(1998) Denial (49 page)

The weather is hot here in London at the moment, yes, we are having a heatwave!!!! I know you think that we poor Londoners live permanently in fog and smog and drizzle, but really we are having an incredible heatwave. Hot also in Hong Kong, I expect?

What have you read about quantum vortexes? did you see the piece in
Nature?
I think the government are using these for mind control – electromagnetic influences on the brain, we talked about that. the US govt grid in Alaska
using the power grid equivalent of ten major cities. Come on, what is this???

Stay in touch!

Your friend.

Thomas

The doorbell rang.

Thomas looked at his computer screen. Eight o’clock. The postman with a large quantity of fan mail? It was long overdue. Perhaps it had been piling up down at the sorting office. Maybe the world had finally realised.

Have I fed the thing? Last night, I took it down some food. Must not forget breakfast. I want it to keep its strength up today of all days. Yes, Amanda, the stronger you are the more pain you will tolerate!

He went into the hall. Eight o’clock in the morning. Yes, it must be the postman. Black slippers slapping on the grey flagstones, past the long-case clock, past the lacquered table, up to the door, he slid the top and bottom bolts, then peered through the spyhole. He saw a man he did not recognise, in a suit and tie, his face blubbery in the distorted fish-eye lens.

There was, of course, no need to open the door.

Thomas felt uncertain about this man: Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons came in pairs. Postmen wore uniforms.

He listened. Positively no sounds from the thing down in the shelter beneath him.

Be careful
.

He opened the door, relaxed, natural, the way any man in a Paisley silk dressing gown who is happy to be alive on such a fine morning might open his front door. ‘Yes? Good morning?’

The stranger was a tall man with a hefty frame shoehorned into a cheap suit; the muscles of his bull neck bulged through his open-throat drip-dry yellow shirt. Alert grey eyes in a baby face beneath a crown of fair hair cropped to a fuzz.

‘Mr Thomas Lamark?’ The bland North London accent carried a certain authority.

‘Yes,’ Thomas continued his charm offensive, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘Detective Constable Roebuck from the Metropolitan Police.’ He showed Thomas his identification. ‘I apologise for coming by so early. I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time, sir?’

The sharp bob of Thomas Lamark’s Adam’s apple gave DC Roebuck his first clue that he was facing an anxious man. But that wasn’t anything to get lit up on; from experience he knew that many innocent people became nervous in the presence of policemen.

The man’s voice remained calm. ‘It’s a little inconvenient, Officer. I have to go to a funeral.’

Instantly Thomas cursed himself. He hadn’t meant to say that.

The detective looked suitably contrite. ‘I’m sorry – someone close?’

‘No, not really. I mean – you know how it is, one has obligations in life.’
What do you want?

‘Of course.’

They remained staring at each other, a silent freeze-frame on the top step.

‘I really won’t take up more than five minutes of your time,’ Roebuck said.

There was an insistence in his voice that concerned Thomas. Eight o’clock. He had time. Half an hour maximum to deal with this man, to give the bit of fluff its breakfast, and to leave. He needed to find out what the man knew. ‘Please come in. Would you care for coffee? Colombian roast? They are excellent beans, I can recommend them. Harder to come by than usual this year, because of coffee-rust disease, but well worth drinking, I can assure you.’

‘Thank you, I’m fine.’

They entered the hall. Thomas saw the detective admire an oil painting of his mother stepping from a limousine in a blaze of flashguns.

‘My mother, Gloria Lamark,’ he said proudly. ‘At the première of her film,
The Widow of Monaco
.’

‘Ah, right. She died recently, I believe. I’m sorry. I gather she was quite famous, once.’

Thomas had difficulty containing the anger that erupted through him.
Once
!

With balled fists and white knuckles, he took the detective through into the grand drawing room and opened the curtains. Every inch of wall space was filled with photographs, paintings and framed photographs of Gloria Lamark. Thomas led him over to a photograph of his mother shaking hands with Lord Snowdon and Princess Margaret.

‘A very beautiful lady,’ Roebuck said.

‘She was.’ It came out like an explosion of air. Thomas’s nerves were going haywire. He turned away from the policeman, taking deep breaths. This was not good. He needed to calm down, but the man was jangling him around inside his head. He led the detective to a sofa, then sat down on the edge of the one opposite, and tried to calm his mind again. But it was no good: his thoughts were jumping, his brainwaves a mess of spikes and troughs.

Roebuck pulled a notebook out of his pocket and opened it. The man was going to a funeral. He remembered the Sussex detective, Glenn Branson, last night saying he was going to a funeral this morning. The same one? Unlikely.

He stared directly into Thomas’s eyes. ‘Mr Lamark, on March sixteenth of this year I understand you submitted a manuscript titled
The Authorised Biography of Gloria Lamark
to the publishers Pelham House. Is that correct?’

It was so unexpected that the words hit Thomas like a punch. And yet it
wasn’t
unexpected. He had known that, sooner or later, someone would make this connection, that there would be a policeman coming round, making routine inquiries, and he had it all rehearsed, he knew exactly what he was going to say.

Except now he had forgotten.

‘Yes.’ He frowned, suddenly starting to feel calmer again. ‘Yes, that was one of the firms I sent it to – I think.’ That
came out well, confident.
Doing better now
. He managed a smile. ‘I’m afraid I sent it to several publishers.’

‘Did anyone accept it?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Were you a little surprised to get this kind of reaction?’

The detective’s eyes were roaming. Up to the ceiling. Down to the floor. The man was fishing away. Thomas pressed his hands together.
Body language
. He leaned back more expansively on the sofa.
Maintain eye-contact
. He smiled, disarmingly.

‘Officer, I think too many people today take Mr Warhol’s dictum of fifteen minutes of fame a little too seriously. They find it hard to accept that true talent broaches all boundaries of time. The films that my mother made are as important to the world today as they always were. Some were so far ahead of their time that their true value is only just starting to be recognised. Naturally it is disappointing to be turned down. But I take solace from the knowledge that mediocrity recognises nothing higher than itself. Only
talent
recognises genius.’

The detective continued to watch him in silence. Then he said, ‘I understand that you made several phone calls to Pelham House in connection with your manuscript. Can you remember the nature of those calls?’

Relaxing totally now, Thomas grinned broadly. ‘Sure, I was pissed off. I didn’t hear a word for two months after I sent them the manuscript. Not even a letter of acknowledgement.’

Roebuck said, ‘I had a mate who wrote a book about a police officer – the first publisher he sent it to took over a year.’ He raised his eyebrows then grinned. ‘Pretty frustrating.’

Thomas grinned back, but let out no slack. This man was playing a game, trying to get some communality between them, trying to make him feel comfortable enough to drop his guard. ‘Your friend was upset?’

‘Yes, he was.’ The detective nodded. Still smiling, he said, ‘So is it your normal pattern to phone publishers up and be abusive to them?’

Thomas did not like this question. But he opened his arms and laughed. ‘Do I look like a flake to you, DC Roebuck?’

The detective shook his head.

‘I’m just a regular guy who wanted to do the right thing by his mother. She was a very great actress. She turned down hundreds of offers from people to write her biography because she didn’t trust them to get it right. She went to court four times to stop unauthorised biographies. You know what the problem is? Today’s publishing houses are filled with ignorant young people still in their shit-stained nappies who can’t believe anyone older than the Spice Girls or younger than Darwin could possibly be of interest to the world!’ Thomas slammed his fist furiously down on the side arm of the sofa.

Then he clocked the expression on the detective’s face and knew that he was blowing it.

With his eyes locked on Thomas Lamark’s, DC Roebuck said, ‘I don’t know if you have seen the news, sir, but Tina Mackay disappeared three weeks ago.’

And Thomas knew that DC Roebuck suspected him. He knew that DC Roebuck was intending to try to get a search warrant. A few bits of the Alfa Romeo were still in the garage. He wasn’t ready to be searched yet. This was dangerous. This was a very bad situation.

Stupid.

Simon Roebuck watched Thomas Lamark stand up and say, ‘Would you excuse me for one moment? I have to go to the bathroom.’

‘Of course.’

He watched Lamark leave the room. Something felt wrong. He stood up and paced around the room, thinking. He stopped by the mantelpiece. Two invites stood there, both for previews at art galleries, both several months old. Strange, he thought, that a man in a house this grand, with a celebrity mother, did not have more invites.

And why the hell was Lamark so edgy? He was trying to
put on a calm, jovial, relaxed front, but that’s what it was: a front.

Roebuck thought hard. He wanted to have a thorough look around here, but did he have enough evidence to convince a magistrate to grant a search warrant?

He walked over to the window and looked out into the garden. A beautiful garden, but in a state of neglect. No one had cut the grass in weeks. Why not? Perhaps Lamark was just in a bad way from his bereavement, but surely in a house this grand he would have staff. A gardener?

Thomas Lamark stood behind him.

‘DC Roebuck, would you mind if we continued this conversation on another occasion?’

Roebuck turned round, startled. ‘Er – no. When would be convenient for you, sir?’

‘Later today, perhaps, after the funeral?’

‘Shall we say five o’clock?’ Roebuck’s mind was racing now.
Was
he going to a funeral? Or to Amanda Capstick’s hiding place? He decided to follow him.

‘Five o’clock would be entirely convenient.’

They walked through into the hall. Thomas stretched out a hand. Roebuck shook it firmly. Then Thomas opened the door, glanced down at the palm of his left hand, then swung it forward.

As he stepped out into the porch, Simon Roebuck felt a prick in his backside, as if he had been stung by a wasp. But, unlike a sting, within seconds the pain had faded. He slapped his hand against his bum and turned round, but the front door was already closing on him.

He wondered if the dry cleaners had left in a safety pin, but he couldn’t feel anything. And the pain was almost gone now.

A delivery van rumbled down the street, followed by a Range Rover loaded with small children. Roebuck had come straight from home in his own small Vauxhall, which he had parked on a meter around the corner. As he walked
the short distance down the street, he began to feel a little giddy.

Tiredness, he thought. He’d lain awake much of the night, unable to drift off in the muggy heat. He turned right, and saw his battered bright red car a hundred yards ahead. Suddenly, it felt like a hundred miles.

His legs were moving in slow motion. Then they started to fold up under him and he had to grip the front garden wall of a house to stay upright. He remained where he was for some moments, aware that he was sweating profusely, breathing in deep laboured gulps. He glanced up and down the street, but no one was around and he was glad – this was embarrassing.

More breaths and he began to feel better. Was he suffering anaphylactic shock from that sting on his bum? He remembered the symptoms from his first-aid courses: rapid pulse, sweating, collapse.

But he wasn’t allergic to stings. Shit, he’d disturbed an entire wasps’ nest in his loft last summer and been stung a dozen times with no big problem. Anyhow it was passing now, he was feeling a little better. It was just tiredness, the heat, no breakfast.

He found the strength to let go of the wall, and walked on up to his car. Unlocking it, he climbed in and sank with relief into the seat. He reached up, pulled down the belt, clicked it home, then started the car.
Have to follow Thomas Lamark. Drive round to his street, stay well back
. He pulled out and, feeling very disoriented now, drove to the end of the street. Floating, almost disembodied. Made a left turn. He was having to breathe harder, as if his lungs were shrinking.
Must radio in, ask for a second car
.

Coming down to a busy junction. Fighting for breath. Wheezing. High Street Kensington. The lights were red. He braked. But he wasn’t stopping – his right foot wasn’t obeying him. He reached for the handbrake, but he only reached it in his mind. His arm did not move.

There was a black cab dead ahead, waiting at the lights. The gap was closing. Closing too fast to stop.

He saw the jerk but felt nothing. Saw the front of his car
bounce back, the taxi catapult forwards and slew outwards into the road, and come to a halt, the back stoved in. He saw a man in an open short-sleeved shirt with a check pattern, and cream trousers, come running angrily up towards him. The man was shouting.

Simon Roebuck tried to reply, but his voice did not work now. A faint wheeze that dried up after a few seconds. His lungs had locked. No air went in or out of them. He stared at the angry man who was shouting at him, helplessly. ‘Arsehole. You blind arsehole!’ the man shouted.

Now the light was fading. The man was fading. Roebuck needed air in his lungs. He tried to suck it in, through his mouth, his nose. He was shaking with panic now. His whole body had shut down on him.