John Rupert thanked me, but still coolly, for the Geiger-Müller road show. ‘And I suppose you know,’ he said, ‘the big question it still leaves unanswered?’
I nodded over the phone. ‘Why,’ I asked, ‘did the Traders want the island to themselves?’
Chapter 8
The tiring evening ended at last in clearing skies, and devoted enduring fireworks fanatics let off rainbow-coloured pop-pop sparkling starbursts in soggily dripping back gardens.
I knew my grandmother and Jett would both be asleep when I finally left work. I couldn’t ask refuge for a second night on the sofa, anyway. One night was succour; a second, indulgence. My grandmother had never believed in lengthy bouts of bleeding-heart.
I walked the half-mile from the BBC towards my home, towards attic, telescope, chronometer and futon, deeply breathing the damp night air and promising myself an absence of November Fifth on future calendars.
When I neared my doorstep, midnight or not, there was agitation on my pager, which buzzed in the waist pocket of my trousers; a tremor rather than a noise, owing to my frequent presence in silence-demanding places. Late hour regardless, Belladonna answered my call-back with relief and my ‘where are you’ enquiry with a giggle.
‘In George Loricroft’s bedroom. Don’t tell Kris.’
‘Is there a Mrs Loricroft there, perhaps?’
‘You’re such a spoilsport, Perry,’ Bell grumbled. ‘Her name is Glenda and she wants to talk to you.’
Glenda Loricroft, dimly remembered from that fateful Sunday lunch as a shiny blonde in a pale blue sweater that stretched across the front, had a voice that Lancashire lasses would have felt at home with. Her George, she told me, had gone off to Baden-Baden, or so he said, and she wanted to know what the weather was like there, please luv.
‘Give me Bell,’ I asked, and wanted to know why I should go back into the Weather Centre on such a hunt on such a night.
‘Perry, be your age!’ Bell said. ‘Glenda thinks George is having if off with an undeclared Fraulein. If I give you date and time and place, could you tell her whether the actual meshed with what her lover-boy declared?’
‘No, Bell, it’s a non-starter. Impossible. All he has to say is that he doesn’t remember or was fast asleep.’
‘Glenda says he’s never where he says he will be. Tonight he’s supposed to be in Baden-Baden for the races, but tomorrow he won’t know it’s been snowing.’
I said, ‘Stop it, Bell. Get Kris to do it. I’m asleep on my feet.’
‘Kris won’t do a thing. He just talks about trains.’
In alarm I said, ‘Where is he? Why is he talking about trains?’
‘Something about fuel switches,’ Bell said lightly. ‘I don’t understand him. You’re the only one who follows his mind.’
‘Well... find him.’
The urgency in my voice got through to her suddenly.
‘He’s not lost!’ she exclaimed.
‘Then where is he?’
‘He said he was up on your roof.’
I went through the house in dismay and out into the cold little patch of wintry grass at the back and looked up, and there he was, sitting astride the vaulted roof of slates and leaning against a dead chimney of crumbling brick.
‘Climb down,’ I called. ‘I can’t catch you.’
‘You can see fireworks all over London from up here,’ he yelled. ‘Come up.’
‘I’m going to bed.’
‘George Loricroft isn’t in Baden-Baden,’ Kris intoned, ‘and Oliver Quigley didn’t turn up in Berlin or Hamburg, and I bet my father-in-law chickened out of Cologne.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I shouted up.
‘Robin Darcy is in Newmarket.’
I could still hear Bell’s voice distantly on the telephone, so I put the receiver to my mouth and asked her if she’d heard what Kris said.
‘He said Robin Darcy is here in Newmarket, and yes he is, he’s staying at the Bedford Arms. What of it? When he’s in England on business he often comes here to see Dad. They’ll be going to Doncaster races tomorrow. It’s the last meeting of the main Flat season. Half Newmarket will be going. My boss George has a runner for my father in the November Handicap, the big race of the day, and there aren’t any races tomorrow at Baden-Baden, the whole thing’s rubbish.’
‘He’ll be home for breakfast,’ I said soothingly, which raised a wail from Glenda and an accusation of heartlessness from Bell.
Enough, I thought. I said, ‘Bell and Glenda, please get off my phone and Kris, please get off my roof, and I’ll see you all tomorrow.’
Incredibly, there was silence. I went indoors and up to my attic for hours of solid sleep and woke early to find Kris yawning in my kitchen alcove and pouring Thai curry sauce onto tofu, his latest disgusting obsession.
‘Morning,’ he said.
‘How did you get in?’
He looked pained. ‘You gave me a key last Christmas.’
I thought back. ‘That was for waiting for the fridge repair man.’
‘Do you want it back?’ Kris read labels on bottles of chilli oil he took from a paper carrier. He’d been Thai-food shopping yesterday for that and lemon grass and dried spices, he said.
I said I supposed he could keep the key. Also he could use my shower (he had done so: my towels were wet) and watch my TV (now on, but mute). Making the usual dash to the door on the way to put together the Saturday morning programme — including a summing up of the weather prospects for Saturday sport (dry, cold and sunny for racing at Doncaster, blustery showers for the football international at Wembley) — I caught a glimpse of Kris marking his choices on my racing pages and starting to fill in my crossword.
I shrugged into my warm padded jacket and with temporary benevolence, as I opened my front door to depart, I asked him with restraint merely to lock up when he left.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I looked up your schedule. You’re free today after the sports forecast. I’m flying to Doncaster races. There’s an airfield next to the racecourse. Will you come?’
I closed my door on his question mark and started down the stairs. If I didn’t go he would believe it was because of wheels up and an empty fuel tank and, given his see-saw psyche, that imagined adverse judgment would convince him I despised him and that he had no friends. The answer to ‘am I my brother’s keeper?’ was ‘yes’, unfortunately, all too often.
Two floors down I reversed, though already late. When I opened my front door again Kris was standing waiting, expecting me.
‘Pick me up in Wood Lane at ten-fifteen,’ I said. ‘Don’t forget Bell said Robin Darcy will be at the races with her father.’
Kris gave no sign of alarm. ‘Ten-fifteen,’ I repeated, and ran. Well... hobbled, though things were getting better from the ankle down.
Our flight from White Waltham to Doncaster went impeccably, with Kris over-meticulous at getting every check perfect. He had actually no need to, if he wanted to impress, as I now believed (and was never going to tell him) that he was a great pilot up to a fine line on a panic scale and a lethal danger above that. Without Trox and Odin, I reckoned, there was no one safer. After that I would learn and pay attention, and know what to look for.
Doncaster took the weather that would have smiled on poor Guy F.
Kris and I almost missed the first race owing to the programme’s early start in the short daylight, but watched the second under the bright yellow-grey sky that itself brought out smiles, good humour, and the favourites as winners.