THIRTY-TWO

Antwerp March 29 1976 Dear Sis You’ve asked me more than one time why I like to compose these messages to you in one sentence and I wonder if you’ve guessed it’s because I have a mortal fear of full stops on account of all the rude interruptions I witnessed in Nam that pretty soon revealed themselves as sudden terminations and also because I neurotically suppose that if I don’t pause for breath you won’t either and that way we’ll get to talk the only way I feel I can which is right out and right on for a dare even when there’s nothing much to tell you which is pretty much all the time in my cotton-wooled exile of a life here and—

I gave up there and shoved the card back in my pocket. I reckoned I might spare Rachel this latest dose of her brother’s self-obsessed ramblings. Good news was what she needed to hear and it was what I longed to be able to deliver. Instead, I was sitting in a bar on Antwerp’s Grote Markt, gazing through the window at the Brabo fountain and the imperiously raised finger of the cathedral spire, persuading myself to order a coffee rather than another beer. I knew I was accomplishing nothing by lingering there, but I was unable for the moment to think of anything else I could do to extricate Rachel and me from the godawful mess Eldritch had landed us in.

*

I presented myself at Oudermans’ offices on the dot of four o’clock. Punctuality was about the only thing I had going for me. They were on the third floor of an anonymous block south of the main shopping centre. The whole operation occupied a different century from Twisk’s one-man band in London, with modern art, chrome-legged desks, golfball typewriters and fashion-plate secretaries.

Oudermans himself, it transpired, was awaiting my arrival. Any message from van Briel would reach me through him. I was kept waiting no more than a few minutes before being ushered into his spacious sanctum of neatly ordered papers and plush-carpeted quietude.

He was a small, spry, immaculately suited man in late middle age, thinning hair neatly trimmed, skin tanned, eyes sparkling behind gilt-framed spectacles. Discretion and precision seemed wound up in his every restrained gesture. To my surprise, his English was as sharp as his dress sense.

‘A pleasure to meet you, Mr Swan. The circumstances are of course regrettable. We are here to help you make the best of them. The past thirty-six hours can’t have been easy for you. May I offer you coffee? Or tea?’

‘No, thanks.’ I’d drunk two cups of coffee before leaving the bar and was glad of it now.

‘I spoke to Meneer van Briel about twenty minutes ago. He apprised me of the current situation. You’ll want to know what it is. Well, the Prosecutor’s office still haven’t charged Miss Banner with anything, but they have ample evidence to justify detaining her for several more days at least. That seems to be their intention. There was a press conference this afternoon. Inspector Leysen referred to several different lines of inquiry, which is promising. It suggests Judge Bequaert isn’t convinced of Miss Banner’s guilt. Or yours.’

‘That’s good.’

‘To some degree, yes.’ Oudermans studied me intently. ‘Earlier, Meneer van Briel told me of your meeting last night with a man claiming to represent British Intelligence.’

‘Yes. His name was Tate.’

‘We will represent you and Miss Banner in this case, but I must emphasize we can have no dealings on your behalf; nor can we encourage you to have dealings, with such persons.’

‘I wouldn’t expect you to.’

‘Our position in Belgian law is … delicate.’

‘Has Bart – Mr van Briel – told the police a client of yours offered my uncle fifty thousand pounds to find the proof we were hoping to collect from Ardal Quilligan?’

‘No. He wouldn’t deny it if asked, of course, but they have no reason to ask him. And we are not required to volunteer such information.’

‘Does your client know what’s happened?’

‘Yes. I told him myself.’

‘Face to face?’

‘By telephone.’

‘Have you ever met him?’

Oudermans smiled, placidly but discouragingly. ‘Without his approval, I can’t answer such questions.’

‘What’s he going to do?’

‘I don’t know. He is … considering his situation.’

‘Great. What about my situation? And Rachel’s? Which he helped create.’

Oudermans took off his glasses, frowning at me thoughtfully as he did so. ‘I assure you, Mr Swan,’ he said eventually, ‘that I made him aware of the conflict of interest we may face if you and/or Miss Banner are charged.’

‘And?’

‘That is the situation he is considering.’

‘His identity could be crucial to this, Mr Oudermans.’

‘I understand. But his identity, as you call it, is not, strictly speaking, known to me. I know his name, of course. But I’ve wondered recently whether that’s his real name.’

‘I need to know who he is.’

‘Give him a little time, Mr Swan. He may agree to … reveal himself.’

‘I don’t know how much time I have. I could be arrested at any moment.’

‘That is regrettably true.’ Oudermans carefully replaced his glasses on his nose. ‘Meanwhile there is … another issue.’

‘What?’

‘Mr Quilligan’s sister, Lady Linley, arrived in Ostend today to claim her brother’s body. She met Inspecteur Leysen and spoke to Meneer van Briel. She wants to meet you, Mr Swan. The police won’t allow her to see Miss Banner, so she … demands to see you.’

‘I don’t mind meeting her.’ That was an understatement. It would give me a chance to gauge how much she knew of her husband’s activities. Had she really consented to her brother’s murder? If not, I might be able to drive a wedge between her and Sir Miles. ‘I’ve nothing to hide, Mr Oudermans.’

‘Good. I suggest we invite her here. It is important we … manage the encounter carefully. She may bring a lawyer of her own. I don’t know.’

‘Will she bring her husband?’

‘As I understand it, Sir Miles has not accompanied her to Belgium.’ No. Of course not. He couldn’t afford to take the slightest risk that the Belgian police might believe our allegations against him. Oudermans’ pursed half-smile let me see that he appreciated how his absence could be interpreted in just such a way. ‘It will be important to let Lady Linley say and ask exactly what she wants, Mr Swan. Cooperate with her. Sympathize if you can. Then we may … draw something out.’

‘I’ll be on my best behaviour.’

‘Good. That brings us to Mr Simon Cardale.’

‘You’ve heard from him?’

‘No. We’ve tried to contact him on both of the numbers you supplied, without success. He left yesterday on the six p.m. ferry from Ostend to Dover. That is all we know.’

My hunch was that Cardale had been so distraught at his uncle’s death he’d shut himself away with the phone off the hook. What he thought had really happened in Ostend I couldn’t imagine. But his confidence must have been shattered. He was probably in fear of what Linley might do to him. Small wonder he’d gone to ground. ‘We can ask Lady Linley where he is,’ I suggested. ‘Her response could be … illuminating.’

Oudermans nodded. ‘Indeed. We must anticipate, of course, that she will in turn ask you where your uncle is.’

‘I’m still looking for him.’

‘If he contacts you …’ Oudermans hesitated.

‘Yes? If he does?’

‘You will advise Meneer van Briel at once, won’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good.’ Oudermans’ expression gave no hint of the weight he placed on my assurances. The truth was that I had no idea what I’d do, or who I’d tell, if and when I found Eldritch. It all hinged on what I could least predict: Eldritch’s own intentions. ‘Now, I must advise you to proceed cautiously at all times, Mr Swan. The police regard you as a suspect in a murder inquiry. They may hope you will incriminate yourself. It’s vital you avoid doing anything they could … misinterpret. You understand?’

I understood all right. The police wanted me to trip myself up. Oudermans wanted me to tread carefully. But Rachel needed me to do whatever it took to expose the truth. Walking away from Oudermans’ offices along the streets of a city I didn’t know, surrounded by strangers, I felt wholly unequal to the challenge. But it was a challenge I wouldn’t dodge. Some kind of reckoning was approaching and I was determined to face it.

I wandered aimlessly round the diamond district west of Centraal station, backing a frail hunch that Eldritch would return to the area of the city he’d worked in. The idea that I’d simply see him there on the street was preposterous, of course, but it filled the hour or so I had to spare before I needed to head back to van Briel’s place to await Moira Henchy’s call. Naturally, there was no sign of Eldritch. And the bland façades of the diamond dealerships and brokerages were designed to ensure that the business conducted within them was safe from prying eyes. As an outsider, I was permitted to pass by. That was all.

Van Briel returned home to find me sitting by the telephone, waiting for it to ring. He looked tired and a little defeated. He poured himself a large vodka and expressed surprise that I hadn’t already helped myself to one. I gladly joined him.

‘How’s Rachel?’ was my first question. And it was the one that mattered most.

‘She has nerve, Stephen. You maybe know that already. Nerve … and spirit. But she’s being tested. It’s hard for her. They tell her nothing. And there’s not much I can tell her either.’

‘Except that I’m doing everything I can.’

‘Ja. And she believes it. But …’

‘What does it amount to? Well, Bart? What can I actually do to get her out of there?’

He studied me over the rim of his vodka glass. ‘No progress, huh?’

‘Not much. I met Mr Oudermans. He told me about Lady Linley. I gather I’ll be meeting her soon.’

‘Tomorrow. That’ll be … difficult, I guess.’

‘Not for me. I’ll just tell her the truth.’

‘Not always good enough, Stephen. They teach you that in law school.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘We’ll see something, for sure. But—’ The telephone’s strident ring interrupted him. He smiled. ‘I guess that’s probably for you.’

And it was.

Moira Henchy was waiting for me in the bar of the Plaza Hotel. She was dressed for business, in a black trouser suit, with a determinedly unfrilly blouse. She had a round, open face, framed by curly auburn hair, Celtically pale skin, a steady blue-eyed gaze and a stubborn set to her jaw. A female freelance journalist, it was clear, couldn’t afford to be thought a pushover.

‘When I heard about Ardal Quilligan’s murder, I knew at once Eldritch must be involved,’ she said, as soon as the preliminaries of handshaking and drinks ordering were done with.

‘Eldritch didn’t kill him.’

‘And I guess you’re going to tell me Rachel Banner didn’t either.’

‘You’re right there, Miss Henchy.’

‘Call me, Moira, Stephen. We’re on the same side, OK?’

‘Are we?’

‘You promised me information about Eldritch.’

‘I’m here to trade, Moira. What you know about his activities in Dublin in 1940 for what I know about his activities since they let him out of prison.’

‘When I spoke to you a fortnight ago, you claimed your mother and you hadn’t heard from Eldritch.’

‘I lied.’

‘Why?’

‘To protect him. But now I need to protect myself. And Rachel.’

‘Right. Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. People who have dealings with Eldritch Swan often end up in need of protection. They don’t necessarily get it, of course. Take my father, for instance.’

‘He knew Eldritch?’

‘Their paths crossed. In Dublin. In 1940.’

‘Tell me more.’

She lit a cigarette to cover a pause while our drinks were delivered. Then she smiled at me and said, ‘This is a two-way street, Stephen. We’re clear about that, aren’t we? I trust you. You trust me.’

‘We’re clear.’

‘I’ll need to know everything.’

‘So will I.’

‘Fair enough.’ She frowned, ordering her thoughts, wondering, I supposed, how much everything really meant. ‘OK. Dublin: July 1940. My father: Lorcan Henchy. And your uncle: Eldritch Swan. Some of it I don’t know. Most of it, maybe. But this is what I do know. For sure.’