Red Crystal (32 page)

Of course he could always tell her the truth, but that would be the end of that. Once she realized he was one of what she so charmingly called the filth, she’d never give him any information. In fact she’d chuck him straight out.

Also – and by no means least – there was the lady herself. Today she was radiating a nervous energy, an excitement that was overtly sexual. There was the firm promise of an affair, he was certain. And why not? Besides, the cold was making him feel sorry for himself and he wanted to be spoilt a little.

She handed him the hot lemon, asking, ‘Would you like something to eat as well?’

He’d forgotten when he’d last had a meal. ‘Yes, I’m starving.’

‘Chicken, pasta, salad okay?’

‘That’s very good of you.’

She gave a little smile of triumph. ‘Not of
me
. But of the Italian restaurant on the corner. I’ll ask them to send it over.’

He thought: No chinks in her armour.

He went back to the bathroom and, finding a razor in the wall cabinet had a shave. It was a woman’s razor. It may have been great for legs but it was blunt as hell on his face.

He examined the other contents of the cabinet. A stick deodorant. A bottle of eau de cologne. Brand: Rocco. Made in Italy, purchased in Italy. Packaging: masculine. Wording:
per uomini
. For men.

Ah. Masculine tastes.

Or a lover.

Back in the bedroom he looked in the wardrobe. Male clothing. Definitely a lover, then. Some of the shirts had Italian labels. He had a quick look through a jacket and some jeans. Nothing.

Presumably this lover was away. He wondered how long for. She didn’t seem worried about an imminent return.

Feeling better for the bath, he got dressed and checked that his ID was safely tucked into the lining of his shoe. Gabriella had been quick off the mark searching his jacket. But then she was a journalist and they were always nosy.

As he went downstairs he thought of phoning Conway. It was seven: there might be something on the Wheatfield observation by now. But Gabriella was already putting plates of food on the table and he realized he was ravenous. The meal was delicious and he wolfed it down. His headache had disappeared. She produced a bottle of Chianti and he drank several glasses. They talked quietly, reflectively. The atmosphere was mellow, almost dreamlike.

Gabriella turned on Radio 3. There was a symphony. He recognized Brahms’ Fourth. They listened for a while in silence. The music worked its usual spell on Nick. Everything became accentuated: the warmth and comfort of the room, the taste of the wine, the loveliness and desirability of Gabriella.

She met his eyes and smiled. There was still a reserve there, he noticed, a guard she was determined not to let down. He said quietly, ‘Thanks for looking after me.’

She bristled immediately. ‘Don’t start being polite. That’s bourgeois crap.’ She hesitated. ‘Besides I wanted someone around. I didn’t want to be on my own tonight.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d be on your own very often.’

She regarded him over the rim of her glass. ‘I hope you make love better than you talk, otherwise we’re in for a disappointing night.’

The directness of the approach gave him a slight shock. Then he laughed, ‘Well, there’s one way to find out, isn’t there?’

He’s just another man, she told herself. Another man like any other. To be enjoyed on her own terms.

And yet … Even now, he still had his arms round her, was still caressing her gently, making small sounds of pleasure. Unafraid of affection.

She wasn’t sure she understood men like this.

He murmured, ‘Your skin is incredibly soft.’

She turned her head, trying to examine his face in the darkness. He began to cover her cheeks with small kisses. Then, aware of her reserve, he pulled back. ‘Was it all right for you?’ His voice was soft, concerned.

‘Yes.’ It should have been – he had been very generous, overwhelmingly so – and yet she had felt nervous, unrelaxed.

‘I – had the feeling – that it wasn’t.’

‘No. It was – great.’

He sank back on the pillow, drawing back from her. She wanted to explain. She said awkwardly, ‘I’ve just got a lot on my mind, that’s all.’

He said wryly, ‘Thanks.’

‘I meant …’ What had she meant? That he made her feel vulnerable, and she didn’t like that. ‘I meant that I’m very bound up in my work at the moment.’

‘Tell me about it.’

She hesitated. ‘I’m working towards an important goal. Something I feel very strongly about. And – it takes all my energy.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘What is this goal?’

‘I’m trying to – make people see the world for what it is. A twisted, rotten place. I’m trying to make them see how meaningless and empty their lives are. Living in boxes, working like ants – and for nothing. For crap like television sets and washing machines – things that they
think
will make them happy. They don’t realize that they’re just being bought off, made to live the roles that society has allotted to them …’ She paused. ‘I want to change all that.’

‘Why? I mean, why d’you feel so strongly?’

‘Because nobody counts for anything. Not in the system as it is now. The system crushes you if it can. It doesn’t care a shit about the individual. I know. I’ve
been
there.’

Nick could feel the shudder of rage pass through her. Her vehemence vaguely worried him, nagging at an idea in the back of his mind. But then he remembered the early life in Italy, the dead father and the cold mother, and he saw that there was a lot of the hurt child in her; a child full of anger and resentment who still didn’t understand why things had gone wrong for her.

He pulled her gently towards him. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right …’

She was still fretting and he could feel the tension in her body. But finally she calmed down and her body relaxed against his. She turned her face to him and he could feel the warmth of her breath. Raising her head off the pillow, she stared at him in the darkness and seemed to come to a decision. She lowered her mouth on to his and kissed him, slowly at first, and then hungrily. This time there was no reserve.

Much later, after the last sigh of pleasure had come from deep within her, she held him close to her for a long time.

H
ENRY
N
ORTHCLIFF GLANCED
at his watch. Seven fifty-five. His driver was already outside the house. He should leave in five minutes if he wasn’t to be late for his early meeting.

He finished his coffee and went into the hall. He wondered why Caroline hadn’t appeared yet. Then saw her, just coming downstairs. He noticed she was still in her dressing-gown, which was unusual for her. As they met at the foot of the stairs the telephone rang.

Caroline said, ‘I’ll take it,’ and went across the hall into the study.

Henry picked up his coat and briefcase, checked that he hadn’t forgotten anything and stuck his head round the study door. Caroline was perched on the desk, listening hard, muttering the occasional ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ She saw Henry and beckoned him over. Henry was about to shake his head and point at his watch, when she beckoned again, more urgently. He put down his things and, going to the desk, looked at her questioningly. She thrust the receiver into his hand and panted, ‘Elizabeth Danby.’

The horror showed in his face.

Caroline shook her head briefly. ‘Sorry! Got to go – sorry!’ She rushed past him and out of the room. Henry thought: What on earth?

Crossly, he put the receiver to his ear. Interrupting Mrs Danby’s abject apologies, he managed to establish that she had heard some disquieting news about Victoria; a rumour that she had been injured.

‘Injured?’ he asked.

‘In this awful demonstration, apparently. I mean,
really
– I thought I’d better check up on her, but her phone doesn’t answer. For all I know she might be in some
hospital
… I just wondered if you’d
heard
.’

He cut her short with assurances that they hadn’t heard anything, but would let her know the moment they did.

The instant he’d got rid of the woman, he went in search of Caroline. He called out but there was no reply. He was about to look upstairs when he heard a sound from the downstairs cloakroom. He strode across the hall and pushed open the door.

Caroline was draped over the basin, swilling out her mouth with water. He suddenly realized that she had been sick.

She looked at him sheepishly. ‘I was going to tell you, but I wasn’t really sure until today.’

He stared at her, shocked, trying to take it in.

She said unhappily, ‘I know we hadn’t exactly planned a baby … And it’s a bit of a surprise for me too …’ She caught the expression on his face and trailed off.

Henry’s first reaction was one of sharp disappointment and – yes – resentment. The two of them had been perfectly happy. He’d been looking forward to their having time together, to travel and explore Florence and Venice … To enjoy
each other
. And now
this
…

A baby would intrude into their relationship, steal from it, diminish it. The extra dimension their happiness had possessed would be suffocated by the sheer weight of dreary day-to-day trivia; nappies, feeds and sleepless nights. And by the time they were free again – God, he would be an old man …

In a wave of self-pity he looked at her and thought: All I ever needed was
you
.

She dropped her eyes and turned away to pat her face with a towel. She was putting a brave front on it, but he could see that she was upset. He realized he was being very selfish. He should look at it from her point of view. She would enjoy being a mother. He mustn’t deny her that.

He grasped her shoulders and leant his head against hers.

She said in a low voice, ‘You’re not happy about it.’

He stroked her hair and said finally, ‘Of course I’m happy about it. It was rather a shock, that’s all. Really.’ He managed a thin smile. ‘It’s wonderful.’

For all its faults the British postal service is more efficient than most. In 1969, in the days before it was split into a two-tier system of first- and second-class mail, eighty-seven per cent of all letters were delivered the next day, a figure which rose to well over ninety per cent for letters sent within the London area or to other large cities such as Manchester or Birmingham.

The first padded envelope was delivered at seven-fifteen to an address in Bradford. It was not opened immediately for the simple reason that there was no one there. The place was the one-roomed office of an organization called the Anglo-Asian Society, one of the many groups and societies that had sprung up in the area since the large influx of Asians in the fifties and sixties. Although the organization’s title suggested that it embraced all Asian immigrants, in practice the membership did not include Pakistanis, who as Muslims liked to keep themselves to themselves, but consisted almost entirely of Indian Hindus.

The organization was a peaceful one which prided itself on furthering understanding between the British and Indian communities. This was not always easy because, like most immigrants, the Indians liked to stick together and Bradford’s Asian population had now got to the point where, in many streets, it was rare to see a white face. To the consternation of the society’s president and secretary, Mr Binodh Gopalji, this fact was somewhat resented by the shrinking white community. However, he worked hard to smooth out what he called ‘the minor little hiccups’ that interrupted the smoothness of his community’s absorption into the British way of life. It was a source of some satisfaction to him that, by and large, his modest efforts appeared to be successful.

The next envelope was delivered at seven thirty-nine, to an address in the North 8 district of London. This was the location of the West Indian Action Group, which, as its name suggested, was fairly forceful in pursuing the interests of its West Indian members, though even its critics could hardly describe it as militant. The members, who were mainly younger second-generation black immigrants from the islands of the Caribbean, were vociferous, educated, and angry. They wanted jobs, houses, and an end to discrimination. Despite the provocative suggestions of certain right-wing politicians that they should be encouraged to return to Trinidad or Barbados, they regarded Britain as their home, which was not surprising since most of them had spent the greater part of their lives there.

For much of the time the office was run by a slim twenty-two-year-old law student called Leonie Brown, whose family had emigrated from the island of Antigua in 1949. But, being a girl who liked to go out dancing almost as much as she liked going to bed with her lusty new boyfriend, she didn’t often get to sleep before two, and was rarely in the office before nine-thirty.

This envelope, too, remained unopened on the floor.

The third envelope was delivered later, at eight-twenty. Here, at an office in the City, there was someone to receive it. David Levene often arrived early. He found he got a lot of work done in the quiet time between eight and eight-thirty. Although he was a journalist and it wasn’t really his job to do so, he picked up the mail and sifted through it.