The Talisman (52 page)

‘Harry? Why didn’t you call, let me know you were coming?’

‘Oh, I just popped in on the off chance. If it’s not convenient, I can come back.’

Pierre opened his arms and she came to him, hugged him close. He knew instantly that she was troubled, there were all the tell-tale signs. She looked drawn, with deep circles beneath her eyes, and spoke rapidly, as if her thoughts were racing ahead of her. She was trying desperately to be her usual, ebullient self, but her body was rigid with tension, and she was threading her fingers round and round the strap of her holdall.

‘Are you in trouble?’ he asked. She nodded her head, her face twisting as she fought back her tears. He excused himself and made a quick call to Michelle, his fiancée, to say he was running a little late.

Harriet was not very fluent in French, but she had been with him long enough to understand every word he said. ‘Who’s Michelle?’

He told her, ‘She was my nurse. In three days she’ll be my wife. You’ll meet her later – now, why don’t you just tell me what’s wrong?’

Harriet wandered around his surgery. She had been to see her mother, she told him, to ask about her Aunt Sylvia, basically wanting to know more about her own illness. Her mother had been less than helpful, and more worried about the Judge going into hospital for a prostate operation. Pierre watched her, picking up books and replacing them, chewing her nails. Eventually she blurted, ‘Is schizophrenia hereditary? That’s what Aunt Sylvia had, I’m sure, and when I was first ill . . .’

Pierre kept his voice low, soothing, ‘Now you know, Harry, the first diagnosis wasn’t correct. You have a depressive problem, one you can control, you know that.’

‘But what if I am schizoid, and your father was wrong? He could be wrong . . . I feel it coming on.’

‘Well, that proves you’re not, because if you were really schizophrenic, you wouldn’t be aware of the change. I’ll prescribe something for you, a new drug, lithium – it’ll help when you begin to feel tense and nervous.’

‘I don’t feel like that, I feel as if someone’s tied a bloody big weight around my neck, and I just can’t get it off me. He just walked out of the house, never even said goodbye, and he didn’t come home for three weeks. How could he do that?’

Suddenly her eyes blazed, her hands clenched at her sides and she began shouting and swearing. Pierre was thankful his receptionist would by now have left. He listened to Harriet’s tirade against Edward, until she slumped in a chair in floods of tears. Pierre insisted she stay with him, and drove her back to his apartment.

Michelle prepared the spare room for Harriet, who was subdued and drowsy, although feeling guilty about her intrusion. Pierre was grateful for Michelle’s understanding – she showed no jealousy, required no explanation. He had told her all about his relationship with Harriet.

Before their guests began to arrive, Pierre checked that Harriet was sleeping, then went to his desk to retrieve her small teddy bear. He slipped it between her arms – he had been right, he had known one day she would come back to him, and now more than ever he was relieved that he had not married her. Michelle, the elegant, immensely rich Michelle, was everything he ever wanted.

Harriet took to Michelle instantly, and was invited to stay for the wedding. She began to recover slowly, although she was unusually quiet, childlike and listless at first. With the drug Pierre prescribed, her depression began to lift, and her old spark returned with a vengeance when Michelle took her on a shopping spree in Paris. Michelle could not help but notice that money was no object with Harriet, and she had only to say she liked something for Harriet to insist on buying it for her. At the House of Dior Harriet’s naturally sunny nature revived. She wanted a new image, and under Michelle’s guidance she chose well. She bought so many outfits and hats that they needed a separate taxi to carry everything back to the apartment.

For the wedding, Harriet wore an Ungaro coat with matching dress. She had chosen a small beret to top the outfit, and her hair, since she had met Edward again, had grown long enough for the latest pageboy cut. She looked stunning and, her confidence renewed, she decided to return to London.

The Barkley Company was now in a secure position, and Edward was well pleased. He congratulated his brother, and handed him a thick white envelope with a flourish. ‘A little bonus, brother.’

The bonus was all very well, but it was time for them to sit down and discuss their personal finances. Edward was as evasive as ever, but Alex knew exactly what the business was worth – or thought he did. Edward still kept some bank accounts secret. But, as promised, he paid Alex his share of the proceeds from the château, minus the extras he had put in, of course.

Alex was not happy with the arrangements – suddenly Edward was treating him as an employee. ‘I’m your partner, Edward. I thought that was what we agreed, everything split down the middle.’

But Edward itemized the cash he had given Alex, the cost of the cosmetic surgery, the château, the Mayfair house, the million for the club, the small businesses . . . it all added up. Alex began to get impatient – he knew exactly how much Edward had laid out; he had, after all, done the accounts. ‘So what are you saying, Edward? That I’m not your partner? What am I, then, an employee? Your accountant? That what I am?’

Edward laughed and said of course not, it was just that he wasn’t all that flush with cash at the moment.

‘Edward, who do you think you’re kidding? I know exactly how much you’ve got. Remember, this is Alex you’re talking to, me, Edward . . . Now, am I your partner or not? Just tell me right now.’

Edward turned on Alex in a fury, saying he had been more than fair. His voice rose as he told Alex to take a good look at himself, take a look at what his brother had made of him. ‘And there’s a few more costs not exactly accounted for, costs I couldn’t put down in any ledger – like your death. You want me to write down how much that cost? It set me back thousands.’

Alex faced Edward and snapped that he knew how much a funeral cost, he could hand Edward the cash right now from his wallet if that was what he wanted. Edward calmed him down and gave him a twisted smile. ‘It wasn’t the funeral that carried the heavy price-tag, it was a bit more involved than that.’

Refusing to let the matter drop, Alex matched Edward’s calmness and took out his wallet. ‘I’ll settle now – how much?’

‘All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. It wasn’t as simple as it sounded, you can’t just dump a body in a car and set light to it. Gotta have someone the right size, got to have someone to identify the corpse . . . that costs a lot, I brought someone over from Brazil . . .’

Alex leaned against the desk, licked his lips. He knew there was more. Part of him had heard enough, but he had gone too far to drop it. ‘You brought someone over from Brazil to do what?’

Edward hissed at him. ‘Christ, you want me to spell it out? I had a guy bumped off – right size and weight – then I paid off a geezer to give false dental records . . . Look, it’s over, finished with, forget it.’

Alex began to sweat. He felt chilled, but he wouldn’t leave it alone. ‘Where’d you find this . . . you just pick some poor bastard off the street?’

‘Look, forget it! He was a bouncer, a bum . . . no family and nobody missed him. Besides, he started asking questions about you, wanted to know where you were, who I was, so he needed to be got rid of anyway.’

Alex didn’t have to ask the name. He knew it was Arnie, Arnie from the old Masks, who had stood by him, who had given him so much loyalty and friendship when he had taken over from Johnny Mask. ‘I don’t want any part of your stinking money. From now on I’ll earn every penny, earn it, and by Christ don’t you ever try anything on with me, because I’ll wipe you out.’

Edward seemed not in the least bit worried – in fact, he seemed relieved that he didn’t have to part with his hoards. However, he did make it clear that on the subject of Alex’s death they were bound to each other to keep silent.

‘I don’t have any alternative, do I?’

‘No, I guess you don’t . . . Well, I’d better get on, got a lot to do.’ He strolled out of the office as though they had just had a simple business meeting. Alex sat at his pristine, marble-topped desk, shaken and profoundly aware that he was bound to his brother in more ways than one.

Alex put in a call to Ming. He felt better at the sound of her voice, and began to relax, telling her he would be flying out to New York at the end of the month. Ming’s voice was slightly distorted, the line fuzzy, and she wanted to know exactly which plane, what time, as she had so many business commitments.

‘Alex? Can you hear me? That auction I told you about, shall I arrange for you to fly to Dallas? Alex . . .’

He paused a moment before he replied. ‘Yes, fine, you arrange it.’

He replaced the receiver, realized the time and hurried home. He had employed a cook and a cleaner, but was still interviewing butlers and valets. Like his accounts, he wanted his home run like clockwork, kept in meticulous order, and today there were three men to interview, all with good references and experience.

Alex chose the last man, James Scargill. His references were not in quite the same category as those of the other two applicants; as an ex-prisoner he had to report regularly to a probation officer. He was a dapper, stiff man, an ex-army batman, and he blushed with shame when Alex questioned him about his record.

‘That is all behind me now, sir, I was a very young man, sir, and went into the army as soon as I was released.’

‘The job is yours, Scargill. I shall require you to double as my valet, butler and chauffeur . . . is that acceptable?’

Scargill could hardly believe his luck, he had been turned down by so many people. ‘Yes, sir, and I give you my word, sir, you will never regret it. You are, if I may say so, a gentleman.’

Alex gave his new valet a smile, and shook his hand.

Miss Henderson smelt the strong perfume and looked up as Harriet strolled into reception. She had bought Aunt Sylvia’s favourite scent, Chanel No. 5. She wore a black straw hat and a fawn and gold braided two-piece Chanel suit from the latest collection, a black mink draped around her shoulders. Her high heels made her even taller, and Miss Henderson gasped.

‘Would you tell Mr Edward Barkley I’m here?’

Flustered, Miss Henderson looked at Edward’s appointment book, but could see nothing further listed for the day. ‘I’m so sorry, do you have an appointment, Miss . . .?’

‘Just tell him it’s Mrs Barkley, would you, Mrs Harriet Barkley?’

Miss Henderson blushed and apologized profusely. She had never met Harriet. As she buzzed through on the intercom, Harriet picked up a glossy magazine.

Edward flicked off the intercom, relieved and angry at the same time. He opened his office door and stood back as Miss Henderson ushered Harriet in. He was speechless.

With a small smile of thanks to the nervous Miss Henderson, Harriet sauntered into the room. Her heels made her almost as tall as Edward, at least six feet. He watched her drape her fur over the back of a chair, then parade slowly up and down the room, finishing with a flourish. ‘Well, how do you like the new image?’

‘Where in God’s name have you been? I’ve been worried stiff, why couldn’t you have had the fucking decency to call me?’

‘Ahhh, you like the outfit, do you? Good, because it cost you a lot of money.’

‘The outfit is fine – where have you been?’

‘Oh, it was just something that cropped up, and I had to rush off – you know, just like you had to . . . Cigarette?’

Edward raised his hands in exasperation. She flipped open a gold cigarette case and extracted a Gitane. ‘Do you have a light?’

‘What in Christ’s name are you playing at? Don’t you know how worried I’ve been? I was going to contact the police.’

‘Oh, I called Alex, didn’t he tell you? Well, aren’t you going to offer me a drink?’

Edward lit her cigarette and snapped the lighter closed. ‘I’d like to tan your hide, my girl, and stop playing silly buggers . . . You’ve been in France? Is that where you’ve been?’

He became more infuriated as Harriet calmly sat at his desk. He couldn’t help but be struck by just how beautiful she looked, but he was seething with jealousy. ‘Pierre? You’ve been with him?’

Harriet stubbed out her cigarette, rested her chin on her hands. ‘I’ll make a deal with you, Mr Barkley. From now on, you treat me with respect. If you are called away on business, then you let me know, and I shall let you know where I go.’

‘Ahhh, so that’s what it’s all about, is it?’

‘You were worried where I was – what do you think I felt when you upped and left without a word? Is it a deal?’

Suddenly Edward began to laugh, moving round the desk to her. Taking her hand, he pulled her to his feet. ‘It’s a deal, Mrs Barkley . . . and before I forget, you look beautiful. From now on, you’ll know my every move . . .’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

Miss Henderson tapped on the door to say she was leaving. She bobbed out again quickly when she found Mr and Mrs Barkley wrapped in each other’s arms. The following morning she informed the typing pool that Mr Edward’s wife was a Paris model with the longest legs she had ever seen in her life.

T
he long-awaited opening of Edward’s club was constantly delayed. It was already May 1961 and nothing had been officially approved. The place was standing ready and waiting, with only a brass plaque beside the door to give any sign that there was a club in the street, but it could not function without a licence. Edward had hoped he would be able to pull strings, but then Alex received a frantic telephone call from him. He was beside himself, they had been refused permission once again. Alex made a few enquiries, and then went round to the club.

Commercial gaming tables, casinos, were illegal. The Royal Commission in 1951 prohibited commercial gaming of any significance, stating that:

Anyone who plays, elsewhere than in a private house, any game in which there is an element of chance for money or money’s worth runs a grave risk of committing a penal offence. There are certain games such as roulette which it is even illegal to play in a private house . . .