Red Crystal (27 page)

He called the
Sunday Times
and asked for the picture editor. He got an assistant who gave him the information he wanted without even asking for his name.

Miss Gabriella Carelli. Care of Inter-News.

An Italian
? He was puzzled. She’d had no accent that he’d noticed.

A brisk woman answered the Inter-News number. She said firmly that all enquiries for Miss Carelli could be channelled through her and that, no, it was impossible to give him Miss Carelli’s private number. She’d specifically asked them not to give it out.

Nick thought of saying it was a police matter, but decided against it. If it got back to Miss Carelli she would refuse to see him. Being an avid left-wing journalist, she would be no lover of the police.

He hung up and called his friend Barbara at the exchange. He chatted her up for a minute, then asked for a fix on any telephone number in the name of Carelli, Gabriella.

There was a long pause. Nick began to feel pessimistic. Barbara usually prided herself on producing numbers in two minutes flat.

Then she was back.

727 8674. 42 Montagu Mews, W1. A new number. Ex-directory. Hence the delay.

After Nick rang off, he thought for a while. Strange for a journalist to be ex-directory. Perhaps she had an ex-boyfriend who’d been bothering her. Perhaps she just liked her privacy.

It created a problem though. How was he to explain finding her address and number?

Through Wheatfield? No.

Then he had it. Not perfect, but good enough. However it would be best to go straight round without phoning first.

The headache was showing no signs of responding to the aspirin so, on his way out, he took another two tablets and, after a moment’s thought, thrust the packet into the pocket of his jeans.

It was five by the time he walked up Montagu Mews. Number 42 was a typical mews house, expensively converted, though in need of a fresh coat of paint. The miniature firs on either side of the front door were looking neglected and some flowers hung brown and shrivelled over the edges of the tubs and hanging baskets.

He pushed the bell. The sound echoed inside the house. He had the feeling the place was empty. If so, he would come back later.

There was a tiny sound from inside. He waited patiently. A moment later a latch turned and the door swung open.

It was the girl.

He smiled. ‘Hi.’

She glared at him. ‘What on earth?’

Not at all friendly. Nick dropped the smile; he wasn’t going to beg for anything from this lady. He said coolly, ‘Look, I was wondering if I could see all the pictures you took at the demo. Just in case there was one of me being bashed. The civil liberties people are interested in my case, you see. But we’re a bit short of evidence …’

She demanded, ‘How did you get my address?’

‘Well …’ He hesitated, as if not wanting to betray a confidence. ‘There’s a journalist on one of the Sundays who’s helping me out a bit. He got it from – would it be your agent?’

She exhaled loudly to show her annoyance, then paused, eyeing him thoughtfully. Eventually she murmured with ill grace, ‘All right. But you’ll have to be quick. I haven’t got a lot of time.’ She stepped back to allow him in.

He went into the centre of the living-room and took a quick look round. ‘You’re busy then?’

‘Busy enough.’ She walked quickly to the far end of the room and bent down to pick up a large brown envelope from a pile of magazines and papers on the floor. Returning, she said abruptly, ‘What was your name?’

‘Nick. Nick Riley.’ Close enough.

‘And which group were you marching with?’

‘Well, I suppose with the VUF mainly.’

‘Mainly?’

She was interrogating him. Typical journalist. He replied a little impatiently, ‘I’m involved in several groups. The VUF, the IMG, the SSL … I couldn’t march with them all.’

‘You’re a student?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where?’

‘Look, is this an interview?’ Nick demanded. ‘If so, then I’d like to know how and when you’re going to use it.’ The last thing he wanted was to have Nick ‘Riley’ spread across the newspapers like Wheatfield.

‘No … it’s not an interview,’ she said, retreating slightly. ‘I just wanted to know who I was dealing with.’

But I bet it gets stored away for future use, thought Nick. Nevertheless, she would have to be given something.

He told her the same story he’d told Wheatfield, about being accepted for Newcastle but wanting to get into the North London Polytechnic. She appeared satisfied.

She turned on some lights then, kneeling on the carpet, took some enlargements out of the envelope and sorted through them.

She passed him a batch. ‘Might be something there …’

There was one in which Nick himself was clearly identifiable in the crowd. He pretended to show an interest, then searched quickly for Wheatfield. Yes,
there
. But half hidden.

He went on to another and another print. Several showed Wheatfield, but not, unfortunately, doing anything provocative.

Ah, but even more interesting …

Black Beard.

Hiding his excitement, Nick examined each shot, looking for a full face. He checked them all again.

Maddening. Strange. There wasn’t a single one.

He laid the enlargements out in sequence and realized there was a large time gap between the first batch of pictures, taken well before the trouble started, and the second batch which showed Wheatfield being dragged from the crowd by the SPG man. There was nothing of Reardon thrusting the lance into the police or of Wheatfield kicking the copper when he was down. He supposed those events might have been hidden from the camera. But, just as disappointing, there was nothing of Wheatfield being dragged back into the crowd by his friends.

It was odd. He asked, ‘Is this it?’

She nodded.

‘No contact prints?’

Her eyes hardened. ‘No, they’re with Inter-News. Anyway, I got everything blown up. It’s all here.’ She scooped them up and put them back in the envelope. ‘How do you know about things like contact prints?’

Damn her, Nick thought, why the hell’s she so suspicious? ‘The newspaper guy,’ he explained. ‘He let me look through all the stuff their photographer took.’

He threw the last picture back on the pile, and regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Carelli. An Italian name.’

‘I’m half and half. Italian father.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Am
I
being interviewed now?’

He nodded. ‘Where were you brought up?’

‘In both countries.’ She was more relaxed now. She seemed to want to talk about herself. ‘I went to school in Italy, then came here as a student, then went back to Italy to train as a journalist. My father’s dead. He was a war hero. He fought with the communists.’ She said it with pride.

‘And your mother?’

‘She was English. But she was never interested in coming back. She hated Britain.’

‘You’ve hardly any accent.’

‘I spoke nothing but English until I was five. Then my father started to take me everywhere with him, and I became a real Italian and forgot all my English for a while. Then my father died.’ She looked wistful. ‘And I came here to relearn my English.’

They stood up. He made a mental note to check up on this lady, just as a matter of routine. He asked, ‘So are you going to stay in this country for a while?’ She was standing close to him. He was aware of those eyes again, extraordinarily clear and steady. And the lovely dark hair. And the arched eyebrows against the pale skin.

She shrugged in an exaggerated way, making the movement unexpectedly sensual. ‘For a year or so, I expect. It depends on how interesting it is.’

‘The work?’

‘Yes.
And
all the rest.’

He examined her face, looking for her meaning. ‘The rest?’

‘Life in general.’

‘Quite.’

‘The British are cold and dull.’

‘You’re probably right.’

‘Which is a great pity.’

Had he misunderstood her again? But there was no doubt about it. There was a slight but unmistakably provocative smile on her lips.

‘Well, I trust that you’ll get a pleasant surprise.’

She was enjoying the tease. ‘I doubt it.’

‘Really? Well, you’ve obviously been mixing with the wrong people.’

‘Yes.’ She held his gaze. It was an open expression of interest.

He should leave, of course; go home and rest his head, call Conway …

Yet there was something about this lady.

He heard himself saying, ‘I have exactly five quid in the world. How about fish and chips?’

It had started to rain heavily. Gabriele ran round the Fiat to the driver’s side and got in. She unlocked the passenger door and watched Nick Riley ease himself into the opposite seat. He was very attractive. A nice body, strong face. And amazingly self-assured, sophisticated even. She liked that. That and the fact that he’d stood up to her.

Besides, she was bored with being alone.

She enjoyed playing the part of the sophisticated Italian photo-journalist. She felt the role suited her very well. It was much closer to the real her than Linda Wilson had ever been. Anyway, the story of her parents hadn’t been that far from the truth.

She drove towards Chelsea. She noticed Nick tearing at a packet and putting some tablets in his mouth. ‘Aspirins,’ he explained. ‘For my thundering head.’

‘I’m surprised they let you out.’

‘They didn’t. I discharged myself. Like Wheatfield.’

Her foot slipped on the throttle and the car lurched. He looked at her sharply. ‘You didn’t know?’

She gripped the wheel and thought: Damn bloody Max. Why the
hell
did he do that? After a moment she said easily, ‘No, I didn’t know. But I’m surprised, I must say. I thought he was meant to be seriously hurt.’

‘Only skin deep,’ Nick murmured.

Realizing what he had said, she made an effort to recover herself. ‘What do you mean?’

There was a short silence. ‘Nothing. The nurse just told me that his head looked worse than it was.’ He added in an undertone, ‘Unlike mine.’

‘Is yours bad?’

‘Split up the back apparently. Mind you, it might be an improvement.’

They drove up the King’s Road and Gabriele pointed to a restaurant she’d never been to. ‘Let’s try that one.’

‘My fiver should buy the first course and the wine.’

‘I’ll stand the coffee,’ she said archly, ‘and we’ll negotiate over the main course.’

The rain was coming down in a solid wall, drumming against the car windows and bouncing noisily off the roof. Eventually they found a parking place some way beyond the restaurant. Passing cars were sending up sheets of spray. Gabriele locked her door and slid across to the passenger side. She got out on to the pavement, locked the door and slammed it. Nick offered her a newspaper to put over her head. The gallantry of the gesture took her by surprise. She thought: What a strange man you are.

Suddenly she groaned, ‘Oh
shit
!’

‘What is it?’

‘I’ve left the bloody
keys
inside.’ She could have kicked herself. God, what a thing to do. She
hated
making stupid mistakes. She searched through her bag, but she knew she didn’t have any spares. ‘Shit!’ she repeated.

There was no sound from Nick and she looked round.

He was leaning over the door handle as if trying the lock.

‘It’s no good,’ she sighed. ‘I damn well locked it.’

He took no notice, intent on his task.

‘Come on. Let’s get out of the rain at least,’ she said irritably. ‘I’m getting soaked.’

The next moment she stared in amazement.

The door of the car was open. Leaning down, Nick disappeared inside. The next moment he was holding the keys in his fingers.

‘How on earth did you do that?’

He took her elbow and hurried her along the street. ‘Old Indian trick.’

She stared at him, wondered what other talents this man possessed.

She was good, Nick had to admit. As one would expect, she knew her stuff about the Italian student and communist movements, but she also had a good understanding of the philosophies of the New Left throughout Western Europe.

He found himself thinking that she might be quite useful. If handled with care. There was no doubt where her personal politics lay – well over to the left.

Nevertheless, she would have good contacts. Yes, useful – as long as she never discovered who he was.

The aspirins had clouded his mind, and he was feeling horribly tired again, but he made the effort to keep the conversation going and to draw her out as much as possible.

While discussing politics she was reserved, almost formal. But when he asked her about Italy, she became animated and relaxed. She described the many places she knew in Piedmont and Tuscany, and talked knowledgeably about the cultural life of Milan. She added, ‘The Italian way of life beats Britain hands down. And the Italians themselves – well, they are culturally far less inhibited. That’s why I like them.’

‘They’re certainly less inhibited. But I wouldn’t know about the cultural side.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘I suppose like all the British you disapprove of Latin emotion?’

‘Not at all. I think it’s great. It’s good and wholesome and refreshing.’

She pulled at the tablecloth. ‘But your family weren’t open with their emotions, were they?’

He remembered his mam. She clouted him when he was cheeky and looked surprised if he was good. She hadn’t been open exactly, but he’d always known she was on his side. His father – that was different. There had been a lot of affection there, shown as often as possible, but, being northerners, expressed by nothing more than a pat on the shoulder.

He answered, ‘Not open by Italian standards, no wild hugs and tears, but it was pretty good really. And you?’

Her eyes dropped and he felt her withdraw slightly. ‘Great on the Italian side, rotten on the British.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She looked at him sharply, as if she wasn’t certain of his sincerity. ‘It wasn’t that bad.’

A touchy point. He tried to smooth it over. ‘But the Italian part of you has come to the fore. I mean, you’re obviously more Italian than British. So … it’s all right.’