Starburst (31 page)

Jamie shot an apprehensive frown at the journalist, who answered it immediately with a dismissive shake of his head.

“That’s exactly what I thought he’d do,” Harry said, “and he was just bluffing when he said he knew you, so don’t worry about it.”

Jamie turned his attention back to Rene. “But he must have known you were helping me. Weren’t you asked any questions at all?”

“No. Mind you, I’ve little doubt I would ’ave been, if it ’adn’t been for this girl coming to my rescue.”

“How?” both Jamie and Harry asked in unison.

“Well, when I was still flat out on the floor, the Frenchman asked, in a sort of general way, whether anybody knew me, and this girl said she did and that I was a friend of ’ers, and we were going to have a cup of tea together when I’d come over all faint.”

“And Dessuin believed her?” Harry asked.

“I’m certain of it. ’E just stormed away after that, probably went straight up to ’is room.”

Harry and Jamie glanced at each other, relief written on their faces.

“So, there’s absolutely no chance Dessuin could have followed you back here?” Jamie asked.

“Why would ’e want to do that? The girl made it pretty clear I was just an innocent bystander. Anyway, I had to stop off in a pub on the way back to go to the loo, and when I came out I certainly didn’t see anyone lurking about.” She let go of her foot and stood up. “Now, unless you’ve got some more furtive action planned, I think I might just get back to my normal pace of life.”

Jamie approached the comedienne and planted a kiss on her hot round cheek. “Thanks, Rene, for being a real star. I could have ended up in deep shit if it hadn’t been for you.”

Rene smiled at him. “Glad to be of assistance,” she said, moving off towards the door. “Just don’t expect me to do it every day, right? Otherwise I’ll ’ave to be charging ye the full union rates for a thief’s assistant.”

When she had left the room, Jamie turned round to the journalist. “Looks like we’re in the clear, then,” he remarked hopefully.

“We might be,” Harry replied with a reserved flick of the head.

“You don’t think so?”

“Let’s just say Dessuin is no fool. He’s now back in Edinburgh on a mission, and as yet he has no leads. He doesn’t want to involve the police and he certainly won’t want to involve the International office, so I reckon he’ll be looking to grasp on to any small oddity or coincidence. Maybe Rene and her friend did manage to convince everyone in the hotel with their act, but it just could be that Dessuin saw it all as being a bit suspect.”

“So what are you saying? That he could be standing outside the flat right now?”

“No, I’m pretty sure Rene was right in saying she wasn’t followed here. However, we don’t want to give Dessuin any opportunity to be doing clever things behind our backs, so I think we should still continue with the plan for you and Angélique to leave Edinburgh. If he doesn’t show up here over the next two days, I reckon then, and only then, we can probably say we’re in the clear.” He thumbed a couple of buttons on his mobile phone. “Okay, so let’s see now if we can’t get hold of Gavin Mackintosh.”

L
eonard Hartson had a smile on his face as he climbed the steps to the entrance of the London Street flat. It had been there ever since T.K. had appeared out of the small barber’s shop next to The Jeans Warehouse on Princes Street, where, on his own insistence, he had had his greasy mane reduced to a very presentable and very clean fuzz of hair. It had had the immediate effect of not only transforming his features, but some of his more unsavoury characteristics as well as if, in its cutting, T.K. had rid his body of some virulent, energy-sapping, brain-numbing amoeba. His vacant eyes now looked alert, his pallid cheeks flushed with colour (although Leonard knew that that was initially due to T.K.’s embarrassment at his new look), and there was even a determined rigidity to his loose-lipped mouth. But the most extraordinary byproduct of the barber’s clippers had been to unlock the floodgates on a verbosity Leonard would never before have thought to exist in the lad’s slow-witted head.

With the shopping bags bearing his new purchases gathered round his feet in the taxi, T.K. had questioned Leonard incessantly on all aspects of film-making, hardly waiting for a reply before he was on to the next query. Even now, while Leonard extracted the keys of the door from his jacket pocket, T.K. stood beside him eager to find out how long it had taken Leonard to be considered proficient enough to operate a camera. While the cameraman paused in his action of putting the key in the lock, casting his mind back over countless years in an attempt to come up with an accurate answer, the entrance door flew open and his young landlord appeared, shouldering a rucksack. His presence had the immediate effect of cutting off T.K.’s verbal assault, which Leonard greeted with a clandestine sigh of relief, likening it to that first brief moment of silence after a plug has been pulled on a blaring radio.

“I’m glad I’ve caught you, Mr. Hartson,” Jamie said, as he came down onto the step, his eyes momentarily glancing with astonishment at T.K.’s incongruous new hairstyle. “I have to head off for a couple of days, so just use the flat as your own. I’ve left my mobile number on the hall table if you need to contact me for any reason.”

Leonard was about to speak when Gavin Mackintosh, the solicitor who had introduced him to T.K., appeared at the entrance door carrying a canvas zip-up overnight bag and a violin case. “Ah, Mr. Hartson, I do hope everything’s going well for you both,” he said, before catching sight of T.K. and almost doing a double take. “My word, Thomas! You’ve changed into a dapper-looking fellow. Well done, you!” He gave T.K. a congratulatory nod before hurrying off down the steps. He was closely followed by a young girl who had appeared through the door wearing a short jacket with the collar turned up and a large pair of sunglasses that obscured her features. Gavin opened the back passenger door of a Volvo estate car and waited for the girl to get in before walking around to the back to put her luggage in the boot.

While this furtive operation was in progress, Leonard noticed Jamie casting searching glances up and down the street. “Right,” he said, making a move to join them once the man was seated behind the driving wheel. “I’ll see you when I get back.”

“Could I just have a moment of your time?” Leonard asked quickly, realizing there seemed to be a degree of urgency in their departure.

Jamie paused on the bottom step. “Sure,” he replied, turning.

“I had hoped to get the chance to explain this in more detail, but I do see you’re pressed for time, so I’ll be as brief as possible. It’s just that T.K. here has unfortunately found himself to be temporarily without lodgings, and I wondered, therefore, if you might have any objections to him making use of the other bed in my room.”

Jamie caught his bottom lip between his teeth to stop himself from laughing at such an absurd idea. He immediately had this mental vision of them both tucked up in the two beds gazing into the darkness whilst they indulged themselves in a bit of Deep Meaningful Conversation.

“Yeah, that’s fine by me.”

“Of course, it goes without saying that I shall pay a bit more for the rent of the room.”

“Oh, don’t bother about that,” Jamie replied, dismissing the suggestion with a shake of his head.

“No, I insist. What would you say to eighty pounds per night for the both of us?”

“Seventy-five,” Jamie said in reply as he made his way to the pavement and opened the front passenger door of the Volvo. He dumped his rucksack into the footwell and glanced back at the two roommates. “That’s my final offer.”

Leonard smiled at him. “That’s very kind. Thank you.”

“Ring me if you have any problems,” Jamie called out as he got into the car, which began to move out into the street before he had even time to shut the door.

Leonard turned and raised an eyebrow at his crop-haired assistant. “Well, looks like we’re in business, then.”

While T.K. went off to have his much-needed shower, Leonard made use of the telephone in the hall to speak with Nick Springer in London, telling him of the progress he had made during the initial day’s shooting and giving him the name of the courier service that would be delivering the exposed film stock to his office the following morning. Although Nick sounded pleased to hear from him, Leonard could sense from the producer’s lack of reciprocative chat that he had caught him at a busy time, so he kept the call short. He then rang Grace and gave her a more in-depth account of what had passed that day, including news of the unavoidable, but somewhat irregular, sleeping arrangement he now had with his young assistant, T.K. He did not, however, mention to his wife the facts that led to this happening, knowing that it would only perturb her to hear he had taken a young vagrant off the streets, simply giving the reason that T.K. lived too far away for him to travel to work every day. Neither did he mention to her the doubts he had harboured earlier in the day about taking on both such a physical and financial burden at his advanced stage in life, and he certainly was not going to tell her about the pain that had begun to nag intermittently at the left side of his chest. Nevertheless, as if by telepathy, while he now pressed a hand to the troublesome area, Grace told him that he was not to overdo it and asked him if he was remembering to take his pills. “Of course I am, my dear,” he replied. “Don’t worry about me, I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”

When he replaced the receiver after the call, Leonard turned to find a young man standing in front of him whom he hardly recognized. His own expression must have been enough to convey this because T.K.’s face immediately broke into a broad grin.

“What d’ya think, then?” he said, his arms outstretched as he gave himself the once-over.

Leonard nodded approvingly as he appraised the new-look T.K., with his clean white T-shirt, stiff new Levi’s tightened at the waist by a wide belt with a Harley Davidson buckle, and the virginal-white pair of Adidas trainers. Slung over his shoulder, a finger through its hanging loop, was the new Timberland jacket at which T.K. had gawped longingly in the shop while Leonard was paying the bill for two identical pairs of jeans, six white T-shirts, a four-pack of boxer shorts and a six-pack of white socks, one cotton sweatshirt, one belt, and a pair of Adidas trainers. “And I think we’d better take that jacket as well,” Leonard had said quietly to the shop assistant.

“Well?” T.K. asked again.

“I think you look very…clean.”

“Is that a’?” T.K. exclaimed.

Leonard laughed. “No, I really am very impressed, T.K.” T.K. smirked bashfully. “Cheers, Leonard.”

“And I think it’s only right that we should celebrate your new and much improved appearance by searching out a suitable eating establishment that can provide us with some well-earned sustenance.”

“Eh?” T.K. remarked, reverting too easily to his imbecilic look, his mouth curled up at one side.

“How would a very large beef steak and a glass of beer suit you?”

“Oh, aye, tha’ sounds great,” T.K. replied enthusiastically, his face brightening with comprehension. He swung the new jacket off his shoulder and shrugged it on.

A door opening at the far end of the hall made them both turn, and their fellow tenant appeared, her attention caught up with trying to find something in her large handbag. Rene looked up and saw them.

“My word!” she said, her eyes fixed on T.K. as she came along the passage. “What ’appened to you? Did ye fall in front of a street cleaner or summat?”

Leonard held out a hand as she approached them. “We’ve met in passing, but not yet introduced ourselves. My name’s Leonard Hartson.”

Rene shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Leonard. Rene Brownlow.”

“Are you just on your way out?”

“Aye, I am.”

“In that case, you wouldn’t care to join us for something to eat? T.K. and I were just going out to celebrate a very successful day’s work.”

Rene sucked her teeth disappointedly. “Oh, what a grand thought, but I can’t, luv. I’ve got to do a show in ’alf an ’our. Maybe another time.”

Leonard opened the front door and stood aside to allow her to leave the flat first. “Well, consider it a firm invitation, then.”

“I’ll tell you what, though,” Rene said as she walked past him. “Seeing as Jamie’s gone and left the lot of us ’ome alone, what about me cooking us all a meal tomorrow night? Wouldn’t be until after me show, but if about nine o’clock would suit?”

Leonard glanced at T.K., who answered with a shrug of non-commitment. “Well, I think that would suit us both very well,” Leonard replied with a nod. “We shall look forward to it.”

“Right,” the comedienne said as she began to descend the stairs. “In that case, see you tomorrow night at La Maison de Rene.”

D
uring the journey out to East Lothian, what little conversation there was in the car was between the two men in the front, although Jamie would occasionally glance round and ask Angélique if she was all right, sensing she might be feeling somewhat excluded from proceedings. She was not, however, in a great mind to talk. At first, when the car was travelling slowly through the sprawling, colourless suburbs of Edinburgh, her mood had been rock-bottom, the road seemingly taking her farther and farther away from her previous life, and there was a moment when she wanted to end all this craziness and tell Gavin to turn the car around and take her back to the Sheraton Grand, regardless of the consequences. But then, as the fast dual carriageway left behind the city, her spirits improved as the endless rows of houses and industrial estates gave way to open countryside, and it dawned on her that this was almost the first time since leaving the Conservatoire she had not been viewing a country from thirty-three thousand feet up in the air. Her troubled thoughts and heart-aching doubts subsided as she looked out of the window, shielding her eyes against the glare of the early-evening sun that shone gold on the ripe rolling wheat fields and glinted off the bulky bodies of the combine harvesters that cut their laser-straight paths through the crops. And when the car turned off at Haddington and breasted the hill above the village of East Linton, Angélique could not help but let out a quiet breath of wonderment as she looked out across the wide panoramic view of the rugged Lammermuir Hills shouldering in the velvet-green coastline as it bent its way southward, leaving nothing but the endless expanse of the North Sea beyond it.

Gavin swung the car to the right, curtailing Angélique’s enjoyment of the vista, and took a narrow high-banked road that wound its way up towards the hills. They drove through a small village boasting both a pub and a post office but hardly of a size to merit the thirty-mile-an-hour speed limit, and then turned left down a smooth dirt-track road with overgrown verges, past a number of long, low livestock sheds with slatted sides and tidy concrete aprons. A hundred metres on, they entered through a stone-pillared gateway leading on to a gravelled drive bordered by well-tended lawns that were shadowed long by the sprawling limbs of two ancient cypress trees. For a moment they hid from sight the tall white house with steep slated roof and craw-stepped gable ends that stood proudly defensive of a broad circular sweep.

As Gavin brought the Volvo to a scrunching halt in front of the house, a couple of black-and-white sheepdogs appeared from nowhere, made a bee-line for the car and started biting ineffectually at the front tyres with bared snarling teeth. Jamie immediately opened the door and gave them a yell as he got out, but it did little to stop their attempted mauling of the car. It was only when a voice like thunder rang out around the grounds, so loud it echoed off the side of the house, that the dogs ceased their endeavours and slunk off to lie side by side on the lawn, their eyes fixed on the quad bike that came at a breakneck speed up the drive. Angélique got out and stood gazing at her new surroundings as the bike swung round at the back of the Volvo, spurting up gravel that landed dangerously short of the car’s gleaming paintwork.

“Hey, quit that, Stratton!” Gavin shouted angrily as he jumped out and stomped round the back of the car to inspect it. “If there’s so much of a scratch, I’ll have you foot the bill for a complete respray.”

Angélique smiled at the grinning man who sat astride the mud-spattered quad. He was dressed in a heavy cotton lumberjack shirt and waterproof trousers pulled over wellington boots, a battered baseball cap jammed back to front on his head. He put a dirt-ingrained hand up to his ear and delicately dislodged an earphone. The thumping beat that emanated from it was so loud that Angélique could hear it quite clearly from where she was standing. “I’m sorry,” the man said, looking at Gavin with a bemused expression on his tanned weather-beaten face. “I didn’t quite catch that. Did you say anything of interest just then, Mackintosh?”

“God, he’s such a lad,” Angélique heard Jamie mutter as he came to stand beside her. He raised a long-suffering eyebrow at her. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to my father.”

They walked over to where the two men were already engaged in a friendly but sparring banter.

“Dad, this is Angélique Pascal.”

The man swung a leg over the handlebars of the bike. “Good to meet you, Angélique,” he said, taking her by surprise by flipping off his cap and landing a bristly kiss on both her cheeks. “I understand you’re a bit of a violinist.”

“A bit of a violinist!” Gavin exclaimed. “God, you really are an uneducated heathen, Stratton.”

“Not at all,” Rory laughed, encircling his son’s shoulders with a pair of wiry arms and giving him a welcoming hug. “Just because our tastes in music differ somewhat.” Moving over to the car he opened up the boot, and took out Angélique’s bag and her violin case. “Come on, then,” he said, heading off towards the house, “I reckon it must be time for a drink.”

“Count me out, Rory,” Gavin said, closing the boot. “I have to be getting back to Edinburgh.”

Jamie’s father turned, a disappointed frown on his face. “Not even a quick one?”

“Can’t do, I’m afraid. I have a mountain of work to get through in the office before I call it a day.”

“Oh, how deadly boring of you.”

Gavin smiled at his old school friend. “Maybe another time, but give my love to Prue and tell her I’m sorry to have missed her. I’ll call you about golf, as well.” He waved to Angélique as she followed Rory towards the house before turning back to Jamie. “How have you left things with Harry Wills?”

“He’s going to call me in a couple of days’ time if all’s well.”

“And you can make your own way back?”

Jamie nodded. “I’m sure I can persuade Dad to give us a lift.”

“Right, well, give me a call if you need anything.”

“Will do, and cheers, Gavin, for bringing us out here.”

“My pleasure,” the solicitor said as he got into the car. “Let’s hope this whole business has resolved itself by the time you get back.”

“Yeah, let’s hope,” Jamie replied, giving him a wave of farewell as he turned towards the house.

The large, ornately furnished sitting room was warmed by the dusty rays of the setting sun streaming in through the three west-facing windows. When Jamie entered he found his father standing in jeans and stockinged feet in front of the unlit fire, a large glass of whisky in his hand.

“Where’s Angélique?” Jamie asked.

“Your mother’s showing her to her bedroom.” Rory took a healthy swallow of whisky and cocked his head to the side. “Nice-looking girl, that.”

“Yes, she is,” Jamie replied indifferently, walking over to the drinks table and flicking the ring pull off a can of beer.

“
Very
nice-looking, in fact,” Rory continued, a smile on his face as he eyed his son.

Jamie shook his head. “Leave it out, Dad.”

Rory laughed. “Just a bit of a leg-pull.” He sat down heavily in one of the pale blue loose-covered armchairs. “Oh, by the way, I bumped into Gordon McLaren in Dunbar today and told him you were coming out for a couple of days. He said there’s a pre-season warm-up game tomorrow evening at the club if you wanted to play.”

Jamie shrugged. “I suppose I could. I’m not that fit, though.”

“Do you some good, then, wouldn’t it? Give him a call, anyway, and in the meantime you can start your fitness training early tomorrow morning by going up onto the hill and looking round the sheep for me. I’ve got some lambs going through the ring at Kelso, so I won’t be able to do it.”

“Thanks for that, Dad,” Jamie replied morosely.

“Well, seeing you’re home, you may as well do some work! Anyway, it’s not that much of a slog. You’ll be able to get the quad as far as the gate above the high burn and then walk from there. You should take Angélique with you, as well. I’m sure she’d appreciate a taste of the Scottish wilderness.”

The door of the sitting room opened and Angélique entered with a small blond woman dressed in a long denim skirt and white cotton shirt. Her face lit up when she saw Jamie and she came over to him, her arms outstretched. “Darling, how are you?” she said, giving him a kiss on either cheek that left traces of her pale pink lipstick.

“I’m good, Mum,” Jamie replied with a smile, “except Dad’s giving me grief as usual.”

Jamie’s mother looked over at her husband, her expression turning to one of horror. “Rory!” She hurried over to where he was sitting and delivered a resounding thwack to one of his knees. “I’ll give
you
grief, you dreadful man. Get out of that chair!” Rory leaped to his feet as if suddenly finding himself sitting on hot coals, and Jamie’s mother dusted off the vacated seat with her hand. “How many times do I have to tell you
not
to sit on these new loose covers in your filthy jeans?”

Rory twisted himself round to inspect his backside. “They are
not
filthy. They were clean on this morning. Anyway, I’ve been wearing overtrousers all day.”

“That’s as may be,” Jamie’s mother said, puffing up the flattened cushions, “but you still stink like an old tup.”

Rory pulled a schoolboy face at Angélique that made her smile unwittingly. “I hope you’ve been treated a bit better by my wife.”

“Prue could not have been kinder to me,” Angélique replied.

“Just you wait. After two days in this house you’ll be bossed around like the rest of us.”

“Oh, you do talk such rubbish!” Prue scoffed, taking hold of his arm. “Come on, you old moaner. You can give me a hand to get supper ready.”

“See what I mean,” Rory said over his shoulder as his wife led him to the door. “Boss, boss, boss.”

“They are very lovely people, your parents,” Angélique said to Jamie when they were alone in the room.

“Yeah, they’re good. I wonder sometimes how she puts up with him, though. He’s incorrigible.”

“They are very happy, I think. A good mixture.”

“Probably. Talking of mixtures, what can I get you to drink?”

“Just a Coca-Cola, if you have one.”

While Jamie searched the drinks tray, Angélique walked around the room, running her fingers lightly over the furniture. “I love your house, Jamie. It is filled with so many old things.”

Jamie clinked ice into a tall glass and poured in the contents of the can. “Well, everything’s been here for quite a long time. I think about four or five generations of Strattons have lived with this furniture.”

“It reminds me very much of Madame Lafitte’s house in Clermont Ferrand.”

“Who’s she?”

Angélique traced a finger around the central diamond-shaped pane of glass in a tall veneered display cabinet. “She is the lady who started me playing the violin. She is very old now, but she is the kindest, most wonderful person I know.” She turned and smiled at Jamie. “You would like her very much.”

“Is she a relation of yours?” Jamie asked, handing her the glass of Coca-Cola.

“No, but I suppose she is as close to me as any of my family. It was Madame Lafitte who paid for me to go to the Conservatoire in Paris.”

“Really? A bit of a fairy godmother, then. How did you come to meet her?”

Angélique walked over to the sofa and sat down. “My mother worked for her in the house.”

“What did she do, your mother?”

“She was Madame Lafitte’s cleaner.”

Jamie was so taken aback by this revelation, he could not help but stare aghast at Angélique. “Oh, I see.”

Angélique smiled at him. “Your look is very disapproving, Jamie. Is it because you now learn I am from a very humble background?”

Jamie shook his head. “Don’t be silly. Of course not. Anyway, look at you now, a world-famous concert violinist. That’s an incredible achievement for someone…”

“Whose mother was a cleaner?” Angélique suggested, a teasing glint in her eyes.

“That was
not
what I was going to say,” Jamie replied, raising his eyebrows. “Tell me more about Madame Lafitte. Have you seen her recently?”

The light expression on Angélique’s face seemed to change immediately to one of deep sadness. “No, I have not. My schedule has never allowed me the time. She suffered a stroke just before I finished at the Conservatoire and she is now confined to a wheelchair in her house. It is my greatest regret that she has never been able to come to one of my concerts.”

“Are you still in touch with her?”

“Oh, yes, every week I either write to her or speak with her on the telephone. She talks very slowly because of the stroke, but her brain is as sharp as ever, even though she is in her ninetieth year.”

“She sounds a pretty remarkable person.”

Angélique smiled at Jamie. “That is exactly what she is, and that is why I long to see her again.” She paused, rubbing a finger against the strapping on her hand. “It was one of the reasons why Albert Dessuin got so angry on that night.”

Jamie nodded understandingly. “You wanted to go back to France to see her.”

“I did not think it was so much to ask.” She lowered her face to hide the tear that ran down her cheek. “I just have this very bad feeling that I will not be seeing her again.”

Jamie walked over and sat down on the low kilim-covered stool in front of her. “Hey, don’t think that,” he said, giving her knee a couple of gentle but reassuring thumps with his fist. “Of course you’ll see her again. Sounds to me as if she’s strong as an ox.”

Looking up at him, Angélique wiped her cheek with the cuff of her shirt and forced a smile onto her face. “Why is it, Jamie, that you always manage to say the things I most want to hear?”

“Well, maybe because…” His forehead creased in thought. “…No, sorry, I’ve no idea.”

Angélique snuffled out a laugh. “I think it is because inside that tough exterior of a rugby player you are covering up the heart of a
romantique.
”

“Oh yeah?” Jamie said with a quizzically distasteful look. “That sounds just like me.”