Days Without Number (28 page)

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But midnight came and went in Circus Gardens with no sign of Tom. It had stopped raining by then, but the temperature was plummeting. None of the windows at number 8 was lit. In the end, Nick had no choice but to give up - until the morning.

Nothing had changed when Nick returned, early on a chill New Town sabbath. The curtains of Tom's flat did not look to have been drawn overnight. Nick could see straight into the room where they had sat drinking whisky in the small hours of Saturday morning. And the room was empty. He took a few pointless stabs at Tom's bell. Silence was the only answer.

Then, just as he turned away, a bustling figure rounded the corner from the next street and started up the steps leading to the door, only to stop abruptly at the sight of Nick, who found himself looking down at a short, plump, middle-aged woman with a beehive hairstyle that added at least six inches to her height. She was wearing a beltless fur-trimmed white raincoat, sheepskin mittens, black leggings and thick-soled cherry-red boots, with a pair of sunglasses perched somewhere in the auburn beehive. Under one arm she held a thick wodge of Sunday newsprint.

'Looking for me, dear?' she enquired with a quizzical smile.

'No, er ... Tom Paleologus.'

'It's a mite early for young Tom. He's probably sleeping off last night.'

'You know what he was doing?'

'No. But he's young and it was Saturday. Tell me' - she frowned at Nick - 'are you and he related?'

'I'm his uncle.'

'Yes, there's a resemblance. So you'd be . . .'

'Nick Paleologus.'

'Pleased to meet you, Nick. I'm Una Strawn. I live in the first-floor flat.'

'I'm anxious to contact Tom . . . Una. I'm worried about him. His father died recently.'

'So I heard. Terrible, quite terrible. But Tom seemed fine

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when I last saw him. Friday, it would have been. I don't think you need to be worried.'

'Even so . . .'

'Tell you what. Come in with me and see if you can raise him.'

Una shook a key out of one of her mittens and led the way into the communal entrance hall. Nick went straight to Tom's door and gave it several loud knocks. 'Tom?' he called, following that up with some still louder knocks. But there was no sound from within.

'Do you want a coffee, Nick?' asked Una as she went on up the stairs. 'I set some to perk before stepping out for the papers.'

'Well . . . thanks.' Nick started after her. 'Very kind of you.'

'Not at all. I may have misled you about Tom. He could have gone away for the weekend for all I know.'

'I saw him yesterday morning. He didn't say he was going away.'

'Maybe not, but the impulsiveness of youth . . .' Una opened the door to her own flat and Nick followed her in.

The layout was identical to Tom's flat, but that was hard to remember when faced with Una's enthusiasm for purple walls, shag-pile rugs and bead-fringed throws. The kitchen seemed to contain more books and magazines than pots and pans by about fifty to one, but the percolator had done its work in her absence. She filled a couple of chunky breakfast cups with the aromatic brew and invited Nick to sit down at the Tatler-littered table. Then she took off her raincoat to reveal a voluminous pink mohair jumper that reached almost to her knees and sat down opposite him.

'Have you come far, Nick?'

'From Cornwall.'

'Where Tom's father lived?'

'That's right.' Nick sipped some coffee. 'I am worried about him, Una.'

'So I can tell. And it's true . . .'

'What is?'

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'He's not been himself this past month or more. Not since the turn of the year, in fact.'

'We can't put that down to his father's death.'

'No more we can.'

'What, then?'

'He did break up with his girlfriend. Such a pity. They made a lovely couple.'

'Do you know what went wrong?'

'There was someone else, I think.'

Tn Tom's life, you mean?'

'Yes, though she doesn't seem to have made him very happy. I've never seen her, mind, and Tom's said not a word. But Sasha--'

'Who?'

'Sasha Lovell, the girlfriend I mentioned. I bumped into her recently and she was still raw about the whole thing, but quite clear that Tom had ditched her because of ... well, someone she called . . . Harriet.'

'Harriet . . . Elsmore?'

'Just Harriet.'

'Take a look at this.' Nick pulled out the photograph and showed it to her. 'Recognize the woman with Tom?'

Una peered closely. 'Where did you get this picture from? It looks like it was taken at the Robusta.'

'It's a long story. Do you recognize the woman?'

'I don't think so. Who is she?'

'She could be Harriet.'

'Well, as to that. . .' Una gave a mohaired shrug. 'I couldn't say.'

'Maybe Sasha could.'

'Maybe.'

'How would I contact her?'

'She's a student at the university. She was a year behind Tom. They'd have an address for her, I dare say, though getting hold of it on a Sunday 'You don't know where she lives?'

'No. That is . . .' A thought seemed to strike Una. 'When I

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met her I was coming out of the Odeon in Clerk Street. My friend Queenie and I often go there of an afternoon. It's cheap rate before five o'clock, you know. Anyway, Sasha was walking past as we came out, on her way home from the University. "I live just over there," I remember she said, pointing across the road. We chatted for a few minutes while Queenie went to wait for our bus. That's when Sasha mentioned this Harriet creature. "She's no good for him," she ^

said, "but he just doesn't see it." Then our bus came along t

and I had to dash.' Seeing Nick's frown, she added, 'It's the **

best I can do, I'm afraid.' |

'Sorry. I don't mean to seem ungrateful.' f

'I'm sure there's no serious cause for concern. Tom's I

grieving for his father and maybe wondering if throwing Sasha 1

over was such a good idea. That'll be all there is to it,'

'You're probably right,' Nick lied, thinking as he did so: if only.

It was a long shot, but the only one Nick could take. Clerk Street was a stretch of the main road leading south from the city centre. Nick's taxi dropped him opposite a closed Odeon cinema in a neighbourhood of burger bars, kebab joints and betting shops, with bedsits above most of them. It was, he supposed, the sort of area where students lacking a wealthy stepfather ended up.

But Sasha Lovell's name did not appear next to any of the bell-pushes in nearby doorways. Most bells lacked a name altogether, so Nick's search was beginning to look as if it was over before it had begun. 'Just over there' from the Odeon, as Una had quoted Sasha as saying, could have included the adjacent side-street, however. Nick decided to check it out.

Rankeillor Street was lined with Georgian terraced houses in varying states of disrepair. The Salisbury Crags loomed dull red in the middle distance, skewing Nick's sense of perspective. He trudged from door to door, along the northern side of the street, the conviction growing on him that he was wasting 240

his time, although what better use he could make of it was a moot point.

And mooter still when, at the far end, he found himself staring somewhat disbelievingly at the name SASHA printed in faded capitals on a small laminated card. He pressed the bell next to it. Ten seconds slowly and silently elapsed. He pressed it again.

There was a squeal of swollen wood somewhere above him, a rattle of window and sash. He stepped back from the door and looked up to see a round-faced young woman with orange, spiky hair staring down at him from two floors above.

'What can I do you for?' she called.

'Sasha Lovell?'

'That's me.'

T'm Nick Paleologus, Tom's uncle.'

'Are you now?'

'Could we have a word?'

'What about?'

'Tom. I'm worried about him.'

'Well, maybe I'm not.'

'I really would be grateful for a few minutes of your time, Sasha. It's important.'

Sasha looked undecided. She glanced behind her, then back down at Nick.

'Can I come up?'

'No. Stay where you are. I'll come down.'

She appeared a few minutes later, clad in black from her Doc Martens to her beret, fleeced collar pulled up against the wind. For all the shabby-chic clothes, nostril-stud and chewing gum, there was a mature practicality in the glance of scrutiny she gave him.

'There's a place round the corner where we can talk,' she said, leading the way. 'Are you the monk or the bureaucrat?'

'Tom told you about Basil and me, did he?'

'Sort of. Two aunts and two uncles were mentioned. Basil would be the monk, then?'

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'Former monk.'

'Does that make you a former bureaucrat?'

'Could be. I've not been at my desk in quite a while.'

'Why's that?'

'Family troubles.'

'Are they why you're worried about Tom?'

'Yeah.'

'Here we are.'

Sasha turned in at the door of a muddily decorated caf� where one or two people were leafing through Sunday papers over steaming mugs to a soundtrack of subdued jazz. Sasha knew the girl behind the counter, merely nodding in answer to the question, 'Usual?' Nick ordered a coffee and they sat down near the window.

'I can't stay long. Rick's a bit ... you know.'

'Rick?'

'You don't want to get me started on him. Tell me about these family troubles of yours.'

'Tom's father and grandfather have both died recently.'

'Shit.' Sasha winced. 'That's rough.'

'Very.'

'How--' She broke off as Nick's coffee and her herbal tea arrived. 'Thanks, Meg.'

'I gather you and Tom broke up a while back.'

'Who told you that?'

'Una Strawn.'

Sasha smiled and sipped her tea. 'If you've spoken to Una, you probably know it all.'

'She mentioned ... a woman called Harriet.'

'Harriet. That's right. The one I couldn't compete with.'

'This her?' Nick showed Sasha the photograph.

'Yeah. That is her. Where'd this come from?'

'It was sent anonymously ... to Tom's mother. I think someone was trying to warn her that Harriet could be a bad influence on Tom. He's been behaving strangely. Even before the two deaths in the family.'

'How did they happen? The deaths, I mean.'

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'A fall, in my father's case. Not unexpected, given his age and frailty. As for Tom's father, my brother Andrew, he died in a road accident.'

'Farmer, wasn't he?'

'He was.'

'Well, it's tough, but, look, Tom finished with me back in January. I don't--'

'Finished because of Harriet?'

'Not according to Tom. But when I saw him with her soon after, it was obvious.'

'Do you know her surname?'

'Elsmore, I think. Yeah. Harriet Elsmore.'

'What else do you know about her?'

'Nothing. It was just the one encounter. And not what you'd call a warm one. He was ... under her thumb, somehow. Cowed. Not the Tom I knew. That's not just jealousy talking either. I'm over it now. I'm seeing it like it is. When I came back after the Christmas vac, he was different. Cold. Almost a stranger.'

'Thanks to Harriet?'

'Who else? She's got her claws into him somehow. And you're worried about how deep, right?'

'That's more or less the size of it.'

'Well, I don't know. She's a weird one, for sure. And not Tom's type, I'd have said. 'Course, I thought / was his type. He told me he was staying on in Edinburgh so we could be together until I graduated this summer. He even wanted me to move in with him. He was keen, right? Then Harriet comes on the scene and he's suddenly . . . ice. I mean, who is she? How does she make a living? She must be ... what, thirty five? It doesn't stack up.'

'Did you ask Tom about her?'

'I asked. He didn't answer.'

'Does she live in Edinburgh?'

'Not sure. But I don't think so.'

'He's done a bunk since I got here. I wondered if he could be with her.'

'More than likely. But where would that be . . .' Sasha

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shook her head expressively. 'That photograph was sent to Tom's mother, right?'

'Yes.' Nick wondered if he was going to regret the lie he had instinctively told.

'Any idea who by?'

'None.'

'Only . . .'

'What?'

'You're not the first to ask me about Harriet Elsmore.'

'Who was first?'

'Some old guy, about ten days ago. Well-spoken, well dressed, a bit camp.'

'Give a name?'

'Harmsworth. Something like that.'

'What did he want to know?'

'Anything I could tell him about her. Which, like I've told you, isn't much. He buttonholed me as I was leaving a lecture. Said he was anxious to contact her and understood I might be able to help. Managed to make "understood" sound really sinister. Called me "my dear", which didn't win him any favours. I asked him if he knew Tom and he said yes, he was an old friend of the family. That true?'

'More acquaintance than friend. His name's Julian Farnsworth. He's a former colleague of my father.'

'An archaeologist, you mean?'

'Yeah.'

'He didn't look like one.'

'What do they look like?'

'Not like him.'

'No, well, sinister is right. He's up here staying with a friend you may have heard of. Professor Vernon Drysdale.'

'Professor of Medieval History as was. Yeah, I've heard of him. Retired years ago, but still slinks around the Uni.'

T'm thinking of paying him and Farnsworth a visit. Happen to know where this is?' Nick showed her the card on which Farnsworth had written Drysdale's address and telephone number.

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'He lives at Roslin, does he?' Sasha nodded. 'That figures.'

'What do you mean?'

'Ever heard of Rosslyn Chapel?'

'No.'

'Spelt differently, but it's the same place. Roslin's a village a few miles south of here, just outside the city. Rosslyn Chapel's its main claim to fame. Dates from the fifteenth century. Incredibly ornate stone-carving and a whole heap of legends. Tom took me there once. It's something else, that's for sure. Gave me the creeps. Crops up in a lot of those books about the Knights Templar and the Ark of the Covenant. You know, the Holy Blood and the Holy Whatsit - that kind of crap.'