Requiem (12 page)

It was answered immediately, almost as if he’d been waiting by the phone.

‘Is this Colin Maynard?’

‘It is.’

‘About your letter. From the ad in
Farmers Weekly
.’

‘Ah.’ There was a pause and a rustling, and she imagined him sitting down and getting himself comfortable. ‘Yes …’ He sounded distant, as if he was holding the instrument away from his mouth. ‘Your advertisement was most interesting.’ The voice drew close again.

‘You’ve had personal contact with Aldeb, have you?’ asked Daisy.

‘Forgive me,’ he slid in, ‘but before answering that question I hope you don’t mind my asking who’s asking.’ He gave a nervous little chuckle like a bank clerk smoothing away any awkwardness.

‘Of course not,’ Daisy said hurriedly. ‘My name is Daisy Field and – ’ She wasn’t sure why, but she was reluctant to mention Catch. ‘I’m gathering information for a research project,’ she said, which wasn’t too far from the truth.

‘Really? A research project? That sounds most interesting. May I ask, is this something you’re doing as a – Oh, you know, what is it? – for one of those things, those – what
do
they call them?’ The nervous little chuckle again, a click of the tongue. ‘A thesis – that’s it, a
thesis
.’ He said the word with satisfaction as if he’d just answered a question on
Mastermind
.

‘No, it’s an independent project funded by a charitable trust.’ This, too, had a grain of truth, since a large charitable trust had once funded one of Catch’s few research projects.

‘How interesting,’ he repeated, his voice dipping obsequiously. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking but it’s as well to know who you’re dealing with, don’t you think?’

‘Of course.’ Daisy tried to guess what Colin Maynard might look like, how old he might be, but his voice gave nothing away. ‘And what would the name of the trust be exactly?’ he asked in a tone that was at once insistent and ingratiating.

Daisy hesitated. Even allowing for normal curiosity, the conversation was disconcertingly one-sided. ‘You suggested meeting for tea,’ she said. ‘How about this afternoon?’

‘Oh.’ A show of surprise, as if he hadn’t expected to be so honoured. ‘If you like. Why not. Yes – how about the Waldorf? I’m rather fond of the Waldorf. The foxtrot, all those
wonderful
Thirties tunes. Four o’clock all right for you? The Palm Court. I’ll book. It’s always best to book.’

Daisy rang off, wondering how a man so familiar with the Waldorf and things cosmopolitan matched up with Aldeb. He might not be anything to do with farming, of course; he might be on the marketing and distribution side of Aldeb, or even – the very thought – a renegade ministry man, complete with unpublished evidence of Aldeb’s carcinogenic properties and cast-iron proof of the attendant cover-up. Well, one could always hope.

After lunch Jenny, who’d been out of the office on an errand for Alan, dropped in brandishing a magazine. ‘Something for you,’ she announced.

The magazine, a glossy gossip magazine with luscious ‘pix’ of stars reclining in their Hollywood homes, was not something Daisy normally got around to reading. Jenny had opened it at a page of news snippets and was pointing towards the lead story. It was about the singer-songwriter Nick Mackenzie and his wife Alusha. According to the report there’d been an accident on their Argyll estate. His wife – they referred to her as an exotic Seychellian – had been admitted to hospital after inhaling dangerous fumes.

Daisy murmured: ‘Plenty of people inhale fumes.’

‘But not many rock stars’ wives,’ declared Jenny.

‘She’s probably better by now.’

‘They wouldn’t have mentioned it if she was.’

Daisy was unconvinced. ‘Most likely it was gas fumes or petrol or something like that.’

Jenny gave an expressive shrug. ‘No harm in finding out though, is there?’

There would be no harm in finding out, but these things weren’t that easy. By some peculiarity of human nature, people often preferred to remain in ignorance of the true nature of the risks they’d been exposed to, as if by ignoring them the dangers would in some magical way disappear.

It might be a waste of time, but she reached for the phone anyway. She had quite a few Nick Mackenzie albums back in the flat. In fact she was rather a fan of his. There was something about his songs, an intriguing quality. Also, he wrote songs about the environment and, as far as she could remember, had done so for many years.

A contact on the staff of a rock magazine gave her the name of Nick Mackenzie’s management company, which was listed at an address in Covent Garden. Getting this far had taken five minutes; the next part took a lot longer. David Weinberg Management was not the most friendly of organizations, nor the most forthcoming, and it took Daisy ten minutes to get through the first line of defence which came in the form of a girl with all the impenetrable indifference of a minor official unleashed on a position of unlimited power. But Daisy was used to wearing people down – it was part of her job: nonetheless it took a determined this-is-really-rather-important approach and a firm assurance that she wasn’t trying to sell anything before she finally got through to the next bastion. This was some sort of personal assistant and, Daisy realized, as far as she was ever likely to get. Keeping the conversation short, Daisy introduced herself and asked what the chances might be of getting a letter through to Nick Mackenzie.

‘We can’t make any promises,’ said the clipped female voice.

‘If he doesn’t read it himself, will he be told about it?’

‘I really couldn’t say.’

‘Suppose I asked you to forward it to him wherever he was, would you? I wouldn’t ask except it really is important and I’ve got to find someone I can trust to pass it on.’ Daisy heard the sycophantic tone in her voice. ‘I’ll be sending information – nothing more – but it’s information he might be very pleased to have.’

There was a pause. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ the assistant finally conceded with great reluctance. Then, just in case Daisy should feel too confident, she added: ‘Though I really can’t promise.’

When Daisy came to write the letter there wasn’t a great deal to say. She pointed out that Catch had access to most of the available information on common chemicals and their effects on health, and could, if necessary, recommend some good toxicologists. She also said she was sorry.

She sent two copies, one care of the assistant at David Weinberg Management and the second to Nick Mackenzie, Argyll, Scotland. Correctly addressed mail was sometimes mislaid by the Post Office for no apparent reason at all but, incited by the flagrant challenge of a two-word address, the service could produce miracles.

Daisy wasn’t sure what you wore to a tea dance at the Waldorf but she was fairly certain it wasn’t tight jeans, patterned leather boots and a sweater of idiosyncratic design and clashing colours. Her jacket, short and soberly black, toned things down a bit, and she made a special attempt to brush her hair into some sort of order, not a simple matter when it was naturally curly and sprang out from her head.

The Waldorf was a massive grey elephant of a building, a Palladian–French-château hybrid in the Edwardian style. It seemed to sit on the curve of the Aldwych with reluctance, as if it had realized its mistake in being built bang on a noisy unattractive street.

A short flight of stairs with solid brass rails led to the foyer and the entrance to the Palm Court. A queue of people snaked out from the doorway, waiting to be seated. The tinny strains of ‘There’s A Small Hotel’ floated out over their heads, and Daisy glimpsed a lone couple shuffling gently across a sunken dance floor.

As the queue inched forward she saw a room decorated in flat Wedgwood colours, dusty pinks and greyish greens, with marble floors and pilasters and a raised terrace around three sides of the room. There were a few palms all right, but they were small and emaciated.

The head waiter had been well primed: Maynard’s name produced immediate recognition and a small bow. A young waiter led her round the terrace between tables of elderly ladies whispering across their teacups, giggly young people in Thirties-style hats, and terminally jetlagged tourists staring dully about them. Rounding a corner, the waiter stopped at a small table tucked in beside the balustrade and indicated a small grey-suited figure rising from the shadows of his chair.

He was young, in his twenties, and Daisy realized that she had pictured him as much older.

‘What a pleasure.’ He bowed obsequiously before straightening up to a height that was a good half inch shorter than Daisy’s, and she wasn’t that tall. She caught a strong whiff of the sort of heavy musk-like scent that Italians and Arabs splash on with impunity, but which Englishmen wear only at the risk of comments on their masculinity.

He hovered attentively while the waiter pushed in her chair. ‘Now, first things first,’ he began, settling back in his seat. ‘The full tea or the not-so-full tea? I can’t recommend the full tea highly enough. Sandwiches – very delicate, very dainty – scones, muffins. Nothing like it.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘A real touch of the good old days, I tell you. Then there are the teas to choose from – Earl Grey, Darjeeling, Lapsang Souchong.’

He couldn’t have been more than twenty-eight or -nine, she decided, though he might have been even younger. He had a round fleshy face with a broad nose, pasty cheeks, a red full-lipped mouth and thick gingery hair that had been slicked back from his face with a lavish coating of wet-look gel. He was leaning forward in his seat, his pale indistinct eyes staring keenly across the table at her as if he were anxious not to miss her slightest movement or gesture.

Daisy chose the full tea although, at seventeen pounds, she rather hoped she wasn’t going to be picking up the bill.

‘I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, Miss Field. I’ve never met a scientist before.’ He spoke in the same mixture of servility and enquiry that had marked their telephone conversation.

‘I’m not a scientist, I’m a researcher.’

He screwed his face up in an expression of apology. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon. Very remiss of me. One shouldn’t make wild guesses, should one?’

‘And you, Mr Maynard? What do you do?’

He blinked modestly, though it seemed to Daisy that he was overdoing it a bit. ‘Ah. Now that’s another story. Not a lot to tell, I’m afraid. How I wish there were. A modest accountant, that’s all. With an insurance firm.’

Very Heep-like in his humility. Daisy tried to imagine Maynard bent over a ledger, working on columns of figures. The nondescript grey suit fitted the picture, as did the abject manner, but the plastering of hair gel and the heavy gold signet ring that adorned a thick finger appeared rather too flashy.

‘And what’s your interest exactly?’ Daisy asked.

‘Oh, I have many interests – golf, that sort of thing. Yes, golf mainly.’

‘I meant in relation to Aldeb.’

He pressed a hand to his chest. ‘Oh.
Oh
. Forgive me. How silly.’ He screwed his face up and smiled at himself. ‘Aldeb. Yes, of course, of course.’ But he didn’t answer her question. Instead he leant on the brass-capped balustrade and smiled indulgently towards the dance floor. ‘Isn’t this wonderful? All these old tunes.’

The band, who looked about the same vintage as the songs they were playing, had swung into a stately interpretation of ‘The Blue Danube’, a number whose higher notes were providing a considerable challenge to the trombone player.

The sandwiches and tea arrived. When she turned back it was to find Maynard staring at her. ‘You were telling me about Aldeb,’ she prompted.

‘Of course. Well, it’s like this, Miss Field. I’ve a sister, name of Jancis. Unusual name, isn’t it? Most people call her Jan of course. Except me. I like to call her Jancis – such a pretty name, pity not to use it, don’t you think?’ He glanced at her constantly, watching her face, gauging her reaction. ‘Quite a bit older than me,’ he continued through the abject smile which seemed to be an almost permanent feature of his face. ‘In fact, my half-sister, though you’d never know it. I mean, we’re very close.’ He creased up his ginger-lashed eyes to emphasize how close they were. ‘She married a farmer, went to live in Northumberland. Then – oh, four years ago, she got sick. Her old man couldn’t deal with it, couldn’t cope at all. Went off with the neighbour’s wife.’

He paused and, wrapping his lips delicately around a sandwich, chewed it rapidly.

‘When you say sick, what exactly was the problem?’

He swallowed. His expression was unchanging, the eyes constantly searching her face, the smile expanding the corners of the heavy overblown mouth. For a moment Daisy thought he hadn’t heard her question. ‘They were never sure,’ he said eventually. ‘But she’d been working with Aldeb all right. Oh yes, she never had any doubt that it was Aldeb that had been the problem.’

Daisy caught the faintest hint of an accent. It wasn’t one she knew, certainly nothing that came from anywhere near South London. The only feature she could pin down was a guttural twang to his c’s and k’s. ‘You say they weren’t sure what was wrong,’ she said, ‘but she must have had some symptoms, surely?’

He started on a muffin, eating with the rapidity and determination of a compulsive eater. Below the fleshy cheeks, a heavy neck strained at its collar and the loose shirt could not hide the swell of a well-padded belly. ‘Oh, plenty of symptoms. Aches, pains, that sort of thing. Bad aches and pains, mind. Very bad. Had to take pills and potions all the time. An absolute slave to them.’

‘I see,’ said Daisy, trying to sort her way through this morass of vague information. ‘Would she be willing to come and see us, do you think? To undergo some tests? They’re quite painless. Just blood, that sort of thing.’

‘She would have, I’m sure. In fact she’d have been only too pleased. Sadly, though …’ He paused, frowning deeply, and continued in an unsteady voice: ‘… it won’t be possible.’

‘Oh. Why not? Is she too ill?’

‘Not exactly,’ he said with evident difficulty. ‘No, you see she died last year.’

It was Daisy’s turn to stare. Until just a moment ago he had been using the present tense. ‘How awful,’ she murmured.