Стивен Бут - Drowned Lives

‘I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes.’

‘Well... I’m not sure.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m not selling anything.’ He held his hands out to show they were empty and gave me a sincere smile that was meant to be disarming. But all it did was make me look uneasily behind me at the door of Maybank, finger my key, and wonder whether I could still make my escape. At the sight of that politician’s smile, I became convinced that he was on a lobbying exercise to persuade me write something favourable about Lindley Simpson, or some other cause that would benefit Leo Parker. I was about to come under a bit of gentle pressure, and I could do without it right now.

‘I want to talk to you about Samuel Longden,’ he said.

I stared at him in amazement. I heard the door of number four open and close, and the familiar footsteps began to descend the path. They slowed, and stopped somewhere near the gate. I could imagine Rachel’s antennae springing to life and tuning in to our conversation as she became aware that I had company. I saw Parker’s eyes flicker past me, and the polite smile became fixed on his face, though his eyes didn’t change.

‘You’d better come in for a minute,’ I said.

‘Thank you.’

I took him into the sitting room. It’s a room I don’t use very much, not since I’ve been on my own — my computer and books and the TV are in what used to be the dining room, which is at the front of the house with a view of the road. The sitting room is a part of the house which most captures the memory of my parents, with its three-piece suite in a dull yellow fabric, a glass-topped coffee table, and even the old tiled fireplace from the 1950s. I had a vague memory from my childhood of the traditional three porcelain ducks winging their way across the back wall, but maybe I was just imagining them. The room always smelt musty, as a result of a damp patch of carpet under the bay window where rain got in through a crack in the glass.

It was also a cold room, but I didn’t want my visitor to be too comfortable. The only operative heating was in the fish tank set into an alcove next to the fireplace. My father’s neon tetras and black mollies still swam in there. The only time I came into this room normally was to feed the fish or clean their tank. Occasionally I’d sit for a while and watch them as they twisted and turned aimlessly, gaping through the glass in their helpless captivity, preserved in an unchanging environment for the rest of their lives. Lately, I’d been looking at them with envy.

‘Ah, fish,’ said Parker. ‘I’m told they’re very restful.’ He spoke like a visiting minor royal, automatically seeking something of interest to make conversation about. He was thinking ‘This man has a tankful of tropical fish in his house, therefore he’ll be won over and trust me more if I show an interest in fish.’ It’s an old trick. It’s one that insurance salesmen learn — which was exactly what Parker claimed not to be.

‘So. Samuel Longden,’ I said. ‘You have some sort of connection with him?’

‘Yes, of a kind.’

‘Are you a relative?’

‘No, no. Simply a friend,’ he said.

‘I see.’

‘A close friend.’

I hoped that he couldn’t see the disbelief on my face. From what I knew of Great-Uncle Samuel, this man was not the sort of person to be his friend, close or otherwise. But then, what did I know of the long spell between the death of my grandfather and the day Samuel had approached me by the side of the lock at Fosseway Lane? Perhaps he had, indeed, become the sort of man to associate with the likes of Leo Parker. This Parker definitely looked like a politician to me. And I had no idea about my great-uncle’s politics.

‘Did you have some interest in common?’ I asked. I cursed the conventions that prevented me from asking outright the questions I wanted to put, for fear of appearing rude. Parker smiled again, as if acknowledging the same convention.

‘Certainly. A shared interest in history.’

Though the smile stayed on his face, his words laid an even deeper chill on the air of the room. That one phrase left me in little doubt what he’d come about. Samuel Longden’s obsession with the past was attracting a lot of unwelcome things into my life, and I was counting Leo Parker as one of them.

‘And what can I do for you exactly?’

‘Let me explain. I’ve been helping Samuel with a certain project. History, as I say.’

‘Your shared interest.’

‘Exactly. It has involved quite a lot of research, a great deal of hard work collecting documents and information. All this work was intended to lead to a book eventually.’

‘I see.’

‘Well, the long and short of it is that, now Samuel is dead, it obviously falls upon me to complete the project. But it seems that a large part of the material we worked on together may have fallen into other hands in the meantime. It would be a great shame, of course, if all Samuel’s work were to be wasted. And mine, of course.’

‘And your point is?’

‘Well, Mr Buckley, I’m anxious to track down the material. Files, papers, parts of the manuscript. Quite a large amount of material. I really need it back.’

He looked very relaxed, with his feet spread out on my parents’ mock goatskin rug. But I sensed that I somehow had the advantage of him, that he wasn’t quite sure of his ground. Did he even know that Samuel claimed to be my great-uncle? Maybe Parker had only guessed that I might possess what he wanted and was trying his luck. If so, a straight bat should see him off.

‘I don’t think I quite understand why you’re talking to me about this.’

‘I thought... well, I know that you had made Samuel’s acquaintance recently.’

‘And how do you know that?’

‘Oh, he mentioned it,’ said Parker airily.

‘When?’

‘I can’t remember exactly. Recently. Your name came up, and I gathered he was considering asking your opinion on the prospective book. He chose you because you’re a journalist, an independent and impartial observer, so to speak. Not to mention your interest in the waterways. Probably he was hoping you’d cast an eye over the manuscript before you returned it.’

I stared at him as steadily as I could, waiting for him to continue.

‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘Samuel might even have been considering the possibility of a small payment as a consultant. An editor’s fee, even. I think that might have been in the old chap’s mind, don’t you? But he got confused sometimes. He might not have made it absolutely clear what he intended. And, of course, I’m sure he never really meant to let the whole file of material out of his possession.’

He was beginning to sound more and more desperate. The hints about money proved that he was on shaky ground and appealing to my baser instincts. At any other time, the suggestion might have been tempting. It’s money for old rope, editing. But I already had my meal ticket lined up in the form of Samuel Longden’s fifty thousand pounds.

Boswell strolled into the room, rubbing his black fur against my legs to remind me he hadn’t been fed. He took one long, disdainful look at my visitor, flicked his tail, and walked out again.

‘Mr Parker,’ I said, ‘I really don’t think I can help you. You may or may not be aware that Samuel Longden left me certain items in his will, which I was not expecting. You might think these relate to the same project you’re talking about. I wouldn’t know. But obviously my first concern is to follow Samuel’s wishes as expressed in his will. And his intentions are quite clear — he wanted me to complete the project for him. If you’re in any doubt about that, I suggest you contact his solicitors, Elsworth and Clarke, for clarification.’