Possession

  ‘Pardon?’ said Alex, leaning forward, trying to tune in her hearing.

  ‘Years,’ she picked up. ‘Gosh,’ she also managed to decipher.

  ‘Do you have any idea where he might have gone to?’

  The door behind the girl opened and a gentle-looking man in a dark suit that was too large for him came out. ‘Have you forgotten my coffee, Lucy?’ The girl turned round and made a sound like a bunch of racing cars negotiating a chicane.

  The man ran a huge hairy hand over the back of his head and stared at Alex with wide blue eyes. ‘Julian Saffier,’ he said, in a soft, husky voice, and shook his head. ‘He left here a long time ago – I’ve been here fourteen years.’

  ‘Would you know if he’s still alive?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Used to be in the press a lot – haven’t seen anything about him for a long time. Infertility?’ The man looked at her quizzically.

  Alex nodded.

  ‘I have a feeling he bought a place somewhere in Surrey, set up a clinic down there. I may be wrong.’

  ‘It’s very important that I get in touch with him.’

  The man smiled. ‘I’ll look him up in the register for you.’ He went into his office and came out holding a heavy red book and leafed through it. ‘No, not in here.’ He looked thoughtful, then turned to his secretary. ‘See if you can get me Douglas Kerr.’

  ‘Yah, O.K.,’ Alex deciphered, and watched her tap some numbers out on the phone as elegantly as if she was playing a piano. She looked around. There was a framed picture of a yacht under full sail on the wall; a large expensive yacht, with Houdini emblazoned on its side.

  ‘Are you an old friend of, er?’

  She shook her head. ‘I was a patient.’

  ‘Ah. Clever man, I believe.’

  ‘Are you in the same line?’

  ‘Well – not really – I’m a conventional gynaecologist.’

  Alex nodded. Several racing cars accelerated down a long straight and the beanpole thrust the receiver at him.

  ‘Hallo,’ he said, ‘Douglas? Bob Beard here. Yes, fine, and you? Yes, Felicity’s fine too; had a hole-in-one last week, would you believe? Yes … at the Dyke. Listen, must be brief. Tell me, does the name Saffier ring any bells?’

  Alex watched him, nervously.

  ‘Julian Saffier?’ He turned to Alex.

  Alex nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one.’ He paused. ‘Yes, infertility … about eighty? Maybe; yes, I suppose he would. I just wondered, on the off-chance, whether you knew him? Similar line of work … yes, I thought you did.’ He paused. ‘No, no, nothing like that – just someone wants his address.’ Again he paused. ‘Guildford? Yes, I thought it was somewhere around there. Any idea who might have his address? I’ve tried the register.’ He frowned. ‘Good Lord; was he? How long ago? I see, that would explain it. Listen, thanks very much, talk to you soon.’

  He turned to Alex, clasping his two huge hands together. ‘He was struck off, I’m afraid,’ he said, almost apologetically.

  ‘Struck off?’

  He nodded and smiled awkwardly.

  What for? she wondered, feeling very uncomfortable. What for? ‘I don’t suppose you know why?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, no, I don’t.’ He looked at his watch.

  ‘I’ve taken enough of your time, thank you.’

  He smiled. ‘You might find him in the phone book, or directory enquiries. But I don’t know if he’s still alive, even.’

  She could hear the hoovering from the street as she climbed out of the taxi. Mimsa’s hoovering always had a particularly frenetic quality to it, as if she was trying to catch the dust before it hid.

  The house felt light, airy, safe. The smell of polish, the grinding of the hoover and the grunting of Mimsa reassured her. Normality. Perhaps David was right. Perhaps.

  ‘Ah, Missy Eyetoya. Much messing in toilet. Is a no paper on wall.’

  ‘I know, Mimsa,’ she nodded. ‘There’s a problem with damp.’

  ‘I getty fixed for you. My humsbund, he good fixing toilet paper.’

  ‘Thanks, Mimsa, but don’t worry.’ She recoiled at the memory of the last time Mimsa’s husband had come to fix something. She took the small pile of mail on the hall table, went through to the drawing room, picked up the phone and dialled directory enquiries. ‘Mimsa!’ she shouted. ‘What did you do with that rose that was on the side table?’

  ‘I putty in dustbin.’

  ‘Could you get it out.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Enquiries. Which town please?’

  ‘Guildford,’ she said, sifting through the envelopes; one, a fat buff envelope, was postmarked Cambridge. Then she heard the operator’s voice and her heart leapt. Saffier was listed. She scrawled the address on the back of the buff envelope, her hand shaking so much that she could hardly read her writing. ‘Thank you,’ she said, weakly, and glanced at her watch. Eleven o’clock.

  She tore open the envelope; there was a compliments slip from the Bursar’s Office and several letters addressed to Fabian at Cambridge. She glanced through them: an American Express bill, a bank statement, a large envelope marked PRIZE DRAW PRIORITY and an airmail letter from the United States, postmarked Boston, Mass; Fabian’s name and address was typed on the front by a dot matrix printer. Inside was a letter, similarly typed, and two sheets of computer printout.

  The paper was headed in block capitals NEW ENGLAND BUREAU. In smaller letters underneath were the words: Office rentals – weekly, daily, hourly. Secretarial services. Accommodation addresses. Confidentiality assured.

  The letter read simply:

  ‘Dear Customer, We have now despatched the last postcard, and await your further instructions. Please find enclosed your statement for the quarter ending March 31st, and your invoice for the next quarter should you wish to continue with our services. Faithfully yours, Melanie Hart, Executive Administrator.’

  Alex felt herself going white. She read the letter through again and began to shiver; the room was turning cold and something seemed to be turning her inside out. The asterisks in Fabian’s diary. Two weeks apart. The postcards. Two weeks apart. She took out her cigarette lighter, walked over to the fireplace, lit the letter, the printouts and the envelope and dropped them into the grate.

  ‘You want light fire? Now? I light for you.’

  She turned and saw Mimsa standing in the doorway. ‘No, it’s fine, thanks, Mimsa.’

  ‘Cold in ’ere. Sheesh, it cold.’ Mimsa rubbed her hands and frowned. Then she held her hands up to Alex. ‘Been in dustbins, both dustbins. Ees not there.’

  ‘Who’s not there?’

  ‘Rose.’

  ‘Rose?’ Then she remembered and began trembling. ‘Not there? What do you mean? You said you put it there?’ She watched the last corner of the paper go brown, blacken and then erupt into flame.

  Mimsa shrugged.

  She felt her muscles tensing, saw Mimsa only dimly, as if she was staring at her from a long way away. ‘When did you put it there?’

  Mimsa shrugged again. ‘I don know. Hour ago?’

  ‘Have the dustbins been emptied today?’

  ‘No, dey don come today.’

  ‘I’ll have a look.’

  Mimsa followed her out, protesting. ‘What you want get dirty for? It no good rose, finish.’

  Alex turned the dustbins on their sides, and tipped the contents out on to the pavement. A wine bottle rolled past her and into the gutter. She knelt in the stench and the gunge, peering into the empty tins, shaking them, checking the cartons, poking her fingers through the fluff and the rotten fruit and the plastic bags and the dust.

  Mimsa watched her for a moment, as if she was mad, and then dutifully joined her. ‘Ees better get fresh roses.’

  Alex stared at the rubbish on the pavement and inside the dark empty bins.

  ‘Maybe someone took,’ said Mimsa.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Alex, as she began to put everything ba
ck in. She looked around nervously at the quiet street. ‘Maybe.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Alex floored the accelerator, felt the clunk of the kick-down and heard the aggressive bellow of the engine as the Mercedes surged forward past the line of traffic. She cut sharply in front of a Sierra, which hooted angrily at her. New England Bureau. The charred rose. She wondered if the world had finally gone completely mad. Perhaps we have moved nearer to the moon, she thought, or Jupiter, or perhaps they have moved nearer to us? What was going on? What the hell was going on?

  She turned the Mercedes off the Guildford bypass on to the narrow country lane. The road became dark, shrouded with overhanging trees which blotted out the afternoon sun. It wound up a steep hill, under a stone bridge, then dropped down sharply into a small village, which seemed to consist of a couple of houses, a pub and a garage.

  A youth on the forecourt gave her the directions and she found the entrance half a mile further on, marked by a large white sign almost hidden by shrubbery, which read ‘Witley Grove’. She drove through two tall stone pillars, each topped with a black cast-iron falcon, over a cattle grid and down a long pot-holed tarmac drive between two fenced-in fields.

  Rounding a bend, she saw a sprawling Victorian Gothic mansion, wildly asymmetrical, with stark red-brick walls and steeply pitched half-timbered roofs, like witches’ hats, she thought.

  Several cars were parked in front of the house, and she was relieved by the sign of life. She climbed out of the Mercedes, feeling butterflies in her stomach, and glanced uncomfortably at the house. It was stark, bare, an institution, not a home. She had the distinct feeling someone in the house was watching her but, glancing around at the dark leaded windows, she could see no sign of movement.

  There was a black Daimler limousine outside the front door, the chauffeur sitting inside with his hat off, reading a newspaper. As she walked past it and up the steps to an imposing porch, she wondered who it belonged to. Some Arab client? She stared nervously at the small brass plaque beside the huge oak door: ‘Witley Grove Clinic’. Was he still practising – in spite of having been –? Would she be able to see him now, today, right away – or was some starchy secretary going to make her wait three months for an appointment? God, he used to have a real gorgon in London. She tried to remember Saffier himself, but his face was fuzzy. She remembered how much she had depended on him; hope when there had been no hope, when the doctors had told her to forget it, they could never have children, adopt. His memory was coming clearer now: the voice, the faint hint of an accent; permanent suntan, the stiff handsome face, a good looking mid-European; a smoothie, with a sparkle in his eyes and short neat hair that had been dyed to match his face-lift; the smart suits and the ties that were too loud with the white shoes; he always wore white shoes. In a showroom she wouldn’t have bought a used car from him; in Wimpole Street he was her god.

  They’d sent him a present when Fabian was born: a case of champagne. She wondered whether Saffier would remember, whether that would stand her in good stead twenty-one years on. Would he allow her to see the records? Did he still have them? She leaned forward to press the bell, but at that moment the front door swung open. She looked up and to her amazement saw Otto staring down at her.

  She stood back, blinking, confused, and tried to focus. She saw the raked back hair, the lacerations, the weals, the pockmarks, the hooked nose, the mocking eyes.

  ‘Hallo, Mrs Hightower,’ he said. ‘Won’t you come in?’

  I’m going mad, she thought. I’m going mad. Somehow I have driven to Cambridge by mistake, come to Otto’s room. She glanced over her shoulder. The driveway was still there, the chauffeur in the Daimler turning the page of his paper. Am I in the middle of Cambridge? Are there fields in the middle of Cambridge?

  She followed him into the huge dark hallway and gazed in amazement at the ornate carved oak staircase with hideous gargoyles on the newel posts. No, this is not his room, surely his room didn’t look like this? A suit of armour stood stiffly on guard at the bottom of the stairs and she looked away from the dark eye slits of the visor, shuddering; suits of armour had always frightened her.

  ‘You didn’t make the service,’ he said.

  In a room nearby she could hear the hubbub of voices. She could smell sherry, cigar smoke. Was it a dining hall? Had she come to a Cambridge dining hall?

  ‘The service?’ she echoed blankly. Otto was looking smart, oddly smart, in a dark grey suit and black knitted tie. ‘Have you been to church, Otto?’

  The eyes. Oh, God, stop smiling, stop looking like that.

  A woman appeared in front of her, small, in a black and white outfit, carrying something. ‘Dry or medium, madam?’

  ‘Dry, please, thank you.’

  Alex took the glass, felt its weight, felt it gone, suddenly. There was a noise, a long way away, a distant tinkle.

  ‘Don’t worry, madam, I’ll get a cloth; please take another one.’

  She took the glass, clutched it in both hands, holding it to her body as if it was a new-born infant.

  Otto smiled, his knowing smile. ‘Of course. I thought you would be there.’

  Riddles. Riddles were everywhere; the world was becoming a riddle. She sipped the sherry, dry, nutty, it warmed her stomach; she sipped again and realized she had drained the glass. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Stop smiling, for Christ’s sake stop smiling. Think; be rational; calm down. ‘I – I thought this was Dr Saffier’s house.’

  ‘It was.’ The answer came back straight at her, like a hard-hit ball.

  ‘I –’ She stared at her empty glass and smiled, nervously. ‘I’m just a bit surprised to see you.’

  The two eyes stared knowingly, smiling, mocking.

  She stumbled, trying to find the words, trying to put them together. ‘Do you know where – where? –’ she looked at the black tie again. Black tie; dark suit. Black tie. ‘Where Dr Saffier has moved to?’

  The eyes smiled back, laughing at her, and his mouth joined them, silently. ‘Yes, sure, of course.’

  ‘I – er – didn’t know you knew him.’

  ‘I know lots of people, Mrs Hightower.’

  ‘Another sherry, madam?’

  She took the glass from the tray, holding it tightly, and put her empty one down.

  ‘Would you like to meet some of them?’

  ‘Some of whom?’

  ‘Dr Saffier’s relatives. Dr Saffier’s friends.’

  ‘Well –’ she shrugged, puzzled, ‘yes – I suppose –’

  But he had already turned and was walking down the corridor towards the room full of people.

  It was a huge panelled room, the walls hung with massive oil canvases, ancestral portraits, hunting scenes, naked cherubs, all larger than life, and she hesitated in the doorway, staring at the pall of smoke, the men in their sober, formal suits, the women in dark dresses, wearing hats, veils, the waitress with her tray of drinks weaving her way through them like a native in a jungle.

  ‘This is Dr Saffier’s brother,’ said Otto, leading her to a group of three people.

  A frail, elderly man, white haired, with a skinny, almost skeletal face, held out a hand heavily marked with liver spots. His grip was much firmer than she had expected. ‘How do you do?’ he said in a cultured voice with the tiniest trace of a mid-European accent.

  ‘Alex Hightower,’ she said, thinking how different from his brother he looked, yet how similar he sounded.

  He nodded, pensively, with a sad expression. ‘You were a friend of my brother’s?’

  Were? Were? She saw that he too was wearing a black tie; and the man next to him. ‘Er – no – I was a patient of his – a long time ago – he helped me a lot.’

  ‘He helped many people.’ He shook his head. ‘And then they did that to him.’

  She was conscious of the other man and the elderly woman, standing beside them, whose conversation Otto had interrupted, and glanced at them; they both nodded and smiled.

&nbs
p; ‘My sister,’ said Saffier’s brother. ‘And my brother-in-law, Mr and Mrs Templeman.’

  ‘How do you do?’ said Alex.

  They both smiled again, but said nothing.

  It was beginning to sink in. It was a wake. There had been a funeral. Whose? Whose? Panic was beginning to grip her. Not Saffier, please not.

  ‘It was all a set-up,’ said the woman, indignantly, in an accent far more guttural than her brother’s. ‘The Establishment wanted to get him, and that was their way of doing it.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ nodded Saffier’s brother. He looked at Alex again. ‘Never recovered from that you know; that’s what did it. I saw him last week – the day before he died. Destroyed, you know; he was destroyed. A brilliant man, brilliant. He helped so many people. So many letters, you know, so many.’

  The three of them stood silently, nodding their heads sadly, like puppets. She felt trapped suddenly, cornered, and wanted to get away, outside, wanted air.

  ‘He carried on working of course,’ said his brother. ‘Wasn’t allowed to call himself Doctor, any more – but they couldn’t stop his clinic. Do you know what he did? He bought a doctorate by mail order from America. By mail order! So he could call himself Doctor again; they couldn’t stop him!’ He chuckled, looked at his sister and brother-in-law who smiled, and began nodding again.

  Mail order, thought Alex. The New England Bureau. There was a heavy silence; Alex stared at them awkwardly, feeling like an imposter. ‘Would you excuse me, just a moment?’ she said, backing away from them; she turned and walked back into the hallway, feeling the tears streaming down her cheeks. She stopped and wiped her eyes, dabbing them gently.

  ‘Leaving already?’ She heard Otto’s voice, and turned round.

  ‘I have to get back to London.’

  He smiled, the knowing smile again, she thought. ‘With your business unfinished?’

  She blushed. What did Otto know? How much did he know? What the hell was he doing here? ‘Are you related to Dr Saffier, Otto?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just a pupil.’