Flashpoint (16 page)

Old Mrs Killey got up long before Jonas and she had been clattering round in the kitchen for half an hour by the time he put in an appearance. He was halfway through breakfast when the telephone rang.

It was Ben. He said, “Thought I’d give you the good news. You’ll find something for you in the post today. At the office.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We got some private enquiry agents moving, up North. They’ve turned up quite a lot of stuff. Good stuff.”

“I never told you – I mean, I can’t possibly afford to pay enquiry agents.”

“Yes. That was another thing I had to pass on to you. Don’t worry about the money. We’ve got funds.”

“I’m not sure–”

“You’ll need money for that appeal of yours. Get the best barrister going. A QC if you like. We can afford it.”

“Look here! What
is
all this about? I didn’t ask you to interfere in my affairs.”

Ben said, in a voice which was suddenly quite free from banter, “We’re not interfering, Mr Killey. We’re helping.”

“Oh.”

“And another thing. I do apologize for ringing you at home, but I think your office line’s been bugged.”

He rang off and Jonas sat staring at the receiver. His mother said, “Come on, your coffee’s getting cold. Who was that?”

“Business.”

“They ought to know better than to ring you up at home. Your father would never allow it. Even when that case of his was on. Not that he ever stopped thinking about it. He used to sit up in bed at night and start addressing the Court.”

“I wonder how you can tell,” said Jonas.

“I was in bed with him.”

When he got to the office he stared for a long time at the telephone on his desk, then lifted the receiver cautiously and dialled his home number. When his mother answered, he said, “Oh, there’s a letter I wrote last night. I left it on the mantelpiece. I meant to post it and forgot.”

“I’ll do it.”

Jonas listened intently. Was there, or was he imagining it, a slight resonance, as though his mother was speaking in a large empty room?

“And Jonas–”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you, but as you rang up, I thought I’d tell you. I was talking to Mrs Frampton, who lives next door. She said she’d noticed a man watching the house.”

“Her house, or ours?”

“She wasn’t certain. She said he’d been there two days running. If he turned up again she was going to tell the police.”

“Tell her to do that,” said Jonas.

He rang off and tried to concentrate on the work in front of him. He had been away so much that a lot had piled up. Almost the first envelope he opened contained the report of Messrs Godsall and Ramage (Credit Enquiries made. Personal Investigations undertaken. Writs served.) It was couched in customarily discreet terms. Following upon instructions from the Client they had made certain investigations in connection with the Subject with particular attention to possible proceedings in Court during the Period Specified. These had produced positive results in three cases, as per the copy records enclosed.

Jonas examined the records. It was clear from them that Will Dylan had settled three court cases for sums owed by him, one to a garage, one to a builder and one to a tailor, and all in the period immediately before he left ACAT and joined MGM. The only heavy one was the builder. The total sums involved, with costs, came to just under five hundred pounds.

It was not conclusive, but it was a small and definite fact. Jonas filed the report away and turned with a sigh to the work in front of him. He looked at his diary and saw that someone called Stukely was due to come and see him at three o’clock that afternoon. Stukely? The name meant something. He rang for Mrs Warburton. She said, “He’s that man who came when you were in Sheffield. Such a nice man. Something to do with a trust. Mr Willoughby spoke to him.”

“I remember,” said Jonas. “I’ll have a word with him. Now, we’d better make a start on this mortgage–”

By one o’clock some of the papers had been transferred from his desk to Mrs Warburton’s typing table. He decided to work straight on through the lunch hour. It was true that his private affairs were cutting savagely into the routine of his practice.

At a quarter to two the telephone rang. It was the neighbourly Mrs Frampton, and she sounded upset. She said, “I’m sorry to ring you up like this, but if I don’t, I’m sure I don’t know who will, and there’s been some trouble at your house–”

“What sort of trouble?”

“There were two men who came, and made a terrible fuss. They were shouting at your mother and carrying on. It can’t have done her any good, you know. Not at her age, and with her heart.”

Jonas could feel his own heart pumping. He could make very little sense of it all. He said, “What’s happening? What’s being done?”

“Ah! There’s the doctor’s car now. He’ll look after her.”

“For God’s sake,” said Jonas, “What is it? What’s happening? No, don’t bother to explain. Tell them I’m coming right back.”

He was lucky enough to pick up a taxi in Wimbledon High Street and was at his house twenty minutes later. As he was on the point of paying off the driver, Mrs Frampton, who had been watching from her own front window, darted out to meet him. She was a large untidy grey-haired kindly woman, flustered to incoherence by the excitement and importance of the occasion. Fortunately her daughter followed her out, and it was from her that Jonas got the story.

At about one o’clock a car had stopped outside the gate, two men had jumped out, and had hammered on Mrs Killey’s front door and rung her bell. When Mrs Killey appeared the men had started shouting at her. Bellowing, amended Mrs Frampton. Then they had pushed roughly past her and gone into the house. There had been sounds of banging and crashing and more shouting, lasting for about five minutes –

“Why the hell didn’t someone send for the police?” said Jonas.

“We didn’t like to interfere,” said Miss Frampton. “It didn’t seem to be our business exactly. When they’d gone, Mum went over to see what it was all about. The front door was locked, so she went round the back and found your mother–”

“Poor soul,” said Mrs Frampton. “White as a sheet. Lying back in her chair–”

“And she sent for the doctor. I’m sure I hope she did right.”

“Quite right,” said Jonas. “I’m sure I’m very grateful. Where is she?”

“The doctor took her down to the Archway Hospital. In his own car.”

“White as a sheet,” said Mrs Frampton.

“Hop in. I know where it is,” said the taxi driver, who had been listening, fascinated. “I’ll run you down.”

The doctor was coming out as Jonas arrived. He said, “Are you Mr Killey? I’ve given your mother a sedative. She won’t be able to talk to you until this evening. She’s in a state of shock.”

“Did you find out what happened?”

“She told me something about it on the way down. As far as I could make out those two brutes forced their way in and accused her of having stolen a child. They insisted she was hiding it in the house. They stormed up and down, more or less ransacked the place. Of course they didn’t find anyone. So they pushed off. Not a pleasant experience for an old lady with a dicky heart.”

“Is there anything I can do for her?”

“What I think you ought to do is find her somewhere nice and quiet for the next few weeks. She won’t want to go back to that house. Not until she gets her nerve back. Every time the door-bell rings she’ll start imagining things.”

“I suppose you couldn’t keep her here?”

“It’d be next to impossible,” said the doctor. “We’re so pressed you have to have some medically treatable complaint to hold on to your bed.”

“Isn’t there a convalescent home?”

“Several. All fairly booked up, too. Why don’t you have a word with the almoner? If anything can be done, she’ll do it for you.”

The word almoner suggested to Jonas a formidable lady, more dragon-like even than the matrons and sisters who ruled the wards. It was an agreeable surprise to meet a girl of about twenty-five. It was even more surprising when she greeted him by name, and said, “I believe you used to work for Daddy, didn’t you? It was a few years ago, but I remember seeing you when I came to the office.”

He glanced down at the desk and took in the name on the card for the first time. Penelope Lambard. “So you’re Edward Lambard’s daughter,” he said. “I can’t pretend I remember you.”

“Since I should have been wearing school uniform and had my hair in pigtails you can be forgiven. Now let’s see what we can do for you. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll probably have to do a lot of telephoning.”

It was nearly two hours later when Jonas left the hospital, but it had been worth the wait. At the sixth effort the helpful Miss Lambard had fixed his mother up with a fortnight’s berth at a nursing home at Woking. She was to stay in hospital for three more days and to move there at the weekend. There would be fees to pay. Jonas had made arrangements about that. He suddenly realized that he was very hungry.

“Go out and get yourself something to eat,” said Penelope. “Come back at half past five. The ward sister will have finished her rounds by then, and you ought to be able to see your mother for a few minutes.”

He had not known what to expect, and had been surprised and relieved that his mother looked so unchanged. She seemed more worried about him than about herself.

“Don’t you fret,” he said. “I’m used to looking after myself. I’ll get most of my meals out.”

As he was leaving she said, “How are things going with – you know?”

“They’re going all right.”

“Don’t you think you might–” His mother stopped. Jonas was uncertain whether it was embarrassment, or a twinge of pain. He waited for her to go on, standing at the foot of the bed, and then saw that she had her eyes closed. Alarmed, he went back to her side, but she seemed to be breathing deeply and gently. After a moment or two he stole away.

He walked home, up the long hill under the Archway viaduct, with the sun beginning to throw long shadows across the road. As he opened his front door he heard the telephone ringing. It was Willoughby. He was too young to disguise the panic in his voice. He said, “I think you ought to come back to the office at once. It’s rather serious.”

Willoughby had got back from his lunch at a quarter past two. He heard from Mrs Warburton that Jonas had been called away by a message about his mother, and said something unkind. It meant that he would now have to cope with Mr Stukely; who would be justifiably disappointed at not seeing Mr Killey, and might be difficult to handle. Also he had not carried out all the research he ought to have done on the subject of discretionary trusts, relying on the expertise of his senior to carry him through. He hurried to his own room to remedy the deficiency.

His room was next to the top of the stairs, and he could hear visitors as they came up.

“As a result of the 1971 Finance Act it is no longer possible both to distribute income to a beneficiary and to escape estate duty on that beneficiary’s death. The legislature–”

Footsteps coming up, but not Mr Stukely. Two men at least, and walking heavily.

He heard the front door being opened urgently and the sound of voices. Men’s voices. Men who were not exactly shouting, but were talking very loudly indeed. Mrs Warburton came in. She was angry, and upset. She said, “You’ll have to come and deal with these men, Mr Willoughby. I can’t make out what they want.”

The two men were standing in the middle of the small reception room, almost filling it with their aggressive bulk. They wore corduroy trousers and jackets belted at the waist. Willoughby thought they looked like removal men.

As soon as he came into the room, the older man turned on Willoughby and said, “You the guv’nor?”

“I’m one of the partners.”

“Where’s the guv’nor then?”

“He’s out. What do you–”

The man took two quick steps forward, until he was almost touching Willoughby, and said, “I’ll show you what I want.” He had a piece of paper in his hand. Willoughby could see the heading, ‘Raven Services’ and something about Messrs Poynters and a sum of four hundred pounds now payable. Before he could read any more the man had whisked it away. “That’s what I want. Four hundred bloody smackers. And we’re not going till we get “em.”

“You’ve got no right to come bursting in here like this. If you want your money, go to Court and get an order.”

The words were brave, but his voice let him down. Willoughby was worried. He had one eye on the clock. It was twenty to three. Mr Stukely was due at three o’clock.

“I don’t need no more order than this. You owe the money. Right? We’ve got orders to collect it. If you can’t pay in cash we’ll take it in kind. That looks like a good typewriter. Say sixty pounds.”

Mrs Warburton gave a squeak of outrage.

“Must be other typewriters here,” said the younger man. “Tape recorders too, I expect. We might clear the lot, with a bit of luck.” He made a move towards the inner door. Mrs Warburton flung her arms round her new electric typewriter. Willoughby said, “Stop that. They’ll have to have the money. Give me the chequebook.”

“We’re not all that keen on cheques, actually,” said the older man. “Like rubber balls. They got a way of bouncing.”

“Deborah can go round to the bank with it.”

Mrs Warburton had got two chequebooks out of the drawer in the safe, and put them both on her table. After a moment of hesitation, Willoughby took the larger of them, and wrote out a cheque for four hundred pounds payable to cash. Deborah, who had been attracted into the room by the noise, and seemed to be enjoying the drama, took the cheque and departed reluctantly.

“Hurry,” said Willoughby.

“No hard feelings,” said the older man. “Just a job we have to do. Not necessarily agreeable. Like some of your jobs, I expect.”

Willoughby had nothing to say to that. They sat in silence until they heard Deborah’s footsteps ascending. Other and heavier steps with her. She was not alone.

Mr Stukely held the door open for her, and followed her in. He said, “I happened to meet this young lady at the bank, and as we were both making for the same destination, I offered to escort her home. She was telling me that you had a little trouble.”