Nicci French - The Memory Game

I collected my car from the car-park on St Martin ’s Lane – God, what an indulgence – and headed over to Charing Cross Road and north. I turned on the radio. I didn’t want music. I didn’t want to be trapped with my own thoughts, so I pushed the button until I found someone speaking.

‘What has not been taken on board by the sleepy Establishment that still rules this country is that the most valuable commodity in the world will soon be something that you can’t hold in your hands; it’s not oil or even gold, but information.’

‘Oh, shit,’ I yelled in the safe confines of my car.

‘Now, the implications of this are almost infinite, but let me just make two points. One, it’s irreversible, entirely beyond the control of any national legislation or administration. Two, any organisation that is left outside that information world will wither and be left behind.’

‘Oh, fuck,’ I shouted.

A jaunty DJ’s voice wondered if ‘Theo’ could give an example.

‘All right, take one of our most respected institutions, the police force. Let’s just say that if you were creating an organisation to do the job of the police force you wouldn’t create anything like what we now have. It is a typical, unmanaged, manpower-heavy structure, which takes more money every year only to produce worse results, and one of the main reasons for this is that its role is based on a myth. An efficient police force is about rational management of staff and the ordering of information.’

‘What about the bobby on the beat?’

‘The idea is a joke. If we want people to walk up and down streets doing nothing, let’s get retired people to do it at a pound an hour. It has nothing to do with policework.’

‘We’ll take a break there. We’re talking to Dr Theo Martello about his new book, The Communication Cord. This is Capital Radio.’

I was in Tottenham Court Road and realised with amusement that I was about to drive past the Capital Tower. I crossed Euston Road and, on an impulse, turned right off Hampstead Road and parked next to the army surplus store. I sat with the radio on listening to Theo rhapsodising about the breaking down of frontiers, the collapse of institutions, the end of the state, of welfare, of income tax, of almost everything. Finally, he drew to a close with yet another plug for the book from the DJ. I got out of the car, crossed the road to the Capital Tower and waited a few yards away from the revolving door.

Theo didn’t notice me at first. He was in his business uniform, a suit whose lapels were so high and ugly that it must have been fashionable and expensive. He carried a briefcase about the size and slimness of a magazine. His head gleamed through his close-cropped hair in the cold winter sunshine.

‘Carry your case for you, guv?’ I asked brightly.

He started.

‘What’s this?’ he said. ‘Am I on This is Your Life or something?’

‘No, I heard you on the radio and realised I was just passing.’

He laughed.

‘Good. It’s good to see you, Jane.’

‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?’

‘Is Bush House on your way?’

‘No, but I’ll take you.’

Theo told a waiting taxi to go away and we set off in my car.

‘How can you manage with a briefcase that small? I go around with shopping bags full of papers crammed into my saddlebag.’

Theo shook his head.

‘It’s a waste of space as it is. In five years I’ll have something the size and weight of a credit card.’

‘I keep losing my credit card.’

‘I’m afraid that the information revolution hasn’t got anything yet to deal with your brain, my dear. You want to go left ahead and then right.’

‘I know the way,’ I said irritably. ‘You weren’t very nice about our constabulary were you?’

‘It’s the sort of thing that makes people sit up, isn’t it?’

There was a short silence and I waited, hoping that Theo wouldn’t change the subject but not daring to take the plunge. I had to.

‘Theo, what are you up to with Helen Auster?’

There was no reaction but the pause was a few beats too long.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, come on, Theo, I’m not blind.’

I saw his grip on his case tighten.

‘Oh, you know, it’s something about women in uniform, isn’t it?’

‘Helen Auster doesn’t wear a uniform.’

‘Not literally, but she wears a metaphorical uniform. There’s something erotic about symbols of authority yielding and being conquered.’

I didn’t know where to begin.

‘Theo, this is a woman involved in the investigation of your sister’s murder.’

‘Come off it, Jane. Nobody’s going to solve Natalie’s murder. The investigation is a farce. There is no evidence. Nothing’s going to happen.’

‘Am I missing something, Theo? I thought you were married. Where does Frances fit into all this?’

Theo turned to me with a secure smile.

‘What do you want me to say, Jane? That my wife doesn’t understand me? This isn’t a debating society.’

‘And isn’t Helen Auster married?’

‘To the supermarket manager, yes. I haven’t noticed any signs of reluctance on her part.’ I glanced at his face. He had a faint smile that seemed to challenge, even taunt me. ‘Helen is a passionate woman, Jane. Very uninhibited, with a bit of encouragement.’

‘Are you going to leave Frances?’

‘No, it’s just a bit of fun.’

It had been horribly easy. I felt nauseous, but I couldn’t stop myself from continuing.

‘I saw Chrissie Pilkington the other day. Well, she’s not called Pilkington any more.’

‘Yes?’

‘She mentioned your name.’

‘What’s all this about?’

‘She was an old flame of yours. After your father had finished with her.’

‘Briefly.’ There was a pause. ‘Are you all right, Jane?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you want to know what I mean?’ Theo said, angry now for the first time. ‘I’m trying to remember who was my flame – as you put it – after Chrissie? I wonder who that was?’ He looked around agitatedly. We were totally stuck in Gower Street. ‘I’ll walk from here or get a taxi. Thanks for the lift.’

He opened the car, got out and walked quickly away. I sat, stuck in traffic, furious and shamed.

I was in the bath when the phone rang. I turned the hot tap off with my toe, sank back into the foam, and listened. I’d forgotten to switch the answering machine on. Should I bother to answer it? If I got out of the bath now, it would stop before I reached it. But it went on ringing stubbornly. I pulled myself out of the water, which suddenly seemed irresistible, wrapped a towel around my boiled body, and ran to the bedroom.

‘Hello.’

‘Jane, it’s Fred.’

‘Fred? I haven’t heard from you for…’

‘It’s Martha. She’s going.’

‘Going?’

‘She’s dying Jane, she’s dying fast. She wants to see you. She asked me to bring you with me. I’m going tomorrow, crack of dawn.’

‘Shouldn’t we go straight away?’

‘Not quite up to it, I’m afraid.’ I heard that his voice was slurred. ‘Anyway, she’s asleep.’

‘All right, Fred, what time?’

‘I’ll pick you up at five-ish, that way we’ll beat all the traffic and be there by eight. She’s best in the mornings. She sleeps most of the afternoon.’

I had made this journey too often, recently: for the family mushroom hunt, for the funeral, for my bungled confrontation with Martha and then Chrissie. Fred had been drinking – but had that been last night or this morning? I offered to drive but he waved me away. We drove through the dark morning in silence in his smooth, purring company car. Lynn had packed him a Thermos flask of good black coffee, and some sandwiches, cut into neat triangles and thinly spread with damson jam. I refused the sandwiches but accepted the coffee. Alfred opened the window when I smoked. I inserted one of the tapes I had brought up for Martha into his machine: songs by Grieg, pure and clear, filled the car.