and many years of study,” ‘ Vernon quoted.
‘Lasalle’s article,’ said Joubert.
‘You were supposed to report any findings directly to me and now I read this plastered all over the magazine. What do you think you’re playing at?’
‘Don’t lecture me, Vernon. That article was nothing to do with me. Perhaps you
should ask the girl who works for you what she knows about it,’ the Frenchman hissed.
‘Who are you talking about?’ Vernon wanted to know.
‘Kelly Hunt. She’s here. She’s been with us for a week or more.’
There was a shocked silence, interrupted only by the occasional hiss of static.
‘Vernon.’
‘Yes.’
i said she’s been with us for more than a week,’ Joubert hissed.
i had no idea where she was,’ Vernon said, irritably. ‘I gave her some time off while the enquiry took place here. I didn’t know she was going to work with you.’
‘Well, she knows everything. You won’t be able to hide anything from her any longer, Vernon.’
The Institute Director sighed.
‘Anyway, that’s your problem. I have my own with Lasalle,’ Joubert continued.
‘We cannot afford any more disclosures similar to the one in this magazine,’
Vernon said, cryptically. ‘As it is, this might alter our plans slightly.’
‘You take care of the girl. I’ll handle Lasalle. And I tell you this, Vernon, there will be no more disclosures. I will see to that.’ He hung up and wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘No more.’
There was a malevolent determination in his voice.
London
As the 747 touched down, Blake breathed his customary sigh of relief. The plane slowed down and he allowed himself a glance out of the window. Heathrow was covered.by a film of drizzle which undulated and writhed like a living thing. The writer had tried to sleep on the flight back but had been constantly interrupted by the woman next to him who insisted that he should ‘look at the wonderful view’. Blake had made the fatal error of telling her that he wrote books about the paranormal and had been regaled by her tales of tea-leaf reading and contacts with the spirit world. She had, she assured him, been blessed with this gift of second sight as compensation for the death of her smallest child five years
earlier and the subsequent departure of her husband with another woman. Blake had nodded politely and smiled a lot during the verbal barrage, as was his habit. She had apologised for not having read any of his books but promised she would. Blake had smiled even more broadly at that point. He wondered if it was a general thing with writers, that anyone they spoke to immediately swore they would rush out and buy every book that writer had written.
Despite the distractions he had managed to snatch an hour or so of sleep but it had been troubled and he had woken, it seemed, every ten minutes.
At one point he had jerked bolt .upright in his seat, his body bathed in sweat, the last vestiges of a nightmare fading from his mind. The plane had crashed into the sea but he had survived the impact only to be drowned in the wreckage.
Now, as the plane came to a halt he got to his feet and stretched, trying to banish some of the stiffness from his joints. He checked his watch and noticed that he’d forgotten to adjust it according to the time difference. The clock on the plane showed 6.07 p.m.
After Blake had recovered his baggage he made his way through the terminal to the waiting taxis outside.
The drive took longer than he’d expected but, as the vehicle drew closer to his home he shook off some of his tiredness.
‘Where do you want to get out?’ the driver asked.
Blake directed him.
‘Nice gaff,’ said the driver, admiring Blake’s house. ‘Must have cost a fair old screw, eh?’
The man was obviously fishing for a tip and Blake didn’t disappoint him. He gave him fifteen pounds and told him to keep the change.
‘A reasonable screw,’ he said as he walked away from the cab, suitcase in
hand.
His house was set back from the road and was surrounded by a sufficient expanse of garden to protect him from the neighbours on either side. A privet hedge, which needed trimming, fronted the property and waist-high wooden fencing formed a perimeter elsewhere. There was also a garage built onto one side of the building. It housed a second-hand Jaguar XJS which he’d bought from a friend
three years earlier.
As Blake made his way up the short path he fumbled for his front door key and inserted it in the lock. The door opened, and the familiar cloying scent of paint greeted him. He’d had the place redecorated prior to leaving for the States and the aroma hung thickly in the air. Biake flicked on the hall light and the porch light. He smiled to himself. When his porch light was on it always reminded him of running up the Standard at Buckingham Palace. It was his mark that he was now in residence.
He stepped over two weeks worth of mail which lay on the mat, closed the front door behind him then scooped it up. There were circulars, four or five letters (most of which he could identify by their postmarks) and a couple of bills.
The writer dropped his suitcase in the hall deciding that he would unpack later. Right now all he wanted was to pour himself a drink and flop down in a chair.
He passed into the sitting room, pulling off his shirt as he did so. It was warm in the room despite the fact that it had been empty for a fortnight. He drew back the curtains and the dull twilight dragged itself into the room.
Biake switched on the lamp which perched on top of the TV. He poured himself a large measure of brandy, topped it up with soda and took a hefty gulp, then he selected a record from his massive collection, dropped it on to the turntable and switched on the Hi-Fi. While Elton John warbled away in the background, Blake skimmed through his mail. The bills he noted and then stuck in a bulldog clip on the shelf near the fireplace, the circulars he balled up and tossed into the nearby bin. Then he opened his letters. There was one from his accountant, one from a group calling itself ‘The Literary Co-operative’ (a bunch of struggling local writers to whom Biake had spoken before) and what looked like a couple of fan letters. Blake was always happy to receive mail from the public and he read them both with delight.
He finished his drink, re-filled his glass and wandered into the kitchen.
Peering out of the back window he saw several lumps of dark matter on his patio.
‘Cat shit,’ he muttered, irritably. ‘I’ll buy a cork for that bloody thing.’
He was referring to the overfed Manx cat which belonged to the family next door. It had taken to using
his garden as a toilet whenever it could and, obviously, while he’d been away, had taken full advantage and dotted its calling cards about in abundance.
The writer opened his freezer and took out a pizza which he stuck under the grill. He didn’t feel particularly hungry and, being basically lazy anyway, frozen food was heaven sent for his purposes. He left the pizza beneath the glow of the grill and returned to the sitting room.
It was large but comfortable and ‘lived in” like the rest of the house. On the walls, framed carefully, were a number of film posters. Taxi Driver hung near the hall door whilst the wall nearest the kitchen bore an American print of The Wild Bunch. Beside it was Halloween.
But, pride of place went to a yellowed poster which hung over the fireplace.
It was Psycho, and it bore Hitchcock’s signature. Blake had been given it as a gift from a friend in the film business last time he had visited L.A.
The writer was not a man to overindulge in luxuries but, when he did, three things occupied him more than most. Films, books and music. His bookcase bulged, not with learned tomes and priceless first editions but with pulp creations. He read for entertainment, nothing more. Alongside the books, each one in its individual case, were video cassettes of his favourite films. Up to 300 in all.
