Limelight, p.11
Limelight, page 11
In a way, I do. As a phrase, it weighs nothing, means nothing. It’s lighter than air, the perfect lure to tempt rich punters on to the hook. Pavel, I know, would adore it.
‘So, what are you bringing to the table?’
‘Our database, Mum. Sylvester’s spent the best part of a year getting it together, doing the research, pressing the flesh. More than a thousand names. Tally all that wealth and you end up in the trillions.’
Tally. Another rogue verb.
‘Don’t Karl and his friends have these names already?’ I enquire.
‘Shit, no. That’s the whole point. That’s our USP. These are people who haven’t been near the ocean all their lives, and you know why? Because they’ve been so busy. Busy, busy, busy, Mum. Sylvester calls them virgins. They’re ours for the taking. None of them would dream of setting foot on one of these monster yachts. Not unless we can give them a very good reason.’
‘And that’s your role?’
‘Absolutely. We’re selling Doomsday. The end of the world. It’s either the bomb or global warming or maybe some pandemic or other. You take your choice. All three are on the schedule. If the Americans don’t blow the world up first, then you can rely on climate change or the demon virus, bet your life on it, or your kids’ lives, or their kids’. There’s a neat little pictogram Sylvester’s designed. It’s a graph line, basically, and by the time you get to the bottom of the page, we’re all dead. Scary stuff, Mum.’
‘Unless you have a super yacht.’
‘Exactly. And not just any old super yacht. We’re talking survival, as well as plunge pools and walk-round peninsula beds. Did I ever mention the cache plan? We pre-position supplies at remote locations around the globe. Access by membership only. Layer after layer of security. State-of-the-art cyber-coding. “A” list stuff. Believe me, Mum, only the rich will make it through.’
Only the rich will make it through. This, it occurs to me, is a rather bleak view of our collective future, but Malo’s sell thunders on, numbing my brain as well as my ear. I have no idea what a walk-round peninsula bed might be, but I realize it doesn’t make the slightest difference. Bill Penny is right. His clever son, like most of the world’s richer folk, is peddling a dream, or in this case a nightmare, and it’s taken no time at all for Malo to tune in.
At last, thanks to some decisions he’s got to make about the best junction to take him off the motorway, what passes for our conversation comes to an end. Malo promises to give me a ring tomorrow, once he’s got a deal to take back to his new friend, and we leave it at that.
I’ve made the call from my bedroom upstairs in Evelyn’s bungalow. She appears at the door with a cup of tea and when I ask, she says I’m welcome to borrow her PC. I know it’s downstairs in her lounge. I settle at the keyboard and Google ‘super yachts UK’. As any actress knows, the key to a new role is research. Pay attention to the script. Get inside this person’s head. Explore every nook, every cranny. Figure out what makes them tick.
The first surprise is just how many players this game has attracted. Shipyards in Southampton, Poole, Plymouth. The days of building proper vessels in the UK – cargo boats, ocean liners – have clearly gone. Instead, the go-to market demands something smaller and infinitely more luxurious.
I choose a firm at random and settle back to watch the presentation. It’s slick, polished, and wildly aspirational, a collage of gym-honed bodies aboard yachts that belong in a Bond movie. The sell is pitch-perfect: paths less trodden, horizons unexplored, pristine beaches, coral reefs in the rudest health. A lone super yacht arrows towards yet another perfect sunset, while a line of guests linger at the bar. These lucky few, we’re given to understand, are risking it all, making it all, enjoying it all. Beyond the material things in life, murmurs the voiceover, lies the sublime.
This, I know, is wealth porn, a glitzy tribute to the power of cool, married to unimaginable wealth. This is what you’re worth, and this – by implication – is what you deserve. By scrolling left or right, up or down, I happen on jewel after jewel from this Aladdin’s cave: fantasy cabins, the work of interior design superstars poached from leading five-star hotels; bespoke vanity areas, hi-tech private saunas, state-of-the art Jacuzzis; a hand-made spiral staircase in bubinga hardwood, linking all three decks; a sky lounge with a retractable roof for late-night stargazing and – should you be up for an extra million or two on the construction bill – a tastefully integrated landing pad for the private chopper.
The sell is relentless, and my eyes begin to blur. This is a world away from the modest little shag pad in the Antibes marina where H and I conceived our son, and I’ve never realized just how much money there is in the world, yet the crushing weight of all this opulence suggests that Malo and Sylvester might be on to something. If you’re willing and able to pay ten million pounds for one of these toys, wouldn’t you write a bigger cheque to make sure you got the better of Doomsday?
I put the question to Evelyn over an early supper. So far, I’ve resisted the temptation of sharing Malo’s latest fantasy career, but the realization that it might conceivably work prompts a rethink. I tell her about Bill’s son, about the Twilight Fund, and about Malo sitting down to dinner with three strangers he thinks will change his life. Evelyn knows Malo well. She’s been kind to him in all kinds of ways over the years and has a kinship with him that, to be frank, I’ve always envied. After the meal, at her insistence, I load up the site I’ve just watched, and leave her to it while I deal with the washing-up. When I return to the lounge, she’s turned the PC off.
‘Obscene,’ she says briskly. ‘And you can tell him I said so.’
That evening, we watch old episodes of Location, Location, Location. This is a world away from peninsula beds and on-board tables laid for twelve, but Evelyn is a huge fan and admires the way that clever camerawork can turn a humble terrace into the home of someone’s dreams. Earlier than usual, we share a hug and retire. As I climb the stairs to bed, I wonder again where Malo might be headed. H, it has to be said, is a rich man. Half a lifetime in the cocaine trade has brought him a 300-acre spread in West Dorset, and Malo is no stranger to the goodies that money can buy. Yet this new world into which he’s stepped represents a totally different dimension of wealth, a far bigger swamp, and I just hope he’s clever enough not to get sucked under.
I’m showered and ready for bed when I become aware of voices from next door. I turn off the light and stand by the window. A white van is parked outside McFaul’s bungalow, the back doors open. I recognize Presley, the young carpenter who made and fitted Evelyn’s new bookshelves. He’s looking at a small mountain of furniture piled on the pavement and, as I watch, two other figures join him. One of them is McFaul. The other, a woman, I don’t know. The stuff on the pavement must have come from McFaul’s front room. He rummages around for a moment or two and then gives up. Presley, meanwhile, has clambered into the back of the van.
‘OK, Andy?’ This, very faintly, from Presley.
McFaul grunts something I don’t catch. Then he’s at the back of the van, taking the weight of a sizeable piece of furniture Presley is pushing towards him. The woman joins McFaul and together all three of them manhandle the object out of the van. A streetlight beside the van gives me a perfect view as the lifting party struggles across the pavement and through McFaul’s front gate. As they edge carefully towards the front door, I recognize the distinctive curve of the backrest, the glorious blue and grey stripes, the plumpness of the upholstery, the beautifully turned little legs. Then they pause a moment, while the woman readjusts her grip, and I have a second or two to make absolutely sure. The chaise longue, I think, from Bill Penny’s once-cherished bedroom.
THIRTEEN
It’s mid-morning the next day when McFaul knocks at Evelyn’s front door. His face rarely gives anything away and today is no exception.
‘You’ve done it? Cracked it? Opened the file?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘I tried but he’d managed to embed a self-destruct.’
‘A what?’
‘It’s a coding thing. I’ve no idea what was in that file but he never wanted anyone to see it. It’s like wiring your bell push to a stick of dynamite. The minute I wanted to get in – boom, the file disappeared.’
‘Gone?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Forever?’
‘Probably. I’m going to have one last go, but don’t hold your breath. In Angola, in the minefields, we’d call it a tripwire. Same principle.’
‘You looked elsewhere? Back-up, maybe?’
‘I looked everywhere – I’ve been up half the night.’ He stifles a yawn. ‘I’m guessing the guy mattered to you.’
‘You’re right. He did.’ I hold his gaze. ‘One other favour?’
‘No problem.’
‘This has nothing to do with computers, I promise. I happened to see that chaise delivered last night. Am I right that it belonged to Bill Penny?’
‘Yeah. How did you know?’
‘I saw it in that huge bedroom of his. It’s an amazing piece. I’m a bit of a nerd around French antique furniture. Would you mind if I popped in for a closer look?’
He gazes at me until I begin to feel uncomfortable. He clearly wants to say no but can’t quite work out how.
‘Sure.’ He shrugs. ‘Why not?’
I’m knocking at his door maybe an hour later. He shows me into the lounge where I find the chaise artfully placed a metre or two back from the bay window. Apart from this single piece of furniture, and a small occasional table, the room is bare. I can smell disinfectant again, bleach this time.
‘May I?’ I’m nodding at the chaise.
‘Help yourself.’
I kick off my sandals and pause to run my fingers over the upholstery where the swell of the seat folds into the backrest. Clever, I think. Half a lifetime ago, when I was still living at home in Perros-Guirec, my mother encouraged me to try my hand at upholstery and it wasn’t until I had a go at re-covering an ancient armchair she’d stored in the garage that I realized how difficult it was.
‘Beautiful.’ I glance up at McFaul. ‘Don’t you think?’
He nods, says nothing. Then he mutters something about Pavel’s MacBook. I can take it, if I want. He’s had another look but he honestly doesn’t think that the file I’m after still exists.
‘Not worth another go? Just one? If you’ve got the time?’
He’s frowning now, and I sense he’d prefer if I took it and went, but I still haven’t tried the chaise. I settle in the corner, leaning slightly back, feeling the support of the back and the arm exactly where it should be. Then I pivot on my bum and extend my legs, half-closing my eyes, trying to conjure the view from Bill Penny’s bedroom, and I’m still wondering why he’s parted with a piece like this when there comes a rap on the door. McFaul, I realize, has been staring at something out of the window. Already, he’s in the hall.
I hear voices, McFaul’s and someone else. A conversation develops. Then, after a brief silence, I’m looking at two faces peering round the door. One of them is middle-aged, maybe older. His greying hair is carefully parted on the right-hand side and he’s wearing glasses. With his rumpled suit and hints of exhaustion around the eyes, he looks like an accountant troubled by far too many clients. The other face, much younger, I know. His name’s Brett Atkinson, and he’s a detective.
‘Ms Andressen.’ He has Malo’s easy smile. ‘We meet again.’
I nod. I’ve yet to move from the chaise. Earlier this year, this young man was responsible for keeping me safe from a fate that still – just sometimes – keeps me awake at night, and I like to think we bonded as a result. That little episode ended with Brett getting badly glassed in a pub fight in Exmouth, and I can still make out the scar across his throat.
The other man’s name is Frank Bullivant. According to the ID dangling from his lanyard, he’s a DI, short for detective inspector. He’s gazing at the bareness of the room, aware of the little indentations still visible on the carpet from last night’s furniture.
‘You’ve cleared this place out, Mr McFaul?’ Flat accent, difficult to place.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Too much stuff, gets on top of you, time for a change.’
‘And where’s it gone? This stuff?’
‘The tip, I expect.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘Not for sure, no.’
‘So, who took it?’
‘A mate of mine.’
‘When?’
McFaul shakes his head. He wants to know what all this is about. Bullivant studies him for a moment, then produces a small pad.
‘His name? This mate of yours?’
I’m looking at a stand-off. I can see it in McFaul’s face. No way is he going to oblige these two strangers who have walked into his life.
Bullivant is looking round again. Then he sniffs.
‘Is that bleach I can smell?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’ve been cleaning up? Giving the place a seeing-to?’
‘Yeah.’
‘All of it? Everywhere?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You mind if I take a look?’
‘Help yourself.’
Bullivant leaves the room. It clearly falls to Brett to clear up behind this implacable boss of his, and he’s still doing his best to update McFaul on the status of the current search for Christianne when Bullivant reappears.
‘A MacBook and a laptop in the bedroom.’ He’s looking at Brett. ‘Bank statements in the top drawer of the same desk.’ He turns to McFaul. ‘Your phone?’
‘It’s in the kitchen.’
‘I meant your mobile.’
‘I haven’t got one.’
‘You haven’t got a mobile?’
‘Never. Can’t stand the things. But you guys know that. I told you last time you were here.’
‘It’s true, boss.’ This from Brett. ‘It’s in the log. Neither party had phones.’
Bullivant nods. First I sense incredulity, then disbelief, now disappointment. And all this with barely a flicker of visible emotion. Dead eyes. An upper lip thin enough to be virtually invisible. A mask instead of a face. This man is beginning to frighten me.
‘That MacBook you mentioned?’ I say lightly. ‘I think it’s probably mine.’
‘So, what’s it doing here?’
‘I’m taking a look at it,’ McFaul grunts. ‘Helping her out. It’s a neighbourly thing.’
‘You live next door?’ Bullivant’s eyes haven’t left my face.
‘I’m staying there. With a friend of mine.’
‘The letter, boss,’ Brett again. ‘The one we seized last time. Enora’s was the name on the envelope.’
‘And that’s you? You’re Enora Andressen?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Excellent.’ The hint of a smile at last. ‘In that case we’ll need to talk to both of you.’
At this point, McFaul kicks off. He demands to know what’s going on, and when Bullivant invites him back to the police station in Exmouth, he shakes his head. Over the last couple of days, he’s had a thousand conversations. He’s very happy to help but there’s nothing more to be said. His partner has gone. Her decision. End of.
None of this has any effect on Bullivant. Should McFaul refuse to attend for interview, then only one option remains. The word ‘arrest’ makes me blink. How come the conversation has so suddenly taken a turn like this? A moment ago, I was wondering about putting the kettle on. Now, I’m thinking handcuffs.
‘You have to have grounds. There has to be a reason.’ McFaul has taken a step closer.
‘You’re right, Mr McFaul.’
‘So why threaten me with arrest?’
‘Because we think you may have murdered Miss Beaucarne.’
‘You have grounds for that? Evidence?’
‘That remains to be seen, Mr McFaul.’ He gestures round. ‘It might be wise to leave us with the key. The forensic boys hate putting doors in.’
FOURTEEN
McFaul is unbending. Bullivant asks him twice more to submit to a voluntary interview and when McFaul shakes his head, he’s arrested and formally cautioned. Budleigh police station has been abandoned and so we drive to nearby Exmouth. McFaul is now handcuffed to Brett, and they sit wedged together in the back of the unmarked Ford. It has squeaky brakes and smells of cheap air freshener, and by the time we get to Exmouth I’m getting slightly nauseous. I know the police station well, thanks to events earlier in the year, but being back in the green-washed corridors, beneath the soulless glare of the neon lights, makes me feel like a recidivist.
Exmouth’s top cop is a uniformed inspector called Geraghty, a big, untidy woman, much shrewder than you might think, whom I got to know and like.
She greets me at her office door. ‘Welcome to Operation Bulldog,’ she says. ‘Still a splash of milk, is it? No sugar?’
Her coffee is beyond awful and she laughs when I say no. We share a moment of chit-chat and she asks how I’m coping without Pavel around. When I confess that his last stroke was a blessing, she puts a big hand on my arm and says she understands. Brett, she promises, will sort me out. ‘Have a good day.’
Have a good day? By now, McFaul has disappeared, handcuffed to a uniformed officer. I follow Brett along the corridor and into an office at the end. There’s no name on the door, and not much inside: a desk, a metal filing cabinet, and a faintly gothic poster on the wall portraying the tell-tale signs of domestic violence. Brett waves me into the chair in front of the desk, but for the time being I stay standing.
‘Operation Bulldog?’ I want to know more.
‘That’s right. Every major enquiry gets a codename. This one happens to be Bulldog. We have a suss death on our hands. We need to bottom one or two things out.’
‘But there’s no way he killed her,’ I say hotly. ‘Absolutely none. This whole thing is a charade. Your time? Our money? Need I go on? The poor bloody woman was dying. In case no one’s told that boss of yours, let me be the first to break the news. She had motor neurone disease. It strangles you to death. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine going to bed every night, listening to your body pulling the rug from under your feet? Can you imagine what it’s like waking up every morning, wondering whether you can still talk properly, still swallow, still put one foot in front of the other? Does any of that figure in this investigation of yours? Just nod. Just give me a clue. Does it?’
