The Truth (11 page)
The waiter returned and Rex tried the wine.
‘Not bad. Italian farmyard. Nothing complicated.’
With a quick nod from Rex, the waiter poured two glasses and left the bottle on the table.
‘So, how can I be of help? The book sounds interesting.’
‘Except that my publisher is a control freak. His idea of helping me is to gather up a team of previously unemployed media studies graduates who are supposed to be out there “gaining me access”. But as I told you in my letter, that is not how I like to work. It seems to be the perfect way of alerting the entire world to the fact that the hunt is on. Which is why I . . . well . . . I wanted to talk to you.’
Rex raised his glass.
‘Good health.’
Mabbut responded awkwardly. They were not meant to be friends.
‘Your instinct is absolutely correct,’ Rex went on. ‘Hamish is notoriously touchy about privacy. I don’t know the exact details, but they say that there are only a half-dozen people he trusts. Like him, they’re all highly educated, multilingual and totally loyal. Beyond that, there is a sort of sleeping network of sympathisers he can mobilise in pretty much any country in the world. Many are just locals, but Melville always makes sure they have access to state-of-the-art communications. A barefoot army with laptops. Breaking into his network isn’t going to be easy. Certainly not by conventional means.’
Rex picked up the menu.
‘Shall we order?’
They both went for the special. Rex was expected back at his committee and Mabbut was aware that already that morning he’d had two messages from Latham, fresh back from Australia.
Rex broke the end off a bread roll.
‘I gather from Krystyna that you earned your spurs on the investigative front. Some award, she tells me.’
Does she? And what else? Mabbut thought to himself.
‘Oh yes, I was a big star. Fifteen years ago.’
‘How so?’
‘Got a tip-off that arsenic waste was being dumped in a river in
the Midlands. Worked my way through the evidence. Couldn’t find anything. Company with unblemished record. Then a child died. Not even in the area – in a village miles away, in what used to be Westmorland. By pure coincidence I was tracking through company records one last time when I came across the name Saxilby, which rang a bell. It was the same name as the boy who’d died. I followed it up, found that he’d died of liver malfunction. Odd in a boy of twelve who was previously healthy. Turned out that before his parents split up he lived right beside the stream that drained from the factory. That was the link I needed. After that it was all down to chemical testing. Bingo. Arsenic sulphide discharges over a period of three months. The company knew about it but hushed it up. And that child wasn’t the only casualty.’
Rex nodded as he listened. ‘That must have been a damn good feeling. I mean, to nail the buggers.’
Mabbut smiled. ‘Yes, it was a good feeling.’
‘Then what?’
‘Nothing like that ever came my way again. Within the industry there were those who felt I’d been underhand.’
‘And had you?’
‘I . . . er . . . I paid some money from my paper to the boy’s mother to get access to his medical records. It was more or less the only way of getting at the truth but it meant that, in addition to my British Gas Award, I was given a bollocking by the Press Commission, and journalism being the business it is, that was what most people remembered.’
Their food had arrived: two plates of linguini, gently steaming.
‘And since then?’
‘I worked on whatever came along. A bit of ghost-writing, editing, then company commissions to pay the bills. Sleeping with the enemy, you could say.’
‘So when this Melville book came up . . .’
‘I was surprised, to say the least. Still am. Great subject, good money. Just difficult people to deal with.’
Mabbut felt comfortable with Rex and there was no longer much point in fighting it. In fact Rex was the first person he’d been able to talk to like this for a very long time. He smiled ruefully.
‘I was toying with not doing it at all. There is another project I really want to do.’
‘Ah. The science fiction story.’
‘Historical re-creation.’
‘Yes, Krystyna’s told me about it.’
Mabbut’s ears pricked up. ‘And?’
For once Rex was hesitant.
‘She . . . she thinks that, of the two, you’re better off going with the non-fiction.’
For a while they both ate. An American family came in. Mother, father, grandmother, two teenage children, all identical, apart from their age and gender. They stood there awkwardly, the grown-ups debating among themselves while the two children looked back at the door.
Rex sat back, then dabbed the sides of his mouth, before laying his napkin to one side. He regarded Mabbut thoughtfully for a moment, then leant forward and dropped his voice.
‘I’ve talked to a few people since I got your message – it’s all right, I gave no names – and I have it on pretty good authority that Hamish is currently in the subcontinent. There’s something brewing there which sounds completely up his street. Big industry, local tribes. Very much Hamish’s stamping ground. I still have a vested interest in knowing what he’s up to, but you’ll understand that I can’t be seen to be betraying confidences. I’m still too close to Westminster.’
Mabbut nodded.
Rex checked his watch.
‘Talking of which, time flies.’
He finished another mouthful, pushed his plate to one side, then reached inside his pocket and handed Mabbut an envelope.
‘You’ll find a key and an address in there. When you go, be sure to take some ID. Passport, driver’s licence. All the details I could find will be in there waiting for you. Sorry about the George Smiley bit, but I have to be seen as fragrant.’
He smiled encouragingly.
‘I hope it’ll help you find him. All I can say is move fast, because you can be sure he’ll move a lot faster.’
‘Thanks, Rex.’
‘And Keith, my name must be kept out of this, completely.’
‘Why are you helping me?’
‘I was a friend of the old bugger. I admire him. I think he’s an unsung hero, and we’re short of heroes these days.’
Rex left with a jaunty farewell as if they were old school chums who’d just enjoyed a reunion. Mabbut paid the bill and took a bus to St John’s Wood. Following Rex’s instructions he found a long low building which looked as if it might at one time have been the property of the nearby church. Now there were iron grilles over the lancet windows and a large sign had been stuck across the arched doorway bearing the name of the Capital Storage Company. At reception Mabbut identified himself using his driver’s licence. A door automatically opened and he followed an elderly man with a limp down a passageway to an open area flanked by strongbox vaults. The custodian retired and with the key Rex had given him Mabbut opened one of the strongboxes. Inside was a white A4 envelope with his name on it. He signed the relevant forms and, slipping the envelope into his shoulder bag, he took the 274 bus and headed home.
Mabbut sat in his workroom at Reserton Road. Open in front of him were various documents: names, addresses, street maps and beside them the
Times World Atlas
that his father had invested in using some of his retirement money, and which, in the end, he’d never used. Mabbut barely lifted his head until his phone buzzed almost an hour later. It was a text message from Ron Latham confirming that Melville had been located, as suspected, in northern Brazil. But Mabbut’s finger was elsewhere – tracing the course of the Mahanadi river as it snaked its way through the Eastern Ghats and out into the Bay of Bengal.
*
M
abbut sniffed the air with satisfaction. Biju Pitnaik airport at Bhubaneswar, ancient capital of Kalinga, was a pleasant surprise. Gone was the fuzzy disorientation he’d felt as he was processed off the London flight in the glass and steel-trussed anonymity of Delhi. Here in Bhubaneswar, cosseted by a warm, damp breeze off the Bay of Bengal, disembarking passengers walked from the aircraft to the terminal through a garden of low, clipped hedges and well-tended flower beds. In among these were set terracotta figures of the better-known deities; Ganesh the elephant, Hanuman the monkey, Shiva and Vishnu. The garden led to a small, friendly arrivals hall hung with lanterns and brightly coloured banners, as if for a festival.
Mabbut took up position beside the baggage belt. Above him a brightly lit ten-metre advertising panel depicted a family, all of whom, from baby to aged grandparents, were looking dreamily heavenwards, smiling identical happy smiles. Below them, picked out in silver lettering, ran the strap line, ‘Dalween Banking: For a Better India’.
Mabbut stared down at the inert rubber strip as if willpower alone might set it in motion. Some of the overlapping slats were half peeled away, revealing piles of rubbish beneath: a discarded shoe, plastic bags, stained newspapers, something dark and amorphous, its damp sheen reflecting the neon above. Craning his neck, he looked towards the exit, trying to pick out the man who was supposed to be meeting him among the crowd of expectant faces squeezed up against a steel barrier. Several khaki-uniformed policemen stood around, lathis in hand.
Mabbut considered his options. Provided the baggage arrived and his was amongst it, and provided his man was there to meet him,
then he could go to work immediately, following up the leads he’d been given. The only cloud on the horizon was the oppressive presence of Ron Latham. Even from five thousand miles away Mabbut could still picture the calculating stare with which Latham had fixed him as they had said their farewells in London. Latham knew that Mabbut had not told him everything about the contacts that had led him to India, and he knew that Mabbut knew he knew. Hence this cat and mouse game, with Latham ostensibly allowing Mabbut to conduct his own investigation while insisting on organising the flights and hotel and requesting that the hotel provide a guide. Silla had successfully fought off Latham’s demand for daily updates, however, arguing that if Mabbut’s plans to find Melville were to work he should be free to follow leads as and when they came up. Mabbut had reiterated her point, saying he had to be as light on his feet as possible, and presenting Latham with an appearance of calm confidence. It had seemed so easy in London. Now that he was in India he felt a lot less sure of himself.
‘Mr Keith, sir!’
By now Mabbut had retrieved his luggage, worked his way through the crowd at the exit and found himself standing before a tall, moustachioed, slightly stooping man with thick glasses, a dark blue tie and an immaculate white shirt tucked into freshly pressed chinos. Mabbut felt uncomfortable. His shirt was damp and sweaty and the light cotton trousers he’d chosen for a pre-monsoon climate were already corrugated at the crotch. The man stepped forward and hung a garland of marigolds around Mabbut’s hot neck. Then he stepped back, brought his hands together and gave a short bow.
‘Namaste.’
‘Namaste,’ replied Mabbut, returning the bow, as instructed in his Lonely Planet guide. His companion spread out his arms to encompass the throng of meeters and greeters.
‘Welcome, sir, to paradise on earth.’
He snapped an order and a frail, elderly man in a dhoti appeared and took hold of Mabbut’s suitcase.
‘You can wheel it!’ Mabbut called after him, but it was too late. The man had already hoiked the case up on to his head and was sprinting towards the exit.
The moustachioed man bowed again.
‘I am your guide from the Garden Hotel, Bubhaneswar’s premier establishment for the discerning visitor. I am here to attend to your every need.’
Mabbut controlled an impulse to remonstrate, but it was too late. His companion stepped to one side with another low bow, ushering Mabbut ahead of him as if the days of the Raj had never ended.
On the way in from the airport, as green paddy fields and stagnant creeks slipped by on either side, Mabbut learnt that his guide was called Farud and that his field of expertise was Hindu temple architecture from the sixth to the twelfth century.
‘At one time there were seventeen thousand temples here.’
Mabbut nodded. He suddenly felt very weary.
‘It is our good fortune that there are still five hundred remaining.’
As they drew up outside the hotel, three turbaned men stepped forward and grasped the doors. Short of having his name shouted out, Mabbut could hardly have effected a less discreet arrival. Once check-in was completed and further garlands and welcoming drinks had been taken, Mabbut was escorted to a room on the eleventh floor and shown, at some length, how everything from the television to the trouser press worked. When, at last, he was left alone, he locked his door and lay down on the bed.
Some time later, after an hour’s sleep and a shower, Mabbut wandered downstairs for a beer.
Farud sprang up from a chair and intercepted him eagerly.
‘Sir. Shall we go? It is a little cooler now. This is a very good time for the temples.’