Threats and Menaces Read online

  ‘Slainte.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  As Leo took a small sip Macrae took a large mouthful, threw a newspaper off a chair and signalled to Leo to sit down. He lowered himself into it with a sense of the inevitable. The name of a golden oldie came back to him: Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week.

  Not only Saturday.

  He thought of those other nights he had sat here keeping Macrae company — Easter weekends and bank holidays — listening to him talk about his childhood in Scotland or about his first wife Linda, or about when he was a boxing hopeful, or when he worked on the Flying Squad in its heyday.

  That particularly. It had been his great time; his golden age. And as far as Leo could make out he had never got over the fact that time had marched on. It was as though Macrae had been some large fish in a drying pool, and when the water receded he had been left on the shore.

  If this evening took its normal course Macrae would talk and drink until three or four in the morning. Then he would suddenly collapse like a derelict building. One minute he’d be all right and the next Leo would be helping him into bed and Macrae would be unconscious before he closed the front door.

  Macrae was talking about Eddie Twyford. Eddie had once been his driver and he missed him. He was part of the past, the golden time, when Macrae was driven everywhere. Now with the reorganization of the Force by what Macrae called ‘bloody money-men’ he and his fellow detectives had been called upon to travel by train or bus. Macrae had been appalled.

  But Eddie wasn’t coming back. Leo had been with Macrae on a freezing winter’s day in January when they had buried him in one of those cemeteries that spread for miles along the Southern Railway.

  It had been a symbol of the disappearing past.

  ‘There was never a better driver, not in the whole of the Force. Knew London like the back of his hand. Hated the countryside. Didn’t understand it. There was one time when — ’

  He was interrupted by a loud ringing of the front door bell. ‘Who the hell’s that?’

  He pushed himself out of the chair.

  Bang… bang… bang… went the door knocker.

  ‘The bloody sod…’

  He pulled open the front door and Leo, standing in the sitting-room, could see three figures on the front step. For a moment he froze. Was this a revenge attack on Macrae for putting someone away?

  Macrae switched on the light.

  ‘Hello, George,’ a woman’s voice said.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘That’s nice in front of the kids. Very nice.’

  Leo watched as Mandy, the second Mrs Macrae, and Macrae’s two children by her, entered the house. Bobby and Margaret, one ten and the other eight, were wide-eyed with apprehension.

  ‘What’s it all about?’ Macrae said.

  ‘Joe threw me out. That’s what it’s all about. Oh, hello, Leo.’

  The second ex-Mrs Macrae was dressed in jeans and a tight-fitting matelot shirt. The jeans showed off her buttocks to best advantage and the tight-fitting cotton her heavy breasts. She had good broad features and dark hair and she looked, Leo thought, like some sexpot from Bratislava.

  She was running to seed a little but he remembered her from earlier days when, as a woman police constable, she had made it plain she would have liked to have gone to bed with him. He’d been tempted but hadn’t and always thereafter had thanked whatever Jewish deity had held him back.

  Macrae, confused and embarrassed, kissed his daughter and shook his son by the hand.

  ‘Where’d you keep the bed linen these days?’ Mandy said. ‘Bed linen?’

  ‘They can’t sleep on the floor, George.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Beds, George. For the kids. Your kids. Remember?’

  ‘But… listen…’

  ‘They’re your responsibility too, George. I didn’t have them by immaculate conception.’

  ‘I know that. I know… but…’

  ‘So if you’ll tell me where the linen is I’ll make up their beds before I go. You can think of some more permanent arrangement later.’

  ‘Before you… Hey…!’

  ‘Joe threw us out. Or me rather. Because of Roger.’

  ‘Who the hell’s Roger?’

  ‘Just a fella I met. And he’s waiting in the car. Where’s the linen, George?’

  *

  Mr Sadeq answered the front door himself. She had been halfway up the stairs from the kitchen when she heard him open it. She paused, listening.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Sadeq,’ she heard a strange voice say.

  ‘This is a pleasure, Colonel Peters. It has been a long time.’ The two men moved out into the garden. She had placed a tray there with drinks and little blue enamelled bowls of pistachios and almonds.

  They sat on comfortable bamboo chairs. The garden was paved. There were several beds let into the paving bright with colour and the still summer air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. A fountain made a cool splashing sound.

  ‘A secret garden in the heart of London,’ Colonel Peters said. ‘And a fountain! We might be in Damascus.’

  ‘Or Teheran.’

  ‘In the old days.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Please help yourself, Colonel. I do not take alcohol but my guests are welcome.’

  Sadeq, dark, saturnine, was dressed in a flowing white djellabah; Colonel Peters in a cream linen jacket and dark blue trousers. Sadeq was in his mid-to late-fifties, the Colonel some years younger. He had a round baby face, a moustache, and small cold eyes.

  ‘How many years is it since Teheran?’ Sadeq said.

  ‘Late seventies I should think. I remember they were still changing the signs after the revolution. The Kentucky Fried Chicken place had become Our Fried Chicken.’

  ‘I remember that. And all the “royal” signs on the boulevards to the Royal Teheran Hilton had been taken down.’

  ‘Except the ones inside the hotel. It would have wrecked the foyer.’

  They smiled.

  ‘Have you been back?’ Peters asked.

  Sadeq shook his head. ‘It is difficult. Do you know the saying, “The friend of my enemy is my enemy”?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Teheran was displeased with me.’

  ‘I suppose if you supply to one side, the other becomes unhappy.’ Sadeq spread his hands. ‘I am a businessman. I do not take sides. It is business, that is all.’

  ‘If I were to say to you that there was a way to overcome this. That Teheran would no longer look upon you as a friend of Saddam. What would you say to that?’

  ‘I would be most interested. But let us go in and eat.’

  They went into a dark heavily panelled room. He rang a small silver bell. She brought in a tray of starters.

  ‘That is tabbouleh.’ Sadeq pointed to a salad of crushed wheat, tomato, mint and parsley. ‘And that is hummus. And that aubergine puree. We eat with Arab bread.’

  Sadeq poured the Colonel a glass of Veuve Cliquot and a glass of water for himself.

  ‘How is Monte Carlo?’

  ‘Crowded at this time. I prefer spring when the mimosa is out. But my wife likes it. The shopping is good.’

  They ate braised pigeons stuffed with crushed wheat and finished the meal with sherbet. Over coffee Sadeq said, ‘Please tell me about Teheran.’

  ‘They have given me a shopping list.’

  ‘I heard they were buying.’

  ‘They have bought MiG-29s and T-72 tanks. Even submarines.’ ‘He who controls the Straits of Hormuz controls the Gulf.’ ‘Certainly. But Saudi does not like it. America does not like it either. Supplies may dry up. That is what Teheran is afraid of.’ Sadeq nodded slowly. ‘It is the time now for Iran. What do you say: “Your time has come”?’

  ‘The Gulf states are worried. Iran has claims on Bahrain.’ ‘They are right to worry.’

  ‘So you see, Mr Sadeq, the time is also right for someone with contacts in Afghanis
tan. No one knows better than you that the mujahedin have stockpiles of American arms: Stingers and Scuds; MI-8 attack helicopters.’

  ‘You flatter me. But we will talk more. I will be in France next week. Do you think you were followed here?’

  Alice was clearing the table. Colonel Peters was watching her. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘After all these years I have my little systems.’ He leaned back in his chair and prepared a Havana. ‘She’s good, your cook.’

  ‘I have the food sent in. All she can make is filth. She is a Filipina. You can have her when you wish. You can do anything with her, it makes no matter.’

  Peters sipped a glass of armagnac then touched his napkin to his lips. ‘I must be home tomorrow for lunch. It is my daughter’s birthday.’

  ‘Daughters are precious,’ said Mr Sadeq.

  Chapter Seven

  Sunday morning, hot and close, and traffic heavy on the M4 to Wales. Leo driving. Zoe staring at the scenery.

  ‘If you’re not going to talk to me I’m not going to talk to you,’ Leo said.

  Silence.

  ‘I mean it. Not talking is a game two can play. It takes two to tango… Boom-boom…’

  Silence.

  ‘They’ll take you to hospital and prise your jaws open with hydraulic jacks. I’ll come and visit you. Tap… tap…’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘My cane in the corridor. And I’ll bring you match boxes that go broo-broo…’

  She laughed. ‘Stop using Thurber to get at me.’

  ‘At least it got you to respond.’

  ‘OK. But you’re still a bastard and I’m still cross with you.’ ‘Why? Because I was late? I told you… she pitched up around midnight with the two kids. Macrae was in shock.’

  ‘I wish I’d been there. Fly on the wall.’

  ‘I wish you’d been there too, you could have looked after the kids.’

  ‘You haven’t told me what really happened.’

  ‘Because you don’t want us to talk to each other. Can’t have it both ways.’

  ‘I’ve forgiven you. So tell me.’

  ‘Well, he asked me to take the kids into the kitchen.’

  ‘So he could belt Mandy without them seeing?’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But all they did was argue.’

  ‘No fisticuffs?’

  ‘No, thank God.’

  ‘So what did you do, tell them stories?’

  ‘We washed up.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Well, the place was a shambles. Dirty plates et cetera from the night before. Frenchy must have been out working. She usually keeps the place quite tidy when she’s there. So I said, “Why don’t we clean the place up a bit?”’

  ‘And they bought that?’

  ‘I think they’re a trifle dim. Anyway, Mandy came in after a while and kissed the kids and said they were going to stay with their father for a time but she’d see them often and take them out. Then she left. The kids had been pretty good up to then but the moment she closed the front door they started to cry.’

  ‘That can’t have done Macrae’s ego much good. Not when your kids burst into tears at the prospect of being with you.’

  ‘He looked stunned. Said to me, “Don’t leave me now, laddie.” So I stayed.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘So we put the kids to bed and went downstairs and had a couple more drinks while we waited for them to go to sleep.’ ‘Probably cried themselves to sleep,’ Zoe said. ‘Poor little things.’

  ‘So then I left. I felt as though I was abandoning him.’

  ‘You think he can cope?’

  ‘Have to.’

  ‘Do him good.’

  ‘So that’s why I was late.’

  ‘A likely story.’

  They passed the exit to Swindon.

  ‘That’s where they make all the food,’ Zoe said.

  ‘What food?’

  ‘There’s a kitchen in Swindon the size of ten aeroplane hangars. On it is a big notice which says BRITISH FOOD. If you own a pub or a wine bar you ring them up and they send you traditional British food like chilli con carne and tandoori chicken and lasagne. All you have to do is heat it in a microwave and serve it.’

  Leo ignored her. ‘Listen, you haven’t really explained what this trip is all about. All I know is we’re going to Wales to see your mother.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t talking to you.’

  ‘I know. I tried to explain that to my father.’

  He had made an early call to his parents in North London to tell them he would not be at the big old apartment for their regular family lunch. Unfortunately his father, Manfred, answered the phone. Normally he ignored the instrument, only speaking into it if his wife, Lottie, called him and then only for three subjects: chess, his music pupils, his immediate family. He never took calls from tradesmen because he had nothing to do with them. That was Lottie’s province.

  ‘Who?’ Manfred had said.

  ‘Leo… Your son.’

  ‘Don’t be smart. It’s seven o’clock. I wouldn’t (voodn’t) recognize the voice of your mother at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning.’

  Leo explained that he would not be coming to lunch.

  ‘Not coming?’

  Manfred invested the phrase with a mixture of incredulity and anger, and his Austrian accent added a foreign menace.

  Leo said they were worried about Zoe’s father.

  ‘What (vot) is wrong with the father?’

  How was he to explain the latest when he hardly understood himself? (‘So you found him in the garden killing slugs,’ Leo had said to Zoe. ‘So what’s bizarre about that?’ She had replied coldly: ‘With an axe?’)

  Leo had decided not to go into that with his father. ‘He needs looking after,’ was all he said.

  ‘They all need looking after.’

  Zoe had in fact looked after Manfred a few months earlier when his wife was away and both still bore the scars.

  ‘So what has the wife to do with it?’ Manfred said.

  ‘Search me.’

  Leo could tell that all this simply went to underline his father’s view of the family Bertram. Not to put too fine a point on it, he thought they were all insane.

  ‘We’re having roast beef,’ Manfred said.

  ‘I know, Dad, we always have roast beef.’

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  ‘I love it. I just can’t come, that’s all.’

  ‘Bean sprouts.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The mother. She is vegetarian. You will be eating bean sprouts for Sunday lunch.’

  ‘I know,’ Leo said, gloomily.

  He drove across the Severn Bridge into Wales and along the Wye. In half an hour — after studying a survey map — he turned off the road and took a track up a hidden valley. In less than a mile a notice said ECOLANDS.

  ‘That’s it,’ Zoe said. ‘They’ve given it a trendy new name.’

  The track became a narrow path and Leo left the car next to an ancient single-decker bus that had been handpainted matt green. It was decorated with drawings of daisies and sunflowers and the words Earth Mother were lettered on it in black.

  They walked up the track.

  The centre was a series of log cabins, plastic greenhouse tunnels, corrugated-iron sheds, and vegetable patches. Those vegetables Leo could recognize looked in good condition.

  There were a number of windmills sited on the hillside around them. None was moving since there was no wind. Young people were working in the gardens and in the sheds. These echoed to the ring of blacksmiths’ hammers and the hiss of oxyacetylene welding torches. Leo couldn’t be sure what they were making but the objects looked massive, almost Victorian.

  They found Zoe’s mother riding a bicycle without wheels. She was a small woman wearing tom jeans, a man’s white shirt, and a straw hat.

  ‘Darlings!’ She stopped pedalling. ‘How lovely to see you.’

  She got off th
e bike and kissed them both. Leo thought she smelled of grass or hay; something nice and countryish.

  He had not seen her for months and realized she was going grey. Her face was seamed like a yachtsman’s. This is what Zoe would look like when she was fifty. He felt a sinking sensation in his stomach.

  Sophia Bertram was the product of an English father and a Spanish mother and Leo had always thought it was these Spanish genes which had given Zoe her colouring and her slight… well, difference.

  ‘Why are you riding an exercise bike?’ Zoe asked. ‘You don’t need to lose weight.’

  ‘It’s not an exercise bike. Look… When I pedal it turns a water wheel and draws water up from this channel and puts it in that one over there so I can irrigate my veggies and my Russian comfrey.’

  ‘Russian what?’

  ‘Comfrey. A kind of grass. Frightfully good for animals and everything. And the waterwheel is the perfect irrigation system for countries like India. Remember our motto: Simple is Beautiful.’ ‘Don’t you need to be quite strong to pedal all day?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you have to shift the water to grow the crops to make you strong to pedal the bike to shift the water to grow the crops… to make you strong to pedal… et cetera… et cetera…’

  ‘I don’t think you understand at all, darling. Leo, she doesn’t understand, does she?’

  ‘She’s not very bright,’ Leo said.

  ‘That’s a joke, Mother. Leo is terribly amusing. Listen, I’ve got to talk to you about Daddy.’

  ‘You said so on the phone. Let’s go and sit in the shade.’

  They sat under a tree and Zoe told her about his drunken fall and his wine-making and slug killing.

  Sophia’s eyes lit up. ‘With an axe? Goodness. Here we use beer and a flashlight. Go after them at night, the little buggers. Poor Brian.’

  ‘I think he misses you a lot,’ Zoe said.

  ‘Yes, I miss him too. There’s… well, there’s no one of my own age here. And then there’s Harold.’

  ‘Who’s Harold?’

  ‘One of the community.’ She looked over her shoulder as though he might suddenly materialize. ‘He’s half my age and wants to marry me.’

  ‘That would be bigamy.’