Full of Money (3 page)

‘We had an eye on him, as you'd expect, but then, suddenly, unnecessary.'

‘The murdered journalist?' Edgehill asked.

‘I've got a note somewhere about Ince and the college.'

‘And you've done surveillance on
me
, too?' Edgehill said. ‘You have a note?'

‘Big, ugly, official word – “surveillance”,' Dean said. ‘Not at all one Adrian would be happy with. We've familiarized ourselves in a general, practical and I trust helpful fashion, that's all. What else are neighbours for?'

‘In strictly germane aspects only,' Pellotte said.

‘Germane how?' Edgehill said. Hell, he must get a car and vary his routes. After all, you could rent a lock-up garage on the estate and not leave your vehicle unprotected in the street. But the awkward thing about ‘lock-up' as a term on Whitsun was it didn't really mean ‘lock-up', not in a lasting sense of lock-up. It expressed a hope only. ‘Lock-up' definitely indicated you could lock up the garage when you first took it over, and the lock had been checked and replaced after a previous tenant. But, soon, the lock to the lock-up would be re-wrecked by visitors one night or day, drawn to it, naturally, because it
was
locked up and could therefore be assumed to have something inside
worth
locking up, such as a car, and/or items too hot to be kept at home or offered to a fence at a decent price yet, or a stack of crack, skunk, H and other commodities. So, the garage wasn't a lock-up except historically, and the car previously securely locked up in the lock-up was then in as bad or worse situation than parked on the street, where it would at least be in sight; if they left it there, that is.

Also, the lock-ups tended to be in secluded, cul-de-sac corners of Whitsun Festival – and the same, probably, on Temperate Park Acres – locations where at dusk or later, or virtually any fucking time at all, group numbers could be unfavourable to you, and non-Festive and non-Temperate matters might happen when you walked to or from the vehicle, regardless of closed-circuit television surveillance, which, in any case, had usually been fucked up. On the whole, Edgehill knew the suburbs would have more comfortable conditions, including garages that were actually part of a house – i.e., integral – as with his parents' avenue in Petts Wood, Kent, but, so far, Edgehill considered the burbs too distant – and, of course, pathetically . . . suburban. Larry had the awkward half-conviction that in his kind of work he should stay close to ordinary London lives. And this possibly meant where he was, for the present. A sort of rickety logic came into play – the only sort available to Edgehill currently. This said, forget car ownership and the very fluid meaning of that word, ‘ownership', when applied to Whitsun cars, Larry, boy. Take public transport.

‘You speak of surveillance, Larry,' Dean said. ‘No, no, no. Intrusiveness is simply not Adrian's style. Clearly, that would hardly be live and let live. Why would we
need
to do surveillance on you, for heaven's sake, Larry?'

‘Yes, we must let you get along,' Pellotte said. ‘You'll doubtless have a full day ahead, in preparation for the next
A Week in Review
. Simply, we wanted to touch base and express our approval. We are groupies of your show! But perhaps we'll make contact again in due course. There are certain continuing matters. Substantive.'

‘Oh?' Edgehill said. He disliked the sudden ‘but'.

‘Personal matters,' Pellotte said.

‘Notable matters of a troublesome kind, extremely personal to Adrian individually – as a person,' Dean said.

‘Personal? In what way?' Edgehill asked.

‘Sensitive,' Pellotte said. ‘Possibly you know something of it already?'

Something of what, for fuck's sake?
Edgehill did not actually say this. People on Whitsun never talked to Pellotte like that. Nor people anywhere else, most probably. Although Edgehill wanted to answer Pellotte confidently, he decided it would be a kind of dangerous impudence to stick his head too far into the BMW through the window and direct his voice right at Pellotte, he wearing such a tie, and simply
being
Adrian Pellotte anyway. Yet, replying from the pavement, with a small gap between him and the car, Edgehill felt some of his words could get lost or mangled in traffic din. They might be key words. Edgehill realized that
any
words you spoke to Pellotte on notable personal matters – personal to him as an individual – certainly,
any
words might be key words. Altogether, this setting on Gideon seemed a dodgy way to hold a three-sided conversation. His back ached and, off and on, his eyes swam, from the effort of keeping arched. But no choice.

‘I'm uncertain what you mean,' he replied.

‘Truly sensitive this matter, and fundamentally personal in a personal context, believe me,' Dean replied.

‘We're not talking trade, Larry,' Pellotte said. ‘This goes beyond the commodities.'

‘Well beyond. Personal,' Dean said.

‘I can't tell how much you know of this exceptionally special matter,' Pellotte said.

‘In what respect, Mr Pellotte?' Edgehill said. He didn't feel like risking ‘Adrian'.

‘This is what I mean by personal,' Pellotte replied.

Edgehill still didn't see how anything personal to Adrian Pellotte as an individual could possibly involve
him
. And Edgehill longed to make sure that nothing personal to Adrian Pellotte as an individual ever did involve
him
.

‘Yes, perhaps we can talk more substantively later, Larry,' Pellotte said. ‘I have a notion this would be advantageous.'

‘Advantageous to almost everyone,' Dean said. ‘It's part of that live and let live policy.'

‘This has been splendidly constructive,' Pellotte said.

Edgehill pulled back and straightened. Dean took the car away from the pavement and into the traffic. Edgehill resumed his walk. Occasionally, someone who'd grown used to seeing him on his morning trek would wave and smile, and he'd respond to the friendliness. Was he too harsh about Whitsun? Couldn't it sometimes show worthwhile comradeship? Possibly the waves and smiles seem a little more deferential today because the BMW conference had been observed and much mobile-mentioned?

‘And did I see you up the road in a long chinwag with our Mr Pellotte?' Udolpho Wentloog-Jones said.

He ran the newsagent booth at the end of Gideon, not far from the station, did some minor pushing – so the word went – and knew pretty well everything about Whitsun. He lived in what was known as
Old
Whitsun, the original village-like district, and considered classier than the estate, as if
Old
Whitsun went back to Pentecost. Edgehill bought his
Guardian
and
Sun
from Udo every working day. ‘That car – it always tells a tale though, doesn't it, Larry? Yet, what tale? The new lady chief of detectives, Mrs Davidson, might be interested to know you chat with Adrian Pellotte in a friendly manner.'

Edgehill tried to work out what the ‘our' meant in ‘our Mr Pellotte'. ‘Our' geographically – because he lived on Whitsun? ‘Our' because he had a sort of eminence, and therefore gave distinction to the community, as, say, ‘
our
gracious Queen' did in the national anthem? ‘Our' because Udolpho knew him and assumed Edgehill must also?

‘They're into the arts,' Larry said. ‘We had a word or two about the programme I work for.'

‘A word or two or a couple of thou.
A Week in Review?
Well, yes, I know he's interested. Books. Art. Dean, also. That kind of area. I bump into some of Adrian's people now and then, you know, on a business footing, and they speak of these habits. Plus, his daughter – a worry. Did he mention that? I expect he mentioned that. This would be his purpose in talking with you?'

‘Pellotte's daughter? Never met her. Never heard of her,' Edgehill said. Might this be the ‘personal' topic? Oh God, involvement with Pellotte's family.

‘It's to do with the programme, in a way,' Udolpho explained.

‘Which way?'

‘He's got
two
daughters. But Dione. Doing something with that guy you use plenty as chairman on
A Week in Review
discussions.'

‘Rupert Bale? Doing what with him?'

‘
Doing
something.'

‘A relationship?'

‘You know, like a would-be couple. Did he want to talk about that? I don't think he likes it. Well, you wouldn't expect him to. Nor Dean. Bale – he lives on Temperate, doesn't he?'

‘So?'

Other customers required serving. Udolpho turned away.

After a couple of minutes, when they were alone again, Edgehill said: ‘No, I've never heard any of this.'

‘It's private – not a general buzz. But in the way of trade I talk to some of his staff now and then. It's been referred to. Not always as satisfactory. No, not satisfactory. I thought he must have been . . . well, describing things for you. It seemed some considerable conversation you had. Like important.'

‘No, not about that.' Or possibly, yes. Had the later part of it been about that, but kept muffled, coded, delayed?

‘No? Really? Well, forget I spoke, will you?' Wentloog-Jones said. ‘Maybe I shouldn't have. He's subtle – Adrian. He'd probably arrange a street rendezvous just to touch base, as he might say. Then, later, the crunch.'

‘Touch base?'

‘Make contact. A preliminary. Did he say “touch base”? That's a phrase of his. It's often his way in negotiations, and so on. Then a follow-up . . . follows. Did he say he might look you out again – for something “substantive”? Another of his terms. They're not necessarily threatening. Not necessarily at all.'

Edgehill went on towards the station. Was he getting pulled into something on Whit, something
special
, something exceptionally fucking special, and exceptionally fucking dicey? Petts Wood, or a spot suburbanly similar – did he suddenly hear them calling him, like glib sirens? He wouldn't say his wish to up-camp from Whit, and from contact with people like Pellotte and Dean, a matter of snobbery and/or gutlessness, not totally. For him, at least until the Gideon seminar today, it had consisted almost entirely of the slightly laughable, unquenchable, relentless desire for off-street parking, or – not an impossible aim – a garage actually attached to the property. He'd come to revere the term ‘integral' to describe a garage, the way some could be thrilled by a religious or erotic or fiscal word. His Whitsun flat itself was only just off-street, and, on the whole, not a pleasant street in any of the standard meanings of ‘pleasant'.

Ten years ago – certainly twenty – people in his kind of executive post would probably have set themselves up in a place considerably different from Whitsun. However, when he bought the flat, London prices were still preposterous, and getting more so. And he had been a print subeditor then and not earning so well. In standard style at the time, he'd planned to get what he could afford under the post-Thatcher buy-not-rent policy for estates – i.e., the Whitsun flat – wait for it to appreciate, and use the increase to set himself up after a couple of years in a non-estate area, say Ealing, Camden Town, Battersea. But values there – in Ealing, Camden Town, Battersea – went ahead vastly faster than the worth of his Whitsun place. He stayed stuck.

Of course, Whitsun Festival was a lovely, spiritual title, with its oblique reference to the Holy Ghost and the gift of tongues, so relevant to a mixed race population. But quite a lot of non-piritual stuff undeniably went on. And a mile or two up the road lay Temperate Park Acres, that other municipal estate; it, too, with a name full of similar happy, soothing overtones, which must have taken council officials weeks and imagination to create. Between Whitsun and Temperate the vicious, continuous, drugs-centred, territorial battle went on, taking in all the substances, but mainly crack. As a matter of fact, Rupert Bale, regular chairman of the programme, did live on Temperate. Udo had that right. As with Larry in Whitsun, Temperate must be the best Rupe had been able to afford. Although Bale amounted to more or less a culture programme
star
through presenting
A Week in Review
so frequently, the kind of contract
he
had would be shorter still than Edgehill's as a producer, possibly covering only the current series. People like Rupe could disappear overnight from the box for ever. Who remembered Vernon Escott or Maud Bass? Rupe would recognize this precariousness and not overspend on accommodation. And Larry knew Bale had been hit by an expensive divorce not long ago, and there'd be maintenance to pay. For now, he still had to put up with Temperate, though he'd told Edgehill a while back that one day he hoped to sell and go to somewhere like Wandsworth, or even St John's Wood. Dream, dream, dream. What the Temperate householder, Rupert Bale, hadn't told Edgehill about was an involvement with a daughter of the Whitsun householder, Adrian Pellotte. Nightmare, nightmare, nightmare? Actually, Pellotte was a double householder. Edgehill heard he'd had two properties knocked together in Hawthorn Close.

Three

Gnomes, elves, pergolas, bowers, gazebos, pine sheds of many sizes, gates, fencing, bird baths, conservatories, turf, sundials, statuary human and animal, including Romulus and Remus-type titted wolves. Appears entirely legit, busy operation. Three or four vans with company name on, Happy Gardening Solutions. Plus lorry for heavy stuff.

Her people had downloaded from Tasker's laptop what looked to Esther like research notes for the article, articles, he'd planned to write about the Whitsun and Temperate drugs firms. They had not found much else of use in his Chiswick flat. He lived alone and didn't seem to be in a relationship. To have a peep at Pellotte's cover business, Tasker must have been out to the big horticultural supplies site at Lesser Davit in Hertfordshire. Customers there wandered around examining what was on offer, and he wouldn't stand out as he barometered the place. It seemed he'd wanted some background colour – as well as evidence to tell him that more went on here than the advertised happy gardening solutions. Esther thought she scented disappointment in his phrase ‘appears entirely legit, busy operation'. That ‘entirely' was a scream of frustration. So, what had he hoped to see – skunk wheelbarrowed?