The Tied Man (5 page)

*****

As we landed at Heathrow hailstones cracked like bullets against the windows of the plane, and my spirits plummeted down to the flooded runway. 

Gabriel peered out of the rain-spattered glass.  ‘Shit. 
Tim
e to meet the fans.  Thousands of the fuckers.  Well, a couple of hundred, anyway.  It’ll take me all fuckin’ morning just to get through Arrivals, and all I wanna do is crash.’

‘Shit.  Fans mean press.’

‘Usually.’  Gabriel gave a hazy nod of understanding.  ‘Oh, right.  You really hate ‘em, don’t you?  Remember reading that once.’

‘Really,
really
hate ‘em.’ I began to gather my hand luggage.

As the seatbelt warning light pinged off Gabriel gazed at me with the peat-brown eyes of a wounded puppy.  ‘So.  Is this it, then?’

‘Reckon so.’

‘Look, I was wonderin’…’

‘No.’

‘But…’

‘No, definitely not.’

‘You don’t even know what I was goin’ to ask,’ Gabriel pouted.

‘Yes I do.  And I’m sure there’ll be a groupie or three out there who’ll be more than happy to oblige.’

‘Ouch,’ Gabriel pouted.

I kissed his jutting lip, relenting a little.  ‘Look, you’ve been delightful company.  You’re a funny, sexy man and if we had a week to spare I’d be more than happy to hide away in a hotel with you.  But I’ve got a job to do, and if you can look at me and say you’d wait, you’re a better liar than I give you credit for.’

Gabriel gave a sad smile of defeat.  ‘You’re a hard woman.’

‘No, I’m a realist.’

He handed me a business card.  ‘Ere’s my number.  Personal mobile and all that.  No assistant, no P.R., just straight through to the man himself.  Just in case you change your mind.’

‘Thanks.’  I took the card, sliding it into my back pocket before pulling my hand luggage from the locker.  ‘Nice accent, by the way.  Considering you’re from bloody
Dorset
.’

‘Fuck off.  Born within the sound of the Bow Bells, me.’

‘Fuck off yourself.  It’s a good cover, but a cover nonetheless.’

‘Bitch.’  My companion stooped down.  ‘Dad’s a sodding vicar in Bridport.  Took me months to get the voice right.’

‘And you’re doing a damn fine job.  I’m just very, very good at this game.’

Gabriel laughed then.  ‘God, you’d be good to have in my life.  Ah well, I reckon I’ll get a decent song out of this if nothing else.  You wanna borrow my security trolls to get you through arrivals?  They might not say much, but you’ll find that you won’t get too much hassle.’

‘That would be great.’  I gave him one final kiss.  ‘Mr James, you’re a true gentleman.’

He stood and readjusted himself inside his jeans.  ‘I know.  For fuck’s sake don’t tell anyone.’

*****

Jay and Al, Gabriel’s ‘trolls’, turned out to be twin brothers from an old
East End
family.  Al, at six feet three inches tall and seventeen stones, was the smaller of the two.  Courteous and quietly-spoken when they greeted me, they became a human battering ram when Gabriel and I hit the screeching hormonal wall of teenage girls that had staked out arrivals. 

As the flash bulbs flared and Al pushed my luggage, Jay simply picked me up in arms that were thicker than my thighs and charged at the throng of paparazzi and fans, scattering them aside as though they were made of cardboard.

‘You gonna be all right now, doll?’  Jay asked, as he placed me delicately down onto the pavement.  ‘I’m sure the boss wouldn’t mind if you shared his limo.’

‘I’m sure he wouldn’t.’  I stood on the very tips of my toes to plant a kiss on my protector’s ruddy cheek.  ‘Thanks for the lift, but I’ve got my own carriage waiting.’  I pointed out the car that a valet was already pulling up to the kerb.

‘Very nice.’  Jay gave an appreciative nod and began to load my cases.

‘Thank you.  Listen, tell Gabriel I owe him one, will you?’

‘The look on ‘is face, I reckon it’s the other way round.  You drive safe now, yeah?  Wouldn’t want you scratchin’ the paintwork on that baby there.’

‘Lilith!  Anythin’ you want to tell us about you and Gabriel?’
  the first reporter to clear the terminal building hollered, just as I climbed into the driver’s seat and hit the accelerator.

My car was my extravagance, costing a small fortune to keep in storage: a Series 2 Jaguar E-Type the colour of buttermilk, with cream leather upholstery and an engine that could outgun just about anything else on the road.  That was, if anything on the road was actually moving in the first place.

The traffic came to a standstill barely five miles from Heathrow.  Rain pounded against the windscreen, wipers struggling to clear the deluge, and the Jaguar’s immaculate paintwork was soon hidden beneath a layer of grit and liquid mud.  I sat and watched the dashboard thermometer creep insidiously towards the red, and contemplated the most efficient method of murdering my father.

After two hours of staring at the tail-lights of a Volvo, and resolutely ignoring the unchecked gurning and obscene gestures from the three children in its back seat, I reached my exit. I slammed into first gear and roared up the slip road in a spray of filthy water.  I stuck my right hand out of my window and flicked a highly satisfying finger at the rabid little brats who had been tormenting me.  In my rear view mirror I saw the driver’s mouth drop open in disgust. 

*****

Eight numbing hours’ journey followed, including a stop at a motorway service station to get changed into warmer clothes.  As an extra precaution against recognition I also took a pair of hazel-tinted contact lenses from my washbag and slipped them in before I stepped back out into a foyer that smelled of stale cooking fat and overflowing urinals. 

By then, it was safe to say that the beauty of my native countryside, even in its early summer splendour, was entirely lost on me.

For the last two hours I meandered through the rolling borders of northern
England
and my route took me down every potholed B-road in the green and unpleasant land.  As the sun began its leisurely dip below the horizon, I could see the distant Scottish mountains and I knew I was getting close.

My satnav gave up about half an hour from the
village
of
Albermarle
, bewildered by a series of meandering tracks that it refused to believe existed, and Mozart’s
Requiem
played out so loud that I could feel the bass notes vibrating through the seat.  I may not have believed in the words, but the harmonies filled my head until there was no room for anything else; God-botherers always got the best tunes.

Finally, after scattering yet another flock of startled sheep, I pulled up at a solid, stone-built eighteenth century gate lodge.  Gold-painted wrought iron gates flared bright in the last rays of the evening and a pristine hand-painted sign announced
Albermarle Estate – PRIVATE LAND – Strictly Guests Only.  Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted
. 

As I killed the engine an artificially bulked-up young man in a white shirt and scarlet and gold striped tie – the colours of the crest on the brochure – stepped from the front door of the gate lodge and stooped down to speak to me.  His massive shoulders and bull’s neck filled the space at my window.  ‘Evenin’,’ he said in a smooth brogue.  ‘Delighted to see you, Ms Bresson.  My name’s Coyle O’Halloran, Estate Manager.  Lady Albermarle asked me to make sure you were given a personal welcome.’  He gave a broad smile that showed a set of small, even, white teeth and ran a hand through close-cropped dark hair.  ‘You’ll be pleased to know you’re almost there.  I’ll pop back inside and get these gates open in a minute, then you just need to drive about a mile down this road, straight past the holiday lodges and the village itself and you’ll come to the lakeside.  Park your car in the secure garage and there’ll be someone from the Hall waiting to make sure you’re taken good care of.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No problem.  I’m sure you’ll be seeing me around over the next few days.  You have yourself a relaxing evening, now.’  Coyle disappeared into the lodge and moments later the gates swung smoothly open. 

*****

I drove along the track that Coyle had indicated, and counted no less than eight CCTV cameras, their winking red lights proof that they were the genuine article.  There was another sign in that same  calligraphy:
Your Registration Details Are Being Recorded For Security Purposes
.  I had no doubt that they were.

Inoffensive Scandinavian-style wooden chalets were scattered throughout the woods, with enough distance between them to give their occupiers the illusion of splendid isolation, but dense enough to reap a decent profit for the owner.  Two well-scrubbed, wholesome looking children played badminton on the grass outside the closest cabin, using this year’s Range Rover as a net.  Their Germanic pastel co-ordinating outfits suggested that little Olivia and Xavier wouldn’t be getting their hands on the latest polyester football strip anytime soon and I just knew that somewhere there would be at least one
Labrador
to match daddy’s shiny black motor.

The skin in the crook of my arms began to itch, and I hoped like hell it was psychological.

Begrudgingly, I had to admit that Albermarle itself was a revelation.  I had expected some utilitarian tourist centre with a shop that sold everything and perhaps a reluctantly added bar.  What I found was an Anglophile’s wank-fantasy, complete with a compact high street of perhaps twenty immaculate late Tudor buildings that included a beauty salon, delicatessen, several expensive boutiques and a pub.

I turned the final corner that would take me to my parking place by the jetty and there, like an enchanted castle that the Grimm brothers might have conjured up after a night on the absinthe, Albermarle Hall stood regal and aloof on its own emerald velvet island. 

Even in the evening’s damp gloom, I could see that the Hall was magnificent.  It had been built in the same era as the village, to house whichever lord had held sway over the tiny settlement.  The fortified walls and slit windows told of a time when this was a place to be defended to the death, so at least if an invading army of paparazzi made it across the lake to the island, I could engulf them in boiling oil.

I parked my car in its designated garage and hauled my luggage from the boot.  I looked around for a CCTV camera to protect her, but this seemed to be the only corner of the village not to have one.  I supposed – hoped –  that it would take a pretty skilled car thief to breach the defences I had seen so far.

‘Ms Bresson?’ A sweet, soft voice called, and an immaculate little man with close-clipped grey hair stepped out of the shadows and proffered his hand.  ‘Ms Bresson, I’m Henry Masterson, Blaine Albermarle’s PA, and I must say that I’m absolutely overjoyed to meet you at last.  Here, let’s get your things onto the boat, then we can get you inside and fed.  You must have had an incredibly tiring day.’  He led me to a small launch that rocked gently against the jetty, and gestured for me to step aboard. 

Once Henry had carefully stowed my cases with a strength that belied his slight frame, he started the motor and I began the final stage of my reluctant journey.  My left shoulder smouldered like a dying bonfire, and I needed the arthritic’s holy trinity: painkillers, a hot shower, and sleep.

I rubbed at my eyes.  My contact lenses felt as though they had welded themselves to my eyeballs, and I couldn’t wait to remove that part of my disguise. 

‘If you have the energy, Lady Albermarle would like you to join her for a late formal dinner tonight.  A welcome to the Hall, if you like.’  I must have looked particularly miserable, because Henry gave me an encouraging smile.  ‘It’s not all that bad, you know.  A couple of glasses of wine and a decent meal inside you, you’ll feel better in no time.’

A lifestyle I thought long-buried resurfaced like a bloated corpse on the surface of the oil-black water.  ‘Whatever.’

*****

‘I know it seems terribly odd to begin with, but you’ll get used to the ‘candles and no leccy’ thing in no time, I promise you,’ Henry cheerily informed me as he escorted me to my room. He held an oil lamp aloft and shadows danced and flickered on the margins of my sight. 

Albermarle Hall catered for guests who liked their heritage obvious.  After a long walk down endless panelled, tapestried corridors I had a depressing feeling that I knew what my room would be like: great swags of chintz, and every square inch covered in pewter tankards and even more stuffed dead things. 

Henry opened the door to my room and I stepped inside, already wincing.  I tentatively opened one eye to see a Tudor facsimile of my Santa Marita bedroom in all its minimalist glory. 

French windows hung with sweeps of ivory voile looked out onto the lake, ready to flood the vast chamber with morning sun from first light, and ancient waxed floorboards emanated subtle aromas of beeswax and lemon oil and led my eye to a bed that made my own look like some sorry workhouse truckle:  the vast white sheets seemed to glow in the lamplight and more than anything I wanted to dive onto the bank of perfectly arranged cushions and pillows and sleep for a month.  The only thing I would need to remove was a ridiculous teddy bear wearing a sweater in Albermarle colours, perched on top of the centre cushion.