The Run-Out Groove Page 9

  I went over and joined her. It took me a moment to sort out the various images, and realise that they were all of the same two people. Two boys or, in some of them, two young men. They were all outdoor shots and in many of the pictures the boys were in shorts or serious-looking open-air gear, including rucksacks, silly hats and what looked like wooden staffs. In a couple they were on skis and moving across snow. No shorts in those shots. In the background of almost every one of them was a mountain, or mountain range.

  The images had a strange kind of Hitler Youth, strength-through-joy vibe to them. Something about all that fresh air and mountain scenery and the vigorous clean-living lads. The fact that they were both blonds also helped. Nevada tapped one of the pictures, of the two boys in what looked like scout outfits. “It’s him, Timothy,” she said.

  I looked at the other boy, identically dressed, identically blond. “And his brother Gordon?”

  “Must be.”

  I noticed the rucksacks at their feet, with long coils of rope spilling out of them, and belatedly recognised it as mountain-climbing gear. Suddenly all those magnificent peaks in the background made perfect sense.

  Almost all of the photos pertained to mountaineering. There was one of the two boys canoeing, and a couple of them with bows and arrows. “I did archery at school,” said Nevada, looking at the pictures. “I was something of a whiz at it.”

  I was about to say that I was entirely prepared to believe this when I heard movement in the hallway. Nevada heard it, too. We both hurried back into the kitchen, getting there just in time to hover politely by the table as our host came back in. As if we’d risen to our feet on hearing him return, out of sheer good manners.

  Timothy looked pissed off. “Gordon would like to see you.”

  * * *

  Gordon Treverton was waiting for us in an upstairs corner room with windows on both outside walls, letting in the cold north light—and a good portion of the cold north wind. I say waiting, but he didn’t look like he had anything else to do, or ever did much else, than just sit here.

  He had an armchair with a little folding table set up in front of it. On the table was a square metre of brown card, on which was set out a half-completed jigsaw puzzle. He had the same colouring as his brother but he looked shrunken, more frail, under the shawl and blankets that covered everything except his head and arms. I tried not to look at his hands, which were knobbly claws, as red as a boiled lobster. His brother had said something about arthritis as he’d led us up the stairs and left us here.

  There were no other chairs in the room, just a couple of cushioned foot stools. Nevada and I each perched on one and looked at the man and his jigsaw puzzle. He was smiling at us, quite happy to have some company, apparently. “Timothy tells me you want to know about the hanging tree.”

  Nevada nodded, “My name is Nevada Warren, and I’m producing…”

  He cocked a misshapen hand to his ear and said, “Warren? I didn’t quite catch the first name?”

  “Nevada.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Nevada.”

  It occurred to me that his brother might have mentioned the deafness when he was briefing us about the arthritis. But the old boy had apparently got it now, because he said, “Like Brooklyn Beckham?” I glanced quickly at Nevada, waiting for the explosion.

  But she was on her best behaviour, and cutting him a lot of slack. She smiled a beautiful smile and said, “It means snowfall.”

  The man cocked his head again and returned his hand to his ear. “Snowball?”

  “Snowfall.”

  “Snowball?”

  “Snowfall!”

  “Snowball?”

  Nevada fell helplessly silent and Gordon looked at me and grinned. “We’re having a snowball fight!”

  Nevada took a deep breath. “Anyway,” she said, or shouted, “we’re making a programme about Valerian.” The man nodded, listening, but kept looking down at his jigsaw puzzle. There was a large wooden spoon lying among the puzzle pieces. And I noticed that his left hand had a pale band wrapped around it, of what looked like masking tape.

  “I see,” he said. “And under whose auspices is this programme taking place?”

  We looked at each other, hesitating. I took the plunge. “Stinky Stanmer.”

  “Oh, Stinky Stanmer!” He looked up. “I listen to his programme on the wireless. Wednesday evenings, isn’t it? I adore him.”

  “He’s very adorable,” said Nevada.

  “Well, then tell me, what would you like to know?” Suddenly he seemed able to hear perfectly well. Stinky had wrought a miracle, just through the mention of his miserable name.

  I said, “Your brother told us that you were childhood friends of the Drummonds.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s right. Our father always sought to cultivate Colonel Drummond. You see, Daddy always wished he’d fought in the war, but he couldn’t because he was hopelessly asthmatic. So he rather hero-worshipped Colonel Drummond who really had fought in the war.” I suddenly twigged that we were talking about the real Colonel Drummond here, the father of our client.

  He nodded, as if confirming something to himself, and said, “He fought in the North African Campaign and was much decorated for his efforts.” He chuckled, a harsh rasp. “Daddy was very impressed by his medals.” He looked up at us. “Personally, I never liked Colonel Drummond. He was a bastard to those poor girls, you know. Especially after their mother died and there was no one to protect them from his Victorian notions of child rearing. No wonder they ran away the first chance they got. To join the circus, so to speak.”

  “The rock and roll circus,” said Nevada.

  Gordon grinned happily and nodded. “Of course, Colonel Drummond really hated that. Long hair, loud music, promiscuity and drugs. All his hatreds rolled into one, you might say. And it really got to him when they became successful, the girls. Because of the publicity. Everybody knew Valerian was his daughter, and what she was getting up to. Remember that story about Marianne Faithfull and the Mars Bar?”

  Nevada looked blank but I nodded. I’d tell her later. Or, better yet, let Tinkler tell her.

  “Well, when that story first got started, it was about Valerian! It was only after she died that it became attached to poor old Marianne Faithfull. And then there were all those reports of her stripping off during her concerts, and all the men, the male groupies, the orgies.” He smiled at Nevada, his eyes glowing. “You’ve heard of Messalina?”

  Now it was my turn to look blank, but she nodded. “One of the benefits of a classical education.”

  He chortled and nodded. “Yes, well Colonel Drummond had a classical education, too. So when he read an article in the Telegraph comparing his little Valerie Anne to Messalina, he knew exactly what they meant.” He shook his head happily. “He knew how many men a night in her bed that meant.” He glanced up at us, to see if we were following. “So he hated her for that. And he hated poor Cecilia as her accomplice. But what he really hated was that they had succeeded. His daughters had run away from him and succeeded in creating a life of their own, and he had no part in it, in that life or that success.”

  He paused and I thought he was lost in memory, but then I saw he was actually studying the jigsaw puzzle spread out before him.

  He lifted his left hand and lowered it carefully so that the edge of it touched one of the pieces that was lying scattered, waiting to be used. I realised that the masking tape had been wrapped around his palm sticky side out, so that the piece adhered to it. He lifted the piece and held it over the growing corner of the puzzle that was complete. The picture on the puzzle wasn’t clear yet, but I could see the blue of sky, and some grey and white masses, perhaps clouds.

  He looked up and smiled at us. “There’s an art to it. I have to rub the tape against my jumper so it loses a bit of its stickiness. It has to lose just enough. It needs to be sufficiently sticky to pick up the jigsaw piece, but not so sticky it won’t release it…” He gently shook his hand and t
he piece fell down near the assembled section of the puzzle. He chuckled happily. He looked like a small boy. I had to admire the way he had triumphed over his crippled hands. “And absolutely it mustn’t be so sticky that it tears a portion of the image from the jigsaw piece. We have to preserve the image. After all, that’s what it’s all about.”

  He moved his right hand towards the wooden spoon that lay beside the puzzle and picked it up. Gripping it clumsily in his twisted talon, he manoeuvred it over to the newly selected piece and used the spoon to nudge it into position and press it into place. He studied it with satisfaction, then looked up at us again.

  “Preserve the image, eh? That’s what Colonel Drummond wanted to do, at all costs, but thanks to Valerian there was no chance of that. He was furious with her. Refused to speak to her or acknowledge her existence. Hers or her sister’s. Which broke Cecilia’s heart. She wasn’t as strong as her sister, or as hard. Maybe that’s why she eventually lost her marbles. She wanted her daddy back, god knows why. But there you have it.” He shook his head.

  “They were only reconciled when she had a baby—Valerian, I mean.”

  I considered his words, trying to wind my thinking back into a 1960s mindset. I said, “Why would an illegitimate child help? I mean back in those days it was a big thing, wasn’t it? A major social stigma.”

  “Oh yes,” he nodded merrily. “You’re quite right. It was not the done thing! It was utterly scandalous. So of course it initially made things worse. And yet it did eventually bring them back together. Drummond and his daughters.”

  “Really?” said Nevada. “Why?”

  “Ah, you see, Old Man Drummond always wanted a male heir.”

  “But he had one,” I said, thinking of our client and how unhappy he would be to have his existence denied. “He had a son.”

  “Oh yes, but Johnny was a big disappointment to Colonel Drummond. Just like everything else.” He chuckled. “Especially after Johnny was arrested for taking part in the anti-Vietnam protests at the US Embassy in London. Now that really was the final straw! Long hair and beads and a criminal record. In addition to photographs in the paper of Johnny wrestling with two policemen—and doing quite a good job, by the look of it—as they dragged him off to the paddy wagon.”

  Nevada and I exchanged a look. Who would have suspected our ‘Colonel’ of such a colourful background?

  “So Old Man Drummond disowned him, totally. Just like he had the girls.” He smiled at us. “And then there were none, so to speak. And I suppose the old man finally realised what he’d done. He was going to die, bitter and alone, with no one to follow him. Especially no bloke to follow him. He thought the male line was at an end. Quite a big deal for one of these military types, you understand.”

  “We understand,” said Nevada.

  “But then the baby, this criminally, disgustingly, illegitimate baby turns out to be a boy.” He studied us, then began to smile slowly. “And the hard old bastard just melted. He began to let Valerian and Cecilia back into his life.”

  “But not Johnny?” said Nevada.

  Gordon shook his head ruefully. “No. I suppose the old man had to draw the line somewhere.”

  “But there was a reconciliation with his daughters,” I said. “With Valerian.”

  “Yes, thanks to little Tom. Valerian’s son.” He suddenly stopped. “That poor little boy.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Yes, he was a lovely little chap.”

  “Do you have any idea what happened to him?” I said.

  He seemed suddenly guarded. “Why would I know anything about that?”

  “I mean, if you were to make a guess.”

  He shrugged. “Kidnapped by gypsies? How should I know? All I know was that when his grandson was taken, that was the end of Colonel Drummond. With one daughter a suicide and the other one in the madhouse, all that scandal and heartache, it killed him stone dead.”

  We were all silent for a moment. He studied the jigsaw puzzle. I looked at the corner that was completed with the blue of sky on it and I realised that the other colours weren’t clouds. They were mountains.

  I said, “Your brother told us you were away when Valerian… died.”

  He nodded absently. “Yes. In the Alps, climbing.” He looked at the mangled claws of his hands. “I think that was the last time we did the Alps.”

  He dropped his hands and smiled brightly. “But we heard all about it when we got back. Apparently she walked out the bedroom window with the rope around her neck. She used one of our climbing ropes, which she must have found somewhere. There were always plenty of them lying around. She put it around her neck and went out the window. The tree had branches that grew all the way to the house back then, poking almost inside the window. And you could just step outside, onto the branch. Which is what she did. It always reminded me of Peter Pan for some reason. Someone walking the plank, I suppose, on a pirate ship.”

  He looked at us, his eyes bright. “We trimmed the branch when we got home. Cut it right back—as if there was some danger of someone else doing the same thing. As though it was some kind of perennial hazard.” He leaned back in the chair, his eyes suddenly dreamy. “The branch has grown back now, of course. Someone could go out again if they really wanted to.”

  I looked at him and suddenly wondered if he was mad. It was a very uncomfortable thought. I cleared my throat. “What happened afterwards? After the suicide and the disappearance of the boy?”

  “Ah well, as I said, Colonel Drummond died pretty promptly. And Johnny had left the country. Went to America, of all places. I suppose they didn’t hold a grudge against him for trying to burn their embassy down. Very broad-minded, the Americans. So that only left Cecilia. Little sister. Last of the Drummonds.” He sighed wistfully. “I read in the papers a few years ago about how she’d died in the madhouse. The poor thing. Completely gaga and her brain apparently burned to a veritable cinder by repeated applications of the old electroshock therapy.”

  Then he fell silent, staring blankly ahead, as if something had just occurred to him. “My god…” he whispered.

  “What?” said Nevada.

  He looked at us, then down at the jigsaw. He moved a piece of the puzzle diagonally from one side of the tray to the other. “That piece goes there! At the bottom left-hand corner. It doesn’t belong at the top right-hand corner at all. My god. I should have seen it all along…” He wobbled his head happily.

  I heard footsteps on the stairs. Timothy appeared in the doorway. “Come on, Gordon,” he said. “You mustn’t tire yourself out by talking too much.”

  Gordon smiled at his brother and said, “Did you know that this delightful young lady is called Snowball?”

  Timothy escorted us out. In the hallway there was a table piled high with jigsaw puzzles, stacked in their boxes. There were dozens of them. All mountain scenes, of course. Above them was another framed photograph. In the Alps, the two blond brothers, lost boys from a lost age.

  As we drove back to the pub I glanced across at Nevada. “What would you like for lunch, Snowball?”

  “Fuck off.”

  11. LUNCH

  Tinkler said, “So were they deformed yokels with shotguns and rocking chairs?”

  “No,” said Nevada. “They weren’t like that at all. They were, or at least one of them was, an evil pale elf in a really hideous sweater.”

  “I wish I’d met this guy,” said Tinkler.

  “You will insist on sleeping in.”

  “I stayed up late watching a documentary about the blue whale,” said Tinkler.

  Nevada gurgled with laughter. “I’ll bet.”

  I slowed down as we approached a point where the narrow lane twisted and disappeared around a blind corner. I didn’t trust these country roads. I briefly applied the horn, letting anyone coming from the other direction know that we were here and that approaching at high speed on a road that wasn’t wide enough for two vehicles might lead to an unpleasant experience for all co
ncerned.

  “You know what?” said Tinkler.

  I eased off the brakes, coasted around the corner, saw that no one was there and picked up speed again. The road ahead was clear. I glanced at Tinkler in the mirror and said, “What?”

  “They might still have some records there. At the Evil Elf’s house. Who knows what they might have. They could have all kinds of albums that Valerian’s people left behind. It could be a treasure trove.”

  “It could be,” I said. I kicked myself for not thinking of it.

  “They might have a copy of the Artwoods’ first album, the original Decca issue, with the Mod cover.” Tinkler’s voice had softened rhapsodically.

  He was right. “We’re going to have to go back,” I said.

  “Not today,” said Nevada firmly. “Today we just pick up the record from Freddie, after you have haggled with him in a masterful fashion and generally fleeced him on the Colonel’s behalf, and then we say an emotional farewell to Gwenevere the goose and drive back to London where our little darlings are waiting for us and you will, with a bit of luck, cook us a mouth-watering supper.”

  “With a bit of luck,” I said.

  “Can I come too?” said Tinkler. “My mouth is watering just because you said mouth-watering.”

  “He’s not a bad cook,” said Nevada complacently. “Of course you can come too.”

  Freddie’s place was coming up on the right and I signalled and turned. Freddie was standing in the driveway, waiting for us.

  I knew right away something was wrong.

  * * *

  I got out of the car and hurried towards him, Tinkler and Nevada following.

  Freddie looked at me, red-eyed and angry. “Last night someone broke into the house.” A principal component of my shock at hearing this news was the realisation of just how unsurprised I was. On some level, I had been expecting something like this.