Requiem (82 page)

She had got the idea. Somewhere in here was the bargain, the price of Tony’s safety. She heard herself say: ‘Perhaps I can help … Speak to him …’

He considered: ‘Well …’ he said doubtfully. ‘I hardly think an appeal to reason is going to have much effect, even coming from you.’

Even from her? Did he know after all? The thought bewildered her. And what did he want if he didn’t want her to speak to Nick? A small worm of dread curled in her stomach.

The car was heading south through the park towards the Serpentine. The driver half turned his head. Schenker, catching the movement, picked up the voice tube and told him to carry on. So there had been a plan to stop, a plan which was no longer necessary. Schenker obviously expected to finish his business before they reached Harrods.

Unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, she asked: ‘What do you suggest then?’

He put on a show of faint surprise, shrugging slightly. ‘Suggest? Why, nothing.’ He waved a hand into space. ‘No, I’m just surprised that Mackenzie should want his life subjected to scrutiny, and by a press which holds nothing sacred. It’s a rare man who has nothing to hide.’

Susan was very still. A chill crept up from her stomach.

Schenker interleaved his fingers and pushed out his lips, his movements drawn out, almost languid. The dark eyes travelled slowly across to Susan and stared at her with a look that, while pretending to be quizzical, was deeply knowing. ‘And Mr Mackenzie has a great deal to hide, so I believe.’ Any last doubts she might have had as to his meaning were dispelled by the glint of personal contempt that he couldn’t quite conceal.

She looked quickly out of the window before her face crumpled.

He knew. The realization was only marginally less shocking than the knowledge that this was no idle disclosure, that at the end of the day this dreadful little man wouldn’t hesitate to make use of it, to betray her in the same way that he was preparing to betray Tony.

Chemical-campaigning pop star and agriculture chief’s wife. The papers would have a field day. Tony’s career would never survive it. She leaned her head against the glass.

They were in the traffic queue at Alexandra Gate before she felt steady again.

‘I could talk to him,’ she offered, gaining strength as she said it. ‘Persuade him that publicity wouldn’t be a good idea.’

‘Mmm?’ Schenker seemed almost bored. ‘And d’you think he’d listen?’

‘Yes,’ she said defensively. Then she remembered Nick and his principles and felt a sudden doubt. If it came to a choice between her and his beloved project, how would he decide? Publicity about their affair wouldn’t frighten him at all, she realized bitterly. He wouldn’t care, he would tell her to go to hell, just like he’d told her to go to hell all those years ago. Nothing would frighten him. Nothing except …

The answer came to her then. Part of her was shocked and repulsed by the idea, but another part of her reached out for it avidly. There was a sort of justice in it, an awful sort of satisfaction.

A last instant of uncertainty, then she said: ‘There’s something he wouldn’t be happy about, something he’d hate the world to know.’

She could feel Schenker watching her. ‘Oh?’ he said casually. ‘And what’s that?’

Susan told him and for the first time during that dreadful drive she felt a glimmering of hope.

Hillyard whistled as he bounded up the stairs two at a time. In this sort of quiet he reckoned it was less obvious to make a bit of noise than to creep around surreptitiously. As he came up the final flight he switched the tote-bag he was carrying to his left hand and prepared to let himself into the flat, spinning the door keys round his finger as if he owned the place. On the landing he paused for a moment, listening hard, before resuming his whistling, more softly this time.

There were footsteps on the stairs, coming down; males gabbling in some foreign language. He was sliding the key into the lock when they turned onto the landing. He took his time before looking round, his lips still pursed into a whistle, and smiled briefly and impersonally at the two swarthy men approaching. They fell silent, eyeing him liberally as they passed. Well, they might not know what to make of him, but he had their mark all right. A pair of queens, and no mistake.

He let himself into the flat without looking back. By this time he knew his way around the place so well that he could see at a glance what had changed. The furniture was different – she had moved two chairs round – a dust sheet lay in a tangle on the floor, and a new pile of papers had appeared on the desk. And then there was the ceiling. The fresh plaster was dry in the centre but still damp at the edges where it met the cornice, and a right mess down one of the walls where the water from the tank had got behind the wallpaper and bubbled it away.

He went straight to the phone and, careful to weight the rest so it would ring if someone called, unfastened the handset with a screwdriver and eased the halves apart. He looked at the microtransmitter for a moment, remembering the sounds on the tape recording, the clunks as she had unscrewed the fastenings, the creaking of plastic as she had removed the casing, and then the long silence. She must have seen it: she couldn’t have missed it. And if she hadn’t been looking for this, what else could she have been looking for?

She had seen it, but she had left it in place. She hadn’t told anybody, she hadn’t called the police. Clever girl. Well, almost.

The transmitter was fixed with double-sided tape, and now he pulled it free, and unclipping the tiny alligator clips slid it into his pocket.

He put the halves back together and refastened the screws. Then, going to the main telephone socket on the skirting board, he removed the socket plate and replaced it with a new one from his bag, his work interrupted only by a squawk from his walkie-talkie, which gave him a moment’s fright. He checked with Biggs down in the van, but there was nothing brewing; just interference.

He had a quick look through the new pile of papers on the desk. Insurance claim forms, magazines.

Then the final task. He took some time mulling over the exact location for his little present. He went through her hanging cupboard and bathroom drawers, but lingered longest over the underwear in the top drawer of the chest in the main room. All in all, it would be the most fitting place. He fingered a pair of panties and dangled them in the air, both repelled and fascinated by the thought of catching her bodily scents. Then he ran his hand up inside the chest to make sure there would be no gaps once the drawer was closed again.

He pushed the drawer closed except for an opening of about three inches, then went back to the tote-bag. Shuddering with physical excitement, unable to suppress a crow of anticipation, he pulled on a glove and slipped his hand carefully into the holdall. After a moment’s scrabbling, he had his prey. A big beauty who went into the drawer good as gold.

Hillyard was all finished and out of the place in eight minutes flat.

N
ICK BUZZED FOR
Mrs Alton and looked at the house phone accusingly when it failed to respond. He peered at his watch. Nine. Could it be that late? He looked up and realized it had probably been dark for some time. Rolling his chair clear of the console, he leaned back and stretched, pushing his arms high over his head and giving a long shuddering sigh. Eight, no, nine hours he’d been here.

He had completed – what? He leaned forward to count the pages – ten pages of manuscript; maybe five minutes’ finished music. It had come with breathtaking speed. The orchestration was still a bit rough, of course, definitely in need of refinement, but it had begun to develop the sort of texture he was after and he didn’t think he’d be too ashamed to hear it performed in its present form. Since Sunday he had finished one complete section, or, to be more accurate, a movement, though that was rather a grand title for something that was just eight minutes long. It was a lyrical section entitled
In a Summer Garden
. Next would come
Dawnlight
. The movement he had been working on today, an allegro section which would come before both of these, had not yet found a name. Something that suggested life or joy, he thought. The whole thing was going to be called simply
Thanksgiving
.

The structure of the piece, with its elegiac choral tone, was loosely that of a requiem, but he wasn’t going to call it that, not only because it would sound presumptuous and people would think he was trying to put himself up there with Mozart and Fauré, but because he didn’t want to be constrained by the conventions of the form. Also, and even more to the point, the requiem mass was about death in its direst sense, quite the opposite of what he was trying to achieve in this celebration of life.

Perhaps
Thanksgiving
was too bland; perhaps
Last Song
would be better. While he considered this he got up and went down the passageway to the kitchen, suddenly ravenous.

Mrs Alton, who knew him only too well, had left a large notice on the table, directing him to the various dishes in the fridge and larder, with instructions for microwaving.

The sounds of the night, inaudible in the heavily clad studio, now wafted softly against the dark window. Irrationally, he felt conspicuous in the light, as if someone were out there watching him from the rising land beyond the window, and he went to lower the blind. He paused to take a look into the darkness. He could just make out a tall beech, caught against the glimmer of the sky. It moved gently, the last of its thin leaves causing the stars to wink uncertainly. From somewhere a long way off came the faint whistle of a night creature.

That morning he had walked to the western woods. The smell of autumn was strong, the air sharp and damp. He had felt a great surge of feeling, something close to exultation. It was partly the work, of course, the humming of the music in his brain, but something else too: a sense of liberation, a growing feeling that he was breaking free of the old patterns of despair and hopelessness.

Eating in solitary splendour he listened to the silence, feeling the emptiness of the house around him, and decided that, in spite of everything, he might learn to love the place again. When he wasn’t here he might offer it to other people, make it into a retreat for composers and musicians, set up a special trust named after Alusha.

The ideas kept him occupied to the end of the meal. Soon his mind was darting back to his music and, restless, he scooped up some fruit and started for the studio again.

At the kitchen door a faint sound caught him and he stopped to look back over his shoulder, thinking the fruit must have overbalanced in the bowl. But the room was quiet, the fruit undisturbed. He tried to pin the sound down – the microwave cooling? The contents of the dishwater settling? – but the sound had been too indistinct.

He thought of security. Had Mrs Alton locked all the doors when she left? Were the sensors on?

He hovered indecisively before depositing the fruit back on the kitchen table and beginning a round of the house.

The passage beyond the studio was dark, the estate office darker still. The outside door which led from the office into the courtyard on the east side of the house was securely locked and bolted. Retracing his steps, he checked the front door then, skirting the packing cases which still lined the walls, went to the door of the drawing room. Switching on a light, he glanced towards the french windows at the far end, then continued into the boot room, which had been a gun room in another life. Here another external door gave out on to the western side of the house, close to the rose garden. He didn’t bother with a light, but felt his way past the coats in the half darkness, watching his own outline approaching in the dark reflections of the glass-panelled door. As he tested the locks he looked out into the night, but the sky seemed darker on this side and he couldn’t make out the shapes of the trees.

Back in the kitchen he picked up the fruit before remembering the last and most frequently used door. Biting off a piece of apple he went through the small hall at the rear of the kitchen into the scullery, which served as a back lobby. It was a large room and dark, its shadows pierced by the green eyes of three giant freezers. From the boiler room next door came the low hum of the heating plant.

Next to the door was a narrow window. As he reached for the door handle he peered through it and saw that the starlight had faded and the outline of the beech had become less distinct: a deeper blackness against an uncertain sky.

Then the darkness shifted.

He thrust his eye closer to the glass.

Something had moved, but what?

Suddenly his eye was brought down to the splash of light falling from the bottom of the kitchen window. A foot had come into view. A booted foot, heavy, large. It was placing itself cautiously on the flagstone. After a moment, the other foot appeared, feeling its way forward. The figure above was in darkness apart from the side of the leg, the shadow of a hand.

Not Duncan: Duncan would come straight in. Not one of the estate workers: they’d ring at the courtyard door. No: this person was too furtive, this person was hoping not to be heard.