'Can I tell them all why I'm making these enquiries?' he asked.
'Yes, you damned well can,' Malcolm said positively. 'If it's one of them, and I hope to God it isn't, it might put the wind up them and frighten them off. just don't tell them where to find me.'
I looked down at the list. I couldn't visualise any of them as being criminally lethal, but then greed affected otherwise rational people in irrational ways. All sorts of people… I knew of a case when two male relatives had gone into a house where an old woman had been reported newly dead, and taken the bedroom carpet off the floor, rolling it up and making off with it and leaving her lying alone in her bed above bare boards, all to seize her prize possession before the rest of the family could get there. Unbelievable, I'd thought it. The old woman's niece, who cleaned my flat every week, had been most indignant, but not on her aunt's account. 'it was the only good carpet in the house,' she vigorously complained. 'Nearly new. The only thing worth having. It should have come to me, by rights. Now I'll never get it.'
'I'll need all their addresses,' West said.
Malcolm waved a hand. 'Ian can tell you. Get him to write them down.'
Obediently I opened my suitcase, took out my address book and wrote the whole list, with telephone numbers. Then I got out the pack of photographs and showed them to West.
'Would they help you?' I asked. 'If they would, I'll lend them to you, but I want them back.'
West looked through them, one by one, and I knew that he could see, if he were any detective at all, all the basic characters of the subjects. I liked taking photographs and preferred portraits, and somehow taking a camera along gave me something positive to do whenever the family met. I didn't like talking to some of them; photography gave me a convincing reason for disengagements and drifting around.
If there was one common factor in many of the faces it was discontent, which I thought was sad. Only in Ferdinand could one see real lightheartedness, and even in him, as I knew, it could come and go; and Debs, his second wife, was a stunning blonde, taller than her husband, looking out at the world quizzically as if she couldn't quite believe her eyes, not yet soured by disappointment.
I'd caught Gervase giving his best grade-one bullying down-the-nose stare, and saw no good purpose in ever showing him the reflection of his soul. Ursula merely looked indeterminate and droopy and somehow guilty, as if she thought she shouldn't even have her photo taken without Gervase's permission.
Berenice, Thomas's wife, was the exact opposite, staring disapprovingly straight into the lens, bold and sarcastic, unerringly destructive every time she uttered. And Thomas, a step behind her, looking harried and anxious. Another of Thomas alone, smiling uneasily, defeat in the sag of his shoulders, desperation in his eyes.
Vivien, Joyce and Alicia, the three witches, dissimilar in features but alike in expression, had been caught when they weren't aware of the camera, each of them watching someone else with disfavour.
Alicia, fluffy and frilly, still wore her hair brought youthfully high to a ribbon bow on the crown, from where rich brown curls tumbled in a cascade to her shoulders. Nearly sixty, she looked in essence younger than her son Gervase, and she would still have been pretty but for the pinched hardness of her mouth.
She had been a fair sort of mother to me for the seven years of her reign, seeing to my ordinary needs like food and new clothes and treating me no different from Gervase and Ferdinand, but I'd never felt like going to her for advice or comfort. She hadn't loved me, nor I he rand after the divorce we had neither felt any grief in separation. I'd detested what she'd done afterwards to Gervase, Ferdinand and Serena, twisting their minds with her own spite. I would positively have liked to have had friendly brothers and sisters as much as Malcolm would have valued friendly children. After nearly twenty years, Alicia's intense hurt still spread suffering outward in ripples.
Serena's picture showed her as she had been a year earlier, before aerobic dancing had slimmed her further to a sexless-looking leanness. The fair hair of childhood had slightly darkened, and was stylishly cut in a short becoming cap-shape which made her look young for her twenty-six years. A leggy Peter Pan, I thought, not wanting to grow up: a girl-woman with a girlish voice saying 'Mummy and Daddy', and an insatiable appetite for clothes. I wondered briefly whether she were still a virgin and felt faintly surprised to find that I simply didn't know and, moreover, couldn't tell.
'These are very interesting,' West said, glancing at me. 'I should certainly like to borrow them.' He shuffled them around and sorted them out. 'Who are these? You haven't put their names on the back, like the others.'
'That's Lucy and Edwin, and that's Donald and Helen.'
'Thanks.' He wrote the identification carefully in small neat letters.
Malcolm stretched out a hand for the photographs which West gave him. Malcolm looked through them attentively and finally gave them back.
'I don't remember seeing any of these before,' he said.
'They're all less than three years old.'
His mouth opened and shut again. He gave me a brooding look, as if I'd just stabbed him unfairly in the ribs.
'What do you think of them?' I asked.
'A pity children grow up.'
West smiled tiredly and collected the lists and photographs together.
'Right, Mr Pembroke. I'll get started.' He stood up and swayed slightly, but when I took a step forward to steady him he waved me away. 'Just lack of sleep.' On his feet, he looked even nearer to exhaustion, as if the outer grey ness had penetrated inwards to the core. 'First thing in the morning, I'll be checking the Pembrokes.'
It would have been churlish to expect him to start that afternoon, but I can't say I liked the delay. I offered him another drink and a reviving lunch, which he declined, so I took him to the hotel's front door and saw him safely into a taxi, watching him sink like a collapsing scarecrow into the seat cushions.
Returning to the suite, I found Malcolm ordering vodka and Beluga caviar from room service with the abandon to which I was becoming accustomed. That done, he smoothed out the Sporting Life and pointed to one section of it.
'It says the Arc de Triomphe race is due to be run this Sunday in Paris.'
'Yes, that's right.'
'Then let's go.'
'All right,' I said.
Malcolm laughed. 'We may as well have some fun. There's a list here of the runners.'
I looked where he pointed. It was a bookmaker's advertisement showing the ante-post prices on offer.
'What are the chances,' Malcolm said, 'of my buying one of these horses?'
'Er,' I said. 'Today, do you mean?'
'Of course. No good buying one after the race, is there?'
'Well…'
'No, of course not. The winner will be worth millions and the others peanuts. Before the race, that's the thing.'
'I don't suppose anyone will sell,' I said, 'but we can try. How high do you want to go? The favourite won the Epsom Derby and is reported to be going to be syndicated for ten million pounds. You'd have to offer a good deal more than that before they'd consider selling him now.'
'Hm,' Malcolm said. 'What do you think of him as a horse?'
I smothered a gasp or two and said with a deadpan face, 'He's a very good horse but he had an exceptionally exhausting race last time out. I don't think he's had enough time to recover and I wouldn't back him this time.'
'Have you backed him before?' Malcolm asked curiously.
'Yes, when he won the Derby, but he was favourite for that, too.'
'What do you think will win the Arc de Triomphe, then?'
'Seriously?' I said.
'Of course seriously.'
'One of the French horses, Meilleurs Voeux.'
'Can we buy him?'
'Not a hope. His owner loves his horses, loves winning more than profit and is immensely rich.'
