Full of Money (26 page)

They sat in Edwardian bucket-style armchairs that had been re-covered not long ago with red leather. Pellotte would look in occasionally and decide this or that needed smartening. Marsh never saw the bills. He poured rums. ‘What made you curious about this estate?' he asked.

‘A girl at a publicity-do for my book,
Insignia
, in a Hampstead shop put me on to it.'

‘The girl was from Hampstead but knew about Whitsun Festival?' Marsh said.

‘It's amazing what you can pick up simply from a casual meeting like that.'

‘Well,
especially
from a casual meeting like that. It's what I meant about Gladstone. But I hope you wore a—'

‘In the way of ideas.'

‘Oh, those.'

Vagrain said: ‘I don't think Pellotte got mentioned in any of the newspapers reporting the Walton tragedy.'

‘He'd avoid that. Publicity is not Adrian's thing. He's like me – longs for privacy, guards it. That's why it was so damn dodgy to go knocking on doors in the street.'

Vagrain had been lifting his glass to his lips but stopped now. He seemed very puzzled, sort of paralysed, the glass nearly touching his mouth, yet he cut the movement. He said: ‘Dodgy – merely to ask people your address, Bert? Why?'

Vagrain did not get it at all, did he, the fucking thicko? You'd think a writer would be able to feel a situation much quicker than this.

‘Neighbours know someone in a white silk scarf with tassels worn loose called on me,' Marsh said.

‘That matters?'

Marsh wanted to say in a still-friendly, quiet, unpanicky way:
of course it fucking matters, you turd brained twat
,
because some people will think I might be blowing secrets. Whitsun runs on secrets.
No. Crude.

‘Word will get around,' he replied. ‘On Whitsun word does get around if you don't take care to stop it getting around, which most people do.'

‘But so what?'

‘People will hear you're going to put this situation into a book.'

‘Is that bad?'

‘It might be.' Marsh made a decision then. It would be wisest to take Vagrain to see Adrian Pellotte right away at his place on Whitsun. Marsh wanted this visit to Moorhen Street by Vagrain to be known about and open. It would be known about, anyway, because Vagrain did his bloody stupid, careless door knocking in the street like a Jehovah's Witness, but not enough like a Jehovah's Witness. And people passing must have noticed him and that clever mouth and fucking white scarf crouched over the voice box for so long with his bleat. Better Adrian heard about it all direct and honest by Bert, not from possible gossip.

Perhaps Adrian wouldn't mind seeing Vagrain. Adrian was into books and authors. And most likely by being helpful to Vagrain, Adrian would want to show he didn't get people such as the journalist removed because they came doing probes and then writing stuff. That is, he would want to show he didn't get people such as the journalist removed if he didn't get him removed. Or if he did. Especially if he did. Bert had to keep in mind how good, regular cash came by messenger every week from the firm just for having been with Gladstone on a decent domestic basis at the time of his slaughter. This money could stop absolutely, just as Gladstone's trading prize got stopped absolutely by Pellotte. And worse than that could happen if Pellotte ever thought Marsh had fed confidential tips on the quiet to Vagrain about Whitsun. It might be regarded as unforgivable. Adrian liked books, but there were books, and books.

Vagrain had been examining a picture-print of the Pope's Swiss Guard at the Vatican. Now he broke from the art. ‘What I'd like, Bert, is simply to watch the street for a while through your upstairs front window.'

‘Watch? Who you looking for?'
God, a hunt, after all? Was he really a writer?

‘No, not looking for anybody specific. It's only to get the
sense
of the street, the pageant of day-to-day activity, the pageant of, as it were, normality. Invaluable to a novelist.'

Whitsun didn't have any normality. What one lot considered normal, others regarded as sick or crazy or disgusting or foreign.

‘Not on, old son,' Marsh said. ‘People would think it's undercover surveillance. I'd get
all
the windows smashed – as starters.'

‘Surveillance?
Surveillance.
' Vagrain sort of held this word up to examine it all round, like sexing a kitten. ‘Well, yes, in a sense I suppose it would be. I need to
survey
the patterns, the routines, of their days. “Surveillance” is only a heavy word for totally harmless observation.'

‘Surveillance up here means police, and so would observation, not an author on the look out for normalness,' Bert said. ‘Perhaps this will surprise you, Abel, but hardly any authors come to Moorhen Street and stare out through windows. That author Adrian and Dean are fans of, Anthony Powell, but not said like that – Pow-well – but Pole – he never comes up here to Whitsun or Temperate and stares out of windows collecting atmos. It will be bad for me if people think I let police use my place for snooping. They'd decide I must have an arrangement with that dame detective, Esther Davidson.'

‘I'd be discreet, keep behind the curtains.'

‘They'd expect you to be discreet, wouldn't they? Officers on surveillance don't stand in the middle of the glass flashing their fucking buttons and night sticks. People here are
used
to curtains. They know about discreet.'

Vagrain gave a small smile and nodded. ‘The fact that I mustn't do it – that you warn me off so vigorously from doing it – that, in itself, is a unique glimpse.'

‘Not having a glimpse from the window is a glimpse?'

‘It's a glimpse at the prevailing conditions here, isn't it? On Whitsun, someone innocently standing at a window, even if concealed by curtains, would be regarded as a menace.'

‘
Especially
if concealed by curtains. Neighbours would ask, “Who's that trying to conceal himself behind the fucking curtains, and why? And what's Bert Marsh letting him do it for on his property?” Nobody's going to answer, “Oh, of course, of course – silly old me! – it must be an author taking a fruitful gaze at normalness.'

‘I need to get the feel of specific pavements under my shoes,' Vagrain said. ‘It's how I work. I must have contact.'

‘These pavements are like other pavements, but probably more dog shit than Mayfair way. People up there scoop and bag it, considering the environment. Whitsun might do less of that. They think a bit more dog shit in Whitsun won't be crucial one way or the other as far as reputation and aroma goes.'

‘Some novelists can concoct a place without ever having been there. For myself, though it—'

‘I could probably get you in to see Adrian Pellotte,' Marsh replied. ‘If you're looking for the flavour of Whitsun, Adrian's pretty essential. Unique. He
creates
the flavour. No, he
is
it.'

‘You've got access?'

‘He pays me a consultant fee. What's referred to as “a retainer”.'

‘Consultant on what?'

‘They'll probably be at home now. Dean lives near Adrian. You might be able to meet both, pile up the glimpses.'

‘Great!'

‘But let
him
, or possibly Dean, start the topics. Don't do any interrogation. They'll tell you what they want to tell you.'

‘Understood.'

Marsh went to the telephone in the kitchen, shut the door and rang Pellotte. ‘Someone here wanting to see you, Adrian. He called hoping I could direct him to your place. Well, I replied, “Possibly,” not knowing your view.'

‘Has he got some insights?'

‘What kind, Aid?'

‘We've had an attack on the car lately – fixed now, but a nuisance. I had to use a replacement to get to the second day of a conference.'

‘Unbelievable.
Your
personal BMW?'

‘And problems arising from that. Materials taken from the boot.'

‘Well, no, I don't think this caller knows about your car and so on.'

‘What then?'

‘He's interested in the estate. For a tale.'

‘I think I might have heard of him.' Pellotte went silent for a few moments. Then he said: ‘We're watching a television awards programme. It's live. A special friend of my daughter, Dione, is part of the team that might win. In fact, I'm sure they'll win.'

‘Exciting,' Marsh said.

‘Yes, I have a real premonition they will.'

‘You've made contact with some of the judges, Adrian? Or Dean has?'

‘But I expect it will be over by the time you get here,' Pellotte said. ‘All right. I'll see him.'

‘Thanks, Adrian.'

‘How did this visitor locate
you
, Bert?'

‘He's done some research. Newspapers – about Gladstone.'

‘Gladstone in William Walton?' For a moment, Pellotte sounded uncomfortable. So the princely sod should.

‘I was mentioned there,' Bert said. ‘Oh, Adrian, look, I said a consultancy – not just the pay-off pension re Gladstone. A retainer. It sounded better.'

‘Right. What kind?'

‘Like Public Relations? Quite a lot of that about these days. Devoted to tending your image, Adrian. Ensuring respect and affection.'

‘Right. I'll ring off now, Bert. The telly programme's getting to the bit I'm interested in.'

‘Fingers crossed,' Marsh said. He returned to the lounge. ‘We'll go, then, shall we, Abel? Best take
your
car. It's probably still OK. You haven't been here long. Stupid to leave it, though.'

As they drew away from Marsh's house, he saw a Fiat coming slowly towards them down the street with Hodgy driving. Marsh lowered his head, to stay unrecognized. He guessed Hodge must be on his way to visit him. It would figure. The word was around: Hodge had bad trouble and a bad outlook now with Adrian, despite the in-house prize. Gordon Basil Hodge must be touting for people who might take pity and say something nice about him to Pellotte. Nice and possibly life saving. Not the kind of request to do by phone. Most likely, Hodge had tried elsewhere first. Many knew Bert Marsh kept a fine, friendly link with Adrian following Gladstone's death. But Bert wanted that link to stay friendly, even though Pellotte had failed to get any tit-for-tat scheme against Temperate going yet. For ever? Bert thought Hodgy would have to sort things out with Adrian and Dean for himself, poor bastard. All right, Hodgy needed extra funds because of those kids away at school etcetera. Fine. He should have considered, though, what the result might be if he tried to get the extra how he did. Marsh stayed crouched and face down in the passenger seat.

But, he and Vagrain had been at Adrian Pellotte's place for only a quarter of an hour when GB Hodge himself arrived, excited, glowing. ‘All at once the idea hit me, Adrian, really hit me,' Hodge said. ‘I realized something. I realized I had been dealing with things all wrong. Suddenly, I knew I should be more direct. That's why I'm here, in your home, Adrian. Face to face. Too devious – that's what I was till now. You'll reply, “Devious how?” In this way: I've tried to persuade people who might be able to say a word in my favour to approach you, instead of coming straight to you myself. Larry Edgehill, for instance, from TV. I feel almost ashamed of it now – seeking his . . . well, his sympathy, really. So weak. Pathetic.'

‘Edgehill?' Dean said. ‘Why him?'

‘The connection to Adrian – and you,' Hodge said.

‘What connection?' Dean said.

‘That Gideon conversation. Much noted. Perhaps about your lovely daughter, Adrian, and her relationship with a regular on one of Larry Edgehill's programmes. Considerable talk concerning this around Whitsun. I felt it would be an honour to have my problem linked with hers, as it were.'

‘Conversation? Gideon? Oh, just re the arts,' Dean said. ‘Adrian admires his programme. As a matter of fact, it won a big award tonight. We watched the judging on BBC1.'

‘And then, half an hour ago, I'm on my way to try for Bert's support, also, knowing of his excellent relationship with Adrian, dating back to Gladstone. But as I arrive at Bert's home, I see him driving away – or, actually, being driven away from his house. He's sitting low in the passenger seat, so comfortable looking, so content. A new partner for Bert? I asked myself. That would be brilliant. Bert has grieved, has sincerely grieved, but perhaps the time for grieving is gone and life begins to lighten. William Walton will still darken part of his soul – a very tender and valid part of his soul, yes, but not his total soul from now on. I turn and follow, curious as to their destination. Perhaps a celebratory supper at some quality restaurant. Maybe I can get a word with him there. But, no. They wished to make a happy announcement where that announcement is most due, and most appropriate. To Adrian. To Adrian, with his earned role as chieftain in our community, guardian of our community. And – great good luck! – I'm behind them, tailing! Which brings me here, at last. A move I should have made at the start of all this.'

Dean did introductions: ‘Mr Abel Vagrain's a writer. And Gordon is a much esteemed commercial associate, Mr Vagrain. We don't especially mind you coming here, Gordon – entirely without a fucking appointment, as far as I can recall.'

‘Certainly,' Pellotte said, ‘although we have guests.'

‘A writer?' Hodge said. ‘I thought I knew that name. And how did you and Bert meet?'

Vagrain felt half drowned by the Niagara of Hodge smarm, and the Hodge haywire interpretation of things. He said: ‘Gordon, as to Bert and myself – it isn't exactly how you describe. I—'