A Ghost in the Machine (18 page)

He wasn't quite as ugly either. His flat almond-shaped eyes were as cold as she recalled but his lips were full rather than thick. They weren't smiling. Now she came to think of it she had never seen him smile.

“Won't you sit down?”

“No, thanks.” Polly opened her bag and took out the banker's draft. It was in an envelope. “I just came to deliver this.”

“Hang on.” He disappeared into what was presumably the kitchen and came back with two glasses and an ice bucket with a bottle in it. “We must celebrate.”

About to be very grand and refuse, Polly changed her mind on recognising the dark green bottle held in a metal casing of delicate pale blue leaves. Slaughter filled two glasses to the brim, gracefully without spilling a drop. Polly accepted one with a great show of reluctance, took a sip and wandered over to the window. It looked down on two stone figures, Epstein or very much like, squatting atop an archway.

About to ask, she was anticipated by Slaughter.

“Ministry of Defence.”

Polly remembered her earlier thoughts on John le Carré while drinking deep of the Perrier Jouët, which was quite wonderful.

“You're running out.” He added to her glass, standing quite close but not so close she could legitimately take offence. Even so, Polly moved away.

“I didn't know you played the clarinet.”

“I play all sorts of things.”

“Billy, suppose…that is – if I hadn't been able to get the money, would you have…?”

“Yes.”

“To the bitter end?”

“Wouldn't you?” He refilled his own glass.

“Of course.” But there had been a minimal hesitation.

“What if it was a friend?”

“I don't believe in friends.”

“What would you have instead?”

“People who can be of use.” Polly hesitated. “Isn't that your philosophy?”

“My philosophy, like that of all successful businessmen, is to see with absolute clarity what is really happening.”

“And the failed businessmen?”

“They see what they'd like to think is happening.”

“I'll remember that.”

“It will serve you well, Polly.”

He held out his hand. Polly produced the envelope and gave it to him. He slipped it, unread into his pocket and sat down at the desk. He wrote a few lines on a sheet of headed paper, folded it and handed it over. Not to be outdone on the count of cool, Polly slipped the receipt unread, into her bag.

“Some more fizz?”

Polly didn't reply. She was already feeling rather light-headed. Being nervous, she had not been able to swallow a morsel before she came. She took the glass, conscious of standing there like a dummy and blurted out the first thing that came into her head. It could not have been more banal.

“You're looking very smart.”

“I'm going to the opera.”

“The
opera
?”

“Where did you think I'd be going? The dogs?”

“I'm…” Polly blushed. “I didn't think anything.”

“
Fidelio.
Love, death and betrayal.”

“Sounds like a day on the market floor.”

“Apart from the love.” He had moved back behind the desk and sat down to face the computer. “I want to give you something, Polly. A present.” He started tapping the keys. “Have you got any money?”

“Doesn't sound much like a present.”

“If you have or if you can get some I can put you in the way of buying at 1.04 and selling, possibly at as much as 1.50 within hours.”

“Buying what?” Polly tried to keep her voice even but the shock showed. A swift kick of excitement and fear. She walked slowly across the room to stand behind his chair, to read over his shoulder.

“Gillans and Hart? For heaven's sake – they're rubbish. Worthless.”

“Not quite.”

“What are you
doing
?” She stared at the screen. At the figures; the noughts. “You're not buying?”

“As you see.”

When Polly could speak she said, “What's going on?”

“There's been a takeover by Channing Voight.”

Polly leaned on the desk edge to keep herself steady. She felt slightly sick. “How do you know?”

“A banker with Channing. He's in my debt.”

“Must be some debt.”

“Indeed.”

“So it will break first thing tomorrow?”

“The rumour's already out. They're two points up in the
Standard.
”

Polly took up the paper and checked, and it was true. “You're buying with a market maker?”

“Smart girl. Do you know of someone you can use?”

“Of course. But, why me?”

“Let's say…” He turned and smiled at her. The smile didn't reach his eyes but at least this time it just touched his mouth. “I still have hopes that one day you'll look kindly on me.”

Polly parted lips as sweetly pink as her toes and smiled back. Where was the harm? It was not as if she would ever have to see him again. She leaned a little closer to Billy Slaughter's shoulder to watch the transfer of this truly massive amount of money and he smelled her subtle but distinctive scent. One click on Commit and it was done.

Now Polly wanted to get away. He could feel it – the feverishness of her. He stood up and she stepped quickly backwards, disconcerted. But he merely held out his hand. The grip was dry and firm, the handshake brief. Then he walked her to the door and said, “Goodbye.”

Polly ran down the corridor, heading for the stairs. Her spirit, elated and freewheeling now, could not have borne enclosure in a lift. She looked wild and beautiful. Billy Slaughter watched her go, his face a mask of bland, steely calm.

Dennis was preparing to leave the office. He had contacted a security firm earlier that day and someone was coming to change the locks on Wednesday morning. Obviously Andrew Latham, as the only other key holder, had to be informed. Dennis had put this off all day but now he could see Andrew, already wearing his flashy white trench coat, helping Gail Fuller on with her jacket.

“Oh, I say?” called Dennis, across the deserted outer office. “Could I have a moment?”

Latham turned round and then straight back to the receptionist. His expression showed amusement and irritation as if Dennis had been some precocious child that was outstaying its welcome. He said something too quiet to be overheard and Gail Fuller left, sniggering.

“I was just off, actually.” He met Dennis halfway and perched on one of the desks. “Can't it wait?”

“I've…er,” Dennis cleared his throat. Stupid to be nervous. “I'm having the lock on my door changed, Andrew. And the one to the main office.”

“Lock?”

“Wednesday morning.”

“What the fuck for?”

Dennis went scarlet. He found coarse language deeply offensive. Latham would never have spoken in such a way when he first joined the firm. The man's attitude was becoming more and more openly contemptuous.

“I'm sure you recall the incidents a short while ago when the lights were inexplicably—”

“God, you're not harking back to that again. You're losing it, Brinkers. It'll be voices in the radiators next.” He gave a fractious whinny, baring his teeth. Dennis, unaware it was supposed to be a laugh, jumped. “Get a grip, man.”

“Also, as you never seem to surface before ten at the earliest, I intend giving the spare keys to Fortune. He's the most reliable—”

“Do what you like. I'm away. I've something cooking in a wine bar. Don't want her going off the boil.”

Dennis sat down behind his desk. He never drank in the office but kept some sherry, dry and sweet, for certain clients who seemed to expect it. He got out the Lustau Amontillado and poured out a glass, measuring it judiciously.

His mind was running all over the place and he didn't like that. Dennis preferred to do one thing at once and give it all his attention before moving on to the next. He drew a notepad towards him, uncapped his fountain pen and wrote, “1: Locks changed.” Then drew a neat tick. On the following line he wrote, “2: Dispatch parcel.” The parcel was
The King's Armourer
, which he planned to send in the morning, second-class post. He had already checked that Kate's advertisement had made today's
Times
and sorted out an accommodation address in Slough over the telephone.

Then Dennis remembered his phone call to Mallory the previous morning, asking if they could meet. An arrangement had been made for tomorrow evening and he wrote down, “3: Dinner at Appleby House/Meeting of the Celandine Press.” He was looking forward to being involved in the new venture enormously and felt quite excited about the possible future reaction to the novel by E.M. Walker (his mother's initials and maiden name).

Dennis sucked his pen and tapped the heel of his left foot rapidly on the floor, a habit when he got what Mrs. Crudge had been known to call “all aereated.” To calm himself he drank the rest of the sherry and went to look out of the window.

This was not at all calming. Mr. Allibone was shutting the shop, rolling up his awning as he had been just four days ago. He saw Dennis watching, tipped his boater backwards with his thumb and waved. Dennis lifted a hand awkwardly and nodded back. At his desk he wrote. “4: Ask Mrs. C about keys.”

Dennis had checked his garage board on arriving home last Thursday evening and noticed that the spare keys for the office and street door were missing. The thought that they had been deliberately taken occurred to him, of course, especially after his earlier conversation with the fishmonger, but he couldn't help thinking it was not very likely. The garage was locked at night and, as the house fronted the High Street, whoever was responsible would have to take them in broad daylight with the chance that someone could walk by and catch them at it. What had probably happened, Dennis decided, was that he himself had picked them up for some reason and left them lying about.

Connecting again with Mr. Allibone reminded Dennis of the aftermath of their conversation last Thursday. Of how he had come back to the office determined to check out his accounts and given up after Harris-Tonkin (Light Aircraft). And how he had had the idea of waiting in the market square just in case he might see someone, some stranger, letting themselves into the building. Switching on his brass snake lamp. Poking their nose, as Mr. Allibone would no doubt put it, into his affairs.

Dennis had abandoned the plan simply because of its impracticality, well aware that he could have sat there night after night, maybe for months, without a nibble. But now things were different. Now whoever it was had little more opportunity. Of course they wouldn't know that so it would still be very much an “on the off chance” sentry-go. But worth a try none the less.

It was light now until quite late. Assuming the intruder had no legitimate right to enter the building, he or she would presumably wait until dusk at least, and possibly even later. On the other hand, what if they did have a right? What if one of his staff had somehow got hold of the keys, had a wax impression made and was bent on mischief?

Dennis had a stern word with his imagination. Lately it seemed to be getting both wilder in conception and completely out of control. Once more he blamed writing fiction, wondering this time if locking oneself in alternative worlds for long periods of time could seriously damage a person's grip on reality.

He thought a moment longer, then gravely concluded that yes, he would carry out this experiment. He would return to Causton fairly early, just in case. He decided to wait in the first instance in the Magpie, on the other side of the square. This gave a good view of the NatWest bank and, when darkness fell, he could watch from his car.

Having planned his strategy Dennis felt better. At least he was doing something, even if it was all rather cloak-and-dagger. On reflection the thought was not unpleasant. Though contented with his lot there was no denying his life lacked excitement. An adventure, even one so modest it might never happen, would definitely add a little spice.

 

The Lawsons were packing up. Tea chests stood about, half full of wrapped china and pictures and kitchen equipment. Kate was happily stuffing handfuls of wood shavings between bubble-wrapped glasses. Mallory added yet more books to a large stack by the kitchen door. Two boxes full of clothes stood in the hall, awaiting collection.

“Anything else for the hospice shop?”

“Don't think so.” Kate had been ruthless with her wardrobe. It was amazing how much stuff fell into the if-not-worn-for-one-year-dump category. “Although…” She hesitated, then ran upstairs and quickly down again, carrying a hat, which she placed on top of the pile.

“Not your beekeeper's hat!”

The hat was made of natural straw, modelled directly after that of a real beekeeper, the crown rising directly upwards from the brim and coming to a half-point, like a soft little acorn. The wide upturned brim was thickly swathed in black mesh veiling, studded with dozens of tiny jewelled bees.

Kate loved the hat. Had spent a huge amount of money on it for a wedding instead of sensibly hiring one, and had never put it on since. Well, occasionally on a sunny day in the back yard. She associated it with balmy weather and good luck.

“Sorry.” Mallory took it from the box. “The bees stay in the picture.”

“But I never wear it.”

“I'll get some hives; put them in the orchard.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Kate started to laugh. “We can't take up beekeeping just because I've got the right hat.”

But Mallory could see she was pleased. He placed the hat carefully on her head, tilting it so her eyes were half concealed by the veil. “You look very mysterious.” He kissed her. “And lovely.” The room was filled with a shrill, loud ringing.

“Why do telephones always sound angry?” Kate answered it. Said, “Fine…Yes, thank you…in about ten minutes…It's the charity shop,” she explained to Mal, hanging up. “Someone's coming round.”

“There'll be more stuff, I suppose, once we manage to get hold of Polly.”

They'd been trying on and off all day yesterday, plus a couple of attempts that morning. At least, Mallory had been trying. As the actual move wouldn't be for another fortnight Kate didn't regard it as all that urgent. But she could see that he was getting worried. She wondered if this was because of the trouble Polly was in that she, Kate, dare not ask about. Now Mallory was dialling again. Listening, frowning, putting the receiver back.

“I can't understand it. Where could she be?”

Kate tried to look concerned but, in truth, was merely bewildered. They had not known where Polly was at any given time for the past two years and it had never seemed to bother Mallory before. Children grow up and fly away. Life is like that.

As the pause lengthened and Mallory appeared more and more distressed she tried to think of a way to change the subject. Some way that wouldn't appear gratingly contrived.

“Shouldn't we ring Benny, Mal? Remind her we're bringing food for the dinner tomorrow? As there'll be four of us she's probably getting into a tizz already.”

“Of course. What a good idea.” But before he could pick up the phone the doorbell went. So Kate got to make the call and Mallory helped the charity people move the boxes. He put his head round the sitting-room door when they'd been loaded and said, “I'm going to give them a hand at the other end.”

“Fine.” And pigs'll dance the polka. “See you later, then.”

Mallory got stuck in the worst of the school run. The road was full of Volvos, Golfs and four-wheel drives, the latter unsullied by any trace of mud. Screaming infants ran about swinging rucksacks that looked like furry animals. Whole bundles of children climbed into assorted vehicles and in one case straight out again. Car doors swung open at random, not always on the pavement side. Cries of “Fiona!” and “Tarquin!” rent the air.

Mallory sat and cursed. It had not occurred to him that a private school might still be up and running or he would have taken another route. He couldn't go back and he couldn't move forward. A taxi behind him started hooting.

And, of course, he was wasting his time anyway, because Polly wasn't in. If she was in she would answer the phone. And if she was in and couldn't answer the phone then there was also nothing Mallory could do because he didn't have a key so wouldn't know whether she was there or not. Still, he had to try.

The truth was he was worried sick over this obscene, disgusting man – this Billy Slaughter. Surely Polly couldn't be with him? There'd be no reason other than settling her debt and she had promised to forward the banker's draft by registered post.

She couldn't have forgotten. Or deliberately broken her promise. He couldn't believe that. Kate would easily believe it and the thought made Mallory sad. Sometimes, discussing their daughter, they seemed to be talking about two different people.

The school run dispersed, the taxi driver took his finger off the horn, stuck it through the open window then thrust it violently into the air against the departure of the final Volvo. Mallory moved off.

The place that Polly shared was just off Queensbridge Road. She was on her own at the moment, Mallory knew, since the departure of one flatmate, post exams, to the Lebanon and the other more recently for a lengthy yoga and meditation retreat in Majorca.

Mallory climbed the steps, worn to a scoop in the centre by age. The shabby Edwardian house was on five levels and the bell board listed twelve names. Mallory read through them quickly. Polly's wasn't there. He wasn't altogether surprised – she had always guarded her privacy fiercely. The trouble was he didn't know the names of the other girls either. He pressed all the bells in turn on the off chance, but without any response. Presumably everyone was out at work. Then, turning away, he noticed some narrow steps leading to a basement. They were very steep but there was a metal rail to hold. A door at the bottom, glass-panelled with iron bars protecting the glass had a printed card pinned to it. “Fforbes-Snaithe. Hartogensis. Lawson.” There was no bell.

Mallory banged the knocker fiercely. He kneeled down and tried to peer through the letter box but some sort of felt hanging blocked the view. Curtains, none too clean, at the large bay window, were closely drawn. Mallory, treading over old newspapers, orange peel and takeaway cartons, tried to peer through a tiny gap at the furthest end. He squinted but could see only darkness.

He rapped on the glass and called, “Polly?”

A man walking his Jack Russell stopped while it took a wee against the basement railings. He looked suspiciously at Mallory, who said, “I'm trying to find my daughter.”

The man, a picture of disbelief, carried on staring. Mallory didn't blame him. He would have done the same. He climbed back up to the street just as an elderly woman laden with Safeway shopping bags was entering the house. He called: “Excuse me,” and moved quickly towards her. She turned a frightened face towards him and rushed inside, almost dropping the bags in her anxiety to close the door. Mallory, just close enough to put his foot in it, couldn't bring himself to do so.

Cursing softly, he hurried back to the car. He shouldn't have come and wished he hadn't seen where Polly lived. And to really put the lid on it, he'd been gone well over an hour, leaving Kate to cope on her own with the packing. He checked his watch – half-past three. And they had planned to leave before four to escape the worst of the traffic.

Seconds after Mallory had driven away Polly came swinging round the corner. Carrying a bottle of champagne, she was dancing on air and laughing to herself. Bursting with
joie de vivre
, she looked very beautiful in a floaty dress and sparkly high-heeled shoes.