“Just give me a cheque.”
Mulder seemed to despise Bannister’s pusillanimity. He moved close and looked down at me. “Where did you go in the car, man?”
“Get out of my way.”
“Where did—”
“Get out of my bloody way or I’ll break your fucking neck!” I astonished myself by my own savagery. Mulder, even though he could surely not have feared me, stepped back. Angela gasped, while Bannister stayed motionless.
I made my voice calm again. “A cheque, please.” Bannister found some courage for the moment. “Did you go to see Miss Kirov, Nick?”
“No. A cheque, please.”
“But you did invite her to the party?” Bannister insisted.
“Yes, but I didn’t know Fanny was going to try and rape her. Are you going to give me a cheque?”
“I didn’t—” Fanny began.
“Shut up!” I snapped. I’d harried them all into submission. They’d summoned me to this room to dress me down as if I was a small schoolboy, but they were all now silent. Mulder stepped away from me, while Angela fumbled in her bag for a cigarette. I could hear the murmur of voices from the terrace beneath where the guests gathered for brunch. “I want a cheque,” I said to Bannister.
I thought I’d won, for Bannister walked to his desk and pulled open a drawer. I expected him to bring out his chequebook, but instead he produced a stack of cardboard folders. “Please look at those, Nick.”
I didn’t move, so he lifted the top one, opened it, and handed it to me.
My own photograph was in the file and curiosity made me take it from Bannister. “Read it,” he said quietly.
There were only two sheets of paper in the folder, both topped with a printed letterhead: ‘Kassouli Insurance Fund, Inc. (Marine)’.
My photograph was pasted on to one of the sheets with my career, such as it had been, carefully typed out beneath. The citation for the Victoria Cross was reproduced in full. The other sheet was handwritten in what, I supposed, was Jill-Beth’s writing. “Captain Sandman’s presence in AB’s house is unexpected, but could be fortunate for us.
Captain Sandman, like many soldiers, is a romantic. In many ways he lives in La-la land, by which I mean he’s a preppy drop-out who wants to do a Joshua Slocum, but undoubtedly his sense of honour and duty would predispose him to our side.” I was wondering where La-la land was, and whether Jill-Beth would like to live there.
“That,” Bannister said quietly, “is your Miss Kirov’s pilot book.
We found these files on her boat.” He handed me another opened file which had a photograph of Fanny Mulder doing his morning exercises on Wildtrack’s bow. The sparse career details said that Francis Mulder had been born in Witsand, Cape Province, on 3 August 1949. His schooling had been scanty. He’d served in the South African Defence Forces. He had a police file in South Africa, being suspected of armed robbery, but nothing had ever been proved.
The next entry recorded his purchase of a cutter in the Seychelles where he had run his charter business until Nadeznha Bannister had spotted his undoubted talent.
Again there was a handwritten comment. “Despite being a protegé of your daughter’s, there can be no doubt of Mulder’s loyalty to AB.
AB has promoted him, pays him well, and constantly demonstrates his trust in Mulder.” The rest of the page had been raggedly torn off, making me wonder if Bannister had destroyed comments that discussed Mulder’s presumed involvement in Nadeznha Bannister’s murder.
I was tempted to ask by what right Bannister had searched Mystique, but, faced with the evidence in the files, it would have been a somewhat redundant question. Bannister took the two files from me. “Do you understand now why we’re somewhat concerned that you might be a close friend of Miss Kirov’s?” He turned to stare at a large portrait of his dead wife that stood framed on the study bookshelves. “Do you know who owns the Kassouli Insurance Fund?”
“I assume your ex-wife’s father?”
“Yes.” He said it bleakly, almost hopelessly, then sat in a big leather chair behind the desk and rubbed his face with both hands.
“Tell him, Angela.”
Angela spoke tonelessly. “Yassir Kassouli is convinced that Tony could have prevented Nadeznha’s death. He’s never forgiven Tony for that. He also believes, irrationally and wrongly, that by making another attempt on the race this year Tony is demonstrating a callous attitude towards Nadeznha’s death. Yassir Kassouli will do anything to stop Tony winning. Last night Miss Kirov tried to persuade Fanny to sabotage our St Pierre attempt. Fanny refused. In turn he accused Miss Kirov of dismasting Wildtrack. They had an argument. That’s when she pretended to be attacked, and when you played the gallant rescuer.” Angela could not resist unsheathing a claw. “That’s the truth, Mr Sandman, of which you’re such a staunch guardian.” I said nothing. There had been a ring of truth in her words, however much they contradicted what I’d seen and what Jill-Beth had said, and I felt the confusion of a man assailed by conflicting certainties. Jill-Beth had spoken of murder, and of a million-dollar insurance claim, while Angela now spoke convincingly of a rich man’s obsession with preserving his daughter’s memory. I supposed that the real truth of the matter was that there was no real truth. Nor, I told myself, was it any of my business. I had come here to resign, nothing more.
Bannister swivelled his chair so he could stare at the portrait. If he’d murdered her, I thought, then he was putting on an award-winning performance. “I can’t explain grief, Nick,” he said. “Yassir Kassouli’s never forgiven me for Nadeznha’s death. God knows what I was supposed to do. Keep her ashore? All I do know is that so long as Kassouli lives he’ll hate me because of his daughter’s death. He isn’t rational on the subject, he’s obsessed, and I have to protect myself from his obsession.” He shrugged, as if to suggest that his explanation was inadequate, but the best, and most honest, that he could provide. He tapped the folders. “You can see that Miss Kirov believes that you’ll help sabotage my St Pierre run this year.”
“I’m not in a position to help,” I said to Bannister, “because I’ve resigned from your life. No film, no St Pierre, I just want your cheque. A thousand pounds will suffice, and I promise to account for every penny of it.”
“And how will you account for the money already spent?” Angela snapped into her most Medusa-like mood, echoing her vituperation of the previous night. “Do you know how much money we’ve invested in this film? A film that you undertook to make? Or had you forgotten that you signed contracts?”
I still refused to look at her or speak to her. I kept my eyes on Bannister. “I want a cheque.”
“You just want to do what’s most comfortable!” Angela had worked herself into another fine anger. “But I want a film that will help people, and if you back out on it, Nick Sandman, then you’re reneging on a contract. It’s a contract we trusted, and we’ve spent thousands of pounds on realizing it, and if you tear it up now then I promise you that I’ll try and recoup that wasted money. The only property of yours that the courts will consider worth confiscat-ing is Sycorax, but I’ll settle for that!” Her voice was implacably confident, suggesting she had already taken legal advice. “So if you don’t fulfil your contractual obligations. Nick Sandman, you will lose your boat.”
I still ignored her. “A thousand pounds,” I said to Bannister.