The Meddlers (39 page)

He flashed the intercom, after he’d hung up the phone, and said crisply, “Send Bridges in now, will you? No, no coffee. This won’t
take long. And then call Graham and say—exactly, now—Sir Daniel’s compliments, and would he be kind enough to come and see him in his private office in fifteen minutes to join him for lunch. Right? And book a table for us at the Garden—no, er, make it the Savoy. Yes.”

Mike took the initiative as soon as he was sitting down, facing him over the desk.

“I’m sorry about it. Very sorry. But I couldn’t find the girl, and it’s obvious to me that I’m not going to be able to. So I can’t get you the story.”

“I am not concerned about that.” Sefton leaned back in his chair and looked at Mike consideringly. “The time for that has passed. You must surely realize that?”

“Passed? How do you mean?”

“The child’s gone, for heaven’s sake, man. Use your head!”

“Missing at the moment, yes. But they’ll get him back.”

“Are you sure? I wish I were so sanguine. The woman’s obviously mad. You realize what the outcome can be? She’s been on the loose for three full days. And you know as well as I do that the longer the time is, the more likely it is she’s panicked. Every policeman in the country searching, the whole damned population watching for her—do you know how many calls a day we’re getting? They’re jamming the switchboard. No, Bridges, the time has passed for what I had originally planned. It is my misfortune that Briant had so little control over his project. He’s destroyed my investment with his wretched stupidity. Destroyed it utterly. My task now is to cut my losses, cut them as finely as I can.”

“I see. You’re relinquishing your support of Briant?”

“Indeed I am. Only a fool remains on a losing side, and I am not a fool, even if my judgment has been awry on this occasion.”

“So, where do we go from here?”

“I know where
I’m
going, Bridges. The question is, where are
you going
?” And he smiled thinly.

Mike frowned sharply and lifted his chin to stare at the smooth square face. Then he said very softly, “Suppose you tell me.”

“I am not enjoying this, Bridges. Not in the least. It is always distressing to me when individuals suffer because of other people’s
ineptitude. But this is virtually out of my hands. My duty is to the Echo and its readers. I must find a way to help my readers understand why it is necessary for us to change our—tack, shall we say?— without losing too many of them. If only Briant had been the capable man I had believed him to be.” He shook his head sadly. “But something went wrong with him. Perhaps his private problems came between him and his work and affected his judgment. Who can say? Whatever it was that caused the situation, it inevitably has repercussions and unfortunately, it happens that individuals are caught by them, and suffer through no fault of their own. I am suffering personally. No man enjoys knowing he has lacked shrewdness, failed to accurately foresee an outcome. The infant, one is forced to fear, is suffering or has suffered some—well, we must wait and see about that. And you—”

“Yes? What about me? Do tell me. I’m positively panting to hear of the role you’ve assigned to me in your—”

“Come, now, Bridges, there’s no point in taking that tone. There is nothing personal in any of this, and you must see that. Let us be gentlemen about the matter—”

“OK. So I’m a gentleman. And I want to know what the bloody hell it is that you’re planning and that affects me. A little less of the best butter and a bit more solid information would—”

“James McClarrie is coming to me from the Clarion. Not as good a science background as yours, I know, but he has written some excellent anti-Briant pieces, and with the right handling of the publicity about his decision to join the Echo’s team, I think our readers will—”

“Accept me as a scapegoat. Is that it? You’ll make it look as though the Echo’s point of view was based on my attitudes, that all your drum-beating for Briant was my idea, and that now the thing’s gone sour, I’ve been chucked? Is that it? Christ, but you’re a bastard, Sefton! I wrote the stuff I did entirely at your instigation. At the start of the whole thing, I was prepared to give you straight-down-the-middle stuff, no judgments, just straight factual reporting. But you turn me into a commentator, and now because you— my God, but you’re a bastard.”

“An undignified exchange of personalities is of small value,
Bridges. I will forget your remarks, since you are naturally distressed at the thought of leaving the Echo. I—”

“Bloody big of you! You’ll forget! Big deal!” Mike was on his feet, his face white with fury. “Well, I’ll tell you something. I’m not so conveniently good at forgetting. And I remember something you’d very much like forgotten! The fact that you financed Briant. Oh, boy, that’ll interest a few people.”

Sefton raised his eyebrows and said gently, “I agree. It would. If it were true.”

“If it were true! You know you—”

“I know what constitutes truth, Bridges. Mere statements do not. To have the real ring of, er, verisimilitude, one needs evidence. Documentary evidence. And there is none.”

“You entered into a contract. The legal—”

Sefton smiled again. “You must think me remarkably stupid, Bridges. Without making any admissions, let me ask you to consider a hypothetical situation.
Suppose
a man such as myself drew up a contract without external legal aid, having sufficient knowledge of legal methodology to do so.
Suppose
the other party to such a private contract lacked similar knowledge and therefore accepted it. And
suppose
in exchange for an assurance that the first party would not demand any restitution of monies paid under it, for which that first party had not received fair recompense, the second party agreed to return the contract copy he held? Where would be any documentary proof that the arrangement had ever been made?”

He leaned forward and spoke in a very quiet voice, his eyes fixed on Mike’s face.

“Mr. Bridges. Let me warn you against making any such wild statements as you seem to envisage. In the absence of any real proof, you would be hard put to it indeed to make any defense should a case be brought against you for libel, or slander, or both. I make myself abundantly clear? I trust so. And now…”

He leaned back again and once again produced his affable smile. “And now we will put this unfortunate few minutes of conversation quite out of mind. I am a fair man, Bridges, and you will find that Gorton has for you a check that takes into account the sterling
work you have done in the past, and the sad ending of what has been a comparatively harmonious relationship between us. I have gone to some pains to ensure that you have no case to take to the NUJ. The Father of your Chapel is a most, ah, intelligent man. And having seen the amount of your copy we have decided to spike this past few days, and knowing of the failure to get the girl’s story—well, I really wouldn’t try to make this a union matter, my dear boy. Hardly worth the trouble.”

“My failure to get—oh, my God!” Mike began to laugh, throwing his head back, and Sefton frowned and reached for his intercom. “Mr. Bridges is ready to go, if you please.”

When the door opened behind him and the tall secretary came in to stand heavily beside him, Mike was no longer laughing but staring somberly at the man at the desk.

“Goodbye, Mr. Bridges. I trust you will soon decide on your future. I wish you all success in it, wherever it may lead you.”

Sefton bent his head to his desk, and the secretary stood back with exaggerated courtesy to leave a clear way to the door. Mike looked back when he reached it and stared for a moment at the man behind the desk and then shrugged.

“Well, Sefton, you old bastard, there’s one thing I’ve got out of this that you didn’t get your filthy hands on, and I’m grateful for that. I failed to get the girl’s story! Oh, boy, oh, boy! That’s really beautiful.”

The door opened, and Mike turned to see Graham standing hesitantly in its opening.

“Your secretary isn’t in the anteroom, Sir Daniel—oh! I’m sorry if I—”

“My dear Graham! Do come in. I’m quite free now.” Sir Daniel stood up and came around the desk, his hand outstretched. “Now, my dear fellow, a little sherry before we go?”

“Er, thank you.” Graham looked slightly puzzled, and Mike laughed again and said viciously, “You’d better take it, chum. With the sort of licking you’ll be expected to do for the next little while, you’re going to have a right crappy taste in your mouth without something to take the edge off!”

And he slammed through the door, taking immense pleasure in
elbowing the secretary to one side so violently that he nearly fell.

  I’m so tired, Georgie, so tired, all the way through to my middle. So tired. I’ll tell my mum about it, and she’ll give me some…

She shivered and shook her head, trying to clear it. It was so silly, the way she got all mixed up, sometimes feeling as though she were Georgie and seeing her mum’s face as clear as if she were there, and then knowing she had been dead these years and years, but hearing her talking.

She rummaged in the big bag on the seat beside her, looking for—what? She had already forgotten, even as she stared into its cluttered mess of diapers and bits of food in screws of paper. It was getting harder and harder to think properly, to remember what it was all about. It had been for so long, all her life, it seemed, that it had been going on, walking from place to place, with Georgie getting heavier on her arm, and her feet hurting so that she felt the ache deep in her belly, across her back, merging with the ache in her head. If she could only find a proper bed to sleep in instead of park benches and all-night launderettes—though they were at least warm—that would make all the difference. Just to lie down instead of sitting and walking and then sitting again. Somewhere warm and safe and soft where she could lie down and sleep.

There was a rhythmic beat coming from somewhere, and she listened to it, and the sound of it merged with the thought of a soft safe warm bed, with the thought of lying in the cot with the pulsing mattress. No,
Georgie
, lying in the pulsing cot, not herself.
Georgie
…

The beat softened, merged with the high sweetness of violins, and she blinked and quite suddenly her head was clear again and she stared around at the big high-vaulted concourse, at the hurrying people sweeping past the smokily dim lights of the platform barriers, the knotted groups clustered around heaps of luggage, the long slow-moving trucks driven by grubby-looking men in shapeless uniforms, the bright cases of neon signs and bookstalls and coffee trolleys, and for a moment panic came back. How long had she been sitting here? Had someone noticed her, noticed Georgie bundied
in his thin blanket on the seat beside her, started wondering, connecting her with the placards by the bookstalls, and their shrieking “Briant Baby! Latest Developments!”?

“… the seven-fifteen from Cardiff, due at platform seven, now running forty-nine minutes late. British Rail regrets… signal failure…” The voice boomed its muffled echoes, and then the music rose again, thin and sweet, blending with a smell of coffee from the stall at the end of the row of benches on which she was sitting. I’m hungry, she thought suddenly. I’ll have to eat something or my milk will go off and Georgie—I’ll have to eat something. And she turned again to the bag beside her, remembering what it was she had started to look for.

It was darker suddenly, and she had to peer closer into the bag. There were still some biscuits, weren’t there? There should be, somewhere. And then maybe with some coffee from the stall she’d feel better, and it would be time to find somewhere to feed Georgie. He was still sleeping, but soon, he’d be hungry, and they said he must never cry for a feed, didn’t they? But the darkness in the bag moved and she knew with sudden sick certainty that it was a shadow and looked up, staring at the man looking down at her, and felt her face stiffen with fear. He was wearing a dark overcoat and holding a soft hat in one hand, the other plunged deep in his coat pocket, and she thought, He’s a policeman. He smells like a policeman and he’s noticed…

“Excuse me, madam, just making a routine check.”

“It’s running forty-nine minutes late, they said, didn’t they?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Cardiff train—running forty-nine minutes late? It’s shocking the way they keep you hanging around in these places—and my baby’ll be getting hungry soon.”

She leaned sideways and picked up the bundled Georgie and looked over him at the watchful face staring at her and suddenly held the bundle out invitingly.

“I’ll have to phone home and tell them—running forty-nine minutes late, and they’ll be worrying. But my baby—Jenny—will you hold her for me while I go to the phone? I won’t be a minute.”

He looked at her carefully for a moment and then relaxed his
watchfulness and shook his head and smiled thinly. “Sorry, madam, can’t help, I’m afraid. One of these ladies, maybe.” He turned his head briefly to look along the lines of self-absorbed people on the benches and then back to her. “Or try the Ladies’— someone there’ll oblige, I’m sure. Waiting for someone on the train, are you?”

“My mother. The Ladies’, yes, that’s what I’ll do. Thanks.” Awkwardly, she stood up, hefting Georgie to her other arm, and picked up the bag and moved away, feeling his eyes on her back, consideringly, but he didn’t follow her, and when she reached the far side and the door marked “Ladies’ Waiting Room,” she looked back and saw him bending over and talking to a woman with a pushchair beside her. And she giggled inside her head and thought, Silly, silly, silly. That baby, it’s at least a year old. Doesn’t he know that? That’s not Georgie, and he let me go because he didn’t know that. Silly, silly, silly.

God is on our side, Georgie, she said silently as she plodded heavily down the steps toward the lavatories. Every time, He does it, puts the words there, makes them come out right, every time. I wish I wasn’t so hungry.

She stood for a moment in the cold whiteness of the lavatory area until the fat overalled woman with a towel over her arm took a penny from the girl who had gone clattering down the stairs in front of her. When the attendant had clicked open one of the heavy doors and gone in to wipe around the seat, she moved quickly across to the far side and fumbled a penny from her bag and was inside before the woman could notice. As. long as they didn’t see you go in, they couldn’t tell how long you’d been there. She couldn’t stand it again, having them bang and bang on the door, and then open it from outside and stare at her perched there with Georgie at her breast. That time, the woman had been all right, she’d had six herself she’d said, and you couldn’t just feed them any old where, could you? And she kept her lavs as sweet and clean as any, so no harm done. But she couldn’t face that again.