The Loyal Servant (20 page)

‘
User error, Y, N
?’ Dan read out the heading for her. ‘What does that mean?’

Caroline looked down the final column. A ‘Y’ had been entered in every cell. ‘I’ve got no idea.’

Dan took over the scrolling and the rows shot up the screen, like speeded up credits at the end of a film. Caroline had to look away, to stop herself feeling sick.

‘One hundred and… 74 entries.’ Dan frowned.

‘What is it?’ Caroline said. ‘Now you look disappointed.’

‘VL Construction?’ He pointed to the bottom of the screen. ‘Isn’t that the name of the company Dad works for?’

28

Angela Tate dumped her bag on the desk and collapsed onto a chair. She slowly eased off first one shoe, then the other. Three toes on her left foot and two on the right were bleeding through her tights. She held her breath and carefully pulled the nylon away from the skin. Sudden tears sprang into her eyes.

She had walked from Sadler’s Wells to Holborn before finally managing to flag down a cab. Her shoes hadn’t been designed with pavement pounding in mind. But then neither had her feet. She pressed a tentative thumb into the ball of her left foot, then pushed it deeper into the flesh. She massaged anti-clockwise for a couple of minutes, reversed direction for a couple more, then switched to the other foot, sniffing back the tingle in her nose and dabbing her eyes free of moisture.

She threw the offending footwear into the bottom drawer of Jason Morris’s console, slammed it shut and dragged her handbag across the desk. A handwritten note had somehow attached itself to the bottom of the bag. She unpeeled it from the leather and held it at arm’s length. She could only just make out her editor’s tiny initials at the bottom. Dominic Evans wanted to see her. He’d struck through ‘at your earliest convenience’ and written ‘ASAP’ and underlined it three times. Angela screwed the paper into a tight ball and tossed it in the bin under her desk.

Jumped up little sod.

She retrieved her notebook from her bag and flicked through it until she reached the two pages she’d scribbled on at the Family Records Office in Clerkenwell. She’d tried as best she could to duplicate the format of the original ledger, even drawing the boxes around each entry as she copied them onto the page. The official copy of Freddie Larson’s birth certificate she’d ordered wouldn’t arrive for another two weeks. In the meantime she would have to make do with her hastily drawn facsimile.

Betty Larson had visited the register office to record the birth of baby Freddie a month after he was born. His full name was Frederick Joseph Larson. Betty must have allowed herself a little creative licence when describing her estranged husband’s occupation. Fred Larson was down as
Building Engineer
, when in fact at that time he would have been no more qualified than the other hod carriers he worked with. Angela suspected Betty had wanted to give the young Freddie something to aspire to, though God knew what story she’d spun over the years when her son had asked difficult questions about his father.

Daddy abandoned Mummy when you were still in her tummy
.

Maybe she hadn’t explained at all, or told him his father was overseas. Angela often thought her own upbringing had left much to be desired, but Freddie’s story was in a different league. She shook her head as she stared at her scribbled notes.

The meagre facts contained in her reporter’s pad were all she knew for sure about Freddie Jr. It wasn’t much, but the mere fact of his existence was a hell of a lot more than she could have hoped for before meeting Betty. With both the Mrs Larsons offering very little in the way of information about Sir Fred, she decided tracking down his son had to be her next priority. Freddie Jr might just open up a wormhole into the Larson empire, big enough for her to work with a pencil and eventually make a large enough opening to crawl through. All she needed to do now was locate the middle-aged drug fiend.

She switched on her iMac, pulled open the top drawer of the console and dug around in the pile of chewed pen tops, dog-eared pads of Post-Its and half-empty cigarette packets looking for her glasses. All she managed to unearth was a dried up mascara wand, a lipstick in a colour she hadn’t worn for years and an unexpected pack of flavoured condoms she must have bought when the panic about AIDS was at its height in the mid 80s. She supposed they must have exceeded their best before date over a decade ago and shoved them in the bin.

She continued to sift and sort through the rubbish she really should have cleared out and discovered the useless key that had been attached to the console key ring, together with a leaflet about pensions she’d meant to read while it still made sense to make contributions.

But still no sign of her glasses.

She yanked the handle of the middle drawer but it only yielded a couple of inches before stopping.

She turned to her computer and opened a browser window ready to set the font size to maximum, grateful she no longer had to trawl through at least half a dozen editions of the
Yellow Pages
to find what she was looking for. She typed ‘Drug Rehabilitation Centre’ into one search box and ‘London’ into another, hit ‘Go’ and sat back as the page reloaded with a very long list of almost 200 results. She narrowed the search area to ‘Tower Hamlets’, scribbled down the names and numbers of the half dozen or so results then repeated the process using ‘City of London’ as the catchment area instead. Then she spent the next 20 minutes trying to wrangle information from tight-lipped receptionists, getting precisely nowhere.

‘Why can’t you tell me whether or not he’s a patient of yours? For God’s sake – confidentiality has got nothing to do with it. He’s my brother!’ She slammed down the phone and slumped back in her chair.

‘He ain’t heavy, he’s my bro-o-o-ther.’

‘Oh shut up, Frank.’

Frank Carter grabbed her shoulder and squeezed. ‘God – feel the tension in those muscles.’ He squeezed tighter. ‘Since when have you had a brother, anyway?’ He unfastened his hand just before Angela had a chance to dig her nails into it and sat down at the desk opposite hers. He started whistling The Hollies hit.

‘How’s
your
shoulder?’

‘Almost completely healed. Thanks for asking.’

‘Good – you can get me a coffee then.’

‘How did I not see that coming? Must be losing it.’ He got up. ‘Black two sugars?’

‘Just black – I’m trying out new brand of sweetener.’

‘I don’t know why you bother. Nicotine patches, sugar replacements… You’re in perfect shape.’

Angela narrowed her eyes. ‘What are you up to? Do you owe me money I’ve completely forgotten about?’

‘I mean perfect shape for someone of your vintage. Obviously.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and wandered away whistling
The Girl from Ipanema
.

‘Piss off!’

Angela turned back to the phone and punched in the number for the switchboard and asked for the IT department. While she waited to be connected, she glanced down at the list of rehab clinics, thick lines of ink striking through the ones she’d already tried. Only another page to go. She was doodling a climbing rose around the name of the next one on the list when a gravelly voice barked into her ear.

‘Yo! You’re through to Nick in IT, how can I help?’

‘Yo… Nick – I spoke to your colleague earlier. There are some files I need decrypting.’

‘The password protected ones?’

Angela sat up a little straighter. ‘Yes – have you managed to open them up?’

‘No chance.’

‘What?’

‘Takes a while, well… it will take a while as soon as we make a start.’

‘You haven’t even…’
Jesus.
‘How long will it take?’

‘Can’t tell you that. What you’ve got there is a piece of string scenario.’

‘You must be able to do better than that.’

‘It’s not exactly a top priority. Give us a call in a few days.’

‘Days? I don’t have a few days!’ She slammed down the receiver again.

‘They’re not really designed for that sort of abuse,’ Frank Carter murmured into her ear. He clattered a steaming mug down on her desk, so hard the coffee slopped over the edge.

‘Christ, Frank!’

‘Don’t take whatever it is out on me!’

‘It was just a simple request for a cup of coffee and I only asked for it to stop you whistling.’

‘My whistling has been greatly admired over the years.’

‘I bet.’ Angela mopped up the pool of coffee as best she could.

‘Oh, by the way, I saw Evans in the corridor – he wants to see you quick smart. What have you been up to?’

‘Well he can just piss off.’

‘Dare I ask…’ Frank stayed on his feet, shifting his wait from foot to foot, no doubt ready to make a swift exit if he had to. ‘How is the evil academy exposé shaping up?’

‘Let’s not go there, if you want to stay in possession of your vitals.’

Frank made a show of cupping his crotch. ‘Maybe I can help?’

One of the mobile phones trilled in her bag. She stuck in a hand and plucked out the vibrating white Sony Ericsson.

‘You took your time.’ She turned away from Frank.

‘You’re lucky I’m calling you at all.’

‘Don’t start on about “toxic” files again. This is a completely different investigation.’ She glanced over at Jason Morris’ empty desk. Someone had stolen his chair. ‘This is just a road traffic accident and a burglary. Meat and potatoes stuff for you, right?’

‘You’d think.’ The line went very quiet.

‘What is it?’

‘I can’t do any more poking around for a while. It’s getting too uncomfortable.’

‘Are you going to tell me what you’ve found out about Jason Morris’ break-in or what?’

‘No can do.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know what it is you’re involved in, but you should really consider getting yourself out of it as fast as you can.’ Another pause. ‘Look, I really can’t say anymore.’

‘You can’t just—’ The line went dead. Angela stared at the phone as the screen faded. It was beginning to feel as if every door she tried to inch open was being slammed in her face. What was it about Jason’s files that had caused such an extreme reaction?

She turned round to see Frank gazing at her.

‘Boyfriend trouble is it?’ he said.

‘If only it were as uncomplicated as that.’

‘Can Uncle Frank help?’

‘That makes you sound like such an old letch.’ Angela reached under her shoes in the bottom drawer and retrieved a large brown envelope. She pulled out a bundle of photographs and index cards and waved them in the air.

‘OK, Frank – if that was genuine offer before… Maybe you can provide a fresh perspective. God knows I’m getting nowhere.’ She padded over to the empty desk on the other side of the office and carefully placed the various photographs with their corresponding index cards across the surface, in the same groupings she’d decided on previously.

‘I’m trying to link the various runners and riders,’ she said. ‘Make connections between them. I promise any suggestions you make won’t be shot down in flames. At least not straight away.’

Frank peered at the clusters of headshots and cards. ‘These are the shots I took at the funeral.’

‘Mostly, a few library photos to fill in the gaps.’

He walked round the desk, brow furrowed, breathing heavily through his mouth. Angela recognised this as Frank’s concentrating face. Eventually he pointed to a collection of photographs with no label. ‘Who’s this bunch of dodgy characters?’

‘Miscellaneous. All the faces I couldn’t put names to.’ Angela scribbled on a blank index card and placed it beneath the group.

Frank craned his head to read it. ‘
Unidentified
. That’s really helpful, thanks, Ange.’ He stared at the photos more closely. ‘I don’t even remember taking half of these.’ He picked one up. ‘You wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night.’ He turned the picture around so Angela could see it. ‘A face only a mother could love.’

She peered at the bald man with the sunken cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. There was something about his expression that looked familiar. Maybe. The curve of the eyebrows? She snatched the picture and laid it back down on the desk.

‘Oh God – it’s not someone you know, is it Ange? An ex-boyfriend or something? When I said about a dark night—’

‘Shut up, Frank!’ She held a hand over the bald pate, halfway up the forehead, and squinted at the image. It wasn’t possible, was it?

‘Seriously Ange, I’m sorry. I’m sure the fella’s got a lovely personality.’

‘I thought you were trying to help.’ Angela sifted through the other unidentified photos and found another of the same man. In this one he wasn’t exactly smiling, more pulling back his lips and baring his teeth. The effect was no longer dazzling, but he still seemed to have a full set and they were perfectly straight. She slid the first photo next to the Larsons and squinted again. Was there a slight resemblance now where she hadn’t seen one before? She grabbed another index card and scrawled
Freddie Jr
across it.

‘What?’ Frank looked from the card to Angela.

She nodded.

‘You’re kidding me – a secret son?’

‘From his first marriage. I only found out this morning.’

‘From a kosher source?’

‘Does his own mother count as kosher?’

‘Fair enough.’

‘I’ve even been to the records office to check the story out.’ She pointed to the photo of the sunken-faced man. ‘Say hello to Frederick Joseph Larson.’