Part 28 (1/2)

I began printing out everything in the secret files as it seemed from the manual that, particularly as regarded the expense organizer, it was the best way to get at the full information stored there.

Each category had to be printed separately, the baby printer clicking away line by line and not very fast. I watched its steady output with fascination, hoping the small roll of paper would last to the end, as I hadn't any more.

From the Memo section, which I printed first, came a terse note,'Check, don't trust.'

Next came a long list of days and dates which seemed to bear no relation to anything. Monday, 30 January, Wednesday, 8 March ... Mystified I watched the sequence lengthen, noticing only that most of them were Mondays, Tuesdays or Wednesdays, five or six weeks apart, sometimes less, sometimes longer. The list ended five weeks before his death, and it began... It began, I thought blankly, four years earlier. Four years ago; when he first met Clarissa.

I felt unbearable sadness for him. He'd fallen in love with a woman who wouldn't leave home for him, whom he hadn't wanted to compromise: he'd kept a record, I was certain, of every s.n.a.t.c.hed day they'd spent together. and hidden it away as he had hidden so much else. A whole lot of roses, I thought.

The Schedule section, consulted next, contained appointments not hinted at earlier, including the delivery of the diamonds to his London house. For the day of his death there were two entries: the first, 'Ipswich.

Orwell Hotel, P. 3.30 pm', and the second, 'Meet Koningin Beatrix 6.30 pm, Harwich.' For the following Monday he had noted, 'Meet C King's Cross 12.10 Lunch Luigi's.'

Meet C at King's Cross . . . He hadn't turned up, and she'd telephoned his house, and left a message on his answering machine, and sometime in the afternoon she'd telephoned his office to ask for him. Poor Clarissa.

By Monday night she'd left the ultra-anxious second message. and on Tuesday she had learned he was dead.

The printer whirred and produced another entry, for the Sat.u.r.day after. 'C and Dozen Roses both at York!

Could I go? Not wise. Check TV.'

The printer stopped, as Greville's life had done. No more appointments on record.

Next I printed the Telephone sections, Private, Business and Business Overseas. Private contained only Knightwood. Business was altogether empty, but from Business Overseas I watched with widening eyes the emergence of five numbers and addresses in Antwerp.

One was van Ekeren, one was Guy Servi: three were so far unknown to me. I breathed almost painfully with exultation, unable to believe Greville had entered them there for no purpose.

I printed the Expense Manager's secret section last as it was the most complicated and looked the least promising, but the first item that emerged was galvanic.

Antwerp say 5 of the first batch of rough are CZ.

Don't want to believe it.

Infinite sadness.

Priority 1.

Arrange meetings. Ipswich?

Undecided. d.a.m.nation!

I wished he had been more explicit, more specific, but he'd seen no need to be. It was surprising he'd written so much. His feelings must have been strong to have been entered at all. No other entries afterwards held any comment but were short records of money spent on courier services with a firm called Euro-Securo, telephone number supplied. In the middle of those the paper ran out. I brought the rest of the stored information up on to the screen and scrolled through it, but there was nothing else disturbing.

I switched off both baby machines and reread the long curling strip of printing from the beginning, afterwards flattening it out and folding it to fit a s.h.i.+rt pocket.

Then I dressed, packed, breakfasted, waited for Brad and travelled to London hopefully.

The telephone calls to Antwerp had to be done from the Saxony Franklin premises because of the precautionary checking back. I would have preferred more privacy than Greville's office but couldn't achieve it, and one of the first things I asked Annette that morning was whether my brother had had one of those gadgets that warned you if someone was listening to your conversation on an extension. The office phones were all interlinked.

'No, he didn't,' she said, troubled.

'He could have done with one,' I said.

'Are you implying that we listened when he didn't mean us to?'

'Not you,' I a.s.sured her, seeing her resentment of the suggestion. 'But yes, I'd think it happened. Anyway, at some point this morning, I want to make sure of not being overheard, so when that call comes through perhaps you'll all go into the stock-room and sing Rule Britannia.'

Annette never made jokes I had to explain I didn't mean sing literally. She rather huffily agreed that when I wanted it, she would go round the extensions checking against eavesdroppers.

I asked her why Greville hadn't had a private line in any case, and she said he had had one earlier but they now used that for the fax machine.

'If he wanted to be private,' she said, 'he went down to the yard and telephoned from his car.'

There, I supposed, he would have been safe also from people with sensitive listening devices, if he'd suspected their use. He had been conscious of betrayal, that was for sure.

I sat at Greville's desk with the door closed and matched the three unknown Antwerp names from the Wizard with the full list June had provided, and found that all three were there.

The first and second produced no results, but from the third, once I explained who I was I got the customary response about checking the files and calling back.

They did call back, but the amorphous voice on the far end was cautious to the point of repression.

'We at Maarten-Pagnier cannot discuss anything at all with you, monsieur,' he said. 'Monsieur Franklin gave express orders that we were not to communicate with anyone in his office except himself.'

'My brother is dead,' I said.

'So you say, monsieur. But he warned us to beware of any attempt to gain information about his affairs and we cannot discuss them.'

'Then please will you telephone to his lawyers and get their a.s.surance that he's dead and that I am now managing his business?'

After a pause the voice said austerely, 'Very well, monsieur. Give us the name of his lawyers.'

I did that and waited for ages during which time three customers telephoned with long orders which I wrote down, trying not to get them wrong from lack of concentration.

Then there was a frantic call from a nearly incoherent woman who wanted to speak to Mr Franklin urgently.

'Mrs P?' I asked tentatively.

Mrs P it was. Mrs Patterson, she said. I gave her the abysmal news and listened to her telling me what a fine nice gentleman my brother had been, and oh dear, she felt faint, had I seen the mess in the sitting room?

I warned her that the whole house was the same.

'Just leave it,' I said. 'I'll clean it up later. Then if you could come after that to hoover and dust, I'd be very grateful.'

Calming a little, she gave me her phone number. 'Let me know, then,' she said. 'Oh dear, oh dear.'

Finally the Antwerp voice returned and, begging him to hold on, I hopped over to the door, called Annette, handed her the customers' orders and said this was the moment for securing the defences. She gave me a disapproving look as I again closed the door.

Back in Greville's chair I said to the voice, 'Please, monsieur, tell me if my brother had any dealings with you. I am trying to sort out his office but he has left too few records.'