Fault Line - Retail (40 page)

‘I’m sorry, Vivien,’ I said, genuinely but unavailingly.

‘What for?’

‘Everything.’

‘Most of it’s none of your fault.’

‘I’m still sorry.’

‘It doesn’t help. But thank you, anyway.’

‘Can I come in?’

‘To see if I’m hiding the missing files?’

‘If you tell me you didn’t take them, I believe you.’

‘You shouldn’t. I’m the obvious suspect.’

‘Because of Oliver?’

‘I’m glad you haven’t forgotten him.’

‘I’ll never do that.’ I took the pig’s egg out of my pocket then and offered it to her. ‘I thought you might like this.’

‘Oliver gave it to you. You should keep it.’

‘Do you have many reminders of him?’

‘I have his photograph album. That’s about it.’

‘Are there any pictures of him in it?’

‘A few.’

‘I’d really like to see them. If you’ll let me.’

She stared at me pensively, then nodded. ‘All right. Come in, then.’

She moved back and I stepped inside. The caravan wasn’t quite as cramped as I’d expected, largely because there was so little in it. Wherever most of Vivien’s possessions were, they weren’t there. The kitchenette at one end, the bed at the other and the living area in between were equipped with the barest of essentials. There was a
tall
cupboard where I assumed the contents of the black sacks had already been stowed, another cupboard under the sink and another, with sliding doors, beneath the bed. Storage space was otherwise non-existent. A pile of stolen CCC files was nowhere to be seen.

‘I left just about everything I own in Lincolnshire,’ she said, as if some kind of explanation was required. ‘I left most of me there as well.’

‘Has it got any easier … to bear your loss?’

‘I suppose it must have. Otherwise I wouldn’t still be living and breathing and … existing.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’d rather not talk about it, Jonathan. Honestly. We can talk about Oliver. Long enough has passed since you and I saw him floating in the lake at Relurgis for us to do that. Time really is some kind of healer.’

‘I haven’t come here to upset you.’

‘No. You’ve come here to find out if I know who might have removed those files. Who, when and why. Isn’t that it?’

‘The only person I can think of who ever showed any interest in Wren’s records was—’

‘Oliver.’ She looked at me.

‘Yes. Oliver.’

‘So, I might have taken them … to search for what he was so interested in.’

‘You might have.’

‘But I didn’t.’

‘Who, then?’

‘I don’t know. Someone … covering their tracks.’

‘Tracks of what?’

‘It’s your job to find out, apparently. Maybe it always was.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Oliver chose you, Jonathan. I’m not sure why. But he did.’

‘Chose me to do what?’

‘Finish what he started.’ She stepped across to the tall cupboard, opened the door and took something down from a high shelf. It was the photograph album she’d mentioned. It had stiff black covers and a gold tassel at the spine. She laid it on the table that
stood
in front of the window and flicked through the pages until she found what she was looking for. ‘There he is,’ she said softly.

It was a snapshot of Oliver as I remembered him: slim-faced and high-browed, his hair straw-blond in the slightly faded tones of the print. He was squinting in strong sunlight, his eyes in shadow. There was the faintest of smiles for the benefit of the camera. Behind him was an overgrown headland and a broad expanse of blue ocean.

‘I took that near the Villa Jovis when we went to Capri in the summer of ’sixty-seven,’ said Vivien. ‘The pictures of Oliver in the album are amateur efforts compared with the others, because he could take those himself, obviously.’

‘Was he a keen photographer?’

‘In the same way he was a keen chess player. Whatever he did, he wanted to be the best at. Look at these.’

She turned several pages over in slow succession. As many of the photographs were black and white as colour. They were mostly impersonal studies of the clay country: spoil heaps, drying sheds, railway lines, mica lagoons, refining tanks, often pictured from unusual angles and either early or late in the day, to judge by the thin, slightly eerie light. There was an expertise to them that amounted in some cases to true artistry. ‘I’m surprised you’ve never shown me these before,’ I said.

‘Mother kept the album at Nanstrassoe House. It didn’t come into my possession until Aunt Harriet died. It’s the only thing of Oliver’s I have with me here. And it’s the only thing I need. I can summon up his memory – I can see him again – whenever I choose to open it.’

‘I’d give a lot to know what was on the last film he ever loaded into his camera.’

‘So would I.’ She closed the album and put it back in the cupboard.

‘Do you really have no idea who might have stolen those files, Vivien?’ I asked, hoping she might be just a little more forthcoming now.

She sat down at the table and looked up at me. ‘No. Have you?’

I shrugged. ‘None at all.’

‘I suppose you could ask yourself who you know with any personal interest in them.’

‘It’s a short list. Most of the people who produced the documents in those files are dead and gone.’

‘My stepfather isn’t.’

‘Your stepfather commissioned the work that led to the discovery that the files were missing, Vivien. Why would he do that if he’d stolen them?’

‘I can’t think of a reason. But …’ She broke off and looked away, out through the window.

I sat down opposite her. ‘But what?’

‘Nothing.’ She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing I can tell you.’

‘Are you sure? You can say anything you like to me.’

‘As long as I don’t mind it getting back to Greville. He’s your boss. You said so. You work for him.’

‘You can trust me, Vivien.’

‘No. I can’t.’ Her gaze was far more sorrowful than it was recriminatory. ‘I can’t even trust myself.’

‘You’re not going to help me, are you?’

‘If you need my help, you’ve already failed.’

‘OK.’ I nodded. ‘I get the message.’ I stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to … whatever you fill your time with here.’

‘Embroidery. And a whole lot of nothing. That’s what my life amounts to now.’

‘I should warn you about Adam. He was here earlier. I had to stop him forcing the door open. He was in an ugly mood.’

‘So that’s why there’s some paint missing. Don’t worry about Adam. He’s always in an ugly mood. I can handle him.’

‘He might have thought he’d find the missing records here.’

‘He might have. But he was looking in the wrong place. He has a history of doing that. If you’re right, you should ask yourself why he’d be bothered about the records in the first place.’

‘Why do you think he’d be bothered?’

‘I can’t imagine.’

‘He was worked up about something, Vivien. He was angry.
Potentially
dangerous, I’d say. I don’t like to think of you, alone here, in the middle of nowhere, miles from help of any kind.’

‘Don’t think of me, then.’

I wrote my mobile number on one of my cards and put it on the table in front of her. ‘You can call me any time.’

‘I won’t call … I don’t have a phone.’

‘Pete Newlove said the line in the dryer office is still connected.’

‘I wouldn’t know. I haven’t tried to use it.’

‘Why not just humour me and say you’ll call in an emergency?’

‘All right.’ She gave a weary half-smile and picked up the card. ‘I’ll call in an emergency.’

‘Thank you.’

She folded her hands together and gazed at me neutrally. Silence accreted itself heavily between us. Then she said, ‘Goodbye, Jonathan.’

THIRTY-SIX

I ARRIVED AT
IK (St Austell) the following morning oppressed by gloomy thoughts about the ravages of time and the seeming impossibility of the task Greville Lashley had set me. I’d considered phoning him to ask exactly how he expected me to pull it off, but I’d known the chances of speaking to him were slim and any message I’d left would have sounded defeatist or, worse, truculent.

Truculent was in fact pretty much how I felt. Pete Newlove would doubtless have said he felt much the same if I’d made the mistake of asking him. But he and I had practical matters to discuss. I found him in his office, grimacing over a cup of coffee, the aroma of which couldn’t dispel the strong smell of a recent cigarette. He greeted me grouchily and handed me a printed timetable of the one-to-one meetings with staff he’d scheduled for me.

‘Thank God it’s Friday, hey, Jon?’ he said as I scanned it. ‘You’ll get two days off to recover from the first load before you tackle the second.’

‘You think I’m wasting my time, Pete?’

‘Your time. My time. It’s all IK time. So, waste away, old chum. No skin off my nose.’

‘I see you’ve only allocated half an hour for lunch.’

‘Whip through ’em and you can have longer. You may as well be quick, since you’ll have nothing to show for it. I didn’t just sit on my backside after Doctor Whitworth raised the alarm, y’know. I
did
my job. No one here knows what happened to the records.’

‘You’re sure of that, are you?’

‘I’m sure if any of the staff succeeded in pulling the wool over my eyes they’ll succeed in pulling it over yours, too.’ He grinned. ‘No offence, Jon.’

I sighed, unable, try as I might, to be riled by his cynicism.

‘How’d it go at Lannerwrack?’

I sighed again. ‘I saw Vivien. She’s … like you said.’

‘Learn anything useful?’

‘Not about the records. But …’ I glanced down at the schedule. ‘The last few on here may have to stay late. I have to go out around midday. I’ll be … an hour or so at most. But obviously it’ll … put things back.’

‘Going to the doctor, are you?’

‘What?’

‘I just wondered. You look as if you’ve got a pain. In the arse, is it?’

‘You don’t look so chipper yourself, Pete.’

‘No? You amaze me … not. Anyway, you can’t overrun this afternoon. Anyone you haven’t got round to by five will just have to wait till Monday.’

‘Why can’t I overrun?’

‘Because I got busy on the phone last night and fixed you and me an early-evening engagement … with my old schoolmate Dick Trudgeon.’

‘You did?’

‘Spending your whole life in the same miserable town may not broaden your mind, but it does mean you know lots of people. And those people know other people. So, I was able to track Dick down. He hasn’t gone far either. Retired, like I said he’d be. And willing to chew over old times. We’re meeting him at the Fountain in Mevagissey at half six. He lives down that way.’

‘Was meeting in a pub your idea or his?’

‘Well, we don’t want his missus cramping his style, do we? And you can claim the ale on expenses. My ale, anyway. You’ll be driving, so I expect you’ll be on orange juice.’

‘Of course.’

‘A word of thanks wouldn’t go amiss, Jon. “Well played, Pete, nice one.” Something along those lines. You want to speak to him, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do.’ I cracked a conciliatory smile. ‘Sorry. I’m feeling a bit fed up this morning. I’ll soon snap out of it. You’ve done well, Pete. Thanks a lot.’

‘Don’t mention it. Except to Beaumont, obviously. I want you to make sure he knows I’ve been a model of cooperation.’

‘I’ll do that.’ I looked at the clock on the wall behind him. ‘Now, how do I get a coffee before I start the interrogations?’

The staff interviews proved as fruitless as Pete had predicted. He and I were the only former Wren’s employees still on the strength. Most of those I spoke to hadn’t even been born when Walter Wren & Co. ceased to exist. They were eager to please the Head Office troubleshooter they saw me as, but they couldn’t help. They genuinely couldn’t.

My departure at noon should have been a big relief to me, but I was only swapping a tiresome duty in favour of a potentially hazardous venture. I’d decided I should try for Vivien’s sake to make Adam understand she had nothing to do with the theft of the records. It wouldn’t be easy, but catching him sober and not long up gave me the best chance of success. From what I knew of his lifestyle, that meant calling by around midday.

Wavecrest was even bigger and more ostentatious than Pete had led me to expect. Set on a hillock that put it one up on its scarcely modest neighbours, and supplied a panoramic view of St Austell Bay into the bargain, it was what its architect would probably have called cutting edge: flat-roofed and white-walled, with walk-around balconies and lots and lots of blue-tinted glass. The garden didn’t supply much in the way of camouflage. None of the pines and bushes had yet grown high enough to soften the rectilinearity of the house and would probably never be allowed to. Wavecrest was a statement, not a murmur.

The gate at the foot of the drive was electronically operated. There was an intercom for communication with the house set in the driver’s-side pillar. But there was also a side gate for pedestrians and, since I was sure any talking to Adam was best done face to face, I parked the car on the grass verge at the side of the road and entered on foot.

There was no sign of Adam’s Lotus, but the underground garage that came into view as I climbed the drive looked large enough to hold a whole fleet of cars. Still, I’d have bet on him wanting to exhibit his speedster for the delectation of the locals, so I began to wonder if I’d left my arrival too late.

Closer to, the blue-tinted windows revealed a mirror-like reflectiveness that rendered the interior of the house more or less invisible. Adam could have been staring out at me stark naked as I approached the door and I wouldn’t have known. I pressed the bell and waited. The silence was depressingly absolute. It felt increasingly as if I was wasting my time.

Then, quite suddenly, the door sprang open. It was electronically operated, like the gate, and there was no one waiting to greet me. I stepped into a high, circular space, from which an open-treaded staircase curved up to the first floor. Double doors led off into various rooms. Filtered daylight flowed in around me.

‘Hello?’ I called.