William Boyd - Ordinary Thunderstorms

“OK,” Adam said, “I’ll be here, don’t worry.”

“Make it 200 quid, next time. Nice seeing you again, John.” He stood up, gave a brief wave and wandered off over the bridge towards the Battersea shore.

♦

Adam drove back to Stepney in thoughtful mood. Turpin was right, all that his pursuer — Ugly Bugger — required was the number plate of his scooter. There was, now, a paper and electronic trail that pointed the way directly from the scooter to Primo Belem and his Oystergate Buildings apartment, even if he dumped the scooter, resold it, even if he moved to a new address. There were tracks out there in the world, now, tracks that led to him for the first time. He’d have to change identity again, stop being Primo Belem — but how would he do that? Go underground once more?…Stay calm, Adam told himself, soon all this will be irrelevant: all he had to do was keep Turpin quiet and contented for a short period of time. He mustn’t be distracted from his key mission; he should just continue as if this unfortunate encounter had never occurred.

IVO, LORD REDCASTLE WONDERED IF THERE HAD BEEN SOME KIND of sign or omen that he had missed. He was also wondering if he was beginning to lose his grip. That guy who had rung him up about the T — shirts, for example — he hadn’t even asked his name . What kind of entrepreneur was he? Pathetic. And, worse still, he had invited this unknown, nameless man for a drink at his house to discuss the T — shirt crisis — to which, it went without saying, he hadn’t even bothered to turn up. Of course he had drunk a bloody mary and a half — no, practically a full bottle of wine at lunch. Maybe that was why he hadn’t been thinking straight. Anyway, the guy not showing up that night had been a real downer (and he had behaved appallingly to Smika, he admitted, and taken far too much cocaine in compensation, later that night — got totally pranged — trying to make everything seem better, and failing). He made no excuses for himself, though he was cross that he had bragged about it to Ingram at the restaurant, as if the T — shirt problem had been finally solved. Fool. Idiot fool.

And then, on succeeding days, had come the solicitors’ letters, three of them, horrible, stern missives listing his serial failings as human being and businessman and detailing his mounting debts to various creditors. More worrying — in a kind of disturbing existential way — had been the jpeg that Dimitrios had sent him. It showed a pyre often thousand of his sex-instructor T — shirts ablaze on a beach on Mykonos. He had always regarded Dimitrios as a pretty decent guy, almost a mate, even though he didn’t know him that well…But after this — Jesus, it was totally out of order. Beyond the bounds, etcetera.

What, however, to do about this latest communication?…It was only ten o’clock in the morning but Ivo felt he needed a drink so he opened a bottle of cold Chablis from the supply he kept in his fridge at the home office and called Sam at RedEntlnc at Earls Court.

“Any news on tracing that call?” he asked. He was hoping to find a number for the nameless man who had telephoned him about the T — shirts. He had not only not asked what his name was but he’d also neglected to find out how he could be contacted.

“We think we’ve got it,” Sam said.

“You did tell the police that it was obscene? Really obscene.”

“Absolutely — that’s why they were so helpful. They say it came from a payphone in Sloane Square.”

“Fuck. Thanks, Sam.”

Ivo took a large gulp of his Chablis — a great morning drink, he thought, light and very palatable — and picked up the piece of paper that, according to the evidence of his front-door CCTV camera, had been pushed through his letter-box at 7.47 that morning by a helmeted motorbike courier.

All the envelope had written on it was his name ‘IVO’ in capital letters, and inside was a sheet from Ingram’s personal memo pad — his name printed across the top — saying, written in biro, also in capital letters: “SELL YOUR C-D SHARES NOW. I WILL DENY EVERYTHING. I.”

The T was Ingram’s recognisable initial-signature — the two horizontal bars of the T widely separated from the vertical stroke. Unmistakable.

Let’s face it, Ivo said to himself, I’m fucking broke — or as broke as people like me ever become. The whole T — shirt fiasco⁄debacle had cost and would cost him tens of thousands. He had a small collapsing pyramid of unpaid bills on his desk. The rent of Smika’s gallery and the vernissage party had still to be settled. Not to mention Poppy and Toby’s school fees…

So, he thought, this instruction comes, hand-delivered…Maybe Ingram had sensed the crisis brewing when they had met that day at the restaurant and he was offering him this semi-anonymous lifeline with built-in deniability: “SELL YOUR C-D SHARES NOW…” Of course Ingram had to ensure he was distant from such a transaction: he couldn’t openly advocate this — it had to be done within the family, as it were. Fair enough, he could keep a secret as well as the next man. He would just run a quick check.

He called Ingram on his mobile.

“Ingram, baby, it’s Ivo. Have you got a second?”

“I’m about to go into a meeting.”

“I was thinking of selling my Calenture shares. Cashflow problems.”

“Don’t sell, Ivo. Don’t be a bloody fool. Do not sell.”

“Fair enough. Thanks, mate.”

He called his stockbroker, Jock Tait, senior partner at Swabold, Tait and Cohen. After the introductory pleasantries he asked him directly.

“Jock — hypothetical question — could you unload my Calenture-Deutz shares today? Like pronto?”

“All of them?”

“Hypothetically.”

Tait hummed and hawed and asked to be given ten minutes. Ivo drank another glass of Chablis and listened to some calming music before Tait called back. He said he could sell them: indeed, he had a single buyer who would take the lot.

“How much would I make?” Ivo asked.

“Well — ballpark figure at 420 pence a share, say…About 1.8 million. Less commission, of course.”

“You say you’ve got a buyer.”

“Yes.”

“Then sell. Sell, sell, sell.”

There was a silence at the end of the line.

“Jock?”

“How would Ingram feel about this?” Jock said, cautiously. “It might send the wrong kind of signal to the market. Not that it’s any of my business.”

“Precisely. But you can relax — Ingram’s cool. All the same, you know, keep it under your hat. Omerta .”

“Good as done,”Jock said.

Ivo hung up, finished his glass of Chablis and refilled it. It was a strange feeling — to move from an anxiety-ridden, near bankrupt to a millionaire in under half an hour. Funny old world. He was essentially a good guy, was Ingram— au fond — even though Ivo knew that neither of them really liked each other much at all. He wondered if he could detect Meredith’s hand in this covert rescue mission — sweet Merry, always looking out for little brother. It was Meredith who had persuaded Ingram, much against his will, to put him on the Calenture-Deutz board, to guarantee some income in a pretty much income-free existence (apart from the trust fund). And now this. Ivo would be in a position to pay off everybody — even that cunt on Mykonos — and still have a million clear (less bloody tax, of course). He wondered: maybe this was the time to go non-domiciled, reinstate the Irish residency…

He poured himself another glass. Perhaps he and Smika should go out to lunch and celebrate — discreetly. Actually, he wouldn’t tell her about the money — just say some film deal looked like coming off — in fact he’d better make sure it didn’t go anywhere near the joint account, come to think of it, stick it in the Isle of Man bank for a while, yes. He picked up the phone and dialled Ingram’s home number — praying for voicemail — if anyone answered he’d just hang up. Voicemail — thank Christ.