Upright Piano Player (20 page)

Rosemary, according to Roy, had written the book on the subject.

His mobile rang.

“Ed? I’m so sorry. Some thoughtless bugger decided to jump in front of a train at South Ken and nothing’s moving. I’ll go back up and grab a cab. Should be with you in ten minutes.”

He beckoned a waitress, damned if he was going to wait.

“What would you like, Mr. Needy?”

And that was how—after a formal interview and another lunch at the Connaught—Maude Singer had ended up working once more for Henry Cage & Partners—this time as
personal assistant to the new Head of Human Resources for the UK and Europe.

She no longer ridiculed Ed’s habit of tilting his head in conversation; she had, on the contrary, persuaded herself that it was rather endearing.

It had been Hal who had invited Henry to Norfolk. He had rung early one morning.

“Grandpa, can you come and see us?”

There had been some whispered prompting in the background.

“This weekend, I mean.”

“Oh, hang on a second, I’ll see if I can find Grandpa—this is Albert Entwhistle here. I’ve just popped round to fix Grandpa’s shower. Who shall I say is on the phone?”

“It’s Hal.” Henry heard the uncertainty in the little voice.

“Right, I’ll give him a shout.”

Holding the phone away from his mouth and continuing with the Lancashire accent, he raised his voice.

“Henry, there’s someone on the phone called Hal. He wants to talk to you.”

He held the receiver close again.

“He’s just coming.”

He heard Hal telling his parents what was happening. “I think it’s Grandpa, just pretending.”

“Hello, Hal, is that you?” This time he spoke in his normal voice.

“It was you all the time, wasn’t it, Grandpa?”

“No, it was Albert Entwhistle.”

The boy laughed.

“Will you come and stay with us this weekend?”

“I’d love to.”

“And Grandpa—don’t bring Albert.”

In Florida, on one of their early morning walks, Nessa had suggested that he should buy a weekend place in Norfolk.

“I’m not sure that Tom is ready for that.”

“You’re wrong. We’ve talked about it. They would both love you to be up there. You’d see a lot more of Hal.”

“Nessa, you’re a conniving old woman.”

“It’s a good job I am.”

It had been agreed that Tom and Jane would look out for a property for him. Nessa suggested that it should be an edge-of-village house so that Henry would have no trouble finding a cleaner. She thought the house should be, at least, a twenty-minute drive away from Tom and Jane. (You can be too close to your relatives, she had said.) Oh, and no ponds or rivers in the garden—far too dangerous for children.

“Please do this for me, Henry. I love seeing you with Hal; it reminds me of how you were with Tom when he was little.”

“I hope I’m better than that.”

He drove up on the Friday evening to find that they had arranged for him to look at a house the next morning. It was
called White Horse Farm and he was relieved to discover that the name was misleading. The house sat in only three acres of south-facing garden, the fields and woodland sold off years ago. Two brick and flint barns flanked what had once been the yard; it was now grassed over and planted formally with three rows of hazelnut trees.

At supper they looked at the estate agent’s brochure, Hal turning to the floor plan and pointing to the bedroom he wanted when he came for a sleepover. They were booked in to see the house between 9:30 and 10:15. Twenty people were scheduled to look at the house over the weekend and twelve had already seen it. According to the agent, several of them were considering putting in offers. North Norfolk was fashionable and property prices were already at a level where they were causing bad feeling among the locals.

The house felt right. It was set back from the road and protected by a well-shaped beech hedge. Two big oaks and an ash gave the garden maturity. Roses engulfed the walls of both barns, almost in flower, the “Albertine” more precocious than “New Dawn.”

The sloping lawns were studded with old apple trees, one or two still in blossom, and all of them promising shade in the summer and bounty in the autumn.

Inside, the rooms spread themselves over the two floors in a pleasingly haphazard fashion. The sitting room had windows on two sides and bookcases in all the right places. Henry could imagine living here and was pleased that Tom and Jane shared his enthusiasm. On leaving, he took the agent aside and offered the asking price plus 10 percent. He said he was a
cash buyer and would exchange, without a survey, within two weeks if required. Henry realized he was pushing hard, but the house had been part of Nessa’s plan and he wanted to take the good news to her bedside, while there was still time.

The agent called him on Monday morning. If Henry were prepared to offer 15 percent more than the asking price and exchange within two weeks, the house was his. The owner would take it off the market.

“I’m confident there will be a few more offers this week with a good chance of a bidding war, but the owner wants to get it over and done with. Against my advice, I should add.”

Henry rather liked the agent. On Saturday, he had arrived at the house in a muddy Volvo station wagon with two child seats strapped to the backseat. His name was Hugo Farrant-Copse and Henry guessed he was in his late thirties. He had thinning blond hair, a country complexion, and a languid manner. Henry thought, I would be languid, too, if every new offering I dropped into the housing pool was met with such a feeding frenzy.

“All right, on the condition that you stop showing the house and we do exchange within two weeks, I’ll raise my offer.”

Farrant-Copse was delighted.

“I’ll inform my client. It’s a wonderful house and close to your family. I’m so pleased it’s going to someone with connections in the area.”

“Yes, I’m pleased about that, too,” Henry said.

He closed the door to the yard and locked it behind him. As he expected, there were three parked vehicles—the two flatbeds already loaded for the next day and the Ford van that Morris used. The dog bounded up to him.

“Jock, it’s me—good boy.”

He laid his hand on the Doberman’s flat head and the dog sidled back into the shadows. There was no alarm system. Morris believed that alarm codes were bought and sold in pubs as openly as dud watches and stolen phone cards. He always kept an evil-looking dog around the place and advertised the fact on the yard gates. He would brag that he had never had a break-in.

Colin looked at his watch. It was after midnight. What he had to do would not take long. In his pocket he had a bag of two-inch masonry nails and picking up a hammer from the yard tool case he worked his way round the vehicles. He muffled the thwack of the hammer with a folded cloth. There was little noise. On each of the flatbeds he punctured all four tires at the rear and one of the front tires. On the van he went
for the two back tires. When a nail pierced the wall of the tire there was no immediate drama. The tires were buggered, but they would die a slow death. He was careful to hammer each nail into the shoulder of the tire where it was impossible to make a repair. It would cost Morris a few gray hairs and a couple of thousand to get things back to rights.

It had been awkward getting the nails in the right place and his arm was hurting. He sat down on the bench outside the shed to recover. Jock ambled over and laid his head on the bench, nuzzling Colin’s leg. He scratched the dog’s head with the nail that was still in his hand. The animal closed his eyes and squirmed with pleasure. Colin took the hammer and slammed the nail through the dog’s skull. It was over before he had thought it through. Jock slid onto the concrete floor, not a squeal, not a yelp, death instantaneous. There was blood where the nail had penetrated and for a few seconds a little muscle spasm, but then all was still. Colin looked down with approval. So much for the terror of the yard—Morris’s big-time deterrent! He wiped the shaft of the hammer and put it back in the tool case. He had not planned to kill the dog, but it had worked out well. The tires would get to Morris in a week or two, but walking in on a dead dog would fuck him up tomorrow. He chuckled at the prospect and let himself out, locking the gate behind him. He dropped his yard key down the first drain he saw.

When he had called in at the yard that afternoon he had sensed that something was wrong. One of the trucks was still
out, but two of the boys were busy loading Dave’s truck for the following day.

“How’s it going?”

His greeting had hung in the air, unanswered. When he opened the office door, Dave was just leaving and they did a little dance on the step to avoid one another. Colin had laughed, but Dave simply stomped off, eyes down.

Morris had been pugnacious.

“The lads don’t want you back. And I want an easy life. You can go to the union if you like, but with that bad arm you won’t have a leg to stand on.”

The bastard had actually laughed at his own joke.

“I’m giving you three months’ money in lieu of notice—take it or leave it. I don’t have to do anything.”

He passed an envelope over the desk. “Your papers are in there, too.”

“Oh, thanks very much.”

“You always were a stupid sod, Colin. Just give me your yard key and piss off.”

“Fuck you.”

He’d taken the key from his pocket and thrown it onto the desk. It had bounced up and hit Morris just above his left eyebrow, drawing blood. A small satisfaction, but not as pleasing as the knowledge that back at the flat there was a spare yard key hanging from a hook in the kitchen.