Death of a Dormouse Read online

  ‘Well, it’s a free country,’ he said. ‘But it can leave you lonely.’

  ‘That’s why you went to Mrs Fielding? Because you were lonely?’

  ‘I suppose so. Is there another reason?’

  She was amazed to hear herself reply casually, ‘Sex, I suppose.’

  He smiled briefly and said, ‘I suppose that’s a possibility. But a man after that would be better off joining one of these swinging singles clubs. There are more widows than widowers, it seems, so there’s plenty of choice.’

  ‘Sounds like a male pipe-dream,’ she said.

  He laughed and said, ‘You have a nice turn of phrase. Yes, I suppose they’re OK if you like playing musical beds.’

  ‘Which you don’t? What’s your game then?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Trudi suddenly realized she was being quite uncharacteristically aggressive.

  She said, ‘Sorry. What I mean is, if that’s not what you’re looking for, what is it?’

  ‘Just to get to know someone,’ he said slowly. ‘There’s more to life than quick pleasures, I reckon, though I don’t mind quick pleasures. But they weren’t what I was after when I went along to the agency. No, I was looking for something a bit more solid. I’m hoping for something that will see me through.’

  ‘See him through what, for God’s sake?’ demanded Janet.

  ‘Life, I suppose.’

  ‘Christ, it’s like buying your last pair of shoes! And what happened after that?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Nothing much?’ exclaimed Janet. ‘So much has happened to you since last time we met that I need another ten months to ask all my questions! And all you can say is nothing much!’

  To tell the truth, Trudi was quite enjoying the storyteller’s sense of power when she feels her narrative grip the listener like a drug-yearning. Her trip to Vienna, her confrontation of Astrid, the assault in the repository, the Eric Blair mystery, the meeting with James Dacre, all these had radically interfered with Janet’s enjoyment of her cod and chips.

  ‘All we did was walk and talk.’

  ‘No lunch? Mean bastard!’

  ‘He offered. I said I wasn’t hungry.’

  ‘Silly! It’s a good test, see where they take you, how they behave. What’s he do?’

  ‘It says “company director” on his details.’

  ‘It probably says “St Michael” on his Y-fronts, but that doesn’t mean he keeps a halo down there. Haven’t you noticed, the docks of our courts are jam-packed with company directors. What did you find out about his company?’

  ‘Nothing,’ admitted Trudi. ‘But his fingernails weren’t broken or dirty and his cuffs weren’t frayed and his toe-caps weren’t cracked, so that’s all in his favour, isn’t it?’

  ‘Satire now, is it? I’m not sure I didn’t prefer you when all I could get out of you was a mouse-like squeak! So, when are you seeing him again?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Trudi. ‘In my lunch break. I’m seeing him in a pub this time and we’re going to have a bite to eat.’

  ‘Well, I’ll expect an updated report immediately,’ said Janet. ‘Now let’s get back to the other things. This Blair character. Are the cards still valid?’

  ‘Yes. For another month, I think.’

  ‘Then there’s a chance the account still exists.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So the bank must have an address! I wonder how we can get it.’

  ‘Can’t we just ask?’ said Trudi.

  Janet laughed.

  ‘Not nowadays. Very distrusting places, banks. Never worry though, I’ll put my mind to it.’

  ‘But why should we want an address?’ asked Trudi.

  ‘Come on! Either there’s a real Eric Blair, in which case you’ve got his bank cards. Or there isn’t a real Blair. In which case Trent made him up. In which case, if there’s any money in that account, it could belong to you.’

  A thought struck her.

  ‘Of course, the way these cash cards work, all you need to do is stick it in the dispenser, key your personal code and then it’ll tell us how much is in the account, won’t it?’

  ‘Except for one thing,’ said Trudi. ‘We don’t know the personal code.’

  ‘It’s only four figures,’ said Janet dismissively.

  ‘That’s a lot of possible combinations. Key the wrong one twice and the machine keeps the card. I know. It’s happened to me. I’ve got a rotten memory,’ said Trudi.

  ‘All right, kill-joy. I’ll work on it. Now, this other business in Vienna. God, what an exciting life you live! It’s like something out of Dynasty. You’ve no idea who’d want to attack you?’

  ‘None. And it wasn’t much of an attack,’ protested Trudi.

  ‘Brave now, are we? Let’s have a look at that bit of paper you found.’

  Obediently Trudi dug into the depths of her bag.

  Janet studied it and said, ‘What’s ISBN stand for?’

  ‘International Standard Book Number. They’re in every book as you’d know if you ever read one. And 1984 is a book by George Orwell, you see.’

  ‘Don’t go clever on me,’ said Janet darkly. ‘All right, so this means nothing. It’s what was on the paper the mugger took away from you that bothers me. I’ll work on it. You put it right out of your mind for the time being. All you need to work on is keeping your knees together till you find out a hell of a lot more about your precious company director!’

  Trudi laughed at Janet’s words but that night they kept coming back to her and the next day, as she poked at the lemon in her gin and tonic, she heard herself saying, ‘What exactly is it that you direct?’

  ‘Direct?’

  ‘“Trade or profession – company director,”’ she quoted. ‘That’s what you said.’

  ‘Oh that!’ He sipped at his beer. They were sitting in a pub not far from the Class-Glass office.

  ‘It’s a business consultancy. Well, it will be when I get it going.’

  ‘Oh. Is that what you did abroad?’

  ‘More or less,’ he said. ‘I suppose I was a kind of troubleshooter. Sorted out problems.’

  ‘What kind of problems?’

  ‘Very dull ones, mainly. Does it matter?’

  ‘I was just interested in what you did,’ she said, piqued.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. What I meant was, does it matter what a man does? I mean, are there some jobs that would turn you off? Like a policeman, say? Or a soldier?’

  She considered.

  ‘I don’t think I’d jib at either of those,’ she said. ‘But I’d be a bit chary of an undertaker, I think. Or a mass-murderer.’

  ‘I see. Well, a man makes a living the best way he can,’ said Dacre. ‘Circumstances limit choice. Look at you.’

  She had told him about Class-Glass and Stanley Usher. It had sounded boring to her, but Dacre had that gift of close listening which draws out rather more than the speaker intends.

  ‘Oh I don’t mind. It’s boring, but it’s better than nothing.’

  She glanced at her watch and said, ‘Damn. It’s time for me to go back and be bored already.’

  Her regret was genuine. She was feeling nicely relaxed in Dacre’s company. He had a dry quiet wit and so far had proved very unpushy.

  ‘If you’re not busy, would another five minutes matter?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said seriously. ‘Not at all. And I doubt if Mr Usher will be looking in today. But being there is what I get paid for. That’s what matters. No, no need for you to move. You haven’t finished your beer. Thanks for the sandwich. I’ve enjoyed it.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said, smiling.

  There was a pause. Is this it? Trudi wondered. A smiling farewell, a decision not to proceed? Would she mind?

  She was not sure, but she was sure she would mind not knowing.

  He said, ‘Will you be in town tomorrow?’

  ‘I might be.’

  ‘How about lunch? A proper sit-dow
n lunch, I mean.’

  ‘All right. But Dutch.’

  ‘Cuisine, you mean?’

  They laughed together. It was a good feeling.

  ‘Let’s meet in the Crucible bar again, shall we? And go on from there. Twelve o’clock?’

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ said Trudi.

  When she got back to the office, the phone was ringing.

  It was Janet.

  ‘Where’ve you been? Having your wicked way with Mr Faker?’

  ‘Dacre. I do get a lunch break.’

  ‘That’s what they call it now, is it? I’ll want a full report on that later. But listen, I think I may have made a bit of progress. Not me really, but Frank.’

  ‘Frank?’ said Trudi, taken aback. ‘I’m sorry. What’s Frank got to do with anything?’

  ‘He’s my husband, remember?’ said Janet. ‘Oh look, I can guess what you’re thinking, and no, I don’t go running back and repeating everything you tell me down to the last detail. But I do talk to him, Trudi. And it’s just as well I do. All I told him was that you’d come across this cheque card in the name of Eric Blair and we were wondering how to get his address from the bank in case he was a business contact of Trent’s. All he said was, go and have a word with the manager. Very helpful! I know what that would get us. No information and the cards confiscated. But then Frank suddenly had a real inspiration. One a decade’s about his limit, I should think, so we were really very lucky. “Eric Blair,” he says. “That’s familiar. I came across it in the Telegraph crossword the other week.” That’s one thing he’s got in common with Trent. He’s a devil for his crosswords. Anyway, “I’ll tell you what it is,” he says. “Eric Blair’s George Orwell’s real name!” There! See how it fits? Trent wants a fake name, what better than his hero’s real one! Just the way his mind would work. I’m surprised you didn’t spot it yourself.’

  ‘It did sound familiar,’ admitted Trudi, trying to conceal a sudden rush of resentment at her friend’s discovery, or at least the manner of retailing it. ‘But why on earth should he want a false name?’

  ‘Why not? It was you who reckoned he was going to leave you. Perhaps he was going to go the whole hog. Now, don’t go broody on me, will you? Listen. Frank’s not the only one due an inspiration. You know those cash cards? Well, the first time you use them if you don’t like the number they’ve given you, you can select another that you’ll find easier to remember. Now suppose that’s what Trent did? See what I mean? No harm in giving it a try, is there? Have you got the card with you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s still in my purse. But what number are you suggesting I should use?’

  ‘Why, 1984 of course, girl. 1984!’

  There was a branch of Blair’s bank only a few minutes’ walk away. She hesitated, recalling her rather smug little speech to James Dacre about being paid to be here. But she found she was too impatient to wait till after work.

  Scribbling a note saying ‘Back in five mintues’, she left the office. At the cash dispenser, she had to wait. When her turn came, she was almost ready to abandon the affair, it seemed so futile. But she thought of Janet and inserted her card. The display panel invited her to key her four-figure code.

  She pressed 1 … 9 … 8 … 4 and waited.

  Silence. A blank.

  Then the message flashed up:

  WRONG NUMBER KEYED

  PLEASE KEY CORRECT NUMBER

  She felt almost relieved. She realized that deep down in her subconscious there must be a strong desire for time to close its waters over Trent and leave her to strike out for whatever possible future there might be.

  It seemed an almost symbolic act to press the CANCEL button, but for some reason her finger remained poised.

  Trent was a careful man. An aide-mémoire was useful, but he wouldn’t make it too obvious. Suppose he’d reversed the number?

  And if he hadn’t, well, the machine might retain the card, and that would be one way of ridding herself of that problem!

  She keyed 4 … 8 … 9 … 1.

  Silence. A blank screen.

  And then almost shockingly the display lit up with a chart inviting her to key the service she wanted.

  Her mind numb, she pressed BALANCE.

  And waited.

  Twenty seconds passed. She counted them.

  Then once more the display flickered into life.

  It took her another twenty seconds to register the green letters and figures.

  And even longer to get the commas and decimal points in the right place.

  Finally she believed what she saw and leaned against the bank wall for support.

  At close of business on the previous day, Eric Blair’s account had stood at £250,992.86p.

  Part Four

  I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;

  What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

  BURNS: To a Mouse

  1

  The following lunch time, the Crucible bar felt like a very pleasant and familiar haven.

  She had returned to her office the previous afternoon wondering whether to tell Janet. But the phone had rung as soon as she got in and there had been no way not to.

  Janet had been amazed, excited and endlessly speculative. Finally Trudi had cut her short with lies about work. She had rung her again that evening and renewed the game till Trudi had protested, ‘Jan, I know you mean well, but, look, it’s all a bit much for me. I want to forget about it if I can. For the time being anyway. I mean, there’s nothing I can do, is there?’

  ‘Nothing? You’ve got the card, you know the code, you can start taking the money out, that’s what you can do for starters! Is there a withdrawal limit, I wonder? Only one way to find out. Hit that dispenser till it cries enough! no more!’

  ‘Jan, I can’t do that,’ said Trudi. ‘I don’t know whose money it is. I don’t know where it’s come from. I suppose I ought to go to the police.’

  ‘What? Don’t be daft, girl. They’d all be off to the Costa del Crooko on the proceeds! No, if that’s the way you’re thinking, stick to your first plan. Try to forget it! For the time being anyway!’

  Trudi had gone to bed and tried to forget it. It proved impossible and when she slept, she dreamt of Trent, only this time when he turned towards her and reached out, his hands were full of banknotes. As usual she woke in terror. The house was still. She lay in the dark and thought of her father, that kind, quiet, loving man who had never altogether lost his German accent. Had he lived to make old bones, she guessed she would never have left him, but grown old as his daughter, companion, friend, and finally nurse. She had placed an absolute trust in him. When he died she had transferred that trust wholly, blindly, to Trent.

  It was not a fair burden to load him with, she told herself in the darkness of her bedroom. If in the end he had found it unbearable, that was not a betrayal, not in any real sense.

  She was still pursuing her vain quest for comfort at dawn.

  Janet had returned to the attack the following morning, wanting to come to Sheffield to talk things through, as she put it.

  Trudi had said bluntly no, it was impossible, she had a lunch date with James Dacre and there was no way she was going to break it.

  ‘All right,’ said Janet rather waspishly. ‘But don’t tell him about the money, else you’ll never know whether it’s you he’s after or not, will you?’

  In fact there were times during lunch when she had felt very tempted to confide in her companion.

  They had gone to an Italian restaurant, simple and moderately priced. She guessed that if she hadn’t re-emphasized in the Crucible bar that they were going Dutch, they would have eaten somewhere rather more upmarket. Perhaps crystal glasses, discreet waiters and acres of white napery would have been better. The noisy, friendly informality of this place, plus the smallness of the tables and a bottle of Orvieto, quickly broke down a lot of barriers.

  She found herself talking about Trent and their life abroad quite freely. With very little urging, she told
him about the accident.

  He said, ‘And this was, when? Five months ago?’

  She put her glass down rather hard and said abruptly, ‘Yes. Not long, is it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean … please believe me …’

  ‘Probably you didn’t, but you must be thinking, she was pretty fast off the mark after twenty-five years of marriage!’

  ‘Why should I think that? I know how these things work. The closer you are to someone, the less other people matter, the bigger the gap when you lose them. After a full life, it’s hard to live with emptiness.’

  It was a graciously romantic diagnosis. Trudi resisted the urge to deny it, to tell him savagely that her life had been full of nothing but pretence and torpor, and that the emptiness she wanted to fill stretched back for probably two decades. This was not the time or the place for such heart-barings, nor was she yet altogether certain he was the person.

  But the temptation to lay the odd facts about Eric Blair before a neutral eye was strong. It was only the feeling that somehow this would be disloyal to Janet that held her back.

  After lunch Dacre said, ‘In a hurry?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Then what about a walk? Indoors or out. I can arrange both.’

  ‘Clever old you. That would be nice.’

  He led her to his car which was parked nearby. Trudi studied it carefully, pre-empting Jan’s questions. It was a grey Sierra, about a year old, with GB plates and twenty thousand miles on the clock.

  He drove swiftly and carefully the short distance to a large park which housed, according to the signs, the city’s art gallery and museum.

  They walked in the park first. Dacre talked about his upbringing in a small farming community in the Cleveland Hills. Finally he paused, invitingly.

  ‘Not much to tell,’ said Trudi. ‘My father was an Austrian refugee. He got out not long after the Anschluss in 1938.’

  ‘Was he political?’

  ‘Not in any active sense. Just anti-Nazi. He was Jewish you see. Not orthodox. I never knew him go to any kind of religious ceremony. And my mother wasn’t Jewish. At least I don’t think so.’