk on board, is he?’

‘He thinks he’s meeting me to do a dodgy deal to buy some land near the marina that’s about to get planning permission. He doesn’t know I suspect him.’

‘Could he be armed?

‘Gerry? No, he’s not a thug. He’s not even a bad person really. He’s just our connection to the bad guys, that’s all.’

‘And do they know he’s here?

‘No,’ Max protested. ‘Look, I’ve thought it all through. It’s safe. I just need –’

But I had heard enough. ‘Max, this is mad. Go to the police.’

He stormed off, heading for the cabin where his hammock was.

‘Max!’ I shouted. ‘Come on, Max: I said I’d help. I’m just trying…’

He returned clutching an old sailbag. He marched over to the table, reached into it and pulled out a gun.

It was less than a metre in length and at first I thought it was a flare-pistol, until I noticed the wooden butt, and double triggers of a shotgun. The barrels had been sawn-off.

‘Where on earth did you get this from?’ I asked.

‘Glen Avon. When I bought the estate, we found it in the cellar of one of the keeper’s cottages. One barrel had a dent in it and the other had rusted over. I don’t think it had been used for fifty years. It wasn’t on any of the firearm certificates. I was going to throw it away when Lucy read about an attack on a yacht off Marbella by some armed robbers from Morocco using a speed boat. So I decided to saw the barrels off, and next time we sailed the boat over from Spain to Scotland, I smuggled it on board. A year ago we shot a few clays off the back. It works all right, at least at close range.’

He put his thumb on the lever on the top and pushed it so the gun opened up. Reaching into the sail bag, he took out two cartridges which had
‘Eley 12 Gauge Himax Number 4’
written on the sides. He loaded these into the gun, and snapped it shut.

‘We use these for shooting foxes. With no barrels, the shot spreads out quickly. Lucy reckoned that if she fired it at a speedboat twenty yards away, she could hit everyone on board with a single shot.’

He pointed the gun at the wall. ‘You can hold it like a pistol if you want, but it’s better with two hands. Just point, release the safety catch and shoot. The only problem is reloading. There’s no ejector so you have to pull the cartridges out by yourself.’

‘Max, this is crazy.’

He sighed. ‘It’s just a precaution, probably an unnecessary one. I wasn’t even going to show it to you until you started going on about Gerry being armed. Anyway, it’s my problem.’

He picked up the gun and walked over to the other side of the room, where he pulled out a double-size wooden drawer from one of the cabinets. But rather than put the gun inside, he took something out and seemed to fix it onto the end of the gun. I came over to see what he was doing. In his hand he had one of his homemade silencers, the sort he had used in Bristol when he shot unwanted pests in our clients’ gardens. This one seemed to be made from a toilet roll and an old dishcloth, and he was sticking it onto the sawn off barrels with gaffer tape.

He looked up. ‘If we get the gun out, I don’t want Gerry to think we won’t use it close to shore.’

‘Max, stop,’ I said.

Max wound the gaffer tape twice more around the barrels before cutting it with some scissors.

‘Max, we need to call the police right now, before this gets out of hand.’

He checked that the silencer was securely fixed, then placed the gun in the drawer on top of some maps. Closing the draw, he turned to me.

‘John, I can’t go to the police. I’ve got nothing on Gerry that would stand up in court. He’d clam up and we’d never find out the names of the people who abducted Lucy.’

‘You don’t know that. Look, I got to know one of the detectives a bit. She’s called Joy Clarke. She came to Lucy’s memorial service. She’s intelligent. She would listen to us, I promise you. And she’d be much better at getting Gerry to talk than we would.’

‘No,’ Max said. ‘I can’t go to the police. I’m sorry.’

‘Why not?’

There was a long pause and when at last he spoke his voice sounded sad, almost ashamed.

‘John, I’ve wanted to tell you everything for a long time. I nearly did when we had lunch together.’

‘Max, tell me everything, right now, or I’m walking away.’

‘Okay,’ Max said. ‘But whilst you’re listening, I want you to have a go at driving the boat. We’ll do a quick run to the Solent and back. Then, if you want to help me, you’ll be ready. And if you don’t, you can leave before Gerry arrives, because I’m still going to meet with him. You can pull out if you want to, but I can’t. Not anymore.’