Hard Going (22 page)

The view beckoned his eye insistently, and he took a moment to satisfy it, taking a long sweeping look over the deep green, the trees, and the grey, misty profile of the city in the distance. Yes, it was stunning, and was of course what the architect had designed the house for, to look out at this astonishing stretch of the pastoral, preserved in the heart of an industrial city. But he would not have liked to live here. When he was home he liked to hole in. Here, when it was dark and you put the lights on, you would be visible and what was outside would be hidden. You would not know who might be looking at you, unseen in the darkness. It made him shiver even to imagine it.

Well, perhaps a great star was so used to living in a goldfish bowl it ceased to matter. You could get used to anything, so they say.

‘Well, then,’ Diana Chambers said. ‘It must be something important to bring you out here on a Sunday.’

Slider got down to business. ‘I understand you are a friend of Lionel Bygod.’

Her mouth tightened. ‘Why do you understand that?’

‘Yours is the only number he called on his mobile phone. And the only number that called his.’

She considered a moment, examining him with hostility. ‘He and I are old friends. But I must ask you to keep it to yourselves. My husband is a – difficult man. If he were to find out … And he will, if you allow it to go any further.’

‘I assure you, I have no wish to make your life difficult,’ Slider said. ‘I am a great admirer of yours, have been for many years. I saw your Oresteia—’

‘Good Lord!’ she interrupted, suspicion joining hostility. ‘Is that what this is about? You’re just a common-or-garden celebrity hunter.’ She started to rise, and Slider saw ejection in her face, but Atherton interrupted.

‘Miss Chambers,’ he said sternly, ‘we’ve come to tell you that Lionel Bygod is dead.’

She subsided into her seat, her eyes went from him to Slider, and then she lowered her head with an expression of great sadness. ‘I wasn’t expecting it so soon,’ she said. ‘I thought there was still time. I didn’t say goodbye.’ The large eyes filled with tears. ‘My poor Bobo,’ she murmured. ‘My poor darling.’

She drew out a handkerchief and carefully dabbed the tears away. A star, Slider thought, couldn’t even cry with abandon for fear of looking less than lovely. He was getting a sharp lesson in the strains of celebrity here this morning.

She didn’t seem very surprised by the news, but then – another lesson to learn – how would you tell with an actor?

Then she looked up at him sharply, handkerchief arrested, the suspicion back. ‘Why are you here telling me? It’s not the police’s job, surely? What’s going on?’

He answered with a question of his own. ‘You were expecting his death?’

‘He told me he had cancer, but he said he had a few months left. He said he would tell me when it was time to say goodbye.’

Atherton spoke, holding her eyes so that Slider could observe her reaction. ‘He didn’t die of cancer, Miss Chambers. He was murdered.’

She flinched as though she had been hit. Her lips made the ‘m’ of ‘murdered?’ but did not go on. They began to quiver, and she shook her head slowly. ‘Oh no. Oh no.’

‘I’m afraid it’s true.’

‘But – how? Who?’ She left Atherton’s face for Slider’s, searching it. ‘It can’t be true. You mean – someone broke in, something like that? A burglar?’

Slider felt like an executioner. ‘There was no break in, no robbery. He was killed deliberately, by someone he knew.’

‘That’s not possible,’ she said. ‘No-one would hurt him if they knew him. He was the kindest, gentlest man I ever knew. He was
good
, a good man. He never did anyone any harm.’ A hope dawned. ‘It’s a mistake,’ she pleaded. ‘It wasn’t him, it was someone else. You’ve made a mistake.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Slider said.

Now the tears welled over. ‘I can’t believe it. Oh, my poor Bobo.’

She cried, and Slider waited, staring out through the window. The grey light made everything seem curiously depthless. The tree heads whipped from side to side in emphatic negatives. He watched the wind yank a plastic bag along as though it were on a chain, and waited for the storm to subside.

‘Bobo?’ he queried.

‘It’s what we called each other from the beginning, at university. He was Bobo and I was Nina. My parents called me Nina or Ninette at home. I can’t remember now why Lionel was Bobo. Something to do with a gorilla, I think. We were probably drunk at the time – we seemed to have spent a lot of the time at Oxford that way. But it was a happy, harmless drunkenness, just youthful high spirits, really. Anyway, the names stuck.’

He saw her remember again why they were here. It was the way with unexpected death, that you forgot it for a few seconds, only to remember again with renewed shock, fresh every time. ‘My poor Bobo! How can he be dead? Who would do such a thing?

‘We’re hoping for your help about that,’ Slider said. ‘He seems to have lived a very private life, almost one might say secretive. No-one knew much about him, and nothing about his life before he came to Hammersmith.’

‘He cut himself off after that terrible court case. I suppose you know about that?’

Slider nodded.

‘He made a new life, simply shed his old life like a skin and had nothing to do with it after that. Except for me. I was the only person he took with him from the old days.’ She broke off. ‘How come there’s been nothing in the press about this? How have you kept it out?’

‘We haven’t sought any media coverage,’ Slider said, ‘and Mr Bygod was not a famous or important man, so the main papers haven’t picked it up for themselves.’

She looked bitter. ‘No, not important or famous – just a dear, lovely, good person. He had such a sweetness about him – I can’t describe it. He was worth ten of me or Alastair. But it’s us they go after.’ She looked appeal at him. ‘Can you keep me from being named? Not tell anyone about Bobo and me? I’ll help you any way I can, but if Al finds out there’ll be a row, and if there’s a row it’ll be in every paper and magazine and my life will be hell.’

‘I’ve no wish to make your life hell. I’ve only come to you because so little is known about him, and we hoped you would help fill in some gaps.’

She visibly took hold of herself and said, ‘Of course. What do you want to know?’

‘Everything,’ Slider said. ‘From the beginning.’

He had been studying law and she had been studying English literature, and they were at different colleges, so they might never have met. But the OUDS and the Playhouse brought people together from every corner of the University.

‘He was so stage-struck, it was funny,’ she said. ‘Much more than me, really. He’d always wanted to be an actor, and he did take a couple of small parts in the beginning, but there were so many other chaps with much more bombastic personalities that he got edged out. And I think in the end he found more satisfaction in doing the backstage stuff. In any case, his family wanted him to go into the law, and he wasn’t one for breaking their hearts for his own ends. He cared too much about other people. I suppose for that reason alone he wouldn’t have survived on the stage. You have to be pretty ruthless.’ She made a gesture with her hands. ‘Tunnel vision.’ She looked at Atherton. ‘We’re not nice people, really.’

‘I think that’s a generalization,’ Atherton said, and she took it as a compliment, and smiled a ‘thank you’ at him.

‘But you have to understand – Lionel was an innocent abroad. He never held grudges; he was a damn sight too understanding to my mind. Even later, when he was a solicitor, there was that complete lack of cynicism about him. Strange, really – and apart from acting, I always thought he could hardly have chosen a worse career than the law. He was utterly truthful, you see, without worrying about the consequences. Having to keep our friendship secret was quite a strain on him.’

She and Lionel fell in love. ‘Not quite at first sight,’ she said, thinking back, ‘but it wasn’t long. He was tall and handsome, but as well as all that such a
nice
person. And funny! He was so quiet people often didn’t notice, but he said the most devastating things, had me in fits. He was witty, you know – and intelligent. Goodness! He took a First.’ She nodded to show they should be impressed. ‘And he knew more about literature than I did, by a long chalk. If he hadn’t helped me study, and explained everything, I’d never have got my degree. I only got a third. I’m not much of an intellectual. But Lionel had a wonderful brain. And he never minded how much trouble he took, when it was for someone he cared about.’

They were lovers throughout the second and third years of university. But when they graduated, their lives moved apart.

‘You know how these things happen. We were both young and getting on with our lives, and we’d both picked careers that needed a lot of concentration. We kept in touch for a little while, but it was too difficult to meet, and so it just, sort of, died. But I thought about him fondly over the years. He was one of my happiest memories.’

‘You married,’ Slider said to move her along.

‘Yes. Funnily enough, Bobo – Lionel and I married in the same year, 1975, though of course I didn’t know that until much later. He married the daughter of his practice boss. I married Alastair. I don’t think either of us has had a particularly easy time of it. June wasn’t exactly a sympathetic choice – I don’t think she ever understood or appreciated Lionel. It was easy to mistake his gentleness for weakness – God knows I saw enough people do it at university. And my life with Al has been somewhat stormy, as I’m sure you know.’ There was a bitterness to the tone of the last words.

Slider reflected it could not be easy to carry out one’s private life under the full glare of publicity. ‘I’m afraid I don’t read much celebrity gossip,’ he said kindly.

She subjected him to a brief inspection to test for sincerity. ‘Good for you,’ she said. Her eyes flicked to Atherton as if to say,
But I bet you do
. ‘Well, Al and I have had a lot of ups and downs, and there’ve been times when I’ve been close to chucking it, but we’ve struggled through somehow. We do have a lot of respect for each other and our careers are interdependent, and – well, there’s no-one quite like Al, when it comes down to it. But we were going through a bad patch when I met Lionel again, quite by chance.’

It was at a benefit at the National Gallery, in 1995. ‘Some Old Master painting they were trying to buy for the nation – big naked women and cupids and so on, as I remember. Al and I were celebrity sponsors for all the usual reasons. I turned round and suddenly Lionel was there with June, the four of us face to face with champagne glasses in our hands. Al and I were barely talking to each other at the time, and there was some terrible strain between Lionel and June, I could see that at a glance. But one look at Lionel and the years seemed to peel away, and all I wanted to do was go somewhere quiet with him and talk and talk. We couldn’t, of course, with the world looking on. But at the end of the evening I managed to slip him my private number, and – so it began.’

‘Your affair,’ Slider suggested.

‘It was more than that. It was deep, deep love. Passion, too – at least at first. Lionel was what I needed just then, a kind man who adored me and made me feel like a woman again. And he obviously needed me, though he was terribly loyal and would never say anything against June. But I could read between the lines. She just didn’t
get
him. She didn’t appreciate him. And she was cold. The sort of woman who cuts the legs out from under any man she gets her claws into.’

‘How well do you know her?’

‘Oh, hardly at all. I only met her once or twice, at functions, but that was enough. I could tell all I needed to from that, and the effect she’d had on Lionel. She was one of those pinched, prudish women who makes everyone feel uncomfortable. There was never any prospect we could have been friends, even without Lionel in the case. I’m amazed Lionel stuck with her so long. But as I said, he was terribly loyal.’

‘Did they have any children?’ Slider asked.

She frowned. ‘I’m not sure. I think they may have had a son who died. Lionel would never talk about his marriage, and he never mentioned any children, but I did once see a photograph in his wallet of a little boy.’ Slider and Atherton exchanged a swift glance. There had been no photograph in the wallet when they saw it. ‘He didn’t want me to see it,’ she went on, ‘and he shoved it out of sight pretty quickly. I said, “Who’s that?” and he said, “No-one. He’s not with us any more.” And then he changed the subject. So I’m guessing maybe they had a son who died. But it
is
just a guess.’

Or, as Slider had seen in Atherton’s eye in that instant, perhaps the boy wasn’t related to him at all. Slider didn’t like thinking it, but the old ‘no smoke without fire’ adage was as sticky as chewing-gum on the sole. Or the soul. And there were more little boys than sons in the world. But Slider remembered how June had not wanted to discuss it. Losing a child and not being able to have another would certainly put a strain on a marriage.

‘So your affair carried on – for how long?’

‘Ever since,’ she said. ‘After the first year it settled down from great passion to great love and affection. We met as often as our various jobs and lives allowed. It had to be secret, of course – for my sake, even after June left him. But I needed him so much – more than ever as the years passed. Al didn’t get any easier, and living in the spotlight gets harder all the time. He was my place to hide, my darling Bobo. I could be Nina again with him, just an ordinary person. Safe. And he needed me after that terrible court case and all the dreadful fuss that followed.’

‘Yes, that was in 1996, wasn’t it,’ Slider said, ‘so you were together then.’

‘It took its toll of him,’ she said. ‘I saw the change in him. He began to be old then.’

‘Do you believe there was any truth in the accusations?’

‘That he was a paedophile? No!’ she cried forcefully. ‘It was the most malicious nonsense, but it wrecked his life. He had to move twice to shake off that terrible man who was pursuing him.’

‘Crondace?’

‘That’s his name,’ she said. ‘And he had to give up his practice. Fortunately he had plenty of money. He inherited a lot from his father, so he wasn’t dependent on his work – he’d always given generously to charity, and taken
pro bono
cases. Roxwell was one of those. That’s where generosity gets you,’ she added bitterly. ‘And now he’s dead.’ She had remembered it all over again. She looked at them searchingly. ‘Was it something to do with that old case? Was it Crondace? Did he manage to track him down at last?’