The Dog Who Came in from the Cold (17 page)

“I suppose so. Who doesn’t?”

She did not register his question. “And do you suffer from sleeplessness? Wake up at odd times?”

He nodded. He had not slept well the previous night. There had been a barking dog somewhere down the road; a magnesium-deficient dog, probably.

“I’ll give you a magnesium supplement,” she said. “Try it for a few weeks and you’ll see the difference.”

He thanked her. “But I think we should talk about your proposition. You said that you had a new product you want to develop.” He took out a notebook. “Tell me about it.”

Dee looked at him doubtfully. “You wouldn’t … take the idea, would you? I’m sorry to sound distrustful, but obviously …”

He held up a hand. “No, don’t apologise. Not for natural caution. Of course you have to be careful. Intellectual property gets stolen every day. You come up with a good idea and the next minute it’s in production somewhere else. And it’s not your name on the packet.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. But I assure you, you’re safe with us. We’d never do something like that.”

There was a silence, another one of those periods of unspoken mutual assessment that occur when we weigh up another person
and choose between trust or natural, self-protective suspicion. What do I know about him? thought Dee. The University of Sussex—a shared background there. The Shaggy Dump—a shared pub. What else? He enjoyed peppermint tea and he likely had a magnesium deficiency. That was all the information she had.

She made her decision. “There’s a substance called ginkgo biloba,” she said. “We sell a lot of it, particularly to people who are worried about memory loss or failing brain power.”

“Who isn’t?” he asked.

“Exactly. And I think that it helps. I really do.”

“And?”

Dee reached for a small bottle from a display on the counter. “See this?” she asked. “This is echinacea. It’s a very common, popular remedy for toning up the immune system. But here it’s being sold as a pill to protect you from germs on aircraft. You take one before you board. People love it. We all know that we’re breathing the same air as a hundred other passengers when we’re on a flight. So we take a pill. And I happen to believe it works.”

Richard was watching her closely. She noticed that he had a slight tic in his right eye. It twitched slightly, almost imperceptibly. “I see where you’re going,” he said quietly. “And I like it. So what are you wanting to sell this ginkgo stuff as?”

“A sudoku remedy,” said Dee. “Improve your sudoku performance with a pill.”

Richard sat back in his chair. He was beaming.

“W
ELL
, I
’M VERY SORRY TO SAY IT
, Rupert, but that meal was not terribly good.”

Rupert Porter looked at his wife, reproachfully at first, but then
he too shook his head in disapproval. “You’re right, Gloria,” he agreed. “It was ghastly. And on your birthday, too! I’m so sorry, my dear.”

Gloria reached out across the table and took his hand. “Don’t even think about it, darling. It’s not your fault. The important thing is that you took me out to dinner.”

He was placated, but not entirely. “It really annoys me, you know. What if we were Americans, for instance, or
a fortiori
French? What would we think of London, paying what we just have for a meal like that?”

“If we were French,” said Gloria, “we would take the view that our prejudices are confirmed.
Les rosbifs
know nothing about food.”

Rupert smiled wryly. “Perhaps we should have ordered
le rosbif
rather than the Dublin Bay prawns.” He paused. “When do you think those Dublin Bay prawns last saw Dublin Bay?”

“A long time ago. A month or two perhaps.”

Rupert nodded his agreement. “Months in the freezer.”

They rose from their table. As they did so, a man sitting in the corner of the restaurant looked in their direction. Gloria noticed his stare, and returned it. How rude, she thought. But the man did not look away. After a moment, she averted her gaze.

“Rupert, that man,” she whispered. “Over there.”

Rupert was struggling with his coat, a rather smart camel hair that he had bought in Jermyn Street. He was proud of this coat, with its velvet collar, which gave him, he thought, a rather raffish look. Prosperous and raffish. “Mr. Ten Per Cent,” Barbara Ragg had muttered when she had first seen him wearing it. He had seen her lips move but had not caught what she said.

“What?”

“I said, what a fetching coat.”

He had preened. “Rather smart, isn’t it. Camel hair, you know.”

“It makes you look … quite the man about town.”

Now, the coat having been donned, he glanced in the direction indicated by Gloria. At first he noticed nothing unusual, but then he intercepted the man’s stare. Quickly he turned away.

“Do you know him?” whispered Gloria.

Rupert made a hurried gesture. “Later,” he muttered. “We can talk later.”

Outside the restaurant Rupert looked at his watch. “The night is still young … Do you know, I’ve had a wonderful idea.”

Gloria took his arm. “All your ideas are wonderful, Rupert.”

“Have you got those keys on you?”

“Which keys?”

“The ones I gave you. The keys to la Ragg’s flat. Or rather, the keys to the flat that she occupies.” He gave Gloria a sideways look, and she understood the meaning immediately. This was a reference to his claim on Barbara’s flat—a claim that might have had no substance in law (in the strictest sense) but had a moral backing which he felt only the deliberately perverse could deny. So he spoke about the flat in the same tones as an irredentist might speak about some ancient and painful territorial claim, or as they might speak in certain quarters about the Spratly Islands or some remote corners of South America—and with equal passion, too.

Gloria glanced in her handbag. “They’re there,” she said. “But, look, that man back there. Did you know him?”

Rupert looked evasive. “Perhaps.”

“What do you mean, perhaps? Either you knew him or you didn’t. And he certainly seemed to know us—he was boring a hole in my back with his stare.”

“He’s a chap called Ratty Mason,” muttered Rupert. “I knew him at school.”

Gloria stopped in her tracks, almost causing Rupert to stumble into her. “Ratty Mason? That’s Ratty Mason?”

Rupert tugged at her arm, encouraging her to walk on. “I think so. I could be wrong, though. It was dark in there.”

“Well, well,” exclaimed Gloria. “At long last I’ve caught sight of Ratty Mason. How long is it since you saw him?”

“Ages,” said Rupert. “Not since I was at Uppingham. A long time ago, as you know.”

Gloria was not going to let matters rest at that. She had tried before to get Rupert to talk about Ratty Mason, whose name had come up in some context that she did not recall. Rupert had refused, changing the subject rather quickly. She was determined to find out now, though, and she pressed him again. “Why was he called Ratty?”

“He just was,” said Rupert. “That’s what we called him in those days. Everybody had a nickname.”

“Was he ratty?”

“Not especially. Sometimes the nicknames were chosen at random. There was a boy called Octopus Watkins. I have no idea how he got that name. He didn’t have eight arms and legs, as I recall. Did you have nicknames at your school?”

Gloria could spot an attempt to change the subject. “Ratty,” she persisted, “suggests that he was, well, rat-like. Or that he turned people in to the authorities. One rats on people, doesn’t one?”

“Maybe.”

She stopped him again. “Come on, Rupert, you can’t fool me. There’s something fishy here. Why this reticence about Ratty Mason?”

He turned to her, his eyes narrowed. “Just leave Ratty Mason out of it, will you? I don’t want to talk about him. He’s history.”

“Were you very friendly with him?”

Rupert snorted. “Me? Friendly with Ratty Mason? Don’t make me laugh.”

“So there
was
a problem then. What happened? Did he … betray you?”

At the mention of betrayal, Rupert sighed again. “I really don’t want to stand here in the middle of the pavement talking about
somebody like Ratty Mason. I had a really very good idea and now you’ve gone and spoiled it.”

Gloria thought for a moment. Ratty Mason could wait; there would be another opportunity. “All right, what’s your idea?”

“We go to Barbara’s flat and have a look round,” he said. “You’ve got the keys.”

Rupert was holding Gloria’s arm as he spoke, and he felt a jolt of excitement running through her.

“Rupert!”

“
Pourquoi non?
We have la Ragg’s authority to go and let in those boiler people, so does it make any difference if we merely exercise that right of access a bit early? I don’t think it does. Not in the slightest, if you ask me.”

“You make it sound so simple. But what would we do once we’re in?”

“As I said, look around. We could see how she’s using the place to which we are morally entitled. It’ll be like a U.N. inspection. That sort of thing.”

Gloria looked about her, as if to see whether anybody might be capable of overhearing this dangerous suggestion. “All right,” she said. “I can just imagine what it’ll be like.”

“So can I,” said Rupert, chuckling. “Frightful taste, I bet. Flying ducks on the wall?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Gloria. “We must brace ourselves.”

B
ARBARA
R
AGG’S FLAT
was on a street that ran off Kensington Park Road. It was not the most expensive part of Notting Hill—there were more fashionable and sought-after addresses—but it was, by any standards, comfortable and secure. From Barbara’s point of
view, it was ideal. The flat faced southwest and benefited from the late afternoon sun; the neighbours were quiet and inoffensive, but sufficiently attentive to any unusual occurrences to amount to an informal neighbourhood watch; the roof was in good order; and there were never any unseemly arguments with landlords or residents about the cost of painting the railings that gave onto the street or any of the other shared parts of the building. Barbara found it difficult to imagine herself living in any other area of London, and if she looked at the property pages of the newspapers it was only to reflect on her good fortune in being where she was, in having what she had.

The features of the flat which appealed to Barbara were, as it happened, exactly the same ones that gave rise to an intense and burning jealousy on the part of Rupert Porter. The flat he occupied with Gloria faced in the wrong direction and got very little light at any time of the day. It was also far pokier, having been built at a time when the Victorian confidence that inspired the architects of Barbara’s flat had somehow flagged; perhaps there had been a defeat somewhere in that rambling empire, or a financial downturn, sufficient to make Rupert’s windows and ceilings meaner, his public rooms less commodious.

Everyone knows, of course, that there are people who live in better accommodation than we do ourselves. Even the wealthy, in their well-appointed mansions, know that there are even wealthier people occupying even better-appointed homes. At work, too, inequalities abound. Civil servants, as is well known, measure the size of their carpets to establish where they are in the pecking order; ministerial cars are carefully graded by engine capacity to suit the seniority of the person to whom they are allocated; in airports there are lounges for every grade of traveller, and for the lowest grade, no lounge at all. We all know this and accept that some people have things which we do not—unless we feel that they do not deserve what they have, in
which case we look forward to their dispossession. Rupert generally did not resent the residential good fortune of others; he did not scowl as he walked past people standing on the doorsteps of houses that were clearly more desirable than his. That was not the issue. The issue was Barbara’s occupancy of the flat that had once belonged to his father, Fatty Porter, and out of which he, Rupert, and any future Porters, had been
cheated
. Or so he believed; the fact that the flat had been quite properly sold to Barbara’s father was not the point. Behind some contracts there is a hinterland of interpretation, and in Rupert’s view the Raggs had quite simply
tricked
the Porters by ignoring what everybody involved plainly understood.

That was the history. And that was what Rupert was thinking about as he and Gloria made their way to the front door of Sydney Villa. There Rupert glanced quickly at the nameplate next to Barbara’s doorbell—
Ragg
. He flushed with anger.
Porter
, it should have read.

“The keys,” he said, his voice lowered.

Gloria fished about in her bag. “Here they are. Rupert, I wonder …”

“No,” said Rupert. “We mustn’t change our minds. Remember: we’re
entitled
to this place. La Ragg is really not much more than a squatter.”

“But Watergate …”

“Nonsense!” He smiled. “Notting Hillgate, if you must.”

There was an awkward moment as Rupert fitted the key into its keyhole. It was slightly stiff, and he had to withdraw it twice before it slotted into place. It occurred to him that his lack of familiarity with the key could alert any observer, but there was nobody watching, and he succeeded in opening the front door on the third attempt.

They moved through the common entrance hall and took the stairs up to Barbara’s landing. They opened the door to the flat and went into Barbara’s entrance hall. Rupert found a light switch and
flicked it on. He pointed to a picture hanging on the far wall. “Ghastly,” he said. “She goes in for that sort of stuff in the office too. Look at it.”

“Pretty awful,” said Gloria. “Let’s look at her kitchen.”

Rupert was more interested in the drawing room, a room he had always particularly liked, but he wanted Gloria to have some fun too, so he followed her through to the kitchen.

“She’s got one of those cheap blenders,” said Gloria. “And look at this crockery. That’s what happens when you put non-dishwasher-proof plates in the dishwasher. See here. And here. It takes off all the decoration.” She paused, examining a plate more closely. “Mind you, some decoration is best removed, I suppose.”