Dying to Tell (31 page)

"OK."

Carl started to descend as I reached the hatchway. Wedging the envelope into the waistband of my jeans, I sat down on the hatch frame and lowered myself towards the platform of the step-ladder. Even as I did so, I saw my chance. Carl glanced down to check how many steps there were to the floor. Bracing my arms, I swung my feet and struck him a solid blow around the jaw. He grunted and fell, hitting the floor with a thump and lying where he'd fallen, shocked and winded. I kicked the step-ladder, which toppled onto him,

then jumped down and turned towards the stairs, while Carl moaned and rolled over, struggling under the weight of the step-ladder.

I took the stairs two at a time and had already reached the bottom when Carl bellowed after me, "You fucking bastard." I saw the banisters vibrate as he grabbed the landing-rail to haul himself up. But I was way ahead of him. I pulled the keys out of my pocket, yanked the front door open, plunged out into the street, slammed the door behind me and turned the mortice key in the lock to slow Carl down as much as possible.

Glancing round, I saw the woman from number 10, laden with children and shopping, staring at me in bemusement. "Hi," I found myself saying. Then I turned and legged it.

Lucky in love, unlucky at cards. Well, I've never had a lot of luck in either department. But buses are a different matter. My faithful stand-by, the 36, was just pulling away from the Harleyford Road stop when I jumped aboard. Looking back from the platform as it accelerated away, I could see no sign of Carl. He was probably still trying to force open a ground-floor window at 12 Hardrada Road to climb out of. I was rid of him well rid.

I slumped down on the empty bench seat just inside the bus, panting heavily, and paid my fare to the impassive conductor. Then I tugged the envelope free of my jeans and took a look at it. There was nothing written on the outside to give a clue to the contents but I could feel something small and hard inside. I edged a finger under the flap and tore it open.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The small, hard object was a key, with a number stamped on the bow: 4317. Round it was folded a letter. But it wasn't at all the kind of letter I'd been expecting.

12 Hardrada Road London SE11

29 August 2000

Dear Sirs,

This is to confirm the authorization I gave you today to afford access to safe-deposit box 4317 to Mr. Lancelot Bradley of ISA High Street, Glastonbury, Somerset. Yours faithfully,

Rupert Alder

International Bank of Honshu

164-165 Cheapside London EC4

I stared at Rupe's immaculately word-processed, one-sentence letter as the bus trundled up Vauxhall Bridge Road. It made no sense and yet it made perfect sense. Haruko had said I might be his fail-safe and, bizarrely, it seemed I was. If he never came back as he never would now there'd be this, waiting to be found by the only friend likely, in the end, to look hard enough. Not the Townley letter itself, but secure means to lay hands upon it means only I could make use of.

I got off the bus at Victoria station and took a cab to Cheapside. I had no realistic expectation that the International Bank of Honshu would be open for business on a Saturday afternoon, but still I couldn't resist taking a hopeful peek at the place. As far as bank HQs went, it was neither modest nor grandiose, just a corporate slab of matt steel and bronze-tinted glass. The interior was all gleaming marble and clean-lined wood, with what looked like a water feature towards the rear. That was as much as I could glean from the pavement. And the pavement was as far as I was getting until 9.30 on Monday morning. A discreetly displayed statement of banking hours made that very clear.

It was beginning to get dark, not to mention wet. At St. Paul's I hopped aboard a bus bound for Oxford Circus and felt positively grateful for the slow going it made in the thickening traffic. I had some thinking to do. I couldn't be absolutely certain the safe-deposit box contained the Townley letter, but I felt certain. The way things stood gave me an excellent chance to deliver it to Townley in circumstances where he could be confident I hadn't read it. It was a chance I ought to grab with both hands. I'd never find out what his secret was, of course, but if I'd learned anything in the past few weeks it was the value of not knowing that particular secret. The decision, in the end, was an easy one to make.

The Hotel Polaris didn't boast in-room telephones and the lobby payphone was no place to be making a confidential international call from, especially since I might have to leave a message and wait for a call back. That was just one of the reasons why I got off the bus before it reached Oxford Circus and walked up into the fringes of Bloomsbury. Thanks to the note Echo had given me, I thought I knew a hotel guest in the vicinity who might let me swell his phone bill.

But Mr. Yamazawa was out, the friendly receptionist at the Arundel informed me, and naturally she didn't know when he might be back. Stifling the temptation to ask if they had any spare rooms the place being so much pleas anter than the Polaris I wandered off towards the British Museum, reckoning the pub I remembered opposite the main gate would be as good a source as any of the mound of coins I'd need to call the States from a phone-box.

The pub was full, the bar hard to see for backs. As I squeezed through the ruck, I felt my sleeve being tugged and heard a voice I recognized saying, "Lance. Here, Lance."

I turned to see Toshishige Yamazawa grinning up at me from a chair at one of the tables along the wall opposite the bar. He was wearing some kind of plastic mac over generously cut chinos and the sort of shirt I'd last seen sported by Elvis Presley in an afternoon TV showing of Blue Hawaii. On the other side of the table, also smiling at me, was a stockily built, grizzle-haired black guy of fifty or sixty, dressed smart-casually in powder-blue jeans, maroon turtleneck and tweed jacket.

"What are you doing here, Lance?" piped Yamazawa.

"I could ask the same of you. And what happened to "Bradley-san"?"

"We both have some explaining to do, for sure. As for "Bradley-san" ..." He shrugged. "I do not feel so formal out of Tokyo." (It didn't look as if he felt so sober either.)

"I'm not complaining, Toshi."

"Sounds like you've got a lot to talk over," said the other bloke. "I'll leave you to it." He drained his glass and stood up. "I need to get back, anyhow. Phone my daughter and all."

"Gus and I have just got back from the Tower of London," Yamazawa explained (as if that explained everything.)

"Yuh. Pleased to meet you, Lance."

"You too, Gus." I shook his hand.

"I'll catch you later, Toshi." With that Gus manoeuvred his large frame with surprising ease through the crowd to the door.

I sat down in the chair Gus had vacated and frowned at Yamazawa. "Well?"

"I didn't expect to see you, Lance," He broke off to wave at Gus through the window. "I contacted Miss Bateman on the half-chance."

"Yeh? Well, it's only a half-chance I came here after drawing a blank at your hotel."

"Surely not. How could you be close to this pub and not come in?"

"What have you been drinking?"

"Old Peppered Hen. Excellent."

"Speckled."

"What?"

"Oh, never mind. You want another?"

"Good idea."

"OK. Hold on."

I got up, struggled to the bar and returned a couple of minutes later clutching two pints of Old Speckled Hen. (Not usually my tipple but, when in Bloomsbury, do as the Japanese do.)

"Shintaro must have told you what happened in Kyoto."

"Oh yes. He did. But London is a long way from San Francisco. Does this mean you have taken his advice and abandoned the ladies?"

"No, it doesn't. There's good news on that front, as I'll explain in a minute. Why don't we start with you. Who's Gus?"

"Oh, Gus is from New Jersey. He is here for a holiday, staying at the Arundel. We are both alone. He suggested going to the Tower of London together. Most enjoyable. He took a photograph of me with a Beefeater."

"Are you on holiday as well?"

"In a way of speaking, yes."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, like you know, Penberthy told the police you came to see us. I had to answer lots of questions. So did Penberthy. He complained to Charlie Hoare. He said I had embarrassed him and Eurybia. Charlie agreed. He summoned me here to explain why I had assisted you. I could not explain, of course. Very difficult. The Board were not happy. It seems I was already marked down for' he lowered his voice theatrically 'bad attitude."

"They didn't sack you, did they?"

"Yes. That is it, Lance. They sacked me. Cheers." He took a deep swallow of beer.

"How many of those have you had?"

"I don't know. Isn't there a saying do not count your hens until they have hatched?"

"I'm not sure it '

"Instant dismissal. I recommend the experience. Very liberating. They did not want me to work my notice, so .. ." He grinned at me again. "I take a holiday. Now, what is this good news?"

Half an hour later, with Yamazawa snoring gently on his bed at the Arundel, I sat at the small desk on the other side of his room and put a call through to Stephen Townley.

His phone rang six times before the answering machine cut in, but I'd got no further into my message than saying who I was when he picked up.

"Glad to hear from you, Lance. Where are you?"

"London."

"Uhuh. What have you got for me?"

The key to a safe-deposit box. And authority to access it. I've little doubt the box contains what you want."

"What are you proposing that I join you for the opening ceremony?"

"It's in a bank vault, which means I can't get to it before Monday morning."

"OK. In that case, I will join you. Where's the bank?"

"Cheapside. In the City."

"Near St. Paul's Cathedral?"

"Pretty near, yeh."

"When does the bank open?"

"Nine-thirty."

"OK, Lance, I'll meet you outside the west front of St. Paul's at nine-fifteen, Monday morning. Does that suit?"

"Yes. I ... suppose it does."

"Good."

"I But the line was dead. Townley had hung up. Even at my expense (well, strictly speaking, Yamazawa's), he'd chosen not to waste his words.

Yamazawa woke up for long enough to assure me he'd phone his brother in the morning and let him know what I was planning. I could have phoned him myself there and then, but 3.30 a.m." as it was in Japan, struck me as no time to be calling anyone, even a Yakuza. So, leaving the old fox to sleep off his hens, I walked round to an Italian restaurant I remembered at the top of Shaftesbury Avenue and forked down some pasta, then wandered back to the Polaris via a couple of pubs in Marylebone. With each drink, the prospect looked brighter. Townley had promised me my life back and there'd be no reason after Monday morning for him not to keep his promise. Things were definitely looking up.

They didn't look so bright the following morning, but I put that down to a hangover, the squalid ambience of the Polaris and my genetically programmed aversion to Sundays. It was also raining.

Jet lag was still gumming up my body clock into the bargain, so going back to sleep for a few hours seemed like a good idea. It was a lot later than I'd intended when I called Yamazawa from a payphone at Paddington station and I wasn't very surprised to be told he was out. He'd mentioned he was thinking of visiting Hampton Court and had even suggested I go along with him and Gus, presumably. I'd declined the invitation. Now, though, I almost wished I'd taken him up on it.

Phoning my parents at that point was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I owed them a call all right. In fact, a call was well overdue, if only to reassure them that their less than dutiful son was alive and well. As they knew, he was also in a lot of trouble. But I reckoned I could afford to hint that he might soon be on his way out of it.

The phone rang longer than I'd expected without being answered. But I let it go on ringing, simply because the idea that they might be out on a Sunday morning struck me as so improbable. I knew their routines too well to think otherwise. Sure enough, the phone was eventually picked up.

"Who is it?" My father's voice was even more peremptorily pitched than usual.

"It's Lance, Dad."

"Lance? My God. After the worry we've been through. You certainly pick your moments."

"What's wrong with the moment?"

"It's eleven o'clock."

"So?"

"Remembrance Sunday, Lance. Some of us like to observe the two minutes' silence."

"Oh, sorry." (There were times and this was one when I doubted if my father had his priorities right.)

"Where are you?"

"London. Look, do you think you could..."

"Phone you back? Yes, all right. What's the number?"

I gave it to him and hung up. Ten seconds or so later, we were speaking again.

"We've had the police on to us, Lance. You do realize that, don't you? We've stuck by you, but it hasn't been easy. Your mother's been sick with worry. What the hell's going on? The police mentioned .. . murder."

"It's all one big misunderstanding. You don't seriously think I'm capable of murder, do you?"

"Of course not. But '

"I need a few days to put myself in the clear, Dad. Then I'll go to the police and explain the whole thing."

"Perhaps you'd like to explain to us while you're about it."

"Of course. Soon, I promise. In the meantime, I thought you'd like to know I'm all right."

"Well, naturally '

"You didn't mention the Alders to the police, did you, Dad?"

The Alders?" He dropped his voice, as if not wanting Mum to hear what he was saying. "No, son, I didn't. We said we knew nothing about what you might be up to. It seemed .. . best."

"It was, believe me."

"Maybe so. But it goes against the grain, let me tell you."

"I'm grateful, Dad. Honestly."

"So you should be. We've had Winifred round here twice, asking if we've heard from you. I don't like having to cover for you. But I do it. So does your mother. And we're not the only ones. What about poor Miss Bateman? Have you spoken to her?"