Dying to Tell (5 page)

"Yeh."

"But no answer. There ... or here." I looked round the room, then back at Echo. "When did you last hear from him?"

AT.

"When I last saw him. Some time in early September. A flying visit to London, so he said. He only stayed a few nights. Then, back to Tokyo as far as I knew."

"Mind if we play back the messages?" I tapped the answering machine.

"Suppose not."

I rewound the tape and sat down on the black leather sofa to listen to what it contained. Echo joined me. The first message was from a car dealer offering Rupe a wonderful deal, the second from a dentist's receptionist saying his six-monthly check-up was well overdue. We ploughed on through several similar pieces of tele-mush. Then Win's voice, raised and nervous, was in the room with us. "We haven't received anything, Rupert. Is there something wrong?" She was on twice more, the anxiety in her tone stepping up each time. Next was a cheese grater cockney saying, You said we were in business. What's with the big silence? Give me a bell. Or I'll come looking."

That's the old bloke who called round," said Echo.

"Like he said he would."

"Charlie Hoare here, Rupe. We really do need to talk. So, if you're hearing this, get in touch. Soon."

And that was it. Apart from one more call from Win. And one from me, of course. "Where are you?" I murmured as the tape clicked off. That seems to be what everyone wants to know." I stood up, walked over to the telephone and dialled a number.

"Who are you calling?" Echo asked.

The middle-aged London suit."

But the suit wasn't in his office. All I could do was join the long list of people leaving messages. "I'll ask him to call you, sir. What does it concern?"

"Rupert Alder."

"He's no longer with the company, sir."

"You'd better explain that to Mr. Hoare. Just tell him it's urgent."

"Is it?" said Echo as I put the phone down. "Urgent, I mean."

"Not sure." I wandered back to the kitchen with my empty

A A

mug and she followed. "Getting that way, though, wouldn't you say?"

I stopped by the photo-montage and looked at a picture of Rupe. It was about the most recent one on display. He was standing on a quay side somewhere, with a Eurybia container vessel unloading behind him. The glaring light and the linen suit he was wearing suggested a tropical location the Gulf maybe, or the Far East. A breeze was fanning his dark hair and his eyes were narrowed against the sun. His even features and slight build preserved that look of the eternal schoolboy I knew so well. Put him in a Crispin uniform and he could still pass for a teenager mature just beyond his years, not the thirty-six-year-old he really was.

"Seems he was always good-looking," said Echo as she took the mug from my hand.

"Yeh. Lucky bastard."

"You're the same age as each other?"

"No need to make it sound so incredible."

"Is this bloke his brother or something?" She tapped a black-and-white photograph towards the top of the montage. "I've looked at him a few times and wondered where he fits in. I suppose it's the black-and-white that singles him out."

I gazed at the picture. It showed a man of thirty or so in jeans and a reefer-jacket, carrying a bag over one shoulder, standing on a railway platform. His hair was short, almost crew-cut, his face pale and raw-boned, the jaw square and jutting. He was holding a cigarette in one hand, in that furtive cup-of-the-palm style between forefinger and thumb. He wasn't looking at the camera and maybe, given that he wasn't in the middle of the picture, the camera wasn't looking at him either. Centre stage was actually taken by the station name-board, a soulless piece of precast concrete bearing the words ASHCOTT AND ME ARE "Bugger me," I murmured.

"What's wrong?"

"Ashcott and Meare was a station on the S and D a couple of miles west of Glastonbury." Seeing her eyes widen uncomprehendingly I added, "The Somerset and Dorset railway."

"So?"

"It closed in nineteen sixty-six, when Rupe and me were just toddlers. This photograph must have been taken before then."

"But not by Rupe."

"Hardly. Howard would be my guess. His brother. Not in the picture, but taking it. A real rail nut, our Howard."

"Mystery solved, then."

"Yes. Except.. ." I looked back at the faintly blurred face of the man in the reefer-jacket, then around at all the other more recent and more colourful images. "I never remember Howard with a camera. How did Rupe come across this, I wonder? And why did he want to keep it? Ashcott and Meare was just some peat-diggers' halt out on the moors. Unless it's the bloke waiting there he's interested in. But I don't recognize him. Never seen him before."

"So I'll just have to go on wondering where he fits in."

"You and me both."

I went on peering at the nameless man standing on the bare platform at Ashcott and Meare thirty-five or more years in the past: a phantom passenger waiting for a ghost train. Then, suddenly, Rupe's telephone started to ring.

"Bet you that's the suit," I said, winking at Echo.

"I never bet," she responded with the straightest of faces.

"Very wise." With that, I scooted into the sitting room and picked up the phone.

It was the suit. "Mr. Bradley? Charlie Hoare here, Eurybia Shipping. You rang a few minutes ago."

"They said you were out."

"Oh, I was. Just walked in." The chuckling undertone in his voice didn't so much disguise the lie as proclaim it. "You're on Rupe's phone number, I notice."

"I'm a friend of his. Trying to track him down on behalf of his family."

That'd be the family in Street, would it?"

"Yes. How did '

"Lucky guess. I dug out his CV. It gives Street as his place of birth. Yours too?"

"Well, yes."

"So, you're an old friend of his."

"Since schooldays."

"Excellent. Am I to understand Rupe's family haven't heard from him?"

"Not for a couple of months."

"Worrying for them. Technically, Rupe's no longer on the strength here. But we like to think of Eurybia as a sort of family too. And you don't forget about a member of the family just because they walk out on you. So, I'd like to help if I can."

"Do you have any idea where he is?"

"No. But the situation's .. . complicated. Isn't it always?" He laughed gruffly. "Perhaps we could meet while you're in town."

"How about this afternoon?"

"No time like the present, eh, Mr. Bradley? Tell you what, we'll meet at my club. The East India, in St. James's Square. It's next door to the London Library. Can you be there at four? It'll be quiet around then. We can chat in peace."

"All right. I'll be there at four."

"Excellent. Ah, one thing, though. Jacket and tie. The club does insist on it."

"I can manage that."

"See you at four, then."

"Right. Oh But he'd rung off. I'd been about to ask him if he knew a Mr. Hashimoto. But it could wait. St. James's Square wasn't far from the Park Lane Hilton.

"You're meeting him this afternoon?" asked Echo, as I put the phone down.

"Yeh. At his club." I rolled my eyes.

"He's keen."

"He is, isn't he? Suspiciously so, you'd have to say. But I shrugged. "We'll see. Between now and then, I have to find somewhere to stay. So, I'd better be making tracks."

"You can stay here if you want."

"Really?" I looked at her in surprise. This was better than I'd hoped for. The sort of accommodation I could afford wasn't the sort I'd miss.

"I could put some sheets on Rupe's bed. He won't be wanting it, will he?"

"That's kind of you, Echo. Thanks."

"Well, it's only for a couple of nights at most, isn't it?" "Absolutely."

"And if whoever searched Rupe's belongings creeps back for a second go, you'll be on hand to sort them out, won't you?" "Yeh." I smiled uneasily. "There's that too."

CHAPTER FOUR

Clubland isn't exactly my natural habitat. I'm with Groucho Marx on joining clubs. And I was making Groucho's point pretty amply for him by turning up at the pillared portals of the East India Club in a crumpled jacket and creased shirt. (Well, I was no better at packing than I was at ironing.) At least my tie looked the biz. (Actually, it was Rupe's tie, but let's not quibble.)

Charlie Hoare was waiting for me in the lobby. A mop of grey hair and a fuzz of slightly less grey beard gave him an aptly maritime look. But the uncrumpled navy-blue suit, the discreetly striped tie and the copy of the Financial Times wedged under his arm, folded open at the commodities page, declared him to be a man of the City. He fixed me with a no-nonsense stare and shook my hand so firmly that all feeling fled my little finger.

"Lance?"

"Yeh. I '

"Call me Charlie. After all, this is an informal meeting. Let's keep it that way." (It wasn't clear to me what other way it could be.) "We'll go upstairs." He led the way, chuntering on as we climbed the plush-carpeted treads. "Handy refuge from the office, this place. And a refuge is what I seem to feel the need of more and more. I offered to put Rupe up for membership, but he wasn't interested. Not very clubbable, our Rupe,

but a good sort, even so. Sound, through and through. At least, I always thought so."

We reached a large second-floor room, where a few members were dozing the afternoon away beneath gilt-framed likenesses of bewigged nabobs. Hoare commandeered a pair of armchairs either side of a low table next to one of the windows, through which I could see the yellowing leaves of the plane trees in the square, hanging limply in the gathering dusk.

"Would you like some tea? Or coffee?"

"Coffee would be nice."

"Or something a little stronger, perhaps?"

"Too early for me."

"Really? Oh well. Probably best." He waved a waitress over and ordered a pot of coffee, then leaned towards me across the table, rubbing his hands together as if settling to business. "So, you were at school with Rupe."

"And university."

"Sounds like you know him very well."

"I do."

"What line are you in, Lance?"

"I'm sort of between lines."

"Can be a dangerous place that between the lines."

"How long have you been in shipping, Charlie?" I asked, deciding to ignore the faint hint of a threat in his smiling remark.

"Far too long. But let's waste no time on my inglorious career. Eurybia use me as a kind of ... troubleshooter. Which brings us to Rupe."

"Is he in trouble?"

"Who knows? But his family must think he might be. You too."

"We simply can't contact him."

"Nor me. Nor anyone, as far as I can tell. Characteristic behaviour, would you say, on your old friend's part dropping out of sight?"

"No." That wasn't entirely true. He'd never done it before, certainly, but when Hoare had asked me the question I'd been tempted to say it didn't entirely surprise me. There was an unknowable side to Rupe, though whether Rupe himself was aware of it was another matter altogether.

Hoare was about to respond, when the coffee arrived. He paused to sign a chit, then poured for both of us. When the waitress had gone, he said, "I've known Rupe for seven years, Lance as long as he's been at Eurybia. But you've known him all your life. How would you sum him up?"

I thought for a moment, then tried. "Clever, relaxed, adaptable. A bit of a loner, but a good friend to me. Quite serious. Quite hard on himself. But with a wry, detached sense of humour."

"Capable of playing the game?"

"Yes."

"But well aware that it is a game."

"I suppose so."

"Mmm." Hoare sipped his coffee. "Well, I'd go along with all of that. It's how he seemed to me. Good at keeping several balls in the air at the same time. And an excellent strategist. He did some good work for Eurybia. Developed some very lucrative business. Circularity's the key to profit in shipping, Lance. It's not just about plying the oceans. Our containers are transcontinental as well. Rupe cracked the Russian connection for us."

"He did?"

"We have a lot of cargoes finishing in Scandinavia, not many starting. And it's the other way round in the Far East. That means empty ships, which means empty coffers. Rupe handled a lot of negotiations with Russian industrialists to close the circle send containers on through Russia to the Far East. That's why we posted him to Japan to smooth out that end of things."

"And did he smooth it out?"

"Oh yes. At least, he started to. Then, suddenly, back in the summer, he resigned."

"Why?"

"No idea." Hoare gave a crumpled grin. "Not at the time, anyway."

"But since?"

"Well.. ." He stirred uncomfortably in his seat. "That's why I agreed to meet you, when it comes down to it. A chap resigns without giving a reason? It's a free country. A freeish world. It seemed odd, even a bit curt. All we had was a fax from Tokyo. But Eurybia didn't own him. We had no choice but to let him go. As of the thirty-first of August, he was off our books. And then .. . things started to happen. Weevils started crawling out of the woodwork."

"What sort of weevils?"

"Do you know what a bill of lading is, Lance?"

I shrugged. "Not exactly."

"It's a document of legal title, representing ownership of a cargo, issued by the shipper to the customer, who can use it as security against a loan if they wish. But where there's a loan there can also be fraud, if the shipper can somehow be persuaded or bribed to issue more than one bill of lading per cargo. Then you might end up with several loans, all secured against the same cargo. Like Rupe did."

"You're accusing Rupe of fraud?"

"It's pretty hard not to when there's a Eurybia container sitting out at Tilbury with eighteen tons of high-grade Russian aluminium inside it, being wrangled over by lawyers representing half a dozen different Far Eastern banks, all claiming ownership in default of loans to a will-o'-the-wisp outfit called the Pomparles Trading Company."

The whatT

"Pomparles. Does the name mean something to you?"

"Yeh. It would to any Street boy." Briefly, I explained the long-ago Arthurian tale of the Pons Perilis and its connection with the modern-day Pomparles Bridge. It brought a grin to Hoare's lips.