The Truth (26 page)

‘Calm down, Keith. I’m not disputing what you say. It’s just that we have a lot of money riding on this, so we have a say as well. You know that. Your contract is very generous.’

‘So? I got the man who has refused every biographer, every interview, for God’s sake, for the past forty years, to talk to me. Isn’t that good value for money?’

There was a shout from outside. A door slammed and Mabbut heard footsteps briskly receding down the hill.

‘The book business has changed, Keith. A nice book about nice people doesn’t sell because people don’t want to know about nice people. Or if they do, they want to know that they have struggled to be nice. Had to sacrifice one of their children or ordered a contract killing. Stolen from their own mother on the way to becoming nice. Redemption justifies a lot, Keith. Melville comes across as Mr Right from day one. OK, he’s a little unorthodox, doesn’t brush his hair, sleeps on a hammock with the natives, turns down knighthoods, hangs out with guys who put pots on top of college spires, but that’s about as non-nice as he gets. There is no light and shade. No dark side . . .’

‘It’s a biography, Ron, not a lighting catalogue!’

‘And a dark side is what we need to shift this thing in the numbers we planned.’

Mabbut caught sight of himself in the mirror. He was staring distractedly, like a hospital patient.

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before I started? Then I could have lied and we’d all be happy.’

‘Steady on. What we asked for was a rounded picture – “every aspect of the man” – remember? Those were my exact words.’

‘I’m a journalist, Ron. I look for information that will lead me to the truth. That’s what journalists do. If there were bad things, they would be in the book.’

There was a brief pause. Mabbut could hear the sound of tea being sipped.

‘Your last book, Keith, the one about the oil terminal . . .’

Mabbut frowned. What had that to do with anything?

‘I’m told it’s pretty good.’

‘Thank you,’ Mabbut replied cautiously.

‘NorthOil must be pleased.’

‘Yes, they like it.’

‘I’ll bet. No mention of the
Braer
disaster, I’m told.’

Mabbut experienced a short, sharp convulsion.

‘That was pretty nasty. Thousands of tons of oil spilled.’

‘The
Braer
was nowhere near the terminal at the time.’

‘Thirty miles away? It’s not
that
far.’

‘But it had nothing to do with the terminal.’

‘Unlike the
Esso Berenicia
. That was very close to the terminal. In fact, a little too close. It smashed into a loading jetty and there was no oil-spill procedure in place. Clean-up cost the company two million, nearly four thousand birds killed. Is that in your book?’

Mabbut’s brain was racing. There were no copies of the book around, apart from on his shelves and in NorthOil’s offices. How on earth had Latham got the information?

‘What’s the point you’re making, Ron?’

‘My point is, Keith, that it’s horses for courses. I’ve no doubt that you, a campaigning journalist, would want to tell the truth – about oil spills and fights with the council when they tried to protect their profit share – but the ball isn’t always in your court, is it? The oil boys pay the piper. The piper plays the tune. What I’m getting round to is that you were paid – I’m guessing here – fifteen thousand all in. Plus expenses?’

Astonishingly accurate.

‘To produce the book that NorthOil wanted you to produce.’

‘And?’

‘If Urgent Books is paying you nearly two hundred grand, then
surely you must feel some sort of obligation to produce the book we’ve asked you to produce?’

Neither spoke for a moment. Mabbut tried to calm himself enough to give a sensible reply.

‘So what does Urgent Books want, Ron?’

‘Why don’t you come in and we can discuss it.’

‘I’m happy to discuss anything. I can do Monday—’

‘This afternoon. Two o’clock?’

‘I can’t do that, Ron. I’m going to the football with Sam. It’s the first time in weeks—’

‘I’ll see you at the office. Ring the night bell if there’s a problem. Oh, and I’ve warned Silla there might be a delay in the delivery payment.’

The phone went dead. Mabbut sat in a mess of bedclothes, trying to control his rage.

Mabbut had decided that one of his top priorities, once he’d finished the book, would be to restore good relations with his son. There was a lot of ground to make up: sibling rivalries, maternal propaganda . . . The football had been his masterstroke. He and Sam hadn’t been to a match together for years, and he’d leant on a few contacts to get tickets for the local derby with Tottenham. Tickets to die for. And there they were, in the kitchen, pinned up on the board in front of him. Latham was a cunt. An absolute cunt. He could bloody well take his money and shove it. Mabbut didn’t need it. He’d got by before. All he wanted was never to see the man again.

Jay appeared at the door. Behind her came Shiraj, his usual air of deep seriousness replaced by a cautious, almost embarrassed smile. He came towards Mabbut with his hands together in front of him. He gave a short bow, transferring his right hand to his heart.

‘Believe me, Mr Mabbut, as God is my witness, I do not deserve this.’ He bowed his head again. ‘But thank you. Thank you, sir. And may God bless you always.’

Mabbut smiled uncertainly. He’d never seen Shiraj look so happy. Come to think of it, he’d never seen him happy.

‘Jay told me what you offered to do last night. Believe me, your generosity towards my family will never be forgotten.’

Jay took her father’s arm and squeezed it.

‘I am unhappy that this should be the way my country works. It is a far from perfect place, sir, but God willing, with the help of people such as yourself, we can change things.’

Shyly, tentatively, Shiraj held out a piece of paper.

‘This is the bank here in London to which the monies should be paid, and here is my full name and the name of the account. I am sorry to be so forward, sir, but time is of the essence.’

Mabbut nodded, aware of Jay beside him and her hand on his arm.

‘Thanks, Dad.’

She reached up and kissed him.

It was half-past one. Silla’s car had collected him fifteen minutes earlier but the traffic was bad because of the football and Hector Fischer was not happy.

‘Soccer is not my game. Soccer is a game for the proletariat. I’m a ruggerby man. Twickenham.’

He gestured at the crowd streaming across the road towards the stadium.

‘Look at these people. They are the common herd.’

But Mabbut wasn’t listening. He was still in shock. He spoke to Silla in a muttered whisper.

‘What does he mean, “
one note
”. He’s a golf publisher, for God’s sake.’

‘Was.’

‘He doesn’t understand people. All Ron understands is a business model.’

Silla sighed.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mabbut went on. ‘I know you and he . . . but, I mean, you’ve read the book.’

‘I skimmed it, old boy, and I thought it was great. I loved the India stuff. But Ron will have gone through it with a fine-tooth comb. He’ll have been up all night. That’s the way he works.’

‘Maybe he’ll be asleep when we get there.’

Silla gave a short, hollow laugh.

‘Some hope.’

‘You know what they do, these people?’ said Hector, sensing a break in the conversation. ‘They take a newspaper, roll it up and wee-wee into the pocket of the man in front of them. And he to the man in front of him. At Twickenham nobody pees on anybody.’

Mabbut looked out of the window. The sea of red-and-white scarves was a painful sight. He’d called Sam twice, left messages about the tickets, but had heard nothing. Sam knew all about the weapon of silence.

It was well past two when they turned off Southwark Bridge Road and into the car park of Urgent Books. It being a Saturday there was no one on the gate, but there was notification of an emergency number to ring. By the time the barrier had been raised and the rising kerbs lowered, a further five minutes had elapsed. Hector dropped them off at a side door which led into the glass and marble reception area, empty save for an Asian man wearing purple overalls who was making slow, sweeping passes over the marble floor with a rotary polisher. Ron, looking fresh and sharp in navy polo shirt and jeans, called down to them from the gallery above.

‘First floor, coffee’s on. Lift’s out of action.’

As they climbed the strangely old-fashioned curving staircase, Mabbut slowed down, aware that his pace was a lot faster than Silla’s. When she reached the top of the stairs, she had to stop for a moment to get her breath.

‘You all right, Silla?’

‘Fine, thanks, old boy. Stairs are best when they go down, I find.’

Latham picked up coffees from the dispenser and carried them towards his office. He gestured at the lines of unattended workstations and sadly shook his head.

‘Never understood weekends myself.’

In the office, he motioned to two leather chairs then settled down behind his desk. Through the window, Mabbut caught a glimpse of light reflecting off the distant Thames and it gave him some hope. Latham snapped the blind shut.

‘Sorry about that. It’s the only problem with this office. Lets in the sunshine.’

‘Have you any water, Ron?’ Silla asked.

Mabbut looked over at her. She seemed to anticipate his concern and made a rude face, which partly reassured him.

Ron reached into a fridge and found a small bottle of water. The manuscript lay open on the desk and Mabbut could see Ron’s scribbled notes, even on the title page, for God’s sake.

Ron licked his forefinger and turned the pages back and forth.

‘OK, guys. You know my problem with this. It’s well written.’

He looked across at Mabbut as if this were his first big mistake.

‘And if I were Melville’s mother, or the head of Amnesty International, this would press all the right buttons.’

Silla gave a short, involuntary cough. Mabbut caught her eye. Latham leant back, interlocking his fingers.

‘You’ve been on the oil rigs for too long, Keith. Lost your sense of perspective.’

Mabbut opened his mouth to protest but no words came. Latham assaulted a few more pages before picking up the manuscript in both hands, as if weighing it.

‘If you don’t mind my saying so, this is like a note to a new lover.’

Mabbut coloured. Silla stared at Latham. He met her eyes briefly, then they both looked away.

‘All right,’ Latham continued. ‘I’ve made my point. I’m not going to say any more, other than this is not a book I can recommend to my board.’

Mabbut felt very weary, like a man slipping back into quicksand when all but the tips of his toes were clear.

‘Look, all I did was fulfil everything I had been asked to do. Believe me—’

Latham leant forward and raised one finger.

‘Yet.’

Mabbut paused. ‘What?’

‘This is not a book I would recommend to my board.
Yet
.’

Silla coughed again. It sounded worse this time. Ignoring her, Latham went on.

‘There are things that can be done.’

Mabbut rolled his eyes. ‘I have covered the ground, Ron. I have talked to thirty, forty people. I have followed up every lead. This is
not a portrait I dreamt up myself. This is a consensus. I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but that’s the way it is.’

Latham tapped a key and looked at his computer.

‘With all due respect, Keith, I think there may be some stones that remain unturned. I asked the boys and girls in my research team to look at some of the grey areas again and . . . yes, here we are.’

He pressed another key and a printer began to hum.

‘They’ve come up with something you might have missed.’

He pushed his chair along the desk and retrieved two newly printed sheets of paper. He held one out to Mabbut and one to Silla.

‘This, in my humble opinion, is worth pursuing. I don’t need to tell you both that it’s highly confidential information. It just might be the sort of thing our book needs.’

FOUR

W
hen they reached Silla’s apartment building, Hector had to help her from the car. Apart from delivering a short diatribe about Japanese tourists wearing face masks – ‘Who’s sick? Us or them?’ – he had been strangely subdued as they drove home. Mabbut and his agent had barely spoken and, for once, Hector seemed to catch the mood.

Mabbut held open the brass-handled doors as Silla, resisting any form of support, straightened up and walked into the lobby.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘Yes, I’ll be fine. It’s just some kind of fluey headache.’

‘D’you want me to come up?’