Dying to Tell (29 page)

"Nothing whatever."

"In fact, it's all much less sinister than it appeared to be."

"Well, appearances can be deceptive."

"They surely can."

"How are we for time? I don't want you to miss the last train."

"Don't worry. I'll soon be going."

"I didn't mean '

"Yes you did, Gary. So, maybe I should lay it on the line for you .. . and for Chester. I'll go along with this, for Clyde's sake. I'll let it lie. But there's one thing I want you to know."

"What's that?"

"I don't believe a single word you've said."

I couldn't blame Maris for doubting me. I couldn't explain why she was actually in my debt, either. I could only hope she did what she'd said she'd do: let it lie.

The uncongenial bar was still open when I got there and the proprietor seemed happy to ply me with drinks at the rapid rate I set. There's a world of difference in mood and reason between getting drunk slowly and getting drunk fast. This was definitely a fast occasion. I had a friend to mourn and to curse. I did both, more or less simultaneously, as midnight slurred into the early hours.

I was at the Public Library when it opened the following morning. It took me no more than twenty minutes to find what I was looking for in their back copies of the San Francisco Chronicle, on an inner page of the local news section for Saturday, September 23.

DEATH IN BUENA VISTA PARK

The body of an unidentified Caucasian male, approximate age 30-35, was found yesterday morning in Buena

Vista Park. A police spokesperson said the death appeared to be drug-related. The deceased was smartly dressed. Anyone with information regarding his identity is asked to contact the Police Department.

That was it. One paragraph, four sentences. Not much of an obituary. But it looked like it was the only one Rupe was going to get.

I walked out into the plaza filling the square between the Library and City Hall and made my way slowly round the rectangular pond at its centre. Sunlight sparkled in the fountain and a cool breeze sent fallen leaves rushing past me. Rupe and I were a long way from home and only one of us was going back. I had to go. And soon. But I promised Rupe, and myself, as I gazed up at the dome of City Hall, that I'd come back one day and tell the authorities just who that Caucasian male in Buena Vista Park really was. I'd even try to give him a proper funeral. Though as for a eulogy .. .

Where was the letter? Where could it be? A bank vault seemed the obvious bet. But Rupe would have had some sort of receipt in that case, some documentary proof of ownership. Ledgister had found nothing in his pockets or belongings. He'd drawn a blank at Rupe's house in London and his flat in Tokyo as well. Rupe had chosen his hiding-place well. That much was certain.

It was clear to me he wouldn't have left the letter in Tokyo, since he'd not have wanted to go back there. Nor would he have carried it with him during his dealings with the Townleys in Berlin and San Francisco. A photocopy was all he'd needed to show them.

So, London it had to be, the only other place he'd been between stealing the letter and keeping his fatal appointment in Buena Vista Park. It was waiting for him there somewhere, waiting patiently. All I had to do such a little thing was find it.

Going back to London was risky, of course, even with the protection of my expertly manufactured alternative identity.

There was probably a warrant out for the arrest of Lancelot Gawain Bradley. And there were lots of people there who knew who I was, compared with no one but Townley in California. But I already knew that I was going back. I just had to hope I found the letter before the police found me.

LONDON

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It's an invariable rule of life well, my life, anyway that, when you're feeling bored and lonely, a chance encounter with an old acquaintance just never happens. Whereas, when you're trying to keep a lower than low profile, it's hideously likely.

At least I didn't see anyone I knew on the plane, which was just as well since they might have thought it odd when I filed into the non-EU passport queue at Heathrow. With that potential catastrophe in mind, you could say I got off lightly, although when the words "Hey, Lance," roused me from my reverie aboard the train into London, lucky was the last thing I felt.

Simon Yardley for it was indeed my old fair-weather drinking pal sat heavily down in the seat opposite me, grinning as if our paths crossing had really made his day. Which was ironic, since it certainly hadn't made mine, and the last time I'd spoken to him, seeking clues to Rupe's whereabouts, he'd given me an unceremonious brush-off.

He was looking thinner-haired and jowlier than I remembered, with a sizeable stomach straining his Jermyn Street shirt. And though his suit had undoubtedly been made to measure, the measurements were in need of amendment. "Well, this is a turn-up for the books. I thought you never stirred from deepest Somerset."

"I break out occasionally, Simon." (The good news was that he clearly knew nothing of my involvement in several recent violent deaths around the globe. The bad news .. . was what I was bracing myself for.)

"I've just flown back from LA." (I uttered a silent prayer of thanks that it hadn't been San Francisco.) "What about you?"

"Oh, I've been, er, seeing someone off."

"It's a bugger, this travelling, but you've got to go where the money is, haven't you?"

"Absolutely."

"Anyway, it's great to see you after all this time. How long's it been?"

"I'm not exactly '

"Too long, that's for sure. Are you staying up in town?"

"Er, no."

"Well, what say we slide off for a few jars when we reach Paddington? No sense my going into the office this afternoon. It's Friday, after all."

"Sorry, Simon. I've got to push on."

"Really?" The idea that I was in a hurry when he wasn't clearly puzzled him. "That's a shame."

"Some other time, maybe."

"Yeh. Let's do that." He contemplated the possibility for a vacant moment, then said, "When you're next up, we ought to arrange a threesome with Rupe."

I may have winced. I certainly felt as if I had. "Good idea."

"A boys' night out. Like the old days."

"Sounds great."

"Used to see quite a bit of Rupe. I don't know what's happened to the old bugger. I really don't. Have you A thought struck him. "Hold on. You were trying to track him down a few weeks back, weren't you? You called me at the office."

"So I did."

"Any luck?"

"No." (Well, that was certainly true.)

"Pity. Rupe's always good value." A grey slab of Hayes-cum-Southall glided past the window as Simon reflected on the point. "I haven't seen him in six months or more. Not to speak to anyway."

"Have you seen him .. . without speaking?" My curiosity was suddenly aroused.

"Mmm?"

"When I phoned, you said you hadn't seen him for quite a while."

"That's right. Like I say. Not to speak to."

"But you have technically seen him?"

"Well, more recently than six months, yeh. But '

"When?"

"When?" Simon puffed out his cheeks. "Not sure. Back in the summer, it must have been. Late summer. Yeh, around then."

"Where was this?"

"The City somewhere. Does it matter?"

"Just .. . interested," I said, trying to sound casual. "It could be a pointer to where he's living these days."

"Shouldn't think so. It was, er .. . near the Monument. Rush-hour time. I was heading for Liverpool Street. He was on the other side of the road. There was too much traffic to think of getting his attention."

"Which way was he going?"

"South. Towards London Bridge. I remember.. ." Simon frowned at the recollection. "He was grinning. You know, a real ear-to-ear job. Not at anyone. He was on his own. It was a bit odd, really. The evening commute doesn't normally fill people with glee."

"But he seemed .. . happy?"

"Looked over the bloody moon. Faintly cracked, to be honest. Maybe he'd just found out he'd won the Lottery. That would explain why he's gone A.W.O.L.. Wouldn't want old chums down on their luck trying to touch him for a hand-out. He's probably on Copacabana Beach even as we speak, sipping something long and strong out of half a pineapple and practising his Portuguese chat-up lines." Simon gave his Latin fantasy ten seconds or so of rumination, then beetled his brow at me. "Here, is that why you're so keen to contact him?"

I got rid of Simon at Paddington, where I claimed to be catching a train back to the West Country. He vanished into the Underground. That left me free to make a phone call. It was my second attempt of the day to contact Echo and I got the same result as at Heathrow: no answer. Oddly, there was no longer an answer phone cut-in. Not that I'd have left a message if there had been. I didn't want any record of Lance Bradley's return home.

I sat in the station cafe, drinking my way through a couple of double espressos to ward off jet lag and trying to apply some cool logic (not normally my speciality) to the problem of where Rupe had hidden the letter. Simon's sighting of him in the City shortened the odds on a safe-deposit box in some Lombard Street strong-room. But where was the key or whatever he needed to access it? 12 Hardrada Road had to be the likeliest answer. Cunningly concealed, obviously, since his furniture and belongings had already been searched to no avail. But there, somewhere, surely.

Unfortunately, 12 Hardrada Road was a risky destination for me. The neighbours might have been asked about me by the police. I couldn't just roll up there unannounced, especially in daylight. I had to speak to Echo first.

But that didn't seem to be an easy thing to do. She still wasn't in or wasn't answering when I rang the number for a third time before leaving the station and booking myself into the unprepossessing but suitably anonymous room-for-cash no-questions-asked Hotel Polaris in Craven Road.

From the lobby payphone I drew a fourth blank before heading out into the mid-afternoon murk. My next move wasn't exactly risk-free either and might have been better left until after I'd tried my luck at Hardrada Road, but with the weekend about to close on my window of opportunity I couldn't really opt for delay. Philip Jarvis of Myerscough Udal had made it obvious he wouldn't admit to knowing me officially. I had to hope that, unofficially, it would be a different matter. Because Myerscough Udal struck me as about the likeliest people to know where Rupe might have squirrelled away an important document.

Their offices were part of a drab Seventies block, out of which early leavers eager for the weekend were already trickling when I took up position in the next doorway along and tried to melt into the masonry behind an Evening Standard. Jarvis was neither slack nor obsessive. I had him down as a five-thirty man, maybe five on a Friday, which left me with anything from half an hour to more than double that to wait. If I was really unlucky, he'd taken the day off or was at home in bed with flu or had a meeting elsewhere. On the other hand, I didn't have anything better to do.

It was, in fact, on the dot of five-thirty that I spotted him emerging into the dank autumn evening. With a scowl at the nose-to-tail traffic and a twitch of his raincoat collar, he turned and strode towards me and Holborn Tube station.

I fell in behind and let him put a bit of distance between us and Myerscough Udal before quickening my pace to overhaul him. "Mr. Jarvis," I called, tapping his elbow with my rolled-up Standard.

He stopped and looked round, instant recognition lighting his features. Then, suddenly, it changed, like a switch being flicked. He tensed and drew back. "What?"

"Mr. Jarvis, I have to speak to you. I'm sorry, but it's really very important."

"Who are you?"

"You know who I am. We met in Hyde Park with Mr. Hashimoto."

"Who?"

"Hashimoto. Come on. A couple of weeks ago."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"There's no need to play games. I realize you have to be careful, but '

"I have no idea who you are or what you want." He'd raised his voice unnecessarily, as if to make a point to some unseen observer. "Leave me alone."

He turned on his heel and strode away at a pace little short of a jog. "Jarvis," I shouted. "For God's sake." I started after him, but stopped within ten yards.

There was no point pursuing him. The certainty hit me that he'd insist he didn't know me however persistent I was. And I couldn't afford to be too persistent, as he might well know. It wasn't what I'd expected, but somehow, now that it had happened, I felt strangely unsurprised. Even the fear that had quite clearly gripped him was, in its way, predictable. It was also more than a little familiar. I was beginning to know the look.

I couldn't imagine Echo doing a Simon Peter on me. But if she never answered her telephone, it might amount to much the same thing. My last piece of advice to her had been to move out. If she'd already acted on it, I was snookered. That would explain the answering machine being disconnected, of course, a disturbing thought to nurse along with a couple of Carlsberg Specials in a jam-packed pub in Covent Garden. What was I going to do if she'd gone?

Then another still more disturbing thought struck me. Jarvis had spoken when he'd been prepared to of Myerscough Udal being pressurized by some corporate entity far more powerful than they were. But Stephen Townley was a quintessential loner. He couldn't have brought such pressure to bear. So, who or what were we talking about? Caribtex Oil? Or some giant corporation of which they were just a minor subsidiary? And why? Why should anyone, other than Townley and his family, care about him being tied into murder and robbery all those years ago?

I left the pub around eight o'clock and walked across to Leicester Square. I'd decided what to do, but the time to do it hadn't yet arrived and drinking until it did was a recipe for disaster. Whether sitting through a film about a guy with short-term memory loss was a much brighter idea turned out to be academic, because I fell asleep during his second fugue and woke to find the end credits rolling. Time hadn't so much been killed as erased.