Full of Money Read online

  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?

  Statuary: classical-type robed female figures; plus the animals – those wolves, then horse pairs, seals, otters, hounds; birds – eagles, wingspread, as-if-sunning cormorants, swans, gulls. Admin block/showroom, new, brick built. Ground floor for plate glass window display of lawn mowers, strimmers, branch-mincers etc. First floor – what??

  Esther could sympathize with the ‘what’ and double question marks. He obviously considered this amount of first-floor office space – if that’s what it was – too lavish for the scale of the garden business. Esther had often wondered about it, too. The whole impenetrable Pellotte enterprise was controlled from here, was it – the headquarters out in the countryside at Lesser Davit, the selling ground Whitsun Festival estate and as much of Temperate Acres as could be won and held?

  Pellotte on site today – perhaps every day. I arrived 9.03 a.m. and his car, BMW, ADP 12, already alongside the main doors to admin block/showroom. Parking spot marked ‘Chairman’ in gold lettering on a small blue board fixed to a metal post. Necessary? Plenty of room for cars on the site. Does he do his major deals here – deals unconnected with gardens, happy or not? Maybe wants to impress suppliers or rave organizers or street festival promoters. Went into showroom and pretended to examine mowers. Stairs and lift to first floor through turnstile requiring code card. Two healthy-looking members of staff on what looks like watchman duty at turnstile. Dark suits, very white shirts, unmedallioned, jackets buttoned: weapon concealment?

  Yes, watchman duty. Esther knew that the two, or another two, were constants. If it ever came to a police raid at Happy Gardening Solutions, those sentries could probably get an alarm signal to Pellotte in time for him to flush away anything incriminating, whatever the cost, and spread illustrated booklets about patios on his desk. But would there ever be a raid?

  Possible tail on me for the latter part of the visit. Maybe I loitered too long among display room machinery. The watchmen watched, and perhaps reported upstairs about the uncommitted, gaze-about lawnmower man. When I leave the show room I sense someone behind me, following over towards the sheds, gazebos and bower section.

  Conversation (undisclosed recorder):

  Him: ‘Looking for anything special, sir?’

  Me: ‘Just enjoying the general spread and feel of the place.’

  Him: ‘But something in particular?’

  Me: ‘I can forget it all when I spend an hour here.’

  Him: ‘Sure, but what in particular?’

  Me: ‘I can shut off from all the rest of it for a while. An interlude of therapy.’

  Him: ‘The rest of it?’

  Me: ‘The usual run of things.’

  Him: ‘What’s the usual run of things for you then, sir, if I may?’

  Me: ‘General.’

  Him: ‘Which aspect?’

  Me: ‘Urban.’

  Him: ‘Where exactly?

  Me: ‘Yes, urban.’

  Him: ‘Been before? It interests you?’

  Me: ‘This place, quite famous in its way.’

  Him: ‘Which way would you say that is, sir?’

  Me: ‘If you’re staff I quite envy you your working conditions.’

  Him: ‘Yes, I’m staff.’

  Me: ‘Which side do you specialize in? The sheds and so on?’

  Him: ‘Are you a shed person?’

  Might be (must be?) Dean Feston. I’ve heard of him and Pellotte in general chatter around Whitsun and Temperate Acres. Pellotte’s multitasking assistant. Early forties? Build about right for description of him – 180 to 190 pounds? Fair to reddish hair, in retreat. Also his clothes: dark suit, white shirt open to three buttons, again, no medallion. Plentiful muscle and sinew. Suit jacket buttoned.

  Me: ‘I thought you were probably staff. Security?’

  Him: ‘The mowers? Have you got a big lawn where you live?’

  Me: ‘I’ve always fancied charging around on one of those buggy models.’

  Him: ‘Have you got a big lawn where you live? Are you local?’

  Me: ‘Urban. That’s why I need to come out occasionally to this sort of setting.’

  Him: ‘A bit of a trek, is it?’

  Me: ‘Worth it.’

  Him: ‘Where from exactly?’

  Me: ‘It’s certainly my aim to get a place one day with a good expanse of lawn. If looked after well, it can become one of the main attractions of a property. That’s widely recognized, by estate agents, and so on. “Maintained, mature gardens to rear.”’

  Him: ‘When you said “Security” – why did you say “Security?”’

  Me: ‘A lot of valuable machinery here. And the sundials – beautifully made. They called you down, did they?’

  Him: ‘Who?’

  Me: ‘The two sentries on the gate, like the cherubim in Genesis, keeping Adam out of Eden after the Fall.’

  Him: ‘You go to church? Where would that be?’

  Me: ‘Most know that tale.’

  Him: ‘Called me down from where?’

  Me: ‘Upstairs. Offices?’

  Him: ‘Why would they call me down?’

  Me: ‘As Security. Maybe I hung about the expensive mowers too long, without
buying. They might think I was casing. I’m sorry if I caused a scare.’

  Him: ‘Casing what?’

  Me: ‘The showroom and the machines in it.’

  Him: ‘I wondered if we should have a name and address, so we could send you brochures re special offers, that kind of thing.’

  Me: ‘Do you mean about garden stuff?’

  Him: ‘Naturally, garden stuff. What else from a Gardens Solutions centre? Your details to be added to our records, and treated as totally confidential data. Without obligation.’

  Me: ‘I’m very much on the move these days.’

  Him: ‘From where to where?’

  Me: ‘Indeterminate. Some wouldn’t like these continual changes. But they seem to suit me.’

  Him: ‘Why is that?’

  Me: ‘Oh, yes, people say to me, “How can you put up with all these constant upheavals?” But I reply: “I don’t see them as such. I see them as progress. We’ll be lying still a long time eventually.”’

  Him: ‘Do they say a name?’

  Me: ‘Who?’

  Him: ‘The people who ask “How can you put up with all these constant upheavals?”’

  Me: ‘Which name?’

  Him: ‘When they ask, “How can you put up with all these constant upheavals?” Do they say . . . “all these constant upheavals”, and then your name, such as “all these constant upheavals, Frank or Len?”’

  Me: ‘I don’t think I know anyone called Frank or Len.’

  Him: ‘No, that’s not the point, is it, I meant . . . oh, let’s move on? Which people say that to you?’

  Me: ‘What?’

  Him: ‘About the upheavals.’

  Me: ‘Friends and so on.’

  Him: ‘Which friends and so on? Are they local?’

  Me: ‘Local in which sense?’

  Him: ‘What do you mean, “in which sense?”’

  Me: ‘Local to here or local to where I live.’

  Him: ‘You don’t live locally then – locally to here?’

  Me: ‘Various.’

  Him: ‘Various what?’

  Me: ‘Various friends who say “How can you put up—?”’

  Him: ‘But they all say, “How can you put up with these constant upheavals?” do they?’

  Me: ‘Many.’

  Him: ‘These are obviously people with your well-being at heart.’

  Me: ‘Oh, certainly.’

  Him: ‘Where do you meet with them?’

  Me: ‘Bump into them in the street, that sort of thing.’

  Him: ‘Which street?’

  Me: ‘Vary various.’

  Him: ‘And as soon as you bump into one of them, he or she says: “How can you put up with these constant upheavals?” Does he or she?’

  Me: ‘Not as soon as, because at that point they wouldn’t know. Only when I’ve told them I’m living somewhere different now.’

  Him: ‘Different from what?’

  Me: ‘Different from where I was last time.’

  Him: ‘Where was that?’

  Me: ‘It would depend.’

  Him: ‘Depend on what?’

  Me: ‘On when I bumped into him or her. Things could have changed more than once if I hadn’t seen them for quite a while.’

  Him: ‘Someone was telling me the other day about an old television series called What’s My Line?’

  Me: ‘A lot of those early programme had quality, perhaps to some degree lost now.’

  Him: ‘A panel had to guess someone’s job. They could ask certain questions, but not come straight out with, “What’s your job?”’

  Me: ‘That would have killed the show because there’d be nothing left to wonder about.’

  Him: ‘If I had to guess your job I’d say Press.’

  Me: ‘And I suppose I was guessing your job, when I said “Security”. The executives who created that What’s My Line? programme must have cleverly realized how much folk liked puzzling about others’ occupations.’

  Him: ‘The press can be very intrusive sometimes.’

  Me: ‘I’ve heard that. They did for President Nixon, didn’t they? Doorstepping people. There’s a film about it on the movie channel now and then. Robert Redford.’

  Him: ‘The press – always after the sensational. Their reporters will lurk and spy. We, ordinary members of the public, need protection from that, I think you’ll agree. And if the protection is not offered by the authorities, we have to protect ourselves.’

  Me: ‘People say “No comment”, I believe. That’s quite a rejection.’

  Him: ‘I don’t suggest the press should be banned.’

  Me: ‘Most would agree it has a role. It goes right back in our history. Dispatches from the Crimean War in the Times. William Russell.’

  Him: ‘The press can give useful reviews of books and music – that kind of thing.’

  Me: ‘You’re into the arts and literature, are you?’

  Him: ‘I don’t always agree with what they say.’

  Me: ‘You’re entitled to differ.’

  Him: ‘It would be a dull lookout if we all thought the same.’

  Me: ‘An element of debate brings vigour.’

  Him: ‘“Live and let live” is one of my guiding rules, within reason’

  Me: ‘Plus, colour pictures more and more now.’

  Him: ‘Where?’

  Me: ‘The press. Sport, for instance.’

  Him: ‘Or the finance columns can be useful.’

  Me: ‘True.’

  Him: ‘You have an undoubted right to walk about here between the hours of nine a.m. and five thirty p.m. That can’t be gainsaid.’

  Me: ‘This would be part of the “Live and let live” theme.’

  Him: ‘An open door.’

  Me: ‘Not to upstairs in the showroom and admin block.’

  Him: ‘I’ve really enjoyed this conversation.’

  Me: ‘Yes.’

  Him: ‘I’ll keep an eye open for you.’

  Me: ‘Where?’

  Him: ‘I feel I owe you that.’

  I left.

  The mad indirection and gibber of most of this demoralized Esther. It matched too bloody exactly the general tone of the Tasker case: brickwall resistance to understanding. They’d found the recorder and tapes in his flat. Detectives familiar with Whitsun said the ‘Him’ voice was almost certainly Dean Feston. Would any of it really have been of use in an article? Much of it sounded like a parody of a Pinter play.

  She needed something plain, factual, definite, to restore her mind to clarity. Esther drove over again to the big public park where his body had been found. Talking of madness – Esther knew this to be not a particularly sane trip. She wouldn’t be finding anything new. Not the objective. She hoped for escape from the silly deviousness of the recorded chit-chat at Happy Gardening Solutions, and to look at a solid reminder of what had happened soon after the chit-chat to one of those taking part. In any case, she didn’t want to go home yet. Gerald would be there, and not at his sweetest. Two reasons:

  First, Orchestra, the professional magazine for musicians, had listed those considered the greatest living players on each classical instrument, and Gerald did not figure under ‘bassoonists’. Two others were named. If they’d picked only one he might have been reasonably all right. But to be pushed to third really got to him. And, of course, he couldn’t be certain that Orchestra regarded him as third, or twenty-third. They’d named two. This did not mean that if they’d chosen three, he would have been it.

  She left her Ford in the car park at the edge of Martin’s Fields and walked over the grass towards the children’s adventure playground. It had been a cold late autumnal day and now, mid-afternoon, only a few people were about, walking the dog, or jogging, or practising place kicks at the rugby posts. Of course, the playground had been closed for a week after the discovery of Tasker’s body on the youngsters’ curly chute there and, although it reopened a few days ago, no children played in the enclosure now. It might be on account of
the weather. More likely, for a while the Fields and amusements would be regarded by parents as jinxed and they’d keep their kids away.

  Suppose Esther told Gerald he should certainly have been placed first or second in the bassoonist tally, he would see that for what it was – the would-be soothing verdict of someone naturally biased in her hubbie’s favour, and more or less ignorant of bassoons and of bassoon world league tables. The knee-jerk, worthless words might inflame him further. And suppose instead she argued that if three were named, he must have been included, he would take this as a declaration that, yes, she considered him third rate. Gerald could get rough-house when offended on such a scale, and Esther didn’t fancy any of that just now. She had a tricky job on needing concentration and a brain not dulled by recent blows or distracted by widespread pain.

  Luckily, Tasker’s smashed body had been found early by one of the park keepers opening up the playground for the day. The slide was quickly tented and the area taped off as a crime site before any youngsters and their parents arrived. A notice near the gate said: ‘This playground is intended for children between the ages six to fourteen.’

  But adaptable, obviously.

  ‘The nearest public phone booth is in Stanton Road. The nearest Accident and Emergency Hospital is the Fildew General in Lent Street.’

  Unneeded, both, in this case. Her mind slipped back to Gerald. The second reason for his present unpredictabilities centred on that TV invitation. At times he seemed thrilled. At others he regarded it as ‘piffling’ and ‘footling’ – or said he did. She knew he would accept. It was the panellist status that riled. He thought there should be a programme, or possibly programmes, devoted only to him. He believed he deserved this, or he had believed it until that list of great bassoonists ignored him. Gerald considered he was being treated not quite as a musical nobody, but only not quite. He could be used to make up the numbers – either as third or worse in the magazine list, or on a panel of four or five where his personal voice could get only a share of attention, despite his flair.