‘I had nothing better to do.’
‘That’s hard to believe.’
‘Thanks, but it’s true. I went through all the possible men in this place in the first year, I don’t feel like starting on the rest.’
It wasn’t an invitation and it wasn’t a put-down. I judged that she was ready to be interested in me if I could be interesting — fair enough. I was on a job, though, and despite myself I looked up to the house for the secretary. I saw him out by the wall looking over the guests who were gathered around the burning meat.
‘Look Kay, I’m on a job.’ I pointed out the big dark man. ‘I have to see him and talk to Baudin, it shouldn’t take long. Will you be around?’
She looked at her watch, a big one made for telling the time. ‘I’ll give you an hour,’ she said, ‘maybe a bit more.’
I touched her arm, which made me want to do more touching, and went up to the house. The secretary loomed up over me like a medieval knight surveying invaders from his castle wall.
‘Mr Baudin will see you.’
I vaulted over the wall, showing off for the girl, and was sorry immediately. The knight seemed not to notice and strode off across the flagstones to the house. As I went in through the French windows it occurred to me that it was strange for Baudin to be still living in the same place thirty years later, given that he’d come up so far in the world. Not that it wasn’t a pretty fair shack; the carpet was thick and the paintings on the walls weren’t prints. The secretary showed me into a smallish room that had a bar against one wall and some books opposite. There were four big, velvet-covered armchairs. There were two men in the chairs. One was small and wizened with whispy grey hair around his bald skull. The top of his head was baby pink, incongruous beside the ancient, lined flesh on his face. He was wearing a cream shirt, cream trousers and white shoes, like the Wimbledon heroes of long ago. The other man had on a lightweight suit with the jacket open to show his soft, spreading belly. His face was pale and puffy. He was thirtyish.
14
Sir Galahad said my name softly and went away. The old man had my card in one hand. In the other was a glass with liquid in it the colour of very weak tea — at a guess it was the weakest of whisky and water.
‘Good evening, Mr Hardy.’ He lifted the card a millimetre into the air as if it weighed a ton. ‘I am Nicholas Baudin. May I ask what you wish to see me about?’ His voice was faint and fell away on the word endings.
Before I could answer the other man put in his oar.
‘Don’t be foolish father, what could you possibly have to say to someone like this?’ There was a sneer in his voice but some apprehension also; he leaned over and peered at the card. ‘A private detective who knows Rose and that slut Kay Fletcher. This is obviously some kind of newspaper muck-raking.’
‘This is my son, Keir,’ Baudin said. ‘This is his house.’
‘It used to be yours,’ I said for no reason.
Keir took another drink. ‘Researching the family Hardy? Won’t do you any good. There are no skeletons in our cupboard.’
The skin on the old man’s face tightened, his hand shook as he took a sip but he didn’t say anything. I was feeling out of my depth; here were two people very much on edge and all I’d done was present my card.
‘My father is ill as you can probably see — he mustn’t be upset.’
There wasn’t a lot of conviction in his voice and still some provocation. It crossed my mind that he wouldn’t worry if Dad did get a bit upset. I decided I didn’t like Keir. I addressed myself to the old man.
‘I’ll try not to upset you, Mr Baudin. I’m making enquiries about your adopted son but there’s nothing sinister in it.’
‘Warwick!’ Keir almost shouted the word and I could feel his apprehension and aggression go up a hundred points.
I said ‘My client…” and stopped. The pace had been too hot for me to think out in advance how to approach this moment. And I hadn’t expected it to come up so soon. How do you prise your way into the secret vault of adoption? Except that this wasn’t an ordinary adoption. That gave me some leverage. Keir’s obvious disaffection could be useful too, if I could play it right.
‘We’re waiting, Hardy,’ Keir purred. ‘Your client…’
‘I can’t give you the name of course,’ I said, knowing how lame it sounded, ‘but my client believes that your adopted son is properly part of her family. She wants to establish the connection; she’s old, it’s important to her.’
‘I was always curious about Warwick’s genes,’ Nicholas Baudin said.
This galvanised Keir. He slurped down his drink and his previously carefully modulated voice went up into a squeak.
‘Who are these people? Who?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that at this stage. There are a lot of threads to tie up. This could be a false lead, if it’s not you’ll get all the details in time.’
‘Thanks very much.’ Keir again. He got up and stood as tall as he could — about five foot six. ‘This is preposterous. I won’t have it. I’m going to call Rogers and have this character thrown out. It’s an original line, I’ll say that for it.’ He moved up to his father’s chair keeping well away from me, still standing. He noticed that his glass was empty and went across to the bar for more. He slammed the glass down on the bar and turned dramatically.
‘Of course! This is Warwick’s idea! Come on father, this is some sort of hoax.’ He took his drink across and stood protectively near the old man’s chair. ‘You’re not a bad actor, Mr Hardy, you had me fooled. But I can’t for the life of me see how Warwick would get anything out of this.’
‘You’re babbling,’ I said. ‘I’ve never met your brother.’
‘Don’t call him my brother.’ The squeak was back. ‘He forfeited that right years ago.’
‘I’d like to hear about it.’
‘Well you won’t. Clear off.’
He was red in the face with anger and from the effort of keeping himself at his full height. I looked down at his feet and realised that I’d over-measured him; he wore built-up shoes that must have given him a couple of inches. Short men who want to impress should cultivate an icy mien or be jolly — I knew a few who did it successfully. I grinned at him.
‘I’d say that was up to your father. I’ve told you the truth, as much of it as I can.’
The old man seemed to get the message. He pulled himself up in the chair and shoved his glass at Keir. ‘Don’t brawl Keir, it’s not your forte. And for God’s sake get me a decent drink, it’s a crime to drown good whisky like this.’
The son snatched up the glass clumsily; his father could strip him of composure so quickly I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
‘Sit down, Mr Hardy.’ The old boy pointed to the chair nearest him. ‘Will you have a drink?’
‘Thanks, no, I’ve got things to do tonight.’ I took out my tobacco and held it up enquiringly.
‘Go ahead.’ He took the glass from Keir without acknowledgment; the drink was dark this time, neat scotch over ice. He drank some and settled back in his chair.
‘That’s better. Do you know the occasion for this gathering?’
I worked at the makings. ‘Something to do with mining I heard.’
‘That’s right. A mine. It’ll be operational in five years — I’ll be dead.’
Keir made a noise that was hard to interpret, perhaps shock, perhaps dutiful protest. Baudin ignored it. So did I.
‘I’m nearly eighty and that’s the sort of thing I have to celebrate. What do you think of that?’
I had the cigarette going and took in a lungful. ‘I don’t know. You could celebrate being nearly eighty. A lot of people don’t make it so far.’
His snort could have been amusement. His old eyes just looked old.
