Live to Tell (44 page)

With a heavy heart Ben left his office and walked south across the River Thames. On the north side of Westminster Bridge, the Big Ben clock was striking the hour. It was eleven a.m., hot and sunny, and he took off his suit jacket. Built in 1750 Westminster Bridge is London’s second oldest and possibly the busiest of all the London bridges. Ben’s journey on foot was slow as his path was blocked by tourists taking photographs. They were jostling each other for a better view of the clock tower, and no matter which way he turned they managed to get in his way. The sky above the river where seagulls wheeled and called was bright blue and even the traffic on the bridge seemed to have a jaunty air. Yet Ben felt worried.

He wondered what sort of reception he would get from the German. Would he sneer or laugh? If he did, Ben knew he had little chance of success, knew everything would be a waste of time. The danger to the woman would get worse until the situation imploded.

On the peaceful south side of the river, St. Thomas’s Hospital stood solid and re-assuring. The hospital cafe was near the entrance to the lower level car-park and easily accessible to the general public. To Ben, it seemed both mundane and anonymous—the last place anyone would imagine as the setting for a clandestine meeting. He anxiously pushed open the heavy glass door and looked around. The place was full. Preoccupied with their own problems, no one seemed to notice him or Jurgen who was already seated at the end of the bar, facing a large window. He waved to Ben.

“Thank you for coming,” Ben said after buying a drink. “This is rather difficult. I’ve been reviewing your file.” Carefully he looked around. Strangely the men seated about them all appeared to be holding their heads in their hands. The women were chatting quietly but also looked worried. I suppose that is to be expected, he thought, when you meet people in a hospital cafe. Good call, he thought. No one will notice us here.

As if reading his thoughts Jurgen said, “When I arrived, because of the crowding I had difficulty getting a seat. I’m surprised you chose this place to discuss terrorism. Or is there another reason? Not a social call surely? I feel if you decide I am not suitable for your group, you should report this to my superiors—not to me.”

“No, no, nothing like that. Gosh, this is rather difficult. I chose this place because we are not likely to be overheard. The reason I wanted to speak to you is actually nothing to do with security.” He paused wondering, if by involving the other man, he had made a stupid mistake.

The German gave a half laugh. “By the green colour of your face, I think there is something unpleasant to come. What is it about?”

“As I said, I saw your file. You lived briefly in Maida Vale. Right?”

“Ah, I see. But as I said, if you have a problem with me you should speak to my boss. I had no control over what happened there. I was er, a bystander, I think is the word.”

Knees jammed under the bar top, the two men sat on high stools side by side looking out the window. Behind them the genuine hospital visitors came and went.

“Can you tell me what happened there?”

“I was under cover. It was part of my training, pretending to be a student of economics. I took a room in an apartment occupied by two art students, a man and a girl. Not lovers, you understand. The man was almost certainly homosexual. They were very close—you know perhaps like brother and sister.” Ben nodded.

“I lived there a short time only. Something happened. Early one morning around four or five o’clock there was an incident. The man was badly beaten. I was with my girlfriend asleep when we were woken by terrible screaming. The girl student was in the doorway to the apartment and the man was lying on the floor. He was beaten; legs and hands broken. You get the picture. Disfigured also. It was terrible. Yes, a lot of blood—sadistic violence. The girl was hysterical and I had to control the situation. What else do you need to know? Emma called the ambulance. No one was prosecuted for the crime, but it was obvious it was the IRA. He was in hospital a long time it seemed. The civil police interviewed me but I knew nothing. That is all I can say.” He stared at Ben, as if daring him, to make more of it.

“What of the girl?”

“There is nothing to tell. Emma, my wife now, who was my girlfriend then, did not trust us there together. She made a fuss, so I moved out. She was right, of course. There was a lot of sexual tension in the air. I did not tell her, but I sometimes went back. Just to make sure everything was okay, you understand? But it all seemed quiet.”

“And the man? You said he was in hospital a long time.”

“Yes. Then he came back. A short time later, he went home to Ireland. Because of the situation, I always felt worried for him. He was a nice person. Eventually I checked, you know, just to make sure. I discovered two years later he died. They told me it was suicide. I know nothing else. Is that enough for you?”

“I’m not checking this because of your involvement. A police file is in my possession that refers to the incident. I realised it was at the same address where you lived. I’m floundering because of the coincidences.”

Jurgen frowned.

“It’s an address that’s already known to me. I have to take a leap of faith,” Ben continued. “I hope I can trust you. If this comes out it will not harm me, but a woman’s life may be in danger. I urge you to keep confidential what I have to say.”

Jurgen nodded and stared at his coffee. Still worried whether he could trust the German, Ben related the story of the anonymous caller.

“The problem I have,” he said, “is that although I have several mug shots of Fenton and would recognise him anywhere, I have no idea what the woman looks like or where she’s living. London is a large city of eight million people and before I can do anything, I have to find her. You see the difficulty?”

“Apart from that, everything is easy? So what do you want from me?”

“If I find her, I may need you to identify her for me. That’s all.”

“That’s all? You British are crazy!”

Ten minutes later the two men left the hospital and shook hands.

“I’ll be in touch,” said Ben. As he walked north, back over the bridge facing the Houses of Parliament, he felt what? He couldn’t decide. Relieved, or just less on edge? He hoped his optimism had a solid base. Now all I have to do is persuade my hesitant phone friend to tell me more, he thought. On an impulse instead of returning to his office, he caught a bus to
Hamley’s,
the large toy store in Regent Street.

Although
Hamley’s
was a well-known shop, it was unknown territory to Ben who had never been there before. Carefully he went in past the tourists crowding the doorway and looked around. Immediately an eager young shop assistant ambushed him. Reluctantly he revealed he was shopping for a glove puppet.

“Is it for a girl or a boy, sir,” she asked.

“Eh?”

“A girl or a boy? The lucky recipient of the gift?”

Ben’s mind went blank. He knew no children at all. “Oh, a little boy. He’s my god-son.”

“How old is he?”

Oh, bloody hell, thought Ben. Why can’t she just show me where they are?

Mum and Dad visited my aunt the next two nights, but the following evening I went alone to the hospital. The lifts to the higher levels all seemed to be delayed, so I climbed the three flights of grey stone stairs to her floor. Gosh, I feel out of breath, I thought on reaching the right one. I need to go to the gym more often. At the entrance to her room I paused to gather myself. A stranger in a dark grey suit was leaning over my aunt and because he held a bouquet of flowers, I realised he was a visitor, not some member of staff. She saw me and waved. The man turned around.

“Hello, Dear,” my aunt said. “Do you remember
Sig.
Alfonso?”

Sig.
Alfonso? He was the hotel owner where we stayed fifteen years earlier in Italy, wasn’t he? He was the very last person I expected to see. He held his arms out to me, flowers and all.

“
Cara,
” he said. “
Mia
bambina.
”

With a crash, Olivier strode behind me into the room. He placed his hand firmly on my left shoulder.

“
No!
Non
`e
neache
il
momento
o
il
posto
giusto,
” he said loudly to my aunt’s visitor.

I had no idea what the words meant but they had an electrifying effect on the man. He took a step backwards and sat down.

“I am sorry,” he said. “My English is not good.
Scusi.
”

Olivier patted my shoulder. “I’ll see you a bit later, when I’ve done my handover,” he said, “I have to get my notes up-to-date. Please excuse me Jess and er, Sir.”

He eventually rejoined us after Mr Alfonso had gone and as I was preparing to leave. “I know things got off on the wrong foot the other evening,” he said as he walked with me to the lift. But the cafe’s still open. Can I persuade you to accept a cup of coffee tonight, perhaps?” He looked quite anxious, so I agreed.

Painted in glossy yellow, orange, and red the cafe was obviously designed to bring cheer to its customers. As well as naive art work on the walls, each table held a plastic plant in a coloured pot. I had not noticed any of this during my first visit.

Olivier brought a tray carrying cappuccinos and Danish pastries. “It is nice to see you again,” he said, as he sat down, “and to catch up on lost time. I couldn’t quite believe it when Jess became my patient. There you were, someone I often thought about.” He looked at me earnestly.

Yes, I thought, stirring the froth, but not often enough to send me a post card.

“I did actually call by the address you gave me, once. But a woman answered the door and said you weren’t there. I guess she put me off. I didn’t explain how I knew you and she might have thought I was selling something.”

I stirred the coffee more briskly. Notwithstanding this revelation, I still felt slightly hostile. “What did you say to Mr Alfonso when you came into the room? You seemed to give him quite a shock.”

“Oh it was nothing. He was probably surprised to be addressed in Italian. I don’t like people waving their arms about in my ward.” Beneath his mop of dark curly hair those familiar eyes sparkled warmly. I finished my coffee and stood up. “Well, thanks for the coffee. I must be off,” I said and turned to go.

“Do you have to go so soon? I was hoping to get to know you again?”

“Sorry.” I said and walked away.

The next morning Angela came into my office. I looked up and smiled at her.

“You’ve had a phone call,” she said with a grin. “A dishy doctor rang and wanted to speak to you.”

I wondered how she knew he was dishy. “Might be from the hospital,” I said. “You know my aunt’s a patient, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t get the impression it was an
official
call. If you see what I mean.” She smiled smugly and I thought she was going to wink at me.

“Anyway, here’s his private number. He’s waiting for your call.”

Angela not only worked for me, she was younger than I was. Yet there were times when she acted as if she were my older sister. After she left my office I stared at the number. It might be important, not just social, I thought. Oh, damn. An hour later I called him. He asked to take me out but I prevaricated, blaming my aunt’s condition. I said I did not want to commit any evening in case I was needed by my family.

I was not due back to visit my aunt in the hospital until two days later and once again as I was leaving, the familiar ritual was replayed. Olivier fussed over my aunt and then asked to speak with me. Down in the underground cafeteria we sat facing one another again, over a bright pink artificial gerbera plant and cups of cappuccino.

“This isn’t good for us, you know—caffeine after eight o’clock. A glass of red wine would be far more beneficial. I’m a doctor. I know about these things.”

He smiled and I pulled a face. He isn’t going to get around me like that, I thought.

“There’s a nice pub up the road on Haverstock Hill. How about joining me for a drink? I realise I owe you an explanation and it’s hardly private here.”