She laughed. ‘Then — when I thought I couldn’t stand it any longer’ — she was shaking her head, as though in wonder at her own behaviour — ‘then there’d be flowers, champagne, and the man, that mercurial, impossible man at my feet, the stars in my lap again.’ She leaned forward, her large eyes suddenly staring at me, almost imploring. ‘Do you understand, Philip? He was so alive, so wonderful to be with. When he was on top of the world.’ I couldn’t help noticing that she was talking about him in the past tense, and she went on, still in a rush of words, ‘Then, when he’d taken too much — flown too high — the reaction would set in, everything crashing down — from the stars to despair in one quick devilish leap — Christian’s Slough of Despond.
‘My God! Living with a man like that, knowing it was that bitch Martina who’d introduced him to the stuff, and nothing I could do about it. He wouldn’t listen. Said he’d been taking coke off and on ever since he’d gone to South America in his early twenties. At times he even had a little mini-spoon, silver-gilt I think, hung round his neck on a thin golden chain. All part of the mystique. Oh, I know, I shouldn’t be telling you all this, but I’ve got to talk to somebody about him.’ And she went on, ‘Cocaine has always been an elitist drug, and it’s not really addictive. Least, that’s what he said, not the good stuff. He had me try it once or twice and I didn’t get hooked. But the way he’s been taking it recently … I don’t know, perhaps he’d reached the age when he found himself looking over the edge and not liking what he saw, his sexual prowess declining, his competitive spirit flagging. Even his interest in cars had lessened and he hadn’t visited Martin at die factory for ages, the mine taking up more and more of his time, his temper short, his face strained, that little stutter of his suddenly noticeable, and sometimes at night I’d hear him muttering to himself. Do you think he’s had a nervous breakdown?’
But I had only seen him a couple of times in the past year and I had had no idea he took drugs until I had read the piece in that Sunday paper. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure how people behave on the verge of a nervous breakdown.’
‘No, nor do I. I can only guess. And his doctor didn’t say anything about a breakdown — I phoned him last night. He said he thought his nerves were on edge, that he needed a rest. From what? That’s what I said. What the hell did Tom need a rest from? And he repeated what he’d written in his report — get him out somewhere on his own to lie in the sun, swim, do nothing and take the minimum of food — healthy, natural food — no alcohol. I don’t think Tom had told him about taking cocaine, but he probably guessed. He was overfed, he said, depleted, suffering from nervous exhaustion.’
I didn’t understand it either, and I said so — a man with all the money in the world, a lovely wife, a beautiful home, cars, interests, a man who’d never had to work in his life… he’d no bloody right to be suffering from nervous exhaustion.
‘It’s all very well for you,’ she went on. ‘You’re so solid, so dependable.’ I could have slapped her face the way she had been talking about her husband, but she went on, the words still tumbling out of her — Tom was just a child. A spoilt child, yes. But something more. A sort of real life Peter Pan, with all that creature’s selfishness, and fascination.’ She nodded, her hair glistening reddish in the sunlight. ‘Yes, that’s it — a fair simile — and if Peter Pan had suddenly found himself growing up…’ She sat for a while, her head bowed, thinking about it. ‘But to take off like that, without a word — to me, to anyone. He told nobody, nobody at all. He’s just thrown off everybody, his whole life — like a snake discarding its old skin…’ And suddenly she was crying, her shoulders shaking, but no sound coming.
I took her home then. I think at that point she was just about emotionally and physically drained. I didn’t realize it at the time — though the newspaper article had hinted at it — but it wasn’t only that Tom had disappeared, there was the financial mess he had left behind.
This only became apparent in the following week, the bills rolling in and no cash at the bank to meet them.
2
Never having been dependent on money I didn’t earn I always find it difficult to appreciate how frightened people can become when the source of their income shows signs of drying up. It was the following Tuesday before I began to realize that this was what had probably happened to Tom Halliday and by then his son Martin had been on the phone to me twice. He employed almost a dozen people at the works and their pay was five weeks in arrears, his own salary too; the rent was due, electricity, gas, rates, water, telephone, and in addition he owed several thousand for materials. He had one car ready for delivery, but that was all. He wanted money to tide him over, but I had to tell him that there wasn’t any at the moment and it would take time to sort things out. ‘But I have to have some money.’ That anguished cry from a man who all his life had lived off his father … I had told him, quite bluntly I’m afraid, that he’d better think in terms of selling up and standing on his own feet. I was more concerned with Miriam.
She had phoned me on the Monday asking me to deal with the financial problems arising from her husband’s disappearance. They had a joint account at the Lewes branch of his bank, but this was only for convenience, the account being fed from the head office branch in the City. It was the Lewes branch that had refused to cash the two cheques referred to in the newspaper report. Tom Halliday had apparently drawn out the entire balance of the account the very day he had come to see me. It seemed likely, therefore, that his disappearance was a deliberate act and not due to any accident.
This became more apparent after I had talked to his London bank. Apparently they received the profits of the mine half yearly. Sometimes his account was in balance from one half year to the next, at others it was overdrawn. The overdraft arrangements had been generous because of the regularity of the half-yearly payments. However, these had recently become less regular and Halliday had been making use of the overdraft facility. In other words, the bank had been advancing money in anticipation of the income from the mine. The latest half-yearly payment had been due almost two months ago and the manager had let the overdraft run for that length of time because his client, before leaving for Canada, had assured him he would be dealing with the matter while he was there. However, a fortnight ago he had begun to make his own inquiries. These had been complicated by the fact that the payments did not come direct from Canada. Instead, they were routed through a Swiss bank, payment being made half-yearly through their London office. He thought this was probably for tax reasons, the Zurich bank informing him that it was a numbered account and they were not in a position to divulge any information.
I tried contacting them myself. I was, after all, one of Tom Halliday’s executors, but it made no difference. They refused to discuss the matter until there was some definite news as to what had happened to Halliday, and if it did turn out that he had had an accident, or had killed himself, then it would be a matter not for his executors, but for whoever inherited — Miriam, in other words.
I had the distinct impression, however, that they were going through the motions rather than protecting an important account, and it was after talking to them that I telexed the Mines Department of the Yukon Government in Whitehorse. Two days later I received this reply: GOLD PRODUCTION ICE COLD CREEK MINE FOR PAST THREE YEARS RECORDED AS FOLLOWS: 60.136, 27.35 AND 43.574 ozs. FOR FURTHER INFORMATION REFER JON EPINARD, TAKHINI TRAILER CRT, WHITEHORSE.