‘I’m sorry that the just good friends line didn’t take with the press.’
‘No, you’re not,’ Sarah told him. ‘You should be grateful I didn’t tell them the one thing that would’ve convinced them their story was crap. That you’re gay.’
‘Are you saying that because I didn’t make a pass?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself I wanted one. If you’d told me what you were up to, I would have understood. I might even have said yes. Having the press jump out at me, then letting me work it out for myself, that wasn’t very clever.’
‘A couple of tabloids were sniffing around my marriage,’ Jasper admitted. ‘I panicked.’
‘Why? I can’t believe your wife’s going to tell them the truth.’
‘She won’t if I settle things to her liking.’
‘She must have known what you were like when she married you.’
‘She knew, but . . .’ March had already finished his glass of Chablis. He poured himself another. ‘I used to be more . . . ambivalent than I am now. Melissa hoped my sexuality would develop in one direction but, as things turned out, it went in the other.’
Sarah wanted to talk about Barrett Jones and Ed Clark, not Jasper’s delusions of bisexuality. ‘There’s a delicate matter I need to share with someone. Can I trust your discretion?’
‘Sure.’
Sarah poured herself a second glass of wine and told Jasper March about Ed Clark’s confession.
‘What do you think?’ she concluded. ‘Is there any way I can find out the truth?’
‘Let it go,’ March said. ‘There’s no percentage in publicizing Clark’s guilt, for you, or him. That was a very effective campaign you organised, but it sounds like the police have his number. He’ll be convicted of something else in due course. Or clear off abroad when his compensation comes through, if he has any sense.’
‘Compensation could take years. And the police have to be extra careful with him. So neither answer’s any comfort to the woman who’s bringing up his victims’ kids.’
‘You can’t tell her anything that will bring their parents back. Some people you can’t help. You must have discovered that by now.’
He had given the answer she was expecting. ‘I had, but sometimes I need reminding.’
‘I still owe you one,’ Jasper said, as she got up to go. ‘Sorry I couldn’t help much with that last thing. If there’s ever anything else . . .’
‘I won’t be here long enough to call in that debt. Unless, that is, you’ve got any dirt on Barrett Jones which might help my campaign.’
‘Ah yes, I can see how you’d be upset about having a minister like Barrett parachuted in to oppose you. Nobody likes a carpetbagger, do they?’
Jasper chuckled and held the door open for her. Sarah wondered whether the seed she’d just sown had landed on fertile ground.
Billboards in Nottingham boasted that British Rail could take you to London in ninety minutes, but the train Nick was on took two hours, as it always had done. St Pancras hadn’t changed either: a grim, gothic pile that stank of tar and burnt oil. Nick walked into Bloomsbury. There were still plenty of cheap hotels around Great Russell Street. If he needed to stay over, a basic room was thirty quid a night. An overnight stop would give Caroline and Joe a break. Caroline, he’d begun to sense, was fed up of his constant presence. She probably wasn’t happy about him driving a cab for Joe, either, but was too tactful to tell him so.
Nick was here on the scrounge. He needed to find money for the deposit on a flat, and didn’t want to go begging to his younger brother. A phone call might suffice but in person was better and, anyhow, Nick couldn’t get Andrew’s new number. He’d rung round a few old friends and acquaintances the day before, people he hadn’t spoken to since he’d been convicted. The conversations weren’t comfortable.
‘Nick Cane? Been a long time . . . Didn’t . . .? I can understand you not wanting to talk about it. Haven’t seen Andy in five years I’m afraid. No, I don’t know who might know. Probably ex-directory. He’s gone up in the world. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s permanently in New York now.’
‘Andy Saint? He still has his place in London, I think. Last I heard of him was in the financial pages, land development, that sort of thing.’
None of the people Nick had spoken to suggested meeting or catching up. Middle-class criminals were rarely caught. The bad smell that came off Nick might attach to them. But as far as everyone knew, Andrew’s home address hadn’t changed. Nick could find him. A letter wouldn’t do. It might be opened by somebody else. Also, Nick didn’t want to give Andrew time to think. The Saint owed him and that should be that. How much he owed was open for discussion.
Nick took the tube to Notting Hill. When Andrew bought this place, it was dirt cheap. The house was a white-walled, six-bedroom wreck that had been squatted in throughout the seventies, abandoned and boarded up in the early eighties and finally sold for a song just before the property boom got under way. Andrew’s place was freshly painted in Sherwood green. The windows looked new. Smart paving tiles had been laid at the front where there used to be scrub and weeds. A Merc was parked in the drive. It was in the same league as the other vehicles on the street. Most were big cars with child seats and plenty of leg room in the back for the teenagers they dropped off at Holland Park School.
The bell used to be two bits of wire you pushed together. At least then you could hear it ring. The new one made no noise. There was an intercom. A round aperture high in the porch might be a security camera. Nick wasn’t expecting Andrew to be at home. He may have to wait hours before he returned. Would Andrew have been expecting him to show up at some point? If Nick hadn’t failed that drugs test, he could have been out three months ago. But people on the outside were liable to forget that prisoners could earn remission of part of their sentence for good behaviour. Andrew might think that Nick was still serving his full time.
The footsteps Nick heard would be a housekeeper. Nick would ask when the boss would be home and refuse to leave his name. He was ready to hang around for a couple of days if that was what it took.
But, to Nick’s surprise, the figure who half opened the door was Andrew – a smarter, less portly Andrew than when Nick had last seen him. His glasses were mildly tinted. Nick thought he saw momentary confusion. Then a warm smile spread across his old friend’s face.
‘Nick! You’re back with us. Come in, come in.’
They hugged.
‘I’d have rung first but you’ve changed your number,’ Nick said.
‘No need, no need. It’s great to see you.’
Nick followed Andy into the kitchen. The house was an odd mix of shabby and swish. Old floor tiles, new kitchen units. A cork notice board displayed only a couple of takeaway menus and a taxi card.
‘Sorry, mate. I should have stayed in touch when you were inside, but life got insanely busy. Things are so much more complicated when you go legit.’
Nick smiled. ‘Completely legit?’
‘Completely. For years now.’
Nick had suspected as much from Andy’s pruning of old friends. He wondered how long it would be before Andy tried to get rid of him.
‘That’s good to hear, Andy.’
‘No one’s called me Andy for years. We’re grown-ups now. That’s the time of life we were given full names for.’
‘Okay, Andrew, as long as you don’t start calling me Nicholas.’
‘Remember what they used to call the two of us?’
Nick laughed. Saint Nick. There’d been a time at university when they were inseparable. Mates would talk about going to see Saint Nick, meaning the two of them. ‘Long time ago,’ he said.
‘Starting to feel like that. Is it too early in the day for a drink? Have you heard the news?’