Smoke & Whispers (3 page)

As if hearing her thought, the girl said, ‘There’ll be food in five minutes. Just through the doors, like.’

‘Thank you.’ The girl moved on.
Like.
The distance from Kensington to Tyneside could be measured in the placement of that syllable.

Jack had turned to greet a friend. Sarah sipped fizz, reminded herself to drink more slowly, then sipped again. She scanned the room as if absorbed in what she saw. Now that she was here, she was in it for the long haul. No sneaking off to commune with Zoë’s ghost.

Someone materialized beside her: short man, strange hair, dark suit, orange tie.

He said something she didn’t catch.

‘Could you speak up? Your tie’s very loud.’

Her conscience would kick her for that in the morning.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I said, I didn’t quite hear what you said.’

He was mid-to-late fifties, with a round face, its shape emphasized by a neatly trimmed beard which decorated his face cheek to cheek without bothering his upper lip. Beard; no moustache. A style choice so ill-advised, she wondered if it weren’t actually a medical condition. ‘Wright,’ he said to her. She thought he’d said
right
at first, as if he were about to get down to putting her straight. ‘John M. Wright,’ he continued.

Sarah was pretty sure no one had ever introduced himself to her using his middle initial before.

‘Sarah,’ she responded. ‘Em, Sarah Tucker.’

‘I see you’re our token woman tonight.’

‘I’d noticed. But thank you for pointing it out.’

Jack was back. ‘Ms Tucker’s in publishing. She owns her own company.’

The ghost of a wink accompanied this information, but it slipped past Wright without causing a draught.

‘I also keep livestock,’ she said. ‘Ostriches.’

‘Ah, yes. Good money in them, is there?’

‘Small change mostly. Also bracelets, watches, bottle tops. They’ll eat anything, really. What do you do, Mr Wright?’

‘Medical research.’

‘Sounds interesting.’

‘It’s fascinating.’

Why did she feel she’d just been contradicted? ‘Involved how?’

‘I run a facility.’ He took a sip from his wineglass. There was something very precise about this, as if he’d calculated in advance the exact amount of liquid he cared to ingest. ‘A small one. Privately funded. Which is one of the reasons I’m here now.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Funding. Wherever the moneymen gather, you see?’ He laughed, as if he’d said something amusing, and stroked his ridiculous beard. ‘Most scientific research these days is dunning investors.’

‘You’re here to mug Gerard, then.’

‘Who?’

‘Gerard Inchon.’ She made a vague gesture in Gerard’s direction. Gerard happened to be watching them at that moment, though that didn’t mean he’d ceased talking to the folk around him, or indeed ceased drinking. And they said men couldn’t multitask. She gave him a wave. ‘Our host.’

‘Not actually
mug
him, no.’

‘Not actually him, no.’

Mr Wright didn’t seem comfortable with the frivolous approach. But she couldn’t stop herself saying, ‘But it was worth wangling an invite anyway.’

Jack said, ‘John’s here with me.’

‘Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean –’

‘None taken,’ Jack said, though the offence hadn’t been headed his way. ‘John and I have certain interests in common.’

She made a stab at what they were. ‘You stash your equipment overflow in his storage depots?’ she asked Wright.

Jack laughed, but John M. Wright said, ‘Mr Gannon’s family are my main investors.’

He wasn’t local – had no particular accent she could pinpoint, but certainly wasn’t a Tynesider. This was the John Jack had identified as an out-of-towner.

The girl with the bottle reappeared, this time
sans
bottle. ‘Would you like to move through to the restaurant?’

‘We would indeed,’ Sarah said. ‘Thank you.’

Word of food shimmered through the gathering like wind through a field of corn. John M. Wright was among the first to head through the restaurant doors.

‘I hope I didn’t offend your friend,’ Sarah said as they followed.

‘I’m not sure personal offence figures high on John’s radar.’

‘What sort of medical research does he do?’

‘Respiratory diseases. Or conditions, whatever. You know, asthma, allergies, that sort of thing.’

‘And you’re happy about introducing him to other backers.’

Jack said, ‘If he finds a cure for asthma, we’ll be delighted to share the profits.’ He caught her look. ‘I hope you didn’t think this was a charity do, Sarah.’

‘God forbid.’

‘The kind of work John’s facility does, it takes a lot of money to keep it going. And he’s not happy about his current housing.’

‘Could you put him in one of your warehouses?’

He smiled politely. ‘Do you really keep ostriches?’

‘A pair, yes. We rescued them when the bottom fell out of the ostrich-meat market. From a nearby farm.’

‘We?’

‘Russ. My partner and I. Are you married, Jack?’

‘I have been.’

‘Me too.’ Perhaps she’d had too much to drink. Or perhaps she just liked Jack. ‘Funny, isn’t it? When it’s over, you can’t really remember what you thought you’d wanted out of it.’

After a moment or two, Jack said: ‘I think I wanted the usual stuff. Shall we follow the food?’

The restaurant was much the same size as the bar, and similarly decorated; i.e., a while ago. Its tables had been shifted to the edges of the room, and loaded with plates of sausages and samosas; of ham and salmon; of bread rolls and tuna sandwiches and bowls of salad and rice. This was what she needed. Something to soak up the wine. Plus more wine, of course. There was no point pretending she was about to come over abstemious.

Plate filled with food, she found herself drifting towards the nucleus of the gathering, which was Gerard. It was hard to tell whether he was being viewed with fascination or horror, though she doubted he’d have minded which. For some reason, the song ‘Lawyers, guns and money’ came to mind. Gerard collected guns, and it was a fair bet he had no shortage of lawyers, either. And only Gerard, she decided; only Gerard could breeze into town, get a fix on the local players, and set up an evening like this, inside what – a couple of days? He might have been lord of the manor, and these men his long-suffering tenants. No: he might have been the conqueror, entertaining brand-new subjects.

‘So where’s the future, then?’ he was being asked. ‘In your field, I mean.’

Inchon Enterprises was in the communications line. In that Radio 4 profile, Gerard had summed up his corporate philosophy: Money talks.
That’s what communication’s all
about.

But now he said, ‘Oh, if I’m in a field, the future’s the next field along, isn’t it?’

‘You’re looking to diversify?’

‘Diversity? Can’t bloody avoid it, old son.’ She couldn’t tell whether he’d misheard deliberately or not. ‘I have to fill out forms, explaining how many ethnic minorities, women, wrinklies and
differently abled
people I employ. Well, I don’t fill out the forms myself. An old deaf woman does that. But my impression was you had the same laws up here now.’

Jack, plate in hand, was behind her. ‘Does this a lot, does he?’

Sarah said, ‘In my experience, yes, he enjoys being obnoxious.’

‘I suppose it sorts the wheat from the chaff.’

‘I suppose it ‘Meaning?’

Jack managed a sip of wine without spilling his food. ‘Come chucking-out time, nine-tenths of this lot’ll think he’s just another loud-mouthed pillock who believes the crap he’s spouting.’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘They’ll have a point.’

‘But the others’ll remember he’s a self-made multimillionaire.’

‘And that’ll give them pause?’

‘What do you think?’

She thought she didn’t much like being treated as if Gerard Inchon were her specialist subject. ‘So you tell me. Why does he do it then?’

‘To scare away the idiots,’ Jack said. ‘He doesn’t strike me as a man with much time for idiots.’

That was probably a good assessment, though didn’t allow for the fun Gerard derived from it. Besides, Sarah had the impression Gerard was in low gear. His attention seemed constantly on the prowl: he was forever looking her way, or maybe just in her direction.

John M. Wright had arrived on her other flank. His meal, she couldn’t help noticing, consisted entirely of sausages and rice.

She felt guilty for the way she’d treated him before, so now said, ‘Jack tells me you’re looking for new premises.’

‘Premises?’

‘The real estate kind. For your . . .’ She had to shake off the word
laboratory
, which sounded too mad-scientist. Though it wasn’t her fault he had loony facial hair. ‘Research premises.’

‘I’ve had better,’ he said.

‘Where was that?’

‘It was a while ago now.’

‘But presumably still in the same place,’ she couldn’t help saying.

Jack said, ‘You were in Surrey before you came here, weren’t you, John?’

‘Yes.’ He speared half a sausage into his mouth, but didn’t allow that to prevent him saying, ‘Mr Gannon has been a friend to my work.’

That would be Jack, she registered. ‘Asthma would be a good thing to cure.’

‘Children,’ he said, his mouth full.

‘For them, especially.’ She could feel herself being sucked into one of those dinner party conversations, where you’re compelled to have views on subjects you’d rarely considered before.

‘It’s to them you have to look, Ms Tucker,’ he said. She was surprised he’d taken hold of her name. ‘If you want to cure asthma, you have to look to the children. That’s where the condition is at its most vulnerable.’

What a bizarre way of putting it. But he was the expert. She said, ‘I assume cleaning the air would help too.’

‘We all have to live in the world as it is.’

Low gear or not, Gerard was still making waves. Someone had just asked if he was interested in property.

‘Well, of course I bloody am. I’m a businessman, not a Buddhist.’

Sarah wouldn’t have put it past him to make sure there was a Buddhist nearby before launching that line.

Jack excused himself: he’d seen someone he needed to talk to. For a frightening moment, she thought that would leave her with John M. Wright, but he was sidling off too, to fix his empty plate. Before she could get down to emptying her own, Gerard was waving her over.

‘Old friend,’ he said to the assembled crew. ‘Always nice to have one around when you’re surrounded by savages. Present company, etcetera.’

‘Gerard likes to test people’s patience,’ she found herself explaining.

‘Aye, we’d got that far.’

‘It’s funny, like,’ another man offered. ‘If you’re mad and rich, you’re eccentric. But if you’re a worky-ticket and rich, you’re still a worky-ticket.’

Gerard scented blood. ‘I knew I should have bought that phrase book.’

Of the seven men listening, four laughed; two, Sarah thought, genuinely. She remembered what Jack had said, about sorting wheat from chaff. Sheep from lambs might be a better way of putting it.

‘Ah sometimes think Hadrian built that bloody wall wrong side of the Tyne.’

‘Absolutely,’ Gerard agreed. ‘Peterborough would have been nearer the mark.’ He paused. ‘Well, just south of Peterborough.’

One of the older men – one of those whose laugh Sarah had pegged as genuine – said, ‘Tell us, to pass this audition of yours, are we supposed to agree with you or disagree?’

And now Gerard laughed: a big honking laugh which circled the room twice before he shut it off. ‘Audition. Priceless. Let’s have some more drinks.’

There must be a line, Sarah thought – Gerard had probably mapped it a time or two – beyond which you bought more drinks or got a slap in the mouth.

Whatever instructions Barry had been given, he’d taken to heart; was already circulating with a pair of bottles with optics removed. This was the pacifier, not the drinks themselves. The pacifier was Barry: white shirt, black trousers, tea-towel over a shoulder; a reminder that this was a civilized occasion. Of course, a few more drinks, and a different set of rules would arrive. But that line wouldn’t need mapping. The rise in temperature would do the trick.

As Barry refilled, Gerard went on: ‘I’m always keen on meeting movers and shakers. There’s a lot going on in your city.’

This wasn’t for general consumption. The business of refuelling had fragmented the group, and Gerard was addressing the older man, though Sarah revised her adjective as she took a closer look. He was white-haired, sure, but his hair had stolen a march on the rest of him: his face was unlined, apart from the usual creases at mouth and eyes; and those eyes themselves were bright as a blackbird’s. He didn’t, Sarah noticed, proffer his glass for a refill.

‘Movers and shakers?’ he said. ‘I take it we’re past the roughing-up stage.’

And Gerard smiled a wolverine smile, and drew the man away to a quieter corner.

More drinks were poured; conversation flowed. Sarah Tucker found herself the centre of attention, which happened when you were the only woman present. It wasn’t unpleasant, and the men were well behaved – perhaps because she was Gerard’s particular guest; a personal friend, not a name on a list. Did they imagine Gerard would wreak awful revenge if her honour was besmirched? Or perhaps they simply didn’t find her attractive. Fine by her.

As you get older, time speeds up. While you’re drinking, much the same happens.

She remembered kissing Gerard on the cheek, which was almost a first; she remembered collecting a bottle of water from the bar. She didn’t remember heading up to her room. But next she knew she was on her back in the darkness, alcohol fizzing in the corners of her mind. A while since she’d drunk so much. Most evenings a glass of wine or two with Russ; rarely a second cork pulled – if you could call them corks, mostly plastic now, and even Aussie wines using screwtops . . . Could there really be a place called Wallaby Springs? Jack didn’t think so either. Jack’s family stored people’s junk for a living, but ‘junk’ was just another way of saying ‘secrets’, so no wonder they’d found themselves wealthy, like Gerard. Was he fatter than he used to be or just plain all-round bigger? And what were the chances, finding him in the hotel Zoë had stayed in before she died? Oh Zoë . . .