The hidden man am-2 Page 5

  ‘That was the case.’ Mark paused briefly. He was reluctant to betray Ben’s confidence, but the wine had got the better of him. ‘But there’s more to it than that,’ he said.

  ‘Expand.’

  A waiter placed two steaming napkins on a plate in front of them. Mark turned his hands heavily through the cloth and then wiped his mouth.

  ‘It’s like this,’ he said. ‘They’ve been together a long time. Brother helped to get her career started and Alice supported him when he wanted to get into painting. Far as I can tell they have great sex, you know, so that helps when things turn nasty. And besides, a part of me reckons they love all the arguments, that they feed off the aggro and tension.’

  Keen leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said, with apparent empathy. ‘So you don’t suppose he’s any closer to the idea of meeting up?’ He was aware that the question was cack-handed, yet determined to make an approach. ‘You don’t thinkhe’d be amenable to, say, a drinkor perhaps dinner?’

  Mark laughed and stared at the ceiling.

  ‘Is that what this is about?’ he said. ‘You want to have this conversation every time we meet up?’

  ‘Until he’s prepared to forgive and forget, yes.’

  Keen had not intended to sound angry, but his words had a remarkable effect. Mark, ever the conciliator, resolved to calm his father down.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘You just have to understand that Ben is stubborn, that he’s very set in his ways. For him to agree even to talk to you would mean a betrayal of Mum. That’s how he feels about things. We’ve spoken about this. In his mind, it’s either you or her.’

  Keen managed to look appropriately dismayed, but he had been taken with a sharp, persuasive idea. Earlier in the day he had collected a signet ring from a jeweller in Paddington who had reset the bloodstone. The box was in his briefcase. He could use this as a lever, something to play on Mark’s sense of decency.

  ‘I had your photograph framed,’ he said.

  ‘My photograph?’

  ‘Of Ben’s wedding. It’s hanging in the flat.’ Two weeks earlier, Mark had given him a photograph of Ben’s wedding day, taken moments after he had first emerged from the church with Alice at his side. Keen had had the picture enlarged and framed and it now hung in the sitting room of his London flat. ‘I thought that I might give you something in return.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  Keen was quickly into the briefcase, leaning down beside his chair. The box was covered in a thin mock-velvet cover and he handed it to Mark.

  ‘Are we getting married?’

  ‘Just open it. Have a look.’

  ‘What is this?’

  Keen was improvising.

  ‘Call it a present. Of a family nature. More accurately described as an heirloom.’

  Inside, Mark found the gold-banded signet ring, set with an engraved bloodstone.

  ‘This is for me?’

  ‘I’ve wanted you to have it for some time. It was your grandfather’s.’

  Mark was oblivious to any deception. Prising the ring from its box he began turning it in his fingers. A small smudge of grease formed on the gold and he wiped it away with his napkin.

  ‘This is really kind of you,’ he said, finding that he was actually blushing. ‘You sure about this, Dad?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. Why don’t you put it on?’ Mark looked briefly around the restaurant, as if conscious of being watched. Then he placed the ring on the fourth finger of his left hand and held it up for inspection.

  ‘That’s where it’s supposed to go, right? The “pinky”? Is that what it’s called?’

  ‘I believe so.’ Keen cleared his throat. ‘I don’t suppose they’re really the fashion these days among the nightclub classes, but you can always give it a go.’

  ‘I’m really touched. Thank you.’

  And now he played the ace.

  ‘I wonder how Ben would feel if I were to do the same for him.’

  From the direction of the kitchen there was the sound of a plate smashing on stone. Silence briefly engulfed the restaurant before conversations resumed.

  ‘I’m not following you.’ Mark looked slightly worried.

  ‘There are two signet rings in the family,’ Keen explained. ‘One belonged to your grandfather, the other to his brother. As you may know, Bobby died without producing any children. I’ve always thought his ring should be passed on…’

  ‘So you thought you’d wait twenty-five years and get me to do it for you?’

  Keen acknowledged the slight with just a tilt of his head. He was determined that the plan should succeed.

  ‘Point taken,’ he said. ‘But would you be prepared to have a word with your brother, to perhaps sound him out?’

  Mark ground his chair a foot back from the table.

  ‘Haven’t we just had this discussion?’

  ‘It’s just that I feel we’ve never really given Benjamin a chance to come forward, to give his side of the story.’

  ‘To come forward?’

  Keen pushed his glass to one side, as if making a clear channel through which any request could not realistically be turned down.

  ‘I apologize,’ he said. ‘I’m obviously not making myself clear. Call it a symptom of my frustration. You have always presented Ben’s reluctance to talk to me as a fait accompli. The idea that he might change his mind has simply never been tabled. Well, I propose that we should give it a shot, ask him straight out what exactly it is that he’s afraid of.’

  ‘Brother’s not afraid of anything. I’ve told you that…’

  ‘Then let’s at least clear the air. I would rather have the opportunity of being castigated face-to-face than endure this rather childish stand-off.’

  ‘Well, you see, that’s just the problem. Ben doesn’t really care what you think.’

  Mark’s candour had the effect of silencing his father. Like a man who has suffered a losing hand at poker, he fell back in his chair, as if conscious of the hopelessness of his position. It was the first time that Mark had ever observed any trace of defeat in his father’s face. And it worked.

  ‘Look, I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.

  ‘Would you really?’ Keen’s eyes lit up with hope. ‘I think it would be in everyone’s best interests. Imagine if we could all just get along, make a fresh start. You, me, Benjamin, Alice. I’d like to get to know her, too.’

  ‘I’m sure you would,’ Mark muttered.

  ‘I mean, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could get this thing knocked on the head by Christmas?’

  Mark was simply amazed by his attitude. It was as if his father had an assumed right of access, an inherent belief that the past should be ignored in the interests of his own peace of mind. Nevertheless, he felt a duty at least to make an effort.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to him and see what I can do.’

  And that was enough to satisfy Keen. His work done, he closed the briefcase, cleaned his hands with the napkin and within moments had asked for the bill.

  9

  Stephen Taploe moved gradually along the aisles, filling his trolley with foods. It was a nothing moment. Once a week he ventured to the Clapham Junction branch of Asda and bought enough provisions to last him for exactly seven days. Taploe was frugal, although, as a single man earning 41,500 a year, he did not have to be. Armed with reward points and a fistful of vouchers, he would attempt to checkout for less than twenty-five pounds, but it was difficult with London prices and sometimes he would treat himself to an extra bottle of medium-dry white wine, or a tub of ice cream in his favourite flavour, vanilla. Taploe lived alone and had, on average, eight meals to cater for each week: two lunches (Saturday and Sunday), as well as six evenings at home. On Thursdays he was always sure to join his colleagues at a tapas bar in Victoria that was popular with D-Branch personnel: promotion, he assumed, would come quicker if he could develop and sustain relationships with senior management
outside of office hours.

  The supermarket was noticeably less salubrious than the branch of Marks and Spencer’s in nearby St John’s Road, and lacked the international range and flair of products available at Sainsbury’s. Nevertheless Taploe preferred Asda, largely because it was cheaper and closer to home. He eschewed fancy microwave meals, preferring to cookfrom scratch; indeed, he would derive a certain satisfaction from making a single item last for several days. He could, for example, let a medium-sized battery chicken suffice for three meals: roasted first, then curried, and finally cold. Every week he bought a packet of six Porkinson’s sausages (two meals), three fillets of salmon (one of which he would habitually freeze) and a rib eye steak with oven chips for Sunday lunch. He ignored the aisles given over to juices and did not buy food in tins. For something sweet, Taploe allowed himself ice cream, a single packet of Penguins and a punnet of Elsanta strawberries.

  It was a Friday evening, the pre-weekend crowd, and thankfully there were precious few children screaming at the hips of single mothers. Weekafter week Taploe watched them bumping trolleys into shelves and walls, spilling bottles of Sunny Delight in egg-yolkpools on the floor. But he could move with comparative ease tonight, through fruit and veg to wines, and would be home within ten or fifteen minutes, depending on the queue at the tills.

  Just before seven thirty his mobile rang.

  ‘Mr Taploe?’

  It was Katy, a low-level researcher less than six months out of college with a degree in media studies from Exeter University. He liked the fact that she sounded nervous on the phone and made a point of calling him ‘Mr Taploe’.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been looking into Juris Duchev as you instructed, sir, and I’ve been advised by Paul Quinn to contact you directly with some information that I think you might find of interest.’

  Taploe was standing beside a bored shelf stacker. He moved towards the tills.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Interpol, sir, and they suspect that Duchev has been involved in at least two recent incidents still under investigation by the relevant law-enforcement authorities in those areas. The first was in Monaco three years ago, the shooting of a French investment banker with links to the Kukushkin organization. He was shot in his car waiting at traffic lights on the lower of the connecting roads between Monaco and Nice. The second took place in a Moscow suburb back in 1995.’ Katy breathed in quickly. It sounded as though she was searching through notes. ‘Again, that was a motorcyclist with a passenger riding pillion shooting directly into a vehicle. We suspect that if there’s razborka — the Russian term for the settling of a mafia dispute — then Juris Duchev is the individual who would carry it out on the mainland on behalf of the Kukushkin syndicate.’

  Taploe didn’t say ‘Thank you’ or ‘Well done’, simply: ‘Is there any record of arrest?’

  ‘None, sir. Not on the files. And nothing from RIA.’.

  ‘So your point is?’.

  It was the bully in him, the small man.

  ‘Well, what we didn’t know, sir, is that Duchev has a UK right of residence. It just came up. At the moment he can come and go as he pleases.’

  Taploe reached the end of Aisle 14 and stopped.

  ‘I see.’ The news irritated him, though he maintained a level tone of voice. ‘Well, thank you for passing on that information. I’ll come in to see you after the weekend and we can discuss it further.’

  ‘Very well. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘And Katy?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I know full well what razborka is. There was no need to enlighten me.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  As he replaced the phone in his pocket, the back wheel of Taploe’s trolley caught on a sticky ball of waxed paper. He had to bend down to free it and missed a slot in the queue. Duchev, he thought. We let men like that live here, let them enter and leave at will. The British, in the name of decency and fair play, wave their enemies through the gates without so much as a glance. Tends to make my job harder, he mused, pushing towards the tills.

  10

  From: alicelucy1212@aol. comTo: mkeen@clublibra. netSubject: Ben drink

  Mark sweetheart

  Very very busy here. On deadline. Yes, we talked about it last night. Basically he’s still very pissed off, obstinate, the usual thing, but I get the impression it’s not totally a lost cause. I mean how long can he keep going like this?

  It’s like he’s making a point not just to his father, but to you, to me, to anybody he comes across. And of course to your mum. You know what B’s like when he makes his mind up.

  If you think it’s a good idea then I would give it a try but I’m not sure how much luck you’ll have. I didn’t push it last night. I don’t want him to think I’m turning against him, and I didn’t say anything about you asking me, of course.

  We’ve already arranged to meet in the Scarsdale pub at the back of the cinema on Ken High St — the place you came to before we went to the Doves concert. Can you be there by maybe half-past seven? There might be some people from work so be warned.

  Lovely to see you the other night. Thanks for the vodka — weird bottle! lol Alsx

  From: Mark KeenTo: alicelucy1212@aol. comSubject: Re: Ben drink

  That sounds good. I’ll be there at 7.30 at the latest. Don’t mention anything to him about it, OK? I don’t want him to feel like we’re setting a trap or something.

  Thanks for this Alice — I appreciate it a lot.

  Mark

  Mark hit ‘Send’ and wondered if this was a good idea; he doubted whether Alice would be able to keep their arrangement a secret. Sometimes, in fact, he couldn’t even remember why he was doing his father the favour.

  11

  Taploe waited for Keen in the downstairs seating area of a Baker Street coffee shop. American-owned, the chain was populated by a preppy clientele drinking foam-laden lattes at Internet terminals. Bewildered by the range of drinks on offer, it had taken Taploe more than three minutes to explain to the South African girl working behind the counter that he simply wanted a black coffee, nothing more, nothing less.

  ‘You want an espresso, then?’

  ‘No. Just a black coffee. A normal black coffee. In a mug.’

  ‘Do you want me to make it a double? That’s longer.’

  ‘No. I find espresso too strong. Look-’

  He scanned the menu board for the appropriate description. Latte. Mocha. Espresso. Ristretto. Mochaccino. Cappuccino. Iced Mochachino Latte…

  ‘It must be Americano,’ he said eventually. ‘That looks the closest.’

  ‘Americano!’ the girl shouted to her colleague and, given that there were four or five people queueing up behind him, Taploe felt that he could not now change his order.

  ‘Is that a shot of espresso with plenty of boiling water?’he asked.

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ she said, pointing to the counter on her left. ‘Your order’ll be ready in a few minutes. Can I help anyone please?’

  Taploe had found a small round table at the rear of the basement where any conversation would be drowned out by the tapping of computer keyboards, the quack and beep of the World Wide Web. Twenty or thirty people, mostly students, were crowding up the seating area.

  Taploe sensed Keen before he saw him, a sudden intimation of good taste and disdain moving through the room. He was wearing a long, darkover coat and carrying a small white cup of espresso in his right hand. Taploe was reminded of a Tory grandee.

  ‘Christopher,’ he said.

  ‘Stephen.’ Taploe’s view of his joe was already coloured by the basic antipathy that existed between the organizations to which both men had dedicated the bulk of their working lives. But the sense Keen gave off of living in an infallible bubble of privilege added a particular hostility to his contempt.

  ‘Did you find the place all right?’ he asked.

  ‘No problem at all. But
it’s bloody cold outside. They say it might snow.’

  ‘Well, thank you for agreeing to the meeting at such short notice.’ Taploe sipped at his coffee but found that it was still too hot to drink. ‘I hope we didn’t put you out.’

  ‘Not at all. I have a dinner engagement in the West End at nine o’clock. The timing was rather convenient.’

  Slowly, Taploe drew the tips of his fingers across the wooden surface of the table. It was an unconscious manifestation of his anxiety, and he was irritated with himself for showing it.

  ‘Can I get you anything from upstairs?’

  Taploe could not think why he had asked the question. Keen simply lowered his eyes and indicated his espresso with a downward nod of the head.

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’

  There was an embarrassed silence that Taploe eventually broke.

  ‘This shouldn’t take long,’ he said. ‘It was just to find out about your enquiries.’

  Keen could see a Japanese student poring over notes held in a loose-leaf folder to the right of his chair. If Taploe considered this a secure environment in which to talk, he would take that on trust, but keep his remarks general to the point of being obtuse. Christian names. No specifics. Operational shorthands.

  ‘My view is very straightforward,’ he said. ‘If the lawyer is involved to any extent with the Russian organization then my son knows nothing about it. That would indicate to me that this is something that is happening only at the very highest level within the company. That is to say, only Thomas and perhaps Sebastian know anything about it.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Body language. A certain openness about the way he answered my questions. No obvious nerves. As our American friends might put it, Mark is out of the loop.’

  By his expression, Taploe seemed unconvinced.

  ‘What did he say about the lawyer?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing that you won’t already know. Bit of a chancer, man about town. Taste for what certain people regard as the finer things in life. Champagne, oysters, bliads.’