Down Cemetery Road Part 9

'Does London continue to function without him, then?'

'Just try and behave yourself, Sarah. No one's asking you to enjoy it. But try and behave yourself.'

He said that in the mock-angry tone they teased each other with, but she wasn't fooled.

They drove there, or Mark did, mid-Sat.u.r.day morning. It was dreamtime weather: a great big blue sky with faint tufts of cloud, like a child's drawing of summer. To Sarah, it felt like pa.s.sing through a funfair on the way to the dentist. She kept telling herself that these things are rarely as bad as you expect, but couldn't help suspecting she invalidated that premise by relying on it. If she wasn't expecting it to be quite so bad any more, it would probably turn out worse.

The village was one of the modern kind whose original inhabitants have grown old and died, leaving their houses in the hands of BBC executives. And the Inchons' weekend cottage, one in a row of similar detached dwellings, had 'weekend cottage' written all over it; there was just no way you were looking at anything else. Not that it had an air of neglect: quite the opposite. The whitewash on the walls seemed fresh; the bedspread-sized garden was Britain-in-Bloom standard. But when Sarah tried to conjure an image of Gerard in overalls with a bucket, or Gerard on his knees with a trowel, it faded almost immediately, to be replaced by one of Gerard handing a wodge of money to a man with overalls, a bucket, etc. It was too perfect, and Gerard too much the townie to have made it so. That was what Sarah decided.

Inside, the story was the same: an interior designer had looked up 'rustic', then thrown a lot of money at it. The stone floor presumably matched that of every other cottage in the row, but Sarah doubted there were many more Bokharas thrown casually on top of them, even round here. Eveything gleamed, and a faint smell of polish tainted the air. A wooden staircase looked both old and new at once; a triumphant marriage of conservation and conspicuous consumption, with what appeared to be a mouse carved into the handrail, in imitation, Sarah was pretty sure, of someone famous. In the nook below, on a purpose-built stand, sat a compact disc deck with a.s.sociated gadgetry; next to this was a row of bookshelves holding neatly labelled videos. Through a diamond-shaped window on the far wall, an untidy countryside mocked these civilized arrangements: the crystal decanter perched smugly in an alcove; the scatter of pristine lifestyle magazines on the gla.s.s-topped coffee table. For no reason she could positively pin down, Sarah found herself recalling Britt Ekland on Desert Island Discs; how, when asked for her favourite book, the former celebrity explained that she never got much time for reading, and would just like a few magazines please. It was the nearest Sarah had come to throwing a radio through a window. Meanwhile Inchon, in brown cords and white sweater despite the weather, played Mein Host: a triumph of method acting. She'd not have been surprised if he'd said Welcome To Our Humble Abode, or practised a sweeping bow as he'd ushered them in.

What he was in fact saying was, 'You're here, you're here. How about a drink?'

It wasn't the words or the manner; they had nothing to do with it. But afterwards she pinpointed that as the moment she decided it had been Gerard Inchon who planted the bomb that blew the Singleton house away.

III.

Asking Mark to remind her what the Trophy Wife was called would have been asking for it: divine inspiration descended in time. The name was Paula and, unlike her husband, she was making no concessions to her environment; her lilac number, matching skirt and jacket, could have graced a West End opening without alteration. So could her air of boredom. But this, like the suit, didn't seem to have been put on for their benefit: a weekend in the country, Sarah reflected, was one of those relative terms. Under different circ.u.mstances, she'd have been looking forward to it. For Paula, it looked like a phrase followed by With No Hope Of Parole, in block capitals.

Still, she didn't labour the point; positively unwound, in fact, once Sarah and Mark had accepted Gerard's offer of drinks. Or spoke, anyway. 'Did you have a good journey?'

'Fine, thanks,' Mark said. 'Absolutely no . . . problem.'

It was like listening to people remembering a phrase book they'd glanced at. A suspicious mind would have a.s.sumed they were having an affair.

But Sarah's suspicious mind was otherwise occupied at that moment; was trying desperately to send the right signals to her body, her limbs. Act natural. Smile. Talk about the weather. Don't, for instance, mention Gerard turning up late the night of the explosion, leaving his briefcase in the car. (His briefcase? At a dinner party?) Don't ask why he'd been so sure it was a bomb. Don't ask where he keeps his gun collection. Just take, which she now did, the proffered c.o.c.ktail and smile, act natural, talk about the weather.

'Brilliant piece of suns.h.i.+ne.'

'Splendid.'

'Great summer in fact.'

'Greenhouse effect.'

'More power to it.'

'Too hot, really.'

'Well, yes, I'd say so.'

'They say it'll break soon.'

'But they always say that,' concluded Gerard, 'don't they?'

Mark fetched their bags, and Gerard showed them the guestroom. It was more of the same: an ill.u.s.tration from a catalogue; a backdrop to a tweed collection. The double bed had a bolster, and through the window sheep posed placidly beneath a spreading chestnut tree, probably. Gerard showed them how the wardrobe worked: it had a sliding door. Left to themselves, she and Mark would have cracked this fairly soonish. You could take the host business too far, she thought, but you couldn't fault his geniality.

Except you had to see it as an act. If you had decided he was responsible for the deaths of a young widow and her curiously extant husband, and, by logical extension, the kidnapping or at any rate disappearing of their surviving daughter, you had to take this newly jovial front with a quarryload of salt. Sarah had, of course, no evidence. For the moment, though, she wouldn't let that get in the way; with a weekend on the premises to go, she could have him bang to rights by Monday.

'Not too shabby,' Mark said, once Gerard had left them.

'Mmm?'

'All this.' He waved a hand: the room, the cottage, the country. He was desperate for her to be pleased, she realized; for the stage to be suitable for a convincing performance of enjoyment. So they could both pretend, even in front of each other, that it was brilliant they were here. Maybe she should tell him, she thought as she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, that the entertainment potential in this weekend had increased by a factor of ten. On the other hand, though, she definitely shouldn't.

'All right?' he asked anxiously.

'Fine. Everything's fine.' And they went downstairs.

It was hard getting a handle on Gerard in his home environment. It was as if the slate had been wiped clean, and he was determined not to acknowledge in any way that their first encounter had been anything but immensely cordial. He did mention the explosion once, but addressed his question to Mark while Sarah was asking Paula something interesting about neighbours, and couldn't b.u.t.t in to prolong the dialogue.

'Anything ever come of that incident? Developments?'

'Not that I know of.'

'Hmph. Trouble with the police, they're so busy bending over backwards to prove they're not racist thugs, they never get anything done. It's like everything else, you want results, go private.' He glanced at Sarah as he said this, but she was too busy being fascinated by Paula to respond. Something about a TV star three doors away. His last party started on Friday and went on till Monday morning!

One of the non-bomb-related puzzles that had been exercising Sarah, why there was no activity in the kitchen, was solved when Gerard explained he'd booked a table at the local pub for lunch. Booked, mind. Not one of those pub lunches where you just turn up. Within a few minutes of that, they were in The Feathers, a pub that was everything the rest of the village promised, having uniformed staff, a wide choice of real ale and expensive food. Sarah, though, was on her best behaviour. So, it seemed, was Gerard. When he spoke, she listened and laughed; when she spoke he attended as if expecting questions later. Mostly Mark did the talking, though, while Paula picked at her food and didn't offer much, beyond adding the odd name to her list of the village alumni. Sarah thought she'd be happier in Planet Hollywood. Even Gerard threw her odd glances, as if wis.h.i.+ng she'd try harder.

After the garlic bread, the lasagne, the summer pudding, Gerard suggested a walk. 'Lovely walks round here, aren't there, darling?'

Paula shrugged.

'Woods?' asked Mark, to show he knew a thing or two about the countryside.

'I wouldn't be at all surprised.'

They had a brief altercation about the bill which Gerard won, depending on how you looked at it, then set off to check out the surrounding countryside. A footpath took them beyond the village limits in a very short while. Here, Sarah expected segregation to set in: Gerard would stride on with Mark and discuss manly things, while she was left to dredge up enough small talk to keep Paula from slipping into a coma. In the event she was quite wrong, soon finding herself with Gerard, some fifty yards behind their spouses. Detective finds herself alone with suspect. What do they talk about? The weather.

'Wonderful, isn't it?'

'What is?'

'Good clean air,' he said.

'You're not really a country boy, are you, Gerard?'

'I wouldn't say that. I'm from yeoman stock. Generations back, my family were farmers.'

'Generations back everybody's family were farmers.'

'Funny, isn't it? Everybody rat-racing in the city, struggling to make their pile, so they can get back where their ancestors sweated. Maybe we should all have stayed where we were in the first place.'

'Would you have liked that?'

'Of course not. This is the weekend talking. It's not real life.'

'Which is?'

'Compet.i.tion. Struggle. The survival of the smartest.'

'And the devil take the rest.'

'You think I'm a capitalist monster, don't you?'

'It crossed my mind.'

Gerard stopped to examine the view. She imagined the checklist in his head: sheep, yes; fields, yes; trees, yes. This was the country, no question. He nodded in quiet satisfaction and said, 'When I meet people like those friends of yours, the ones with rather bizarre names, I must admit I play up to their expectations. They think wealth goes hand in hand with obnoxious att.i.tudes.'

'So that was a game.'

'No. But it's not the whole story, either.'

'Underneath it all,' Sarah said, 'you're just another raging lefty.'

'That's the trouble with you middle-cla.s.s socialist types.' He seemed to have had enough of the view now, and together they walked on. 'You think you've the monopoly on compa.s.sion.'

'Whereas you regard it as a free market.'

'Oh very neat, yes. A market in which there's no room for random acts of senseless generosity, shall we say.'

'Why not?' Sarah said. 'It sounds like we've said it before.'

He chuckled at that. Annoying Gerard Inchon was an uphill task. No doubt he was aware just how irritating this was.

For all that, the weekend Gerard wasn't what she'd expected. There was something to his manner and the country clothes, the appreciative once-overs he gave the scenery that told her he was playing a part, for his own benefit as much as hers. He wanted to be at home here but wasn't quite making the grade, and what surprised her wasn't so much this c.h.i.n.k in his armour she'd never met a man who didn't come with one of those as her own response to it: a mild disappointment at his obvious vulnerability.

. . . And there she went again, treating it all like a giant game. Though the players in this case were people, and some of them were dead.

'It doesn't bother you, though,' she said after a bit, 'just to write some people off?'

See if he appreciates the subtlety of that.

'How do you mean?'

'Well, my friend Rufus.' My friend was a stretch, but he wasn't to know that. 'You decided he was a dead loss in no time flat. What gives you the right to do that?'

'The same thing that lets me get away with it. He's spineless, Sarah. Fond as you so obviously are of his retro missus, you have to admit friend Rufey is a bit lacking in what, in other company, I'd have to call b.a.l.l.s.'

'And that's what makes a man?'

'I'd call it a defining characteristic.'

'Not everybody gets the same chances in life.'

'It would be foolish to deny it. But not everybody makes use of the ones they get.'

'He was an orphan.'

'He wasn't the only one.' Gerard stopped abruptly, as if he'd said more than he'd meant to, and used a stick he'd acquired to point at a speck in the sky. 'What's that, do you think?'

'A bird?' Sarah ventured. 'Mark's the expert.'

'Kestrel, probably. Or a hawk. Or a buzzard.'

Sarah surveyed once more the green sweep of landscape, receiving from it this time a sense of something large and impressive to which she could not readily put a name: possibly nature exerting its pressure; something, anyway, she didn't feel in the city. 'It's very beautiful,' she said, and because it sounded to her own ear as if the words had come out grudgingly, said it again. 'Beautiful. What's it like in the winter?'

'G.o.d knows.'

The others were waiting at a stile, and they swapped partners as if the move had been ch.o.r.eographed in advance. Sarah spent the rest of the walk communing, largely in silence, with Paula, reflecting the while on her conversation with Gerard. From which she had learned precisely nothing. So the man was an orphan, or that's what he'd implied: so what? As a clue, this ranked poorly against the tortured confession she might have extracted. The most interesting thing he'd said, he'd said to Mark: his comment about going private when investigating crime. Which could mean he knew about Joe, which in turn meant he was having her watched. You might come down with a bad dose of paranoia in this business. Hadn't Joe said he never spoke freely over the phone?

And Paula never spoke freely anywhere, or so Sarah was finding. 'How long have you owned the cottage?'

'About a year.'

'And do you come here . . . often?' Her voice trailing away.

'Whenever Gerard feels like it.'

From up ahead, the odd word came wafting back: parts of that complicated vocabulary people never use, but money thrives on. Interim pre-tax profits. Commercial reserves. They spoke of entire nations as if other races marched ahead with a single thought in mind: The Germans always this. The j.a.panese never that. As if every other country in the world had a fixed agenda, while Jolly Old Blighty b.u.mbled along, full of people who didn't give a toss. That last part, in fact, felt pretty true to Sarah's experience, but there were probably Wigwams and Rufuses in every country in the world.

'And do you like it?'

But Paula just looked at her.

When they got back to the cottage it quickly became apparent that the fresh air and exercise element of the country weekend was officially at a close, and the drinking far too much aspect just breaking open. Gerard uncorked several bottles of wine at once, some to breathe, some not to get the chance, and for the next few hours time seemed to stand still for long stretches, then gallop to catch up at unexpected moments. Sarah kept a stern eye on her gla.s.s at first, until the effort of remembering her suspicions while pretending to enjoy herself started to weigh too heavily to allow for other considerations. Perhaps she was only pretending to suspect, and genuinely enjoying herself. Gerard kept up a flow of jokes which grew progressively raunchier as the afternoon wore off; Mark laughed a lot and it struck her as an unfamiliar sound. And Paula drank steadily and spoke about life in London, and where the best places to be seen were, and what made them the best places. She was starting to sound like a Muppet. When Sarah giggled at the wrong moment she found she couldn't stop. 'Sorry.' Gerard said something she didn't catch, and next moment Mark was bending over her, closer to her than he'd been since they'd last had s.e.x. 'I think you're quite drunk, Sarah.' I think we all are, she wanted to tell him, but the effort was beyond her so she meekly allowed him to lead her upstairs instead, where she woke several hours later in a very dark room, with her head screwed on too tight and a mouth so dry she must have been force-fed crackers in her sleep.

She found the loo then cleaned herself up a bit. The face in the mirror was red-eyed, very pale-skinned: not a brilliant advert for your husband's career she thought, before remembering she didn't give a sod about Mark's career, and it wasn't her fault she'd got drunk anyway. When she came out it was to the sound of a minor earthquake in the adjoining room, and since its light was on and the door open she stuck her head round to find a fully clothed Paula on the bed, snoring to wake the dead. The survivor of a thousand city nights wasn't looking too hot. Probably the country air. Feeling less a casualty for having witnessed another crash, she went downstairs in search of moving bodies.

Mark's was not among them. Draped over the sofa, head back, mouth open, he had a was.h.i.+ng-up bowl balanced on his knees, which Sarah's long-term experience indicated was both prudent and not his own idea. The main light was off, and for one moment his face seemed to flicker in the dark, as if she were catching a glimpse of him from a pa.s.sing train. But the movement was illusory; the darting shadows the TV. Gerard Inchon was watching a movie.

'Cary Grant,' she said, more to announce her presence than to let him know who he was watching. Buried in an armchair, he hadn't looked round as she came down, and for a moment she thought he was asleep. But at last he turned his big head lazily round and nodded as if he'd been expecting her.

'Archie Leach,' he replied.

'Archie Leach was a n.o.body,' she said. 'Cary Grant was a star.' Why did she feel the need to duel with this man?

Whyever, he didn't join in. 'Sit,' he said. 'Have a drink.' He waved at an array of wine bottles, most of them empty. 'I can open another,' he added, reaching the same conclusion.

'Water'll do, thanks.'

'We've got some of that. I think we keep it in the tap.'

'I'll find it.'

There were more empty bottles on the kitchen table, forcing Sarah to suppress a shudder as she found a gla.s.s, poured some water, drank it, poured some more. She couldn't remember an afternoon when she'd drunk this much. Nor wished to. The afternoon anyway was long over: the kitchen clock said 11.20, and through the back window dark trees waved at her. She could make out her own reflection too. It wasn't doing her any favours.

Back in the sitting room Cary Grant was climbing a flight of stairs, carrying a gla.s.s of milk with a light bulb in it. Gerard seemed engrossed but beckoned her to sit, pointing at a tray of sandwiches somebody had fixed up at some point. Suddenly ravenous, Sarah ate four, while on the screen in front of them an improbably happy ending imposed itself on what had been, up to that point, a good film. When the urge came to tell the audience Everything is going to be all right, it was definitely time to pack it in.