Authors: Graham Hurley

Nocturne (60 page)

‘
No, I
’
m saying he was framed. Someone dumped all that stuff in his
flat. Someone with an interest in getting me out.
’

Varenka butted in, trying to change the subject, but I
’
d spent nearly
a month getting this far and I wasn
’
t going to stop now. Brendan
motioned to Varenka to shut up. He was looking interested.

‘
Go on,
’
he said.

‘
My point is that someone wanted Gilbert and me apart. You know
about the family, Fairweather, the offer to buy me out?
’
Brendan
nodded.
‘
And you know I didn
’
t give them the decision they wanted?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
How come?
’

‘
Morris told me.
’

‘
OK,
’
I shrugged.
‘
So there you have it.
’

‘
The family? Gilbert
’
s family?
’
Brendan was grinning now.
‘
You
think Gilbert
’
s family planted the explosives?
’
He began to laugh.

‘
Yes,
’
I said, trying not to sound defensive.
‘
They obviously have
money, connections, power. The one thing they couldn
’
t buy was me.
’
I was starting to lose my temper. He still had the knack of getting
under my skin and that angered me even more.
‘
You think I
’
ve got it
wrong?
’

‘
I know you
’
ve got it wrong.
’

‘
Really?
’

‘
Yes,
’
he no
dded.
‘
Try looking at motive.
’

‘
I
just did.
’

‘
Look harder.
’

I stared at him. What was he telling me here? What had I missed?
Who else wanted Gilbert and me apart?

‘
You?
’
I queried softly.
‘
You did it?
’

Brendan looked briefly pained, chiefly I think because I hadn
’
t got
there earlier. He always loved taking the credit, even for something as
serious and as bizarre as this. I was thinking hard now. Would he
really have gone to such lengths? Semtex? Target lists? Code words?

‘
I
don
’
t believe
you,
’
I told him.
‘
I
think you
’
re fantasizing again.
’

‘
Why?
’

‘
Because it was so elaborate. And so
…
’
I frowned, hunting for the
right word,
‘
…
crazy.
’

‘
You think I wouldn
’
t take the risk?
’
He was looking at Billie.
‘
Given
what was at stake?
’

I couldn
’
t take my eyes off his face. I remembered now.
I remembered that last time he came to the house.
That chilly afternoon
when he spent so long in the garden, looking up at Gilbert
’
s flat. Was
he casing the joint? Looking for ways in?

‘
You
’
d need access to explosives,
’
I pointed out.
‘
And you
’
d need the
code word. To make them take you seriously.
’

‘
Of course.
’

‘
You had all that?
’

He didn
’
t say anything. He was still looking at Billie. Finally he
leaned back in the chair, his feet propped on the desk, the old pose. I
might be here for an interview, I thought to myself. We might have
never met.

‘
Who Dares Wins?
’
He was grinning now.
‘
All that special forces
shit? You know how these guys operate, surely?
’

I blinked. Of course I knew. Of course I bloody did. It was Gary.
Faithful old Gary
. With his S
AS contacts, arid his black balaclava, and
his empty bank account. Brendan was right. Why hadn
’
t I got there
first?

‘
So what did it take?
’
I asked softly,
‘
Money?
’

‘
Interesting question,
’
Brendan sighed.
‘
What does it ever take?
’

I stared at him, for once robbed of a reply. I was back in the park,
that terrible afternoon when I lost Billie.
I felt the panic again, and the
fear. And then I felt the anger. This man had taken my baby. By
bragging about the rest of it - the Semtex,
the code word, the target list
- he
’
d given himself away. If he could do that, he could do anything.
He was pitiless. He was psychopathic. It was Brendan, not Gilbert,
who belonged with the insane. How come I
’
d ever let him so close to
me? How come I
’
d believed a single word he
’
d said? How come he
wasn
’
t in a lunatic asylum? Or a prison cell?

At this point, a secretary intervened with coffee and biscuits. While
I crumbled chocolate digestives for Billie, trying to control myself,
Brendan treated me to what was obviously his standard pitch for Solo
Productions. How many projects he had in the pipeline. The backing
he
’
d raised abroad. The huge potential of the US market. Then, quite
suddenly, he was talking about a specific programme idea. It was
about power, he said.
About love.
About insanity.
Two brothers,
one
successful, one not. Brother number on
e becomes a politician. Brother
number two
’
s half-mad.

‘
So they bury him,
’
he explained.
‘
They put him in a little flat with a
pension from a trust fund and they leave him to get on with it. This is
an idea that travels. It could be any city in the western world. London.
New York. Melbourne. The guy
’
s mad, crazy, a non-person.
’

‘
Gilbert?
’
I inquired coldly.
‘
You
’
re talking about Gilbert?
’

Brendan ignored the question.

‘
Brother number one makes it big time. Becomes a minister. Sits in
Cabinet. Brother number two goes from bad to worse. Problem is, we
need a POV.
’

POV means Point of View.

‘
This is a documentary?
’

‘
Drama.
’

‘
Drama
?

‘
Yes, a series. Six hours. Maybe seven.
’

Billie
’
s face was smeared a rich, dark brown. I moistened a finger,
wiping away some of the chocolate. Brendan, I finally realised,
couldn
’
t keep his hands off other people
’
s lives. First it was me. Now it
was Gilbert. Cuckoo Productions, I thought bitterly.

‘
How much do you know?
’
I
heard myself saying.

‘
About Gilbert? Quite a lot. About what it
’
s been like for you? Not
very much.
’

‘
Is that why I
’
m here?
’
I looked up at him.
‘
Am I the POV?
’

He smiled at me, not answering, completely shameless. Even
Varenka, I sensed, was startled.

For a moment or two I was tempted to surrend
er to what I really felt,
to tell him what a monster televisio
n had turned him into, but that
would bring this conversation to a close and there were certain
questions to which I still needed answers.

‘
Where
’
s Gilbert?
’
I asked.

‘
Dorset somewhere. They
’
ve put him in a home.
’

‘
Who have?
’

‘
The family.
’

I nodded.

‘
Did Morris tell you that as well?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
And he
’
s told you everything else he knows?
’

‘
He
’
s told me enough.
’

‘
In return for what? A series of his own?
’

‘
Of course. What would any politician want?
’

He smiled, happy at the thought of the webs he could spin, and I sat
back, making Billie more comfortable in
my lap, waiting. Hatred is too
weak a word for what I felt for this man but
in spite of everything I still
wanted the rest of the story.

I
’
d been a spectator at this play for far too long. I
’
d even struck up a
relationship with Tom, Gilbert
’
s so-calle
d brother, the voice at the end
of the telephone. The fact that Gilbert h
ad fooled me over the course of
all those conversations was a tribute
to his acting skills. He should
have stuck with the stage, I thought. I
’
m sure he
’
d have made it in the
end.

Sipping his coffee, Brendan began to fill in one or two of the gaps
that had been preoccupying me for most of the last four weeks.
Gilbert, he said, was the only child of his father
’
s first marriage. The
marriage had ended with his wife
’
s suicide. At the inquest in
Dorchester, she was judged to have taken her life while the balance of
her mind was disturbed. Gilbert, at the time, was nine years old.
Mother and son had been inseparable. Within months, the father
remarried. Another child, a boy, quickly followed.