The Loyal Servant (28 page)

‘No, not really. Apart from the two nice men from the party.’

‘Really?’

‘They were very kind, so sympathetic. They said I could ask them for help if I needed it, any time.’

‘That was nice of them.’

Like a pair of circling buzzards.

‘It was, wasn’t it?’

Samantha bit her lip. Her teeth were dazzlingly white against the redness of her mouth. Caroline took a moment to study the woman’s tanned face. For someone who obviously enjoyed sunbathing, Samantha had remarkably few wrinkles. It was impossible to gauge how old she was, but presumably she was quite a few years younger than Martin. Curiosity finally got the better of her.

‘Are you Martin’s cousin on his mother’s or father’s side?’

Samantha stared at her and tilted her perfectly sculpted chin towards her chest and let out a squeaky giggle.

‘I can’t really see a family resemblance.’

‘Why are you teasing me?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You really don’t know?’

Caroline put down the coffee mug and leaned towards Samantha. There it was again, Martin’s cologne. Samantha must have been wearing it. ‘No,’ Caroline said. ‘I really don’t.’

‘But I thought Marty would’ve told you about me. He trusted you. I assumed he told you everything.’

Caroline sniffed in a breath and released it slowly.

‘I’m not his cousin!’ Samantha flicked her hair from her face and pulled back her shoulders, sticking out her round breasts. ‘Matthew – my publicist – thought the cousin thing was a good idea. He said it’d give me some breathing space. While we worked out a strategy. You know, whether or not to wait until closer to the election. Matthew says it’ll have more impact if we do.’ She stopped and put a hand to her mouth. ‘God that sounds so calculating, doesn’t it?’

‘Wait for what?’

‘Marty was the closest thing to family I ever had.’ She looked down at her hands. She was twisting a small silver ring around her middle finger. ‘He paid for all of this.’ She waved her hands up and down her body. ‘And the hormone treatment before the surgery. He knew how much it meant to me.’ She sniffed and lifted her head back, like a newly-crowned beauty queen who doesn’t want to spoil her make-up. ‘Marty was always so generous. This doesn’t come cheap, you know – not if you want it done properly.’

Caroline didn’t know where to look. ‘Treatment? I’m sorry, I had no idea you’d been ill.’

‘Oh I wasn’t ill. Though I know some people think of it as a condition. God, some people even say it’s a sickness, don’t they? But I like to think of it as ironing out nature’s wrinkles. Correcting her mistakes.’

Was she just talking about plastic surgery? Breast enhancement? A face-lift? Caroline realised her mouth was hanging open. She snapped it shut.

‘I’m sorry. It must be quite a shock.’ She managed a smile. ‘You don’t know anything about me and Marty, do you? And yet Marty told me all about you and your family and the work you were doing with him. How important it was to both of you.’

Caroline gripped the arm of the sofa. ‘Were you and Martin a couple?’

‘You really didn’t know?’

Caroline shook her head.

‘We broke up after I first started my treatment. I was going through such a big transition I needed to be… unattached… free. It’s hard to explain.’

Caroline had a flash of a darkened hotel room, the awkward, embarrassed fumbling.

Oh God!

A sudden chill shivered up both arms and crept across her shoulders. How could she have been so blind? So caught up in her infatuation with Martin, when all the time… She got up and quickly fell back down again. Her legs felt like they’d been filleted by an expert fishmonger. She took a deep breath and stood slowly, testing her balance, working out if she could make it to the front door.

‘I should go,’ she said.

Samantha jumped up. ‘I’ve really shocked you – I’m so sorry. That’s why Matthew thought it best to leave it a few weeks. The whole gender reassignment thing is shocking for some people.’

Slowly, Caroline stepped around the sofa and into the hall. Samantha followed her to the front door. Caroline stopped, the door half open.

‘Leave what?’ she said.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You said your publicist—’

‘Going public with my story. He’s thinking the
Daily Mail
. Or maybe the
Sunday Mirror
. There’s a book deal in the pipeline as well. I’ve still got to choose the ghostwriter. It needs to be someone sympathetic. Someone who understands the process, someone—’

‘What about the note?’

‘What note?’

‘Earlier – you said Martin’s suicide note was total fantasy. But now you’re telling me you were his lover.’

‘Take it from me.’ Samantha held out her hand and squeezed Caroline’s arm. ‘That note was
totally
made up. Marty was never ashamed. Of anything. He was discreet, always. Private. But he was never ashamed of who he happened to fall in love with. God no.’

‘You should have said that when it was all over the newspapers. Why didn’t you?’ Caroline unpeeled the woman’s bony fingers from her arm. ‘Don’t tell me – your publicist told you not to.’

‘I was upset and confused. Vulnerable. I probably shouldn’t have listened to him.’

Caroline stepped through the door then turned back. ‘Can I ask you to do something for me? Not for me… for Martin?’

Samantha nodded, keeping her gaze locked on the ground.

‘Don’t listen to your publicist again. You said it yourself just now. Martin was private. Discreet. Hasn’t he given you enough already?’

Samantha’s nostrils flared, a tear ran down her cheek.

‘Keep your revelations to yourself and let Martin rest in peace.’

39

Frank Carter’s 20-year-old Mercedes had filled with smoke.

‘Crack a window, will you?’ Angela Tate waved a hand in front of her face, trying to coax the cigarette fumes back in Frank’s direction.

‘I thought we were trying to remain inconspicuous.’ He wound the driver window down an inch.

‘If the car gets any smokier someone’ll call the fire brigade.’ She coughed. ‘We won’t blend into our surroundings then.’

‘When did you become such an ex-smoking fascist anyway?’

‘Let me think… how long have we been sitting here?’

Frank checked his watch. ‘That’s a good point actually, Ange. What time is Freddie Junior supposed to show?’

‘Lunchtime.’

‘It’s 2:15.’

Angela peered towards the glossy red door of a four-storey Georgian building across the street. There had been no movement in or out of the drug rehabilitation clinic since they’d arrived – just after 11.30am.

‘I think that fella saw you coming. You can’t trust a junkie.’

‘Ex-junkie getting treatment.’

Frank rolled his eyes.

Angela continued to stare through the windscreen, getting an uncomfortable feeling that Frank and his unstinting lack of faith in human nature might actually be proved right on this occasion. She could have sworn the man who’d told her about Freddie’s lunchtime appointment was telling the truth. Maybe she was losing her touch.

‘Aye, aye.’ Frank tapped a finger against the rear-view mirror. ‘Don’t look round, but some bald bloke is heading towards us at speed.’

Angela resisted the urge to turn round and finally spotted Freddie as he ran up the flight of stone steps leading to the clinic’s front door.

‘Well, go on if you’re going.’ Frank nudged her with an elbow.

‘I’m not chasing him inside. That’s not the plan. Why did you think I wanted your car?’

‘The car? I thought you wanted to have me around in case he got nasty. And for moral support.’

‘Those things are a welcome bonus. I do appreciate you looking out for me, Frank. Really I do.’ She glanced at the beer belly overhanging his belt. ‘Although in hand-to-hand combat I’d fancy my chances more than yours.’ She squeezed his upper arm trying to find a bicep, but only managed to grab a handful of flab. ‘No – the plan is to wait for him to come out and follow him home.’

‘Oh that’s OK then. Simple.’ He hit the steering wheel with both hands. ‘How do you even know he’s going home afterwards?’

‘He’s getting his
medicine
isn’t he? He’ll want to get back home with it.’

Frank was shaking his head. ‘What if he lives a tube ride away? How do you propose we follow him then?’

‘All right – I’ll grab him on the way out. I’ve just got a feeling he’s local. I didn’t want to accost him in the middle of the street.’

‘Looks like that’s you’re only option.’

After 20 minutes Frank started fidgeting again, adjusting his headrest, straightening the seatback, tweaking the rear-view mirror. ‘There’s not a back way out, is there?’ He lit another cigarette.

‘I didn’t do a 360 degree recce – I don’t know.’

A sudden rap on the glass of the driver’s window jolted Frank out of his seat. His cigarette dropped into his lap.

‘Jesus Christ!’ He slapped frantically at his leg trying to extinguish the burning tip.

Angela saw the hairy knuckle tap the glass again. ‘For God’s sake, Frank, wind down your window.’

A policeman wearing a cap displaying the insignia of the City of London Police stuck his head through the gap. ‘Can I ask you what your business is in this area, sir?’

‘I erm… I’m just waiting’

‘Waiting for what, sir?’

‘It’s our son – he’s in the clinic over the road.’ Angela leaned over and put a hand on Frank’s thigh, flicking the dead cigarette into the footwell. She smiled at the police officer. ‘We’re just here to make sure he gets home OK after his treatment.’

‘I’m sorry, madam. You can’t stay here. No waiting permitted.’

‘But I need to—’

‘You can wait for him on foot, but the vehicle has to move. There’s a multi-story a few hundred metres up the road.’

‘OK, officer – will do.’ Frank waited for the head to withdraw and quickly wound the window back up. ‘Poxy ring of steel. It’s like the bloody Gestapo.’

Angela opened her door.

‘I’ll get back as fast as I can. But in the meantime you’re on your own with freaky Freddie.’

‘I’m sure I’ll cope.’ She swung her legs out of the car and grabbed her bag.

‘Good luck, Ange.’

She waved at Frank as he pulled away and nodded to the policeman, watching him return to his colleague still sitting in the squad car, hoping Freddie wouldn’t make an appearance until they’d driven away.

She needn’t have worried. It was another ten minutes before the bright red door opened again. A stocky nurse dressed in a pristine white tunic and blue trousers held a fist tight around Freddie Larson’s arm. He walked him down the steps and deposited him on the pavement. Freddie looked dazed for a moment, as if his eyes were adjusting to the light. The nurse jogged back up the stairs and slipped back behind the door.

‘You can’t do this!’ Freddie shouted up the steps, his voice croaking and cracking. ‘It’s illegal. I need my medicine!’

Angela hurried across the street. ‘Mr Larson?’

Freddie spun round to face her. He watched her suspiciously as she reached his side of the road. ‘Who wants to know?’

Angela had told herself she’d be able to decide in a split second whether to go with the truth or a lie at the outset. But as she looked into his sweating face she wasn’t sure which way to play it.
When in doubt, play for time.

‘I saw what just happened. Are you OK?’

‘What’s it to you? How do you know my name? Do you work for that bunch of shysters?’

‘The clinic? No! Not at all.’ She scanned his face. The wild look he had in his eyes only moments before had almost disappeared. ‘My name’s Angela Tate. They can’t treat people like that. Do you want me to call the police?’

‘Fuck no.’ He took a step towards her. ‘You still haven’t answered my question.’

She shrugged.

‘How do you know me?’

She let out a breath. ‘I’m trying to locate all the mourners who attended Martin Fox’s funeral.’

‘Are you a lawyer? Has he left me something in his will?’ He wrapped his long arms round his body and rocked forwards and back on the balls of his feet.

‘Were you expecting him to?’

‘A simple yes or no would suffice. I can’t be wasting time here. I’m a busy man.’

‘Has the clinic refused you treatment?’

‘What?’

‘You’ve come out empty handed.’

‘Who are you? Nosy bitch.’

‘I work for the
Evening News
.’

‘You’re a fucking hack? What did you say your name was?’

‘Tate.’

‘Should I have heard of you?’

‘Not really.’ She glanced up the quiet little side road towards the traffic ploughing up and down Bishopsgate. ‘Look. Why don’t I call us a cab, take you home. We can talk better there.’

He hugged himself tighter. ‘Why should I talk to you?’

‘You might find it… financially rewarding.’

‘How much?’

‘Depends on what you tell me.’

‘I don’t want to go home. I’m going to score fuck all there.’

‘I can take you wherever you want to go.’ She gestured for him to follow her to up the main road.

‘How do I know it’s not a trap? How do I know you haven’t got a fake cab waiting round the corner, ready to kidnap me?’

Paranoid bloody bastard
.

‘Who would want to kidnap you?’

‘God botherers. Wouldn’t be the first time she’s tried to have me abducted.’ He shook his head.

‘She?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ He blew out a congested breath. ‘Got any cigarettes?’

Angela reached into her bag and handed him a pack of ten and her lighter. ‘Keep them.’

‘You can’t buy me off that easily.’

‘I don’t doubt that.’ She pointed towards the streaming traffic at the end of the road. ‘Shall we?’

‘How much have you got on you?’ He eyed her handbag. She squeezed it tighter.

‘I’m not carrying anything. That’s not the way it works. You talk to me, I go back to my editor, he writes you a cheque.’

‘How stupid do I look?’ He lit a cigarette, took a long drag and pocketed the pack. ‘I’m not very popular with my bank manager at the moment.’

‘Why don’t you answer a couple of questions and we’ll see how it goes? I can phone my editor. We can arrange something for you. In cash.’

‘Why don’t you walk me to the nearest hole in the wall and then ask your questions.’ Freddie Larson puffed out a cloud of smoke and started walking towards Bishopsgate. ‘Lots of banks round here.’

Angela hesitated.

He turned back to her. ‘Do you want to talk to me or what?’

Angela caught up with him. She probably only had a couple of minutes before they reached the nearest cashpoint. ‘Tell me about Martin Fox. Why were you at his funeral?’

‘Paying my last respects. Why else would I be there?’

‘How did you know him?’

‘Went to college with him a few years back.’

‘What was that, 30 years ago?’

‘Give or take.’

‘So you kept in touch over all those years?’

He sniffed but didn’t answer.

‘Were you close to him?’

Freddie Larson lengthened his stride.

‘Can you slow down? I’m not as fast as you in these shoes.’

He stopped and turned back to her. ‘Got to get to the bank, haven’t we?’

‘Only if you answer my questions.’ They passed a café. ‘Why don’t we sit down for five minutes, have a coffee. Talk properly.’

‘I still need the cash… five minutes, max.’

‘Fine.’

They took a table near the door. Angela wiped a porthole in the condensation steaming up the window and spotted Frank across the road, lighting a cigarette, heading back towards the clinic.

A waitress, grubby apron wrapped around her waist, wandered over to them, took their order and came back immediately with two black coffees.

‘So… Martin Fox,’ Angela said once she’d gone.

‘What about him?’

‘Have you been close over the last 30 years?’

‘Close? What are you trying to say? We weren’t fucking, if that’s what you’re getting at. That’s all you lot want to write about isn’t it? Nice juicy sex scandals.’

‘It’s not what I meant.’ Angela took a sip of coffee and wondered how she could change tack without making Freddie any more suspicious than he already was.

‘I wasn’t his type, anyway.’ Freddie had opened a sachet of sugar and was emptying it onto the tabletop. He reached for another.

‘No?’

‘He liked boys.’

‘Boys?’

‘Don’t get excited. It’s not what you’re thinking. Youths, I mean. Lean, smooth, hairless things. Not kids though. He wasn’t a paedo.’

Angela blew out her cheeks.
Thank fuck for that.
How would she ever break the news to Caroline Barber if he had been?

‘Sorry to disappoint,’ Larson said and drew down the corners of his mouth in an exaggerated frown.

‘You were at college with Fox?’

‘Yep.’

‘Did you know William King too?’

‘What’s he got to do with anything?’ He shifted in his seat, his leg started to shake under the table.

‘He was at college at the same time as Fox. They knew one another – I thought you might know both of them.’

Freddie was pushing the pile of sugar around the table.

‘Come on Freddie, the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner we can get you some cash. That’s what you want isn’t it?’

‘Fucking bastards.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Fucking clinic. One payment, that’s all. They can’t stop treating me. I’m not well. Should be some kind of law against it.’

‘One payment?’

‘In arrears.’

‘Hopefully the money I give you might sort that out.’ She smiled and looked down at the mountain range of sugary peaks Freddie Larson had sculpted on the tabletop. ‘Tell me about King.’

‘Don’t know him.’

‘But did you, at college?’

He shrugged.

‘Please Freddie.’

‘It’s Mr Larson to you.’

This was going nowhere.

‘I’m not talking about King. Fucking bastard.’

‘You didn’t get on with him?’

‘Did you hear what I just said?’ He scraped his chair back and stood up. ‘This is all a pile of shit. You’re not going to give me any fucking money are you?’ He pushed his face into hers. Most of his teeth were black, and smelled as though they were all rotting in his head. He pulled away and opened the door of the café. He stood on the threshold for a moment, looking up and down the street as if he was searching for something.