Sod him, I thought.
I also hoped that none of Mrs Green Jumper, Marsha Rowse, Mrs Dove, Willy Parrott, the Intramind van driver, Nick Gross and the film cutter had switched on to watch racing at Ascot. I didn’t think Owen Yorkshire’s sliding glance across my overalls would have left an imprint, but the others would remember me for a day or two. It was a familiar risk, sometimes lucky, sometimes not.
When the racing ended I phoned Intramind Imaging and asked a few general questions that I hadn’t thought of in my brief career on the spot as a Topline Foods employee.
Were advertising campaigns originally recorded on film or on disks or on tape, I wanted to know, and could the public buy copies. I was answered helpfully: Intramind usually used film, especially for high-budget location-based ads. and no, the public could not buy copies. The finished film would eventually be transferred onto broadcast-quality videotape, known as BETACAM. These tapes then belonged to the clients, who paid television companies for airtime. Intramind did not act as an agent.
‘Thanks very much,’ I said politely, grateful always for knowledge.
Davis Tatum phoned soon after.
‘Sid,’ he said, ‘where are you?’
‘Manchester, city of rain.’
It was sunny that day.
‘Er…’ Davis said. ‘Any progress?’
‘Some,’ I said.
‘And, er…’ He hesitated again. ‘Did you read India Cathcart this morning?’
‘She didn’t write that she’d seen us at Le Meridien,’ I said.
‘No. She took your excellent advice. But as to the rest…!’
I said, ‘Kevin Mills phoned especially to tell me that she didn’t write the rest. He did it himself. Policy. Pressure from above. Same old thing.’
‘But wicked.’
‘He apologized. Big advance.’
‘You take it so lightly,’ Davis said.
I didn’t disillusion him. I said, ‘Tomorrow evening — would you be able to go to Archie Kirk’s house?’
‘I should think so, if it’s important. What time?’
‘Could you arrange that with him? About six o’clock, I should think. I’ll arrive there sometime myself. Don’t know when.’
With a touch of complaint he said, ‘It sounds a bit vague.’
I thought I’d better not tell him that with burglary, times tended to be approximate.
Chapter 12
I phoned The Pump, asking for India Cathcart. Silly me.
Number one, she was never in the office on Fridays. Number two, The Pump never gave private numbers to unknown callers.
‘Tell her Sid Halley would like to talk to her,’ I said, and gave the switchboard operator my mobile number, asking him to repeat it so I could make sure he had written it down right.
No promises, he said.
I sat for a good while thinking about what I’d seen and learned, and planning what I would do the next day. Such plans got altered by events as often as not, but I’d found that no plan at all invited nil results. If all else failed, try Plan B. Plan B, in my battle strategy, was to escape with skin intact. Plan B had let me down a couple of times, but disasters were like falls in racing; you never thought they’d happen until you were nose down to the turf.
I had some food sent up and thought some more, and at ten-fifteen my mobile buzzed.
‘Sid?’ India said nervously.
‘Hello.’
‘Don’t say anything! I’ll cry if you say anything.’ After a pause she said, ‘Sid! Are you there?’
‘Yes. But I don’t want you to cry so I’m not saying anything.’
‘Oh, God.’ It was half a choke, half a laugh. ‘How can you be so… so civilized?’
‘With enormous difficulty,’ I said. ‘Are you busy on Sunday evening? Your restaurant or mine?’
She said disbelievingly, ‘Are you asking me out to dinner?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s not a proposal of marriage. And no knife through the ribs. Just food.’
‘How can you laugh?’
‘Why are you called India?’ I asked.
‘I was conceived there. What has that got to do with anything?’
‘I just wondered,’ I said.
‘Are you drunk?’
‘Unfortunately not. I’m sitting soberly in an armchair contemplating the state of the universe, which is C minus, or thereabouts.’
‘Where? I mean, where is the armchair?’
‘On the floor,’ I said.
‘You don’t trust me!’
‘No,’ I sighed, ‘I don’t. But I do want to have dinner with you.’
‘Sid,’ she was almost pleading, ‘be sensible.’
Rotten advice, I’d always thought. But then if I’d been sensible I would have two hands and fewer scars, and I reckoned one had to be born sensible, which didn’t seem to have happened in my case.
I said, ‘Your proprietor — Lord Tilepit — have you met him?’
‘Yes.’ She sounded a bit bewildered. ‘He comes to the office party at Christmas. He shakes everyone’s hand.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Do you mean to look at?’
‘For a start.’
‘He’s fairly tall. Light-brown hair.’
‘That’s not much,’ I said when she stopped.
‘He’s not part of my day-to-day life.’
‘Except that he burns saints,’ I said.
A brief silence, then, ‘Your restaurant, this time.’
I smiled. Her quick mind could reel in a tarpon where her red mouth couldn’t. ‘Does Lord Tilepit,’ I asked, ‘wear an obvious cloak of power? Are you aware of his power when you’re in a room with him?’
‘Actually… no.’
‘Is anyone… Could anyone be physically in awe of him?’
‘No.’ It was clear from her voice that she thought the idea laughable.
‘So his leverage,’ I said, ‘is all economic?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Is there anyone that he is in awe of?’
‘I don’t know. Why do you ask?’
‘That man,’ I said, ‘has spent four months directing his newspaper to… well… ruin me. You must allow, I have an interest.’
‘But you aren’t ruined. You don’t sound in the least ruined. And anyway, your ex-wife said it was impossible.’
‘She said what was impossible?’
‘To… to…’
‘Say it.’
‘To reduce you to rubble. To make you beg.’
She silenced me.
She said, ‘Your ex-wife’s still in love with you.’
‘No, not anymore.’
‘I’m an expert on ex-wives,’ India said. ‘Wronged wives, dumped mistresses, women curdled with spite, women angling for money. Women wanting revenge, women breaking their hearts. I know the scenery. Your Jenny said she couldn’t live in your purgatory, but when I suggested you were a selfish brute she defended you like a tigress.’
Oh God, I thought. After nearly six years apart the same old dagger could pierce us both.
‘Sid?’
‘Mm.’
‘Do you still love her?’
I found a calm voice. ‘We can’t go back, and we don’t want to,’ I said. ‘I regret a lot, but it’s now finally over. She has a better husband, and she’s happy.’
‘I met her new man,’ India said. ‘He’s sweet.’
‘Yes.’ I paused. ‘What about your own ex?’
‘I fell for his looks. It turned out he wanted an admiration machine in an apron. End of story.’