‘Why wasn’t he charged?’
‘Too much shit to be thrown around, and some of it would have stuck to the wrong people. Besides, Mexican law’s not exactly tuned to the finer points of our own Company Laws. But somebody’ll catch up with him in the end, don’t worry.’ He led the way to the door. ‘Get one thing straight, young man. ABCO represents the interests of Britain. And anyone who tries to damage ABCO, tries to damage this country — and when he does that, he has me to reckon with. I’ve killed a lot of people for this country, Hawn. I might just do it again.’
‘That sounds like a pretty direct threat.’
Shanklin shook his hand. ‘Just a manner of speaking. And by the way, that Frenchman, Pol — be careful of him. He’s a tricky bastard. Could be dangerous.’
CHAPTER 6
It was over a year since Hawn had last seen Norman French. He was an unctuous, pushy little man, always nattily turned out, fond of talking about good food and wines which he couldn’t afford. Hawn had heard that he had been catapulted into the Caribbean, on a tax-free executive salary, and assumed philosophically that the Fates had at last dealt Frenchie a winning hand. Then a few months later he had received a gilt-engraved invitation to a party being given by Mr and Mrs Norman French, Cocktails and Dinner, at Beecham House, off The Avenue, North London.
Hawn had gone alone out of curiosity. It had been an imposing house, ablaze with light. Norman French had evidently returned well-endowed from his misadventures in the New World, equipped now with an expensive wife, and tastes to match.
Two Vietnamese menservants and an English butler had served drinks and canapés of caviar and smoked salmon. The guests had been the usual galère of contemporary fashion: young businessmen of doubtful pedigree, minor showbiz and TV personalities, photographers and their parasites, a right-wing MP, a couple of Arabs, a lacing of models and their couth companions of uncertain gender, hairdressers, obscure pop freaks. Norman French did not have friends: he had contacts.
Hawn had not stayed long. A hunk of hash was being dismembered on a coffee table and a girl with straight dirty hair had begun to sing to a guitar, when he decided to take his leave. As he fetched his coat, he passed the open door of what he took to be the library. A dishevelled man, obviously drunk, was having a furious argument with French.
Hawn paused. At first neither of them noticed him. Norman French was speaking in his quietest, most patronizing voice; but the other kept interrupting: ‘You’re a slimy little ponce! You took me for a ride — you took the whole Consortium for a ride! I know a couple o’ nice guys were cleaned out because o’ you, Frenchie-boy!’ He spoke with a slurred American drawl, his hair flopping over his eyes. ‘Well, I’ll tell you something for nothing. Nobody skims cream off us and gets away with it! Nobody.’
French said, ‘Will you please leave. Or I shall have you thrown out.’
At that moment one of the menservants brought Hawn’s coat. Hawn had never been quite sure whether French had seen him there in the doorway or not; but thinking back on the incident had cleared up a little puzzle. The drunk dishevelled man had been Robak.
Hawn had not seen Norman French since: though he had heard, though the Grub Street grapevine, that the mansion in North London had been sold, and that soon after, Lorna French had returned alone to her native Texas. French’s upper crust had burst.
The last Hawn had known of French’s activities was that he had started his own private business, specializing in a new-fangled central heating system, with a plush office behind Piccadilly; but that soon after the place had closed up, and Norman French had vanished. The only tenuous contact which Hawn retained with him was through a slight acquaintanceship with an architect who had been a partner in French’s now defunct business.
Hawn finally traced the hapless French to a service flat in Paddington, where he was registered under the name of Hudson — presumably to evade creditors. The landlady was not helpful, having evidently been briefed to keep callers at bay. Hawn left his name and waited.
All next day there was no call from Norman French. Then, the following morning, as he was going out, the phone rang. The voice was smooth, cajoling: ‘Tom, how are you? Long time, no see. I gather you’re no longer at the paper?’
‘I’m writing a book. I thought you might be able to help me with some background.’
‘Any time. What’s it about?’
‘Not the sort of thing I can discuss over the phone. Tomorrow, lunch? L’Etoile, one o’clock?’
‘Only if I’m allowed to choose the wine.’
‘Agreed. One o’clock then.’
French did not arrive until 1.50. He was a soft, round man, with large hips, small hands and feet, and moist little eyes behind tinted glasses. His hair, cut short, was smooth as a cat’s. There was something faintly oriental about him: when he smiled, he reminded Hawn of one of those war-time cartoons of Japanese generals.
He came across the restaurant with a slightly swaying walk, like a dancer. ‘Tom — great to see you!’
Hawn smiled and sat down. ‘How’s the Jensen doing?’ he said, by way of malice.
‘Old age. Had to get rid of it.’ Norman French’s features
