Стивен Бут - Drowned Lives

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t you want to know?’

‘It was the Parkers, wasn’t it?’

‘Oh.’ Frank looked disappointed, as if his whole story had been in vain. ‘Yes, he warned me that I’d have to be wary of anyone called Parker, that they might come after me if they thought I had the documents. He told me to watch out for anyone asking around about my connection with Samuel Longden, that I should tell him straightaway, so that he could decide what to do. Anything else would be very dangerous, he said.’

‘At least he was honest with you about that, Frank.’

‘Oh yes. But when somebody did come asking around the bowling club one day, Samuel was already dead. So I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly it seemed as though it must all be true. I thought “They’ve killed Samuel, just like he said they would, and now they’re going to kill me because they think I’ve got those documents.” I was still a bit upset after you saw me on the heath, and I sort of panicked.’

‘You should have come to see me sooner.’

‘Well, I thought of you, of course. After what you said at the funeral, about the book, I knew you were carrying on where Samuel left off. So, of course, I did try to find you. I didn’t want to come to your house at first, in case they were watching. But I saw your car, and I followed you to that old canal place.’

‘The wharf at Fosseway.’

‘That’s right. I was going to try to attract your attention and tell you what I’ve told you now.’

‘So what went wrong? Why did you run off?’

Frank dragged his eyes away from the fish tank and shuddered. He hunched closer to the gas fire, seeking warmth. But it wasn’t the cold that had made him shiver.

‘Just at the last minute, I recognised him,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘The bloke who was asking about me at the bowling club. It was him. I saw him at the club, and I saw him again at Fosseway. He’s one of them, isn’t he?’

‘Leo Parker,’ I murmured.

‘Samuel warned me to watch out for the Parkers.’

‘Did he mention the MP, Lindley Simpson?’

Frank shook his head. ‘Only the Parkers. He said they’re dangerous.’

‘I’m sorry you’ve got so involved, Frank. It isn’t really your fight.’

‘You’re right, it isn’t. But they don’t know that, do they? I want you to get them off my back. That’s why I came. That’s why I’ve told you all this stuff. You can see it’s nothing to do with me.’

‘If you give me the documents, that would be a lot safer for you.’

‘What?’

‘Let me have the documents Samuel gave you for safe keeping. Then I can look after them instead. I might know what to do with them.’

‘You’re joking. I haven’t got any documents.’

‘But you said—’

‘Do you think I’m stupid? He wanted me to take the documents, yes. But as soon as he told me how dangerous it was, I said “no” right away. Why should I put myself at risk? He was no relative of mine, not really. I didn’t owe old Samuel Longden a thing.’

I stared at Frank, amazed. ‘Still no sympathy for the devil then,’ I said quietly.

‘You what?’

But his attention had drifted back to the tank. Something in there was fascinating him, as if it reflected his own doubtful future.

‘By the way,’ he said at last, ‘did you know one of your fish is dead?’

I can’t say the visit to the bank manager was an easy one. For a start, the atmosphere between Dan Hyde and myself was decidedly cool. He was under no illusions that I blamed him for the financial disaster we were facing. But, as far as the bank were concerned, we were equal partners, jointly responsible for repaying the debt. We just had one chance to convince them we’d be able to pay, before they took us to court.

In a tiny, overheated office, the bank manager made it quite clear from the outset that he had no faith in any prospect of reviving the fortunes of our dot-com business. He shook his head sadly at the foolishness of suggesting that it might be a going concern. It was difficult to believe this was the same man who’d accepted our proposal with keen interest and handed us the loan to launch our start-up. Now, he said we had no proper business plan. And he was right.

It was an ill-fated project, of course. For my part, I thought my biggest mistake had been trusting Dan to have the finances under control. You can’t stint on investment in the early days of a new venture. We’d poured money in, full of optimism. But in the excitement of our own enthusiasm, we’d badly overestimated. If we’d managed to keep afloat for a few months longer, things might have been different. There’s nothing like the appearance of stability and success to attract money. But we were destined never to make it that far.

While the bank manager lectured us on the art of cash-flow analysis, I found I could hardly concentrate on what he was saying for worrying about my own future, which was very much on the line. Re-establishing myself as a journalist was an uphill task I found daunting.

I’d wanted to look to the future, but somehow the past had crept up on me and I couldn’t escape it. My one positive inheritance from the venture was a good computer set-up at home, which was at least paid for. Now I’d have to go back to the beginning and re-learn my trade, if I wasn’t to starve as a result of my folly.

When it finally became obvious from the direction of the discussion that the axe was going to fall, I knew I’d have to throw in my one final ace — the book, and Samuel Longden’s legacy.

‘Well, well,’ said Dan afterwards, as we emerged into the drizzle, sweating from the suffocating heat and anxiety of the meeting. ‘That was a bit of a surprise, Chris.’

‘I shouldn’t have had to do it.’

‘Still — fifty grand. Very handy.’

‘I haven’t earned it yet. I’ve got to publish the book first.’ We stood on the pavement on the corner of the market square. Dan was carrying a document case with our accounts, unpaid invoices and failed business plan all neatly collected for inspection. In front of us, the market was in full swing, and Dr Johnson’s statue looked embarrassed among a stack of orange crates and bags full of cauliflower trimmings.

‘Well, maybe we can come to an arrangement there,’ said Dan.

‘What do you mean?’

‘A little business proposition.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Why?’

‘After the dot-com?’

‘That was just a bit of bad luck, Chris. We got the timing wrong, that’s all. You’ll see, somebody else will get in there in a year or two and take the market. It’s a pity. Perhaps we ought to have another go some time.’

I snorted. ‘Count me out, Dan.’

I began to walk fast towards Bore Street, where I’d found a space to park the Escort near Sarah Siddons House and the shops in City Arcade. Dan ran to stay at my elbow, talking all the while, trying to convince me of some new dream. He was the same old Dan.

‘All right, forget that. But I was thinking of diversifying anyway, Chris. Putting online retail on the back burner for a while.’

‘Found another market to corner, have you?’

‘That’s right. Heritage.’

‘What?’

‘Heritage. Local history, nostalgia, traditions. All Your Yesterdays, Your Town in Old Postcards, The Way We Were. You know.’

‘I see. And that’s big business, is it?’

‘It certainly is. There’s lots of money floating round in the grey sector these days, and the demographic trends are definitely indicating a growth in market opportunities.’

‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Dan.’

‘Look, take my word for it, nostalgia is the thing in publishing these days. Business is booming, I can tell you. I thought you’d be interested, Chris. Your project sounds just the sort of thing.’