Dark Clouds (17 page)

A delightful place for a holiday. I’m thinking sun, rum and salsa. 

‘Yes – daddy has a yacht. So we just sailed around and stopped off at random spots … the beaches on Tobago were brilliant!’

My knee’s aching from when I stumbled as Marvin Malugo’s supporters chased me in Brixton. I don’t feel I’m quite on the same wavelength as Emily. Although she is delightful, and we’re swapping notes on wind-surfing and Caribbean rap artists when a six foot plus very presentable guy arrives.

‘Oh Rudi – this is Rufus,’ Emily says. ‘He’s in the City.’

My hand’s shaken and squeezed while I nod and grin.

‘Darling – we’ve got to go,’ Rufus announces. ‘Good to meet you, Rudi … and I wouldn’t worry too much about what’s happening at the moment. The whole sub-prime thing was unfortunate. But time’s a great healer … so onwards and upwards, ey!’

I don’t know what he’s talking about, but Emily’s shaking my hand and saying how good it was to meet and talk. ‘If you ever want to get in touch about anything that’s breaking internationally, do call me at the FO,’ she says.

When she’s gone, I quickly take another glass of bubbly stuff from what I think is a Slavonic waitress. She’s got great cheekbones, but the drink’s like lemonade, and I’m struggling with what I’m going to do next when Carla Hirsch waves from the doorway.

She’s turning a few heads. For the fashionists, she’s enviably striking. I wave back and grin, but I’m thinking of polished steel in a human form. I can’t see Julia, so I edge over towards my Controller, while beckoning a waiter with a tray of what could be martinis.

‘Have you been drinking?’ she asks accusingly when we’ve each taken a glass.

No – just socialising, ma’am. Although I’m not very good at it.

‘I think you need a relationship,’ she tells me.

‘Why?’

‘Because we all do … but guys get lost on their own … ah – there’s Julia.’

My Islington neighbour is making a regal progression through her guests, most of whom are showering her with compliments. I get a reassuring pat on the arm, while she and Carla do some cheek-brushing. It’s their first physical contact, I think. Madame Hirsch’s eyes are sparkling as Fiona smiles in a contained, knowing way. She then beckons over a thin, dark-haired girl who is standing on her own.

‘Elizabeth – this is Rudi,’ she says. ‘He’s a journalist … and Lizzie’s an actress.’

She’s already leading Carla away and I’m on my own with Lizzie.

‘Do you know all of these people?’ she asks.

‘Just those two,’ I tell her, pointing after Fiona and Carla.

‘I can’t work out why I’m here,’ Lizzie says. ‘My agent was talking about a magazine feature writer, but I can’t find her, and I honestly don’t think I can be bothered any more. It’s all so tedious … do you write features about celebs.’

Occasionally, but they’re mainly politicians. I haven’t met many actresses.

‘I’ve just been a mad murderer in a movie,’ Lizzie tells me. ‘It totally fucked my head, and now all I want to do is snort coke … do you have any?’

No – sorry. And I don’t think I can take too much more of Lizzie. She needs help, and she’s starting to tell me about her father when my mobile rings.

‘Rudi?’

‘Ingrid – where are you?’

‘Downstairs … can you join me?’

‘Sure – ’

‘You remind me of my father,’ Lizzie says.

Oh no – please!

‘Once – we were playing in the garden of our home in Surrey. It was all quite idyllic. I sat on his lap and he ran his fingers through my hair. I was in heaven, Rudi … but then something happened.’

‘Lizzie – ’

She’s got hold of my arm and she’s looking at me accusingly. I’m her father, and I think she’s the mad murderer.

‘Do you believe in re-incarnation?’ she asks.

No – I don’t think so. Although there are Catholic elements amongst my ancestors – especially on the Fenian rebel side in Edwardian Ireland. So I know all about Jesus and the Easter resurrection stuff. I can see the holy lord now rising up from being dead and ascending into heaven after he was crucified by the Romans.

‘I believe we can die and come back again,’ the actress says.

Sure – why not?

‘And if you can find some cocaine, we can go to the toilet and I’ll tell you more about what happened between my father and myself all those years ago in our rural Surrey garden.’

This isn’t one for me, Elizabeth. I don’t think I could cope with your fractured memories. You need serious attention from qualified people … and I’ve got to go.

‘Can you just wait here for a moment,’ I say. ‘I’ve had an idea … so if you can bear with me, I’ll be right back … OK.’

Chapter 14

I’m moving quickly; shuffling and speed-walking towards the door. Downstairs, in the Claridges lobby, my Valkyrie princess is waiting.

‘I hope you don’t mind my not coming up to join you,’ she says. ‘It’s just that Fiona was a little strange when we spoke on the phone … I think she has this idea that we might spend intimate time together.’

I’m very disappointed in my neighbour, Fiona Adler, and I shall say so when I next see her.

‘Let’s go and eat or have a drink,’ I suggest and Ingrid responds with a promising kiss on my cheek.

I think I’m in love. It hasn’t been like this since Faria held my face in her hands on the Lower East Side and smiled silently.

‘I want to tell you about my secret life, Rudi,’ Ingrid says.

I’m intrigued but a little concerned. Is she involved with a Scandinavian billionaire? If she is, I can’t compete. But it’s a long and fascinating story that starts over a cocktail in a small French restaurant and ends blissfully in the Islington house where I’m staying. 

‘I’ve had this dream for several years,’ she says. ‘I’m living in a Montparnasse attic when, one evening, I meet someone in a café on the Boulevard St Germain. He’s a little older than I am but he’s very confident, and I like him.’

I’m worried about the competition, but Ingrid wants to involve me. ‘He’s a painter,’ she says, ‘and his work is popular … I think I’m falling in love with him, Rudi, so we go back to his studio in Montmartre.’

OK – it’s all bliss with Fabio whoever or Pablo ‘
I’m the hottest thing in town!
’

‘Right – ’

‘And I think it’s the same for artists everywhere. We all need our eureka moments – and that’s what I got from Claude.’

I need a sense of perspective here. ‘
Stay cool, fellah. Go with the flow. Ingrid Cesaro is an artist. These people think outside the box all the time.
’ I must try not to see Claude from a hundred and thirty years ago as a rival. He’s more of an inspiration, I guess: A role model whose jacket I might try on and walk around in for a while.

‘You’ve completely bowled me over,’ I tell Ingrid when we’ve sipped at some cocoa in Islington and finally made it to my bedroom at the top of the house.’

‘So you will come to Newcastle to see my exhibition?’

Of course. I’ve already Googled the gallery, but Ingrid wants to probe a little.

We’re down to our most basic underwear and I’m overly excited by the incredible proximity of a Norwegian goddess.

‘Your great grandmother, Róisín,’ she says as our chests come together. ‘What drove her to become a Fenian rebel?’

It’s difficult to concentrate. Ingrid’s aura is overwhelming as she caresses my back and buttocks. We need to embrace and go through a physical and emotional tsunami.

‘But first I want to know about Róisín, Rudy.’

Titanium controls. That’s what I need as I try to shift my brain back a hundred years while ignoring the incredible carnality of Ingrid’s almost naked presence.

‘She loved this Protestant,’ I stammer. ‘And I imagine that it was an intensely physical and mutually agreeable relationship.’

I can see it happening as I speak. Róisín and Piers embracing by the lake at Ballyalla. They’re in love and they don’t care about what other people think. Protestant Piers’ land-owning father, Sir Robert, has other ideas however. He’ll not have his son and heir canoodling with a Catholic.

The boy is packed off to oversee sheep-farming interests in Australia and Róisín is distraught. She falls into the welcoming arms of Fenian nationalists, and while she’s preparing for a rising against His Majesty, a vibrant rebel leader appears. He’s handsome and courageous. They fall in love, but her man is then ambushed and shot. Róisín’s ailing husband, Pat, has died and now her emotional star has disappeared. What is she to do? Well, the civil war is over in Ireland. The rebels have to rebuild their country. They’ll need strong men and women like Róisín … only that’s another story.

‘The thing is though,’ I say to Ingrid. ‘I see Róisín’s daughter, Joanie, as a follow-up heroine. ‘She’s with SOE in France during World War 2. She’s got all of her mother’s passion. She saves lives and thwarts the Germans. It could go either way. But she survives the war and is decorated by the King in London on VE day.’

‘Oh my god!’ Ingrid’s pulling me in close and I’m thinking passionate mermaids with a cheeky fin locked around my throbbing calves.’

‘I love these stories, Rudi … is there another?’

Maybe – possibly; if I can get my head into it. I can’t concentrate though. I’m totally overwhelmed. Ingrid’s taking me to another planet. The journey’s exciting beyond my wildest dreams, and when we finally arrive, I’m waiting for the good lord and mother Mary to step down from a celestial cloud.

*  *  *  *  *

I’m thinking log cabins and loveable Nordic children when the dawn comes up, followed by a hint of sunshine. It’s perfect, but my mobile’s ringing on the bedroom floor.

‘Rudi?’

Holy Jesus – it’s Carla Hirsch!

‘What do you want?’

‘We’re outside your house, and we want you to join us.’

But it’s six in the morning. The birds have only just woken up.

‘Now – please … immediately!’

Did something go wrong with Fiona Adler? Am I about to get an indignant earful from a spurned and disappointed lover? I write a note for Ingrid and leave it on the pillow beside her fragrant blonde hair. ‘
I’ve been called away, honey …but see you soonest
.’

Earl’s people carrier with the smoked glass windows is parked under a drooping robinia tree just outside my front door. Robson’s beside him in the front and Carla Hirsch is on her mobile in the back.

‘We’re going to see Jeremy Wagstaff,’ she tells me as Earl leaves Crowndale Square. She’s wearing an expensive looking scarf around her slender neck, and as she turns, I think I’m catching what looks like a small bruise: The remains perhaps of a passionate bite. We’re heading into unfamiliar territory. There are Turkish stores on the Green Lanes, and it’s a little edgy until we cut off towards Muswell Hill and Alexandra Palace. Someone I know lives here and he says he’s got psychiatric analysts on either side of his Edwardian home.

Carla’s preoccupied with text messages and voice mails while Earl and Robson concentrate on the built in sat nav screen. We’re entering a quiet tree-lined street when I’m aware of anonymous vans parked at intervals outside the houses.

‘Surprise is crucial here,’ Earl explains. ‘We’ve had surveillance vehicles in place during the night and it seems that Wagstaff’s wife, Annalise, has just left the house.’

‘She was wearing slippers and a cardigan,’ one of the observers reports. ‘So she could just have popped out to get something.’

‘Very good,’ Carla says, snapping the lid shut on her mobile. ‘We’ll go straight in and see what happens.’

So – what about me? I ask. Shall I wait here? That would be my preference. I could maybe listen to the radio or experiment with the sat nav. Carla’s not amused by my flippancy, however.

  ‘Listen,’ she says, homing in for a moment like I’m a pathetically inadequate encumbrance. ‘We need to go in hard with this asshole – and we don’t leave until we have a result. So try to keep your wits about you, Rudi. Maybe think of it as the assignment that makes or breaks your career. Only the stakes are higher … because if we don’t get lucky with this guy, a lot of people could die.’

I’m suitably chastened. We’ve got a D-Day situation and Commander Hirsch is in the lead landing-craft. A few curtains twitch as we disembark and Earl presses a bell on the door of a fading villa that was built – according to a plaque on the gatepost – in 1911. There’s no one else out on the street, but Robson’s fondling the holster under his left arm when we hear footsteps in the hallway.

‘Jeremy Wagstaff?’ Earl asks formally when the glass-panelled front door opens.

‘Yes – ’

‘We’re police officers, and we have a warrant to search your house, sir.’

‘But you’re a …’ He stumbles, pointing at me as Earl waves his ID card and a warrant. Three more plain clothes officers have now slipped out of a surveillance vehicle and Wagstaff, who’s only wearing a dressing gown, is being backed down the hallway.

‘We’ll start in the attic,’ Earl tells the anonymous officers while Carla Hirsch disconnects a house phone and beckons Wagstaff into a large living area that leads through an open plan kitchen to a sad, rather abandoned garden.

The place has potential, I’m thinking. But I don’t see too many signs of a happy family live as Wagstaff protests.

‘You can’t just come barging in here for no apparent reason … England’s not a police state yet you know. And just what precisely might I ask are you hoping to find in our house? We don’t smoke or drink or take drugs.’

‘Sit down and shut up!’ Carla commands, pushing him towards a sofa.

There’s a shocked look in Wagstaff’s righteous eyes. He’s never been spoken to like this before. It’s outrageous, and he’s gearing up for a second objection when there’s a commotion in the hallway.

‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ Annalise Wagstaff cries. ‘You’re welcome to the television, but I can assure you we don’t have anything else of any value!’

She calms down when she sees the police ID cards and two Anti-Terrorist officers escort her into the sitting room. She’s a dowdy, listless woman with spectacles and she clearly stopped thinking seriously about her appearance a while back.