His mind trips into overdrive. Why did his father have a hidden room? What’s on the tapes — and why are they in this place? Why are dozens of books in here and not on show downstairs?
Why was his father so determined to keep all this secret?
PART TWO
18
Jake Timberland is thirty-one but tells anyone who doesn’t know better that he’s twenty-seven. There’s something about thirty or over that he simply isn’t ready to have pinned on him. In Jake’s circle of friends, age is like the big birthday badge fastened on your chest when you are a kid, proclaiming ‘I AM 5’. Only at thirty it might as well say ‘I AM Slippers. Carpets. Dogs. Families. Volvos. I AM DULL.’
And dull sure ain’t Jake. Especially on a night when he’s done more chemicals than Pete Doherty and Amy Winehouse put together.
He’s not rich. But his father is. Banker bonus rich. The kind that comes from so far back in the family tree that the damn thing must have been a sapling in the garden of Eden when Adam was still pawing around. One day Jake will cop for the lot, but until then he has to make do with a five-million-pound pied-à-terre in Marylebone and an allowance that’s just enough to run the Aston, pay his club bills, make the occasional investment and enjoy the odd night on the town.
Jake is the only son and heir of Lord Joseph Timberland and he’s been papped with some of society’s hottest models, page-three girls and wild-child daughters of ageing rock stars. Sure it helps that your best buddy is a lensman at Heat magazine, but then what are friends for?
Tonight he is dressed to kill. A shimmering silk and cotton blue suit with a plain saturated-blue shirt and new black Italian leather shoes. He already has his sights set on a real hottie. A lithe piece who’s breezed into the VIP area at Chinawhite’s and is acting like she owns the place. Her perfect teeth say she’s American long before you hear her laugh and chat over-loudly to her entourage. Soaring cheekbones, warm brown eyes, carefully scrunched long dark hair and fabulous legs that stretch from a retro dashiki-style miniskirt in green, hot pink and coral. She looks like a film star hippie.
Just watching her sends a rush of blood to his head.
Then she glances his way.
Oh, man. Jake thinks he’s going to blow like an oil well. He floats across the floor, pulled by her sheer sexual gravity. The lithe one is surrounded by lots of pretty young things, boys and girls, but it seems she has eyes only for him.
‘Whoa, fella. Hold up.’
The voice and a big black hand on his chest come out of nowhere.
‘Excuse me.’ Jake peers disdainfully at the big fingers spread like the jaw of a crocodile near his puny white neck. ‘Do you mind?’
He’s speaking polite and perfect English into the face of a man so large he can’t see beyond his shoulder-span. ‘You need to back up a little, sir. The lady over there is having a party and there are no strangers allowed.’
Jake gives in to a nervous laugh. ‘A party without strangers? Just let me introduce myself to the young lady, I’m—’
The crocodile snaps. The finger-jaws grab Jake’s throat and have him walking breathlessly backwards all the way to a seat in the far corner of the VIP lounge.
As he struggles for breath, an older man with short white hair squats on his heels and looks deep into Jake’s eyes. ‘Son, we’re sorry to have had to do that. Now we’re going to order you a complimentary bottle of whatever you like and you’re going to stay right over here and drink it. Okay?’
‘This is my club,’ protests Jake, his voice raspy. He surprises himself by standing up. But once on his feet he has no real idea what he should do next. His way forward is blocked by crocodile man and another black-suited animal. He’d need ladders to climb over them.
Beyond the mountain range of their muscles, his eye again catches that of the beautiful young American. She murmurs to a blonde beside her — and, to Jake’s amazement, starts to walk his way.
There is no mistaking her intention. Her eyes never lose contact with his. Whoever she is, she’s coming over to talk to him.
The mountains shift menacingly towards him but he doesn’t care. They say love hurts. Jake guesses he’s just about to find out precisely how much.
19
Gideon’s mobile is chirping downstairs like a bird trapped in a flue.
He knows he won’t get to it before it trips to his message service but hurries out of his father’s hidden room and tries anyway.
He misses it by seconds.
The voicemail kicks in as he scours the worktops for pen and paper. He finds a rip-and-stick pad by the fridge. The front page bears a rough shopping list — cheese, biscuits, fruit, chocolate — the last supper his father never had.
He plays back the missed call, scribbles down the number and punches it in once the message has ended.
The voice at the other end is a woman’s. ‘CID. DI Baker.’
His hopes drop. ‘This is Gideon Chase, you just called my mobile.’
‘Mr Chase, thanks for ringing. I called to fix a time for you to see your father’s body.’
The words stun him. He’d been fearing this. She’d even asked him about it. But now it’s come he feels totally unprepared. ‘Right. Thank you.’
‘The funeral director is Abrahams and Cunningham on Bleke Street in Shaftesbury. Do you know where I mean?’
‘No. I’m not local, I don’t know the area at all.’
‘Well, it’s easy to find. It’s on the right, not far down from the Ivy Cross roundabout. They’ve suggested ten a.m. tomorrow. If that’s not suitable, I can give you a number and you can make your own arrangements.’
There isn’t a time on the clock face that seems suitable to see the semi-obliterated body of your father. In true English fashion, Gideon says the opposite of what he’s thinking. ‘Yes, that would be fine.’
‘Good. I’ll confirm with them.’
‘Thanks.’
Megan senses his tension. ‘If you’d like I could get an officer to accompany you. Would that help?’
‘I’ll be okay on my own.’
‘I understand.’ She sounds sympathetic. ‘Call me if you change your mind.’
Gideon hangs up and heads back upstairs.
He re-enters the secret room with a degree of trepidation, worried that the tapes are going to turn out to be pornographic. He tells himself he can live with it. Because it may be worse. It may relate to Nathaniel’s grave-robbing, his tomb-raiding, his highly questionable ‘trade’ in prized artefacts.
He stands for a moment and surveys the room. Years of training have taught him to take in the landscape before you start digging it up. The old saying about needing to know the lie of the land is true in archaeology — the terrain can lie like a faithless lover and lose you years of your life.
He knows that his father was the last person in here before him. The way it is, is how he left it. Generally tidy. Neat, except for a couple of open DVD cases. Orderly. There is a leather desk chair positioned in front of the wall-mounted TV and a low coffee table in the middle of the room. It’s marked with shoe polish on the near side, from where his father must have put his feet while watching the screen. There’s a crystal glass that smells of whisky, but no sign of a decanter or bottle. He suspects the liquor is stashed in one of the built-in cupboards at the bottom of the shelving that fills the room. There are boxes on the back shelves. He wonders how much his father was drinking at the end. Next to the glass is an ancient laptop computer — the type that still takes floppy disks — a notepad and a small and ugly clay pencil holder that he recognises instantly. He made it at school and brought it home for Father’s Day.