Full of Money (23 page)

‘But what kind of answer would we get there?' Nellie said.

‘Tell us about tonight's items, would you, please, Larry?' Gerald snarled. ‘I know that ultimately this evening I'm going to have my mind engaged with something worthwhile. Ulti-fucking-mately.'

And ultimately Esther, Gerald, Dione Pellotte and Sacheverell Biggs watched the programme together in Hospitality.

‘Hell, it's true,' Dione said, ‘Rupe's a dud without that shag-me-do, juicy bird Sandine.'

Biggs said: ‘He won't drink before a show. Mistake. They have to talk so much shit that only a few good toddies can get them through.'

‘I expect you watch every week, do you, Sacheverell?' Esther said.

‘I'm usually here alone.'

‘Ah,' Esther said.

‘What happened to your father's car, Dione?' Gerald said.

‘Car? Did anything happen?' Dione said.

Fourteen

‘I told him blunt, no messing, Mr Edgehill, you wouldn't want to get pulled into something like that,' Udolpho Wentloog-Jones said. ‘These are unsafe times, what with the journo and other matters.'

‘You echo one of my colleagues at work.'

‘Oh?'

‘“Unsafe.” She thinks there's going to be big, tumultuous bother.'

‘Bright. But, of course, he
would
say there's no intention to pull you into anything like that, not in a major fashion. He says he only wants to ask for your help on the very outside edge of the situation – hardly into it at all, really, according to him – and definitely only a one-off. “Intercession.” That's the term he used. A lot. He says he needs somebody to provide intercession on that one-off basis, only that – the one-off basis.'

Edgehill had called in as usual for his morning papers. He said: ‘What makes him think that I—?'

‘So, Hodgy asks, would I just speak a word to you, nothing beyond that, and only this once? Naturally, he's heard you had a big chinwag with Pellotte and Dean in Gideon the other day. Everybody's heard that, haven't they? A major buzz item on Whit. And, he says, a
friendly
big talk by the look of it, nothing to do with putting the frighteners on, or with reproaches leading later to a swat, as might be the usual cause of a conversation with those two. Well, you told me that talk was mainly to do with the arts – a really civilized discussion, although roadside. He thinks this shows you must be on decent, comfortable terms with them.'

‘It was a conversation. That's all. Unexpected. No special meaning.'

‘The BMW becomes part of the setting for this happy conversation, and they'd never use it to run you down, in the present state of things between you and them. As a matter of fact, I've seen them around in a different car lately.'

‘I heard about that.'

‘Servicing, most likely.'

‘Or repairs,' Edgehill said.

‘His car doesn't get vandalized. Who'd risk it?'

‘No, I meant adjustments to the engine, the exhaust – that sort of thing.'

‘Anyway, what he's getting at, when he says about intercession, is you've obviously got good access to Adrian Pellotte and Dean and you'd be able to offer it – intercession. They called on him – at his place, Larch Street. That can be an unhelpful sign. But this time they were in a hurry – on their way to something special. He's afraid they'll come back to attend to things, though.'

‘Which things?'

‘Sort of “on hold” while they were elsewhere.'

‘And what's his name again?' Edgehill replied.

‘Hodge. Gordon Basil Hodge. GBH, as he's known sometimes, meaning grievous bodily harm on a charge sheet. But he's not really like that. He wins awards for pushing. Remember that sad situation with Gladstone Milo Naunton, God rest his soul? But Hodge is all right. I come across him often – in the way of business. More or less a mate. Yes, Larch Street.'

‘The newspaper business?'

‘The business.'

‘The business in the sense of—?'

‘The business.'

‘He wants me to intercede on what account?'

‘Yes, intercede. Or to put it simpler, speak a word.'

‘To Pellotte and Dean?'

‘He knows you look in here most mornings for your
Sun
and
Guardian
, getting a good range,' Wentloog-Jones replied. ‘That's why he thought I'd be able to pass a request. On his behalf. Like interceding about interceding.'

‘He's got problems with Adrian Pellotte and Dean?'

‘This can happen.'

‘What kind of problems?'

‘Any problems with them are going to be serious. They don't go in for small problems. They had a collection of particular stuff in the boot of the BMW,' Udolpho replied.

‘What particular stuff?'

‘When they called on him,' Wentloog-Jones said. ‘He saw it for himself.'

‘What kind of stuff?'

‘This BMW, ADP 12, will obviously be just a car most of the time, like anyone's vehicle. And useful for when they want to chew the fat with you on Gideon in an amiable and artistic fashion. But if it pulls up outside your front door with particular stuff in the boot, that's a different aspect.'

‘What particular stuff?'

‘I didn't want GBH hanging about here to meet you, like by accident. Pellotte doesn't believe in accidents, except the ones he causes. I can do without that kind of trouble. I've got a business to look after.'

‘A newspaper business?'

‘Of course, what else?'

‘
You
don't want to get pulled in.'

Udolpho served some other customers. After they'd left, he said: ‘Like you, Larry, I am not indifferent. In a way he's a chum, a business chum, and he has needs.'

‘Is he in the newspaper business?'

‘A business chum.'

‘The other business?' Edgehill said.

‘The word would get around if the meet-up happened here. There's what's known as a centrality about this newspaper stall. It's a hub for many. They talk. And Gordon won't call at your place in Bell. Same reason – the word might get around. Pellotte could work out what was going on – Hodgy trying to find allies. Allies against
him
– Adrian Pellotte. I said, phone you, but Gordon doesn't like phones – scared of intercepts, and in any case he wants . . . he says he needs the face-to-face, so he's not just a cold-call voice out of nowhere pleading for favours. He'd like it on a more friendly, equal-to-equal foundation.'

To Edgehill he'd be a voice out of nowhere pleading for favours wherever and however they spoke. ‘I've got to get my train, Udo. If he's in touch again say I don't think I can help. I'm sorry, but he's misread things. Badly misread things. I'm not on matey terms with those two. They wouldn't listen to anything I said about Hodge, even if I'd met him. I've no idea what's in the BMW boot when they visit.'

‘I think he might do the same.'

‘Same as what?'

‘Wait in the station and get the train with you, the same train like bump into you. One of those accidents which aren't.'

‘The Tube? Why do you say that?'

‘I think he will.'

‘A rush-hour train for heavy conversation? Some chance!'

‘Travel along, then talk to you where you get off – Chancery Lane? He seemed to have heard it's Chancery Lane. The studios are up that way? He's done research. In the streets there it will be all right to get a chat going. You won't be recognized in a different district, either of you.'

‘He told you this?'

‘Told me some. I worked out the rest.'

‘Stalking?'

‘It's necessary. Well, as he sees it, it's necessary. Things are poor for him. As he sees it. Shall I tell you what to look out for? About five foot ten, thirty-one to -four, dark hair – a lot of it, wedge-piled at the front – most likely a jogging suit, navy or black. Or maybe a denim jacket on jeans. Long face. Inclined to smiling. It doesn't mean much – not the way he feels now – but he makes the effort. Scared. There are two children.'

So, Edgehill glanced about for someone matching this at the entrance to Whitsun Festival Station. If Udolpho was right, it must be where the first contact would be made – before Edgehill became hard to spot in the commuter crowd on the platform.
If Udolpho was right.
Surely, he
couldn't
be right. Why the fuck would Hodge believe Edgehill had enough influence with Pellotte to persuade him to call off . . . ? Call off what? A hunt? A vengeance sortie? A punishment operation? A postponed execution?

He saw nobody loitering near the turnstiles who came anywhere close to Udolpho's description, whether round- or long-faced, jogging suit or denim. He saw nobody smiling and loitering near the turnstiles. He saw nobody loitering near the turnstiles at all. People at this time in the morning did not smile or loiter. If Edgehill located a feasible Hodge, he had at least three choices. He could make as though to get on the next train, but, once the supposed Hodge followed him aboard, leave it swiftly. Or he could unexpectedly, swiftly disembark at Holborn, the station before Chancery Lane, just as the doors started to reclose, keeping Hodge stuck. Film and TV drama constantly used these kinds of last-minute train-hopping ploys in chase stories. He knew the techniques. Or, of course, Edgehill could do everything normally and let Hodge make contact when they both alighted at Chancery Lane. That wouldn't commit Edgehill, but it would be a human and humane, large-minded, uncowardly way to deal with these apparent troubles. And Edgehill felt some curiosity.

Actually, after a while, he began to turn the situation upside down. He'd started by scheming to avoid Hodge. Now, because he'd failed to locate him, he felt defeated, incomplete – he
wanted
to locate him,
needed
to locate him. He didn't. He boarded a train and failed to hop off at Holborn. Nobody accosted him in Chancery Lane on his walk to the studios. He slowed from his normal pace. God, might it be too late to intercede, supposing, that is, Edgehill ever
could
have interceded? Where the fuck
was
this thirty-one to -four year old long-faced, smiling figure in a jogging suit, or denim and jeans, five foot ten inches of him under a frontal ton of wedge-forming black hair and father of two? Wouldn't it have been wrong, knowing of Hodge's distress, to pass by on the other side – pass by on the other side of Chancery Lane station: i.e., the Holborn stop?

At noon there was a routine meeting of programme makers – Drama, News/Current Affairs, Sport, Arts, with Flo Tait in the chair.

She said: ‘I get good, though very unofficial, intimations about
A Week in Review
's chance of a Best Programme Award at the upcoming Media and Press Presentations, Tuesday week. It's unofficial because they don't do a long list, but I gather we're longlisted!'

‘Great,' Edgehill said.

‘However, what's the future?' Flo asked.

Nellie Poignard, burly and untentative, said, as if tentatively: ‘Very, very preliminary idea, Flo, which I've spoken of to Larry, to Larry as Whitsun resident, not Larry as producer of
A Week in Review
. An idea not in any sense formulated at present, but we're wondering about an in-depth survey of the estates, Whitsun and Temperate, with filming – the objective being to chart the endemic tensions and their apparent sudden increase. Our indications are that something fairly cataclysmic is building there. When I say “there” I appreciate this is vague, given that we're talking about two estates. But probably in the frontier territory, the continually disputed frontier territory of the substances business. We think we see a . . . well . . . we see a root and branch situation that would give a programme countrywide, network, interest, not just the London end. Even
inter
national.

‘This is social housing, still fulfilling in many ways its original tremendously worthwhile purpose, yet somehow that purpose has been compromised, shaken, and the estates turned into battle grounds where ignorant, but well-heeled, armies clash by night, and day. Surely we have a duty to show this and to look for the reasons.' Nellie paused, held up two hands, as if in surrender on a battle ground. ‘I'm aware, of course, that I speak as an outsider to at least one here who is very much an
in
sider – yes, I refer again to Larry.'

‘The estate is certainly characterful,' Edgehill said.

‘The Tasker killing remains unaccounted for. And then, not so long ago, we had the turf battle death of that Whitsun pusher,' Nellie said, ‘Gladstone Milo Naunton, who would have won Trader of the Year except he got shot. We covered both slaughters in the news at the time, as one-off crimes, obviously, but we're seeking now the wider viewpoint, the context, so the programme will have a universal touch. It will say something about civic decline and criminality everywhere. Why I talk of “root and branch”. The barons, parading in their limos, feared, revered by some, full of money and power.

‘We've done serious research. Two villains on Whitsun, I gather, are arts fans, would you believe, and actually Anthony Powell fans – the upper-crust novelist. I'm told one of them gave a paper at a Powell conference. This is quirky. Fascinating programme material. Additionally, Gladstone Milo Naunton's ex-lover, Bert Marsh, still lives on Whitsun, apparently pensioned by the super-baron, Adrian Pellotte. A sort of family, in the Mafia sense. Wonderful deep, complexity to the scene. What we need. Plus, talking of books, I get whispers about Vagrain. Abel Vagrain? Was featured on Larry's show a while back. Now, the word's around he's planning some sort of book on Whitsun and Temperate – maybe fiction, or documentary, or faction. Whichever, it shows there's major interest. He's a considerable figure, crap writer or not.'