Heaven's Light (7 page)

‘No
danger
? But we’re talking about heroin. Heroin’s a Class A drug. It’s illegal. I’m a lawyer. I know about these things. Doesn’t anyone talk to the police? Doesn’t anyone …’ he could no longer resist the thought ‘… take responsibility?’

A bleeper in the pocket of the doctor’s white coat began to trill. He muttered an apology, stepping across to the reception desk and lifting a phone. Seconds later, he was back beside Barnaby, gently shepherding him towards the door.

‘Responsibility’s an interesting concept,’ he said. ‘Good luck with your daughter.’

Kate Frankham was holding the Audi on the clutch, waiting for the traffic lights, when her mobile rang. She reached down for it, pumping the accelerator as the queue of cars began to move. Barely a year had gone by since she’d qualified as a stress counsellor but she’d quickly acquired an ever-lengthening list of clients. Her next consultation was in the diary for noon. She was already fifteen minutes late.

‘Hallo?’ She wedged the mobile against her ear. The woman at the other end was evidently having trouble getting through. Kate checked the mirror, pulling the Audi into the fast lane and overtaking a big lorry. Abruptly, reception improved.

‘My name’s Donna,’ the woman was saying, ‘I’m a reporter. I work for the
Sentinel.
Can you hear me?’

Kate frowned. The
Sentinel
was Portsmouth’s daily. It offered excellent political coverage and she knew lots of journalists on the paper. None of them were called Donna. She tried to put the smile back in her voice, pushing the Audi past sixty.

‘If it’s about the museums story,’ she said, ‘we’re discussing it in committee. Starts at four o’clock. You’re welcome to drop by or we could talk afterwards. Up to you.’

‘It’s not about the museums story. It’s about Billy Goodman.’

Kate began to slow for a roundabout. ‘Who?’

‘Billy Goodman. Do you know him?’

Kate spotted a gap between the oncoming cars on the roundabout. The driver of the second car hooted furiously, standing on his brakes.

‘Billy Goodman’s a friend of mine,’ Kate said carefully, ‘if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘How well do you know him?’

‘I just told you, he’s a friend.’ She paused. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve been asked to find out, that’s all.’

‘Who asked you?’

‘The news editor.’ Donna was sounding flustered. ‘Actually, it’s about last night.’

‘Last night?’

Kate was watching her rear-view mirror. The driver had given up with the horn, settling instead for anchoring his car on Kate’s tailgate. Kate tried to ignore him, listening to the
Sentinel
reporter recounting the details of last night’s incident. A young student had been assaulted in the street. Detectives were questioning a Mr Billy Goodman. A formal charge of some kind seemed more than likely.

‘What’s that got to do with me?’ Kate asked.

‘We understand he was driving your car.’

‘Who told you that?’

There was a brief silence on the line. The driver of the car behind swept past in a blur of obscene gestures. Then Donna was back again, avoiding Kate’s question, asking again about the relationship she shared with Billy Goodman. Kate felt the temperature inside the Audi beginning to rise. Someone must have taken the registration, she
thought. And one of the paper’s tame CID contacts must have done the rest.

‘Mr Goodman had my car last night,’ she conceded. ‘He was sorting out the radio.’

‘You’re saying he’s a mechanic?’

‘Yes, he mends things.’

‘But he’s a friend as well?’

Kate didn’t reply. Donna mentioned a string of previous convictions, mainly for violence.

Kate cursed under her breath. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘GBH and ABH. I’ve got the dates here. Do you want me to read them out?’

Kate told her not to bother, asking again what possible business it was of hers, but Donna persisted just the same, reciting Billy Goodman’s criminal record, a series of confrontations with sundry right-wing splinter groups. There was nothing serious, nothing to warrant more than a minor jail sentence and, listening to the voice on the mobile, Kate felt strangely proud of the man. It was never going to be the relationship she’d dreamed about but no one would ever accuse Billy of not taking his socialism seriously.

‘It’s all political,’ she heard herself saying. ‘Some of us talk. Others fight.’

‘Are you defending him? Only the lad last night is still in hospital.’

‘Is he?’

‘Yes, I was up there this morning. Believe me, his face is a mess. You wouldn’t condone that, would you?’

‘Not at all. I’m just saying it’s the way some people are. Why me, though? Why tell me all this?’

‘Because we think it’s important, Mrs Frankham.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re supposed to be his partner.’

‘
Partner?
Who told you that?’

‘He did, Mrs Frankham.’

‘Billy? Billy Goodman?’

‘Yes. We asked him the question and that’s what he said. He said you were partners. Have been for a while. That’s why he had the car.’ Kate swallowed hard. Last night, after all, hadn’t been such a great idea. Maybe she should have let Billy stay. Maybe she should have made room for him. ‘The news editor wants a comment from you,’ Donna was saying. ‘We’re running the story regardless but he thinks you ought to have your say.’

‘How kind.’ Kate swerved to avoid a cyclist. ‘And when might I expect to see this story?’

‘I’m not sure. Probably tomorrow.’ She broke off to answer another phone while Kate tried to work out how serious the damage might be. The
Sentinel
had recently gone tabloid and carried headlines to match.
LABOUR COUNCILLOR’S LIVE-IN THUG
,
she thought,
VICTIM POINTS THE FINGER
.
She shuddered at the implications. Donna’s voice was on the line again, insistent, unrelenting. ‘So what’s your reaction, Mrs Frankham?’

Kate checked in the mirror for the cyclist. He was a hundred yards behind now, wheeling his bike along the pavement. ‘No comment,’ she said at last. ‘But I suggest you get your facts right. It’s Ms Frankham, not Mrs.’

Hayden Barnaby was back outside his office in time to meet his secretary leaving for lunch. The premises occupied the prime position in an elegant Regency terrace overlooking the main university campus. The secretary stood on the pavement, gesturing up at a tall sash window on the first floor.

‘You’ve got a visitor.’ She smiled. ‘Made himself at home.’

Barnaby climbed the stairs to his office. Charlie Epple was sitting behind the big antique desk, talking into a mobile phone. A bottle of champagne stood beside the reading lamp, and from somewhere he’d found two glasses. He offered Barnaby a broad grin and waved him into the waiting chair. Barnaby hesitated a moment, then sank into the neatly buttoned leather. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so weary, so physically drained. Jessie’s basement flat had been empty. Of either Jessie or Haagen, there’d been no sign.

Charlie ended the phone conversation with a playful obscenity and pocketed the mobile. Then he stood up, reaching for the Moët.

‘Brilliant,’ he said. ‘Fucking wipe-out.’

‘What is?’

‘This morning’s little coup. You should meet these guys. Absolutely begging for it.’

‘Begging for what?’

Barnaby stared up at him. The last time he’d seen Charlie had been several hours ago at home, the briefest glimpse through the half-open bathroom door. He’d been standing over the wash-basin, lathering his face, musing aloud about the monarchy. The royal yacht, he’d decided, was wasted on the Queen. Any other nation would have turned it into a disco years ago.

Barnaby watched Charlie untwisting the wire around the champagne cork, and then remembered the meeting his friend had come down for. Charlie had been pitching for a little business, and the Moët suggested things had gone well.

Charlie handed him a glass, then raised his own. ‘To local democracy,’ he said, ‘and all you wonderful ratepayers.’

He swallowed most of the champagne and reached for a refill before settling behind the desk again. The guys from the council had been far sharper than he’d ever expected, and one had even risked sharing the odd home truth. Living in London, even Charlie got to believing that real life stopped at the M25. Now, thanks to his new friends, he knew different.

‘I’m not with you,’ Barnaby said. ‘What friends?’

Charlie was leaning forward now, the Armani linen jacket even more rumpled than usual. He explained about the lawyer, Dekker, and his quiet description of just how bad a deal cities like Portsmouth could expect at the hands of the mandarins in Whitehall.

‘There’s real frustration,’ he said, ‘real drama. Faxes at dawn. All that stuff. Our guys are getting shafted, week in week out. The bastards in London are at it all the time. We’re under the boot. Fourth Reich. I kid you not.’

‘We?’

‘Yeah, you and me and everyone else in this bloody place. You heard the one about the ferryport?’

Barnaby felt dazed by Charlie’s fervour. He’d always played it this way, picking up new allies, plunging into new relationships. Men or women, it didn’t matter. Just as long as Charlie had never been inside their heads before. Life, as he never tired of repeating, was one long fucking movie. And it was always the next sequence that really mattered.

He was talking about the ferryport now, pushing the bottle across towards Barnaby. The berths and the warehousing and everything else was owned by the city. They’d built it, expanded it, taken the commercial risk. The thing had exploded, a huge success, more and more ferries carting
more and more cars to France. Year on year, the revenues had doubled, then doubled again. This last year, after paying for everything, the city had stashed nearly five million quid in the bank.

‘That’s profit,’ he repeated, ‘real dosh. Yours and mine. Five
million
.’

Barnaby was still bemused. ‘So what’s the problem?’

‘
Problem
?’ Charlie threw back his head, echoing the word, enjoying his new role, the instant expert. The problem, he said, was simple. The city had made heaps of money from their original docks investment, and now they wanted to push out the boat a little further. Obvious thing to do. Money makes money. So bung in a bit more.

‘And?’

‘And, fuck me, the answer’s no. No can do. Not permitted. Not allowed.
Verboten
.’

‘Who says?’

‘London says. The ministry says. The civil servants. Fuck knows. Makes no difference. The point is this. My new mates up the road work their arses off getting their ferryport together. The thing works like a dream. Everyone’s happy. But when it comes to expanding they can’t lift a fucking finger. Why not? Because this bloody government won’t let them.’ He thumped his fist on the desk. ‘Direct quote. Hot off the presses. To raise money, you need government permission. And the tossers just say no.’

‘Why?’

‘Christ knows. Because it looks bad on paper. Because it adds to their borrowing requirement. Because a bunch of non-Tories have got it together and proved public investment works. Either way, it doesn’t matter. These guys down here are local authority. That makes them the enemy. They’re not allowed to make a profit, not allowed to make
things happen for you and me. And here’s another quote. Write it down. Those bums in London don’t care a fuck about us. Never have, never will. If they could privatize everything, they’d do it tomorrow.’ Charlie grinned. ‘Remember, amigo, these guys are local government officers, Mr and Mrs Prim, not some bunch of left-wing loonies. So how does that sound, eh?’ He lifted the champagne glass. ‘I’m definitely moving down. Definitely.’

Barnaby nodded, sipping the champagne. After twenty years, sharing the city with Charlie would be a novel experience.

‘So what will you be selling?’ he asked. ‘Frustration? Anger? Home rule?’

Raising his glass, Charlie narrowed his eyes. ‘If only,’ he said.

Kate Frankham parked the Audi across the road from the long sweep of Regency terrace, asking herself again whether this was such a great idea. A discreet phone call to a contact on the
Sentinel
had confirmed the editor’s intention to run the Billy Goodman story. It was, in his phrase, entirely legitimate. So given the near-certainty that the wretched piece would appear, shouldn’t she just accept the inevitable? Grit her teeth and brave it out? She got out of the car and gazed at the dents in the Audi’s door, irresolute. Then she pulled her jacket around her and stepped off the kerb. You got nowhere in life by simply letting things happen. What mattered, what made a difference, was getting in there and sorting it out.

The receptionist’s desk on the ground floor was still empty. Kate consulted her watch. A bellow of laughter floated down to her from somewhere overhead. Last time
she’d been here, a year and a half ago, Barnaby’s office had been the first door on the right at the top of the stairs. Given most men’s reluctance to change things round, he was probably still there.

Kate made for the stairs, happy to take the chance that she’d find him in. On the first-floor landing, she paused for a second or two, looking at the careful line of eighteenth-century prints that hung on the walls between the offices. She’d had a hand in selecting them, bowing, in the end, to Barnaby’s insistence on something local. The selection she’d come up with had included a couple of real-life studies in social deprivation, half-starved kids begging in the streets, harassed-looking women caged by poverty, and she saw now that those had been replaced by something altogether less offensive: panoramic views of the nineteenth-century dockyard, a quaint engraving of bathing machines on Southsea beach.

Kate smiled to herself, hearing the sound of Barnaby’s voice. He was sharing a joke with somebody. There was more laughter.

She knocked lightly on the office door and stepped inside. Barnaby was sitting with his back to her. Behind the desk was someone she’d never seen before. He was in his mid-forties. He had wild hair and a beautiful jacket. Something in his grin spoke of a sense of infinite mischief.