Restless

He had said he would see what he could dig up.

Now he heaved himself out of his armchair, tugged his waistcoat down over his gut and went to his desk and searched among the papers there.

'He's not in Who's Who or Debrett's,' said Bobbie.

'I know: I did check,' I said.

'Doesn't mean a thing, of course. I assume he's still alive and kicking,'

'I assume so.'

He took some half-moon spectacles out of a pocket and put them on. 'Here it is,' he said, and looked over the rims at me. 'I called one of my brighter undergraduates who's become a clerk at the House of Commons. He did a little digging around and came up with someone called Baron Mansfield of Hampton Cleeve – family name Romer.' He shrugged. 'Could that be your man?' He read off the sheet of paper.

'Mansfield, Baron, created 1953 (Life Peer), of Hampton Cleeve. L.M. Romer, chairman Romer, Radclyffe Ltd – ah, the publishers, that's the bell that rang – 1946 to the present day. That's all I've got, I'm afraid. He does seem to live very discreetly.'

'Could be,' I said. 'I'll check him out, anyway. Many thanks.'

He looked at me shrewdly. 'Now, why would you be so interested in Baron Mansfield of Hampton Cleeve?'

'Oh, just someone my mother was mentioning.'

My mother had said two things in the Turf Tavern: one, that she was sure Romer was alive and, two, that he had been ennobled in some way – 'A knight, a lord, or something, I'm sure I read about it,' she had said. 'Mind you, that was ages ago.' We left the pub and strolled towards Keble College, where she had parked her car.

'Why do you want to find Romer?' I asked.

'I think the time has come' was all she said and from her tone of voice I knew further questioning would be fruitless.

She ran me to the end of Moreton Road: Hamid was due in five minutes and, sure enough, there he was, sitting on the top of the steps.

We spent two hours with the Ambersons, enjoying their delayed holiday near Corfe Castle, Dorset. There were a great many remonstrations about what Keith Amberson 'should have done' and many complaints from affronted wife and children about his oversights. Keith was abashed and apologetic. Hamid seemed to have caught Keith's mood as he seemed a little subdued throughout and over-studious in an untypical way, stopping me frequently to make long and laborious notes in his jotter. I wound things up earlier than usual and asked him if there was anything on his mind.

'You have still not responded to my dinner invitation,' he said.

'Oh, yes, any time,' I said, having forgotten all about it, of course. 'Just give me a couple of days' notice so I can get a babysitter.'

'What about this Saturday night?'

'Fine, fine. Jochen can stay with his grandmother. Saturday would be lovely.'

'There is a new restaurant on the Woodstock Road – Browns.'

'So there is, yes – Browns, that's it – I haven't been, that would be lovely.'

Hamid visibly brightened. 'Good – so, Saturday at Browns. I'll call here and collect you.'

We made the arrangements and I walked him through to the back door. Ludger was in the kitchen, eating a sandwich. He paused, licked his fingers and shook Hamid's hand.

'Hey, brother. Inshallah. Where are you going?'

'Summertown.'

'I'll come with you. See you later, Ruth.' He took his sandwich with him and followed Hamid down the stairs – I could hear the dull metallic boom of their steps as they clattered down.

I looked at my watch: ten to four – ten to five in Germany. I went to the phone in the hall, lit a cigarette and called Karl-Heinz on his private line at his office. I heard the phone ringing. I could picture his room, picture the corridor it was on, the building it was in, the nondescript suburb of Hamburg where it was to be found.

'Karl-Heinz Kleist.' I heard his voice for the first time in over a year and I felt it, for a second, sap all my strength. But only for a second.

'It's me,' I said.

'Ruth…' The pause was minimal, the surprise wholly disguised. 'Very good to hear your sweet English voice. I have your photo here on my desk in front of me.'

The lie was as fluent and as unfalsifiable as ever.

'Ludger's here,' I said.

'Where?'

'Here in Oxford. My flat.'

'Is he behaving himself?'

'So far.' I told him how Ludger had showed up, unannounced.

'I haven't spoken to Ludger for… oh, ten months,' Karl-Heinz said. 'We had a disagreement. I won't see him again.'

'What do you mean?' I heard him find and light a cigarette.

'I told him: You are no longer my brother.'

'Why? What had he done?'

'He's a bit crazy, Ludger. A bit dangerous, even. He was mixing with a crazy crowd. RAF I think.'

'RAF?'

'Red Army Faction. Baader-Meinhof, you know.'

I did. There was an interminable trial going on in Germany of Baader-Meinhof members. Ulrike Meinhof had committed suicide in May. It was all a bit vague – I seemed never to find the time to read newspapers these days. 'Is Ludger mixed up with these people?'

'Who knows? He talked about them as if he knew them. I told you I don't speak to him anymore. He stole a lot of money from me. I kicked him out of my life.' Karl-Heinz's voice was very matter-of-fact – it was as if he was telling me he had just sold his car.

'Is that why Ludger came to England?'

'I don't know – I don't care. You have to ask him. I think he always liked you, Ruth. You were kind to him.'

'No I wasn't – not particularly.'

'Well, you were never unkind.' There was a pause. 'I can't say this for sure but I think he may be wanted by the police. I think he did some stupid crazy things. Bad things. You should be careful. I think maybe he is on the runaway.'

'On the run.'

'Exact.'

I paused this time. 'So there's nothing you can do.'

'No. I'm sorry – I told you: we had this fight. I will never see him again.'

'OK, great, thanks a lot. Bye.'

'How's Jochen?'

'He's very well.'

'Give him a kiss from his father.'

'No.'

'Don't be bitter, Ruth. You knew everything before this started between us. Everything was open. We had no secrets. I made no promises.'

'I'm not bitter. I just know what's best for both of us. Bye.'

I hung up. Time to pick up Jochen from school but I knew I shouldn't have called Karl-Heinz. I was already regretting it: it set everything stirring in me once more – everything that I had managed to tidy, order and label and store away in a locked cupboard was scattered all over the floor of my life again. I walked down the Banbury Road to Grindle's chanting to myself: it's over – calm down. It's finished – calm down. He's history – calm down.

That night, after Jochen had gone to bed, Ludger and I sat up later than usual in the sitting-room, watching the news On television. For once I was paying attention and, as malign coincidence would have it, there was a report from Germany about the Baader-Meinhof trial that had now lasted more than a hundred days. Ludger stirred in his seat when the picture of a man's face came up on the screen: handsome in a sleazy kind of way – a kind of sneering handsomeness that you see in certain men.

'Hey, Andreas,' Ludger said, pointing at the screen. 'You know, I knew him.'

'Really? How?'

'We were in porno together.'

I went over to the TV and switched it off.

'Do you want a cup of tea?' I said. We went through to the kitchen together and I switched the kettle on.

'What do you mean "in porno"?' I asked, idly.

'I was an actor in porno films for a while. So was Andreas. We used to hang out together.'

'You acted in porn films?'

'Well only one film. You can still buy it, you know, in Amsterdam, Sweden.' He seemed quite proud of this fact.

'What's it called?'

'Volcano of Cum.'

'Good title. Was Andreas Baader in this film?'

'No. Then he got crazy: you know – Ulrike Meinhof, RAF, the end of capitalism.'