The White Room (34 page)

‘All right,' he said, and stood up.

The two men stood facing each other.

‘I'll let you go,' said Ben. ‘Make whatever financial arrangements you want.'

‘Thank you.'

Ben stepped in close to Jack. Jack could see the unquenchable flames dancing in Ben's eyes.

‘But if you step out of line, or so much as think about stepping out of line, I'll know about it. Don't think you've got away free, because these things have a nasty habit of coming back and biting you on the arse.'

Jack just stared at him.

‘By that I mean it might not be a knife finding its way to the police. It might be a knife finding its way across your throat. Or your girlfriend's. Or your son's. Do we understand each other?'

Jack swallowed hard. ‘Perfectly,' he said.

‘Good. Then get off my property.'

Jack turned and left, walking out of the site and away down the street. Never once looking back. His head throbbing mildly.

The tumour, going into remission.

But reminding him it was still there.

‘Thanks a lot.'

Eric Clapton acknowledged the applause.

‘This one's called “Deserted Cities of the Heart”.'

Nine months after Ralph Bell's disappearance, Jean Bell died.

Nine months. Grief's own gestation period.

Cancer, supposedly, although Jack suspected the real reason was a broken heart. She seemed to have lost the will to live.

The funeral was sparsely attended. Most of Jean's friends had faded away in their own way as she had in hers. Joanne clung to Jack, told him many times she didn't know what she'd do without him. He had often thought the same about her but said nothing in those instances. She needed his strength. He supplied it.

Johnny Bell turned up. It was the first time Jack had seen him since that night at the abattoir. He watched him talking to Joanne, pleased he kept his butcher's hands in his pockets. Jack knew he was only talking to her to annoy him. Unnerve him. It wasn't something he would normally do. He kept glancing across at Jack, smiling at their shared, unacknowledged secret. Almost daring him to say something, challenge him. Jack didn't. Jack couldn't even look him in the eye.

The coffin was lowered, the sparse spattering of mourners then walked back to the black car. Jack held his arm around Joanne. Johnny Bell walked behind them. The smell of old meat and stale blood billowed from him. It turned Jack's stomach, vomited unpleasant memories into his mind.

All he wanted was peace. Life with Joanne.

And he would damn well have it.

The band had finished, the encores done with. Jack and Joanne walked home, arms wrapped around each other.

‘Good night?'

She snuggled into him. ‘The best.'

‘Want to stop off anywhere? Last drink? Club?'

Joanne shook her head. ‘Got some wine at home. Let's go to bed. I want you to play me like Hendrix played that guitar tonight.'

Jack laughed. ‘I thought you'd be sick of sex with me after all this time.'

‘Think again,' she said.

Jack sighed. Eric Clapton and the love of a good woman. A perfect night out. He thought they would have been beyond getting excited about each other after two years. But neither was. In any respect.

‘You're something special, you know that?' He felt his heart would burst with joy when he said those words.

Joanne didn't reply. But she squeezed his arm.

And he knew she was smiling.

They walked home. Jack's head didn't hurt at all.

August 1965–August 1966:

Aftermath

Monica didn't know what to do with herself.

Back and forth it came, ebbing and flowing like a sick tide in and out of her brain. Weeks turning into months. Sometimes she would forget, allow whole days to go without thinking about it. Other times it was all that was there in her mind. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that the man she had seen was Brian Mooney.

She couldn't concentrate, couldn't focus on her life. She was going through the motions with her clients even less than usual. She found it all so tiring, so draining. She stopped seeing some of them. Some of them sensed the change in her, found other outlets. Her trade dwindled.

She had never saved money, preferring to invest in gin rather than pensions. Her income began to dry up. She forced Mae to work harder, made a half-hearted attempt to get herself going again.

But he was there, his grinning face in her head.

Brian Mooney.

And Ralph Bell had never returned.

She was quite relieved, in a way. His self-pitying monologues had finally become too tiresome. He had probably found a more sympathetic listener. Shame. He was a good customer. Regular. And she thought no more about him.

Until one night she came across an old – months old – newspaper wrapping her post-pub fish and chips in. And there, grease-stained and vinegared, was Ralph's picture. And the headline:

MISSING
: Property developer presumed
to have ‘walked off into the night'

Her stomach gave a Spanish City rollercoaster flip. Missing. Her hunger forgotten, she read the article through fully. She read the date he was last seen alive, tried to work it out in her head. It took a while, but she got it. The same date as his last visit to her.

The same date she saw Brian Mooney.

With Ralph.

She read on. His company was due to be sold to Northern Star Properties, run by London-born business entrepreneur Ben Marshall.

She thought of the man again. Brian Mooney. Remembered his accent. London-born.

Ben Marshall.

Brian Mooney.

Same initials.

Another rollercoaster stomach lurch.

She had to do something; she didn't know what.

Two full days she thought about it. Two full days of dwindling clients, drying-up money supplies. She came to a decision.

She knocked on Bert's door that evening. It was a long time since she had seen the rag-and-bone man, even longer since she had slept with him. She felt he had been avoiding her. But she didn't care. She needed an ally. And he was the best she could do.

The door opened. She heard a TV going inside, smelled the remains of cooked food. Normal life. Bert, standing in his customary vest, trousers and braces, didn't hide his surprise at seeing her there. Or the fact that he wasn't pleased.

‘Monica …'

‘Hello, Bert. Can I come in?'

She had one leg raised, mounting the step. Bert didn't move.

‘What d'you want?'

Monica sighed in exasperation.

‘Let us in an' I'll tell you.'

Bert reluctantly moved aside and she entered. He closed the door behind her after looking up and down the street, checking no one had witnessed her entry.

Monica made her way to the front room, stood beside the fireplace and unfolded the copy of the
Evening Chronicle
she had been carrying around for the last few days. She thrust it at Bert, already open at the relevant article.

‘Here. Read that.'

He looked at it, wrinkled his nose. ‘This been wrappin' fish an' chips?'

‘Never mind about that. Just read it.'

‘What for?'

She sighed in exasperation. She felt like hitting him. ‘Just read it.'

Taking the paper, he wearily began to read. He finished, handed it back to her.

‘So?' he said. ‘I can't see what—'

‘Ralph Bell! Ralph Bell!' Monica was almost shouting. ‘I saw him. Just before he disappeared.'

Bert nodded. ‘Right. So what d'you want me to do about it?'

Monica shook her head in exasperation.

‘He was there. At my house. I was with 'im. An' then someone called for 'im. Drove 'im away. An' 'e was never seen again.'

‘Oh,' said Bert. He sat down, didn't invite Monica to. ‘So why don't you go to the police? Tell them?'

‘Oh, don't be stupid, Bert. How can I go to the police? They wouldn't listen to me. An', anyway, I want nothin' to do with them. Especially when I tell them who he was with.'

‘Who?'

Monica sat on the settee next to Bert, her face all stupid fox cunning. She looked right into his eyes.

‘Brian Mooney.'

Bert looked blankly at her. ‘Who?'

‘Oh, for God's sake!' Monica jumped up, paced the room in exasperation. ‘Brian Mooney! Mae's father. The bloke I used to live with.'

Bert frowned. ‘Are you sure?'

‘Of course I'm sure! It was him! Except now 'e's callin' 'imself Ben Marshall. An' talkin' with a London accent.'

‘Are you sure it's 'im?'

‘Yes! The initials! BM! It has to be 'im!'

‘Oh.' Bert sat back thoughtfully. ‘So why are you tellin' me all this?'

Monica sighed.

‘Because I want to ask you a favour.'

‘No, Monica.' Bert shook his head wearily. ‘No. Whatever it is, no. I want nothin' more to do with you. You know that.'

‘There'll be a lot of money in it. A lot. We can share it.'

‘I'm not interested. No.'

‘Just listen. Let me tell you.'

That night in her bed, gin and tonic on the bedside, Monica felt more relaxed than she had in ages. Relaxed and quite excited.

She had talked and Bert had listened. If Brian Mooney was now calling himself Ben Marshall, and he was a well-known businessman, then he would be worth a bob or two. And the last thing he would want would be for someone to expose his past. His illegitimate daughter. He would pay good money not to have that happen.

But they had to be sure it was him.

Her plan: because he would recognize Monica, Bert would ride his rag-and-bone wagon around some of Northern Star's construction sites. See if there was anything he could take. Then get talking to people. Find out more about Ben Marshall. And when they had enough on him, confront him with it. And get paid.

And Bert had seen the pound signs, given in, agreed. They were talking about a lot of money. She wasn't surprised at the speed with which he had said yes.

Monica took a sip of gin that turned into a mouthful that continued until she had drained the glass.

She settled down to sleep, smiling.

Brian had never given her a penny for Mae. Nothing. Well, she'd get more than a penny out of him now.

She closed her eyes, still smiling.

The Red House, the Quayside, Newcastle.

Low ceilings, dark oak beams, white walls. Uneven, wooden floors. The whole building warped and wefted by time, not a straight, vertical line in the whole place. An old shipman's tavern turned bar and restaurant.

Another Dan Smith initiative: business meetings disguised as dinner parties. Conversation flowed with the wine. Food was as plentiful as ideas. Deals were sealed in a select, convivial atmosphere. The waiters had been briefed by Dan beforehand. Food and drink weren't the important things. Conversation was. Told them to read the table: hold off on the entrées if the talk was flowing. Marinate it with Mateus if it wasn't.

Ben Marshall sat back in his seat, glass of rosé in hand. His stomach was full, his waistline expanding. He didn't mind. Wore it as a measure of success.

Nineteen sixty-six was working up to being a good year for Ben. Business was booming, development and redevelopment in full swing thanks to Dan. Ben was now one of the favoured knights in Dan's castle.

Dan was holding court at the far end of the table. Lecturing: regionalism versus nationalism. No takers for a fight, Dan elaborating: regionalism is its own nationalism.

Discuss.

No takers. Only listeners.

Sharon had picked at her food, drank listlessly, hardly spoken all evening. Ben hadn't asked what was wrong with her; assumed she would elaborate in the fullness of time.

He had spent most of the evening talking to the man on his left. Balding, with deep-set eyes that darted the length of the table as he spoke.

‘John Poulson,' he had introduced himself as. ‘Architect. Poulson Associates.'

‘Ben Marshal.' He smiled. ‘I run Northern Star.'

‘Heard a lot about you, Mr Marshall.'

‘Nothing good, I hope.'

The two men laughed, talked. Sharon pushed her food around her plate, sighed. Ben heard the constant, disconsolate scrapings of her knife. Ignored them.

‘So what d'you think of—' John Poulson poked his fork at the head of the table ‘—our friend up there?'

‘Great man,' said Ben, ‘a visionary.'

John Poulson nodded.

‘Yes. I know he puts a lot of people's backs up. About as many as admire him. But he's a good businessman. I can work with him.'

‘What are you doing for him at the moment?'

‘Designing. Couldn't get Le Corbusier. Got me instead.'

Ben laughed politely.

Sharon scraped her knife.

The two men talked. Business.

‘You're right, though, Ben,' said John Poulson, gesturing with his wine glass. ‘Complete packages. That's the thing. Course, you should take things one step further.'

‘How d'you mean?'

‘Them that give you the green light, put them on the payroll. You want clearance? Politically?' John Poulson's voice was hushed, conspiratorial. ‘Get your MP on board. Put him on the payroll. Call him a Parliamentary Consultant. You want it to sound like a good scheme? Get the head of the council. Or whoever's a big noise in the region—' he waved his fork towards the head of the table again ‘—put him on the payroll. Make him your PR man. Charge what you want for the job. And then undercut yourself. Pocket the difference, no questions asked. Know what I mean?'

Ben nodded, smiled.

‘So are you a Socialist,' asked Ben, ‘like Dan?'

John Poulson laughed. ‘A Socialist? Like Dan? I might be like Dan, but I'm not a Socialist. No. Doesn't matter if you're red or blue or even orange. There's only one colour brings politicians together.' He rubbed his thumb and αforefinger together. ‘And that's green.' He smiled.