It took him more than an hour before he reached Mrs Maneckjee’s street. She lived in a small red-brick semi on a residential estate. As he walked up to the front door he noticed that unlike most of her neighbours’ houses that were fronted by hard, utilitarian parking areas, her house still retained its front garden, carefully manicured, bursting with colour instead of oil stains. He rang the bell, and felt a surge of anxiety as he saw a figure looming behind the door. He knew this might be the end of it. The door was opened by a diminutive Indian woman dressed in a bright orange sari, with bangles on her wrist and greying hair tied neatly in a bun.
‘Mrs Maneckjee, my name is Harry Jones. A friend of mine called you to ask about your son, Farrokh. Mrs Maneckjee, I’ve been looking at the crash that killed him and I think something very strange and extremely wicked has been going on. I don’t believe your son was killed by accident, and I’m hoping you will help me find the truth.’
She studied him through careful, cautious eyes that had flecks of ochre and hazel. ‘He was a good boy, my Farrokh,’ she said in an accent as thick as treacle.
‘He was important, too. Because of what he was doing in Russia.’
‘That is true.’ She nodded her head sadly.
‘Mrs Maneckjee, there is absolutely no reason why you should trust me, but if you don’t mind I’d like to come in and talk to you about Farrokh. You haven’t been given the truth.’
She held his eye. ‘I know that. And you are the first to agree with me. So I don’t mind at all if you come in, Mr Jones. You look hot. Would you like some tea?’
‘Yes. Very much.’
‘Then, please.’ She stepped back and ushered him through. The house was bright and immaculately kept, in the Indian style. As she led Harry through to the sitting room at the rear, he saw a small shrine to Farrokh that had been placed beneath an old stone tree of life. The light from several small candles shone onto a portrait. His graduation photo.
‘He graduated with first-class honours, you know, Mr Jones, in geographical sciences. From Bristol University.’ Her head was shaking back and forth as she spoke, in the manner of the sub-continent, and a light had crept into her face, a mixture of pride and defiance, as if at last someone was ready to listen to her about her son. She seated him on the sofa with a view out to the rear garden, and with the tea served him tiny cakes of almond that she placed upon a small end table with legs carved in the form of elephant heads.
He looked around for other photographs of her family, but could find none. ‘Farrokh – was he your only son?’
She nodded and gazed into her cup as though it were a sea of troubles.
‘I am so sorry. And your husband?’
‘Away on family business in India.’
‘Forgive me, but you are very brave to allow me into your home, Mrs Maneckjee.’
‘I am probably a foolish old woman to let someone like you into my home, Mr Jones – oh, indeed, I know what is being said about you. But you are the first person who has shown any interest in the truth about my son.’
He leaned forward. ‘You will need to be very brave when you hear what I have to tell you.’
‘It could not be any worse than what has already been told to me. That he died for nothing.’
‘Tell me, what was Farrokh doing in Russia?’
And as he listened, all Harry’s pain and weariness seemed to drift away from him, replaced by understanding and irresistible anger.
‘My son was a trained hydrologist and environmental expert. Young but very accomplished, you understand?’ Her head wobbled; he smiled in encouragement. ‘He was leading a small team that had spent several months making observations in the Caspian Sea.’
‘Why were they doing that, Mrs Maneckjee?’
‘Oh, because of the pipeline.’
Harry put his tea aside, concerned it might fall from his fingers. ‘What pipeline is that?’
‘But you must have heard of it, Mr Jones,’ she scolded gently, ‘it is very large. It will carry huge amounts of gas to Europe. It is called Babylon.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’
‘Before the EU can sign contracts for such a thing, it has to undertake an environmental audit. That is its own law. And that’s what Farrokh and his team were doing. Very important work, very secret. But you see, Mr Jones, there are bad people out there, very bad. As soon as Farrokh and his team began their work, he found his office was being broken into, his papers being stolen, his records copied. Then as they got closer to the end of their work they were threatened, several times, their vehicles and equipment sabotaged. Wicked men trying to stop them.’
‘Who was doing that, who was trying to stop them?’
‘Farrokh did not know, not for certain. He never saw them face to face, it was always in the shadows, in the dark, you know? But I think there is very much at stake with this pipeline, so my son and his team decided to expedite their work, to finish their report as quickly as possible. And even as they were trying to complete their task, their offices were once again ransacked and all their computer equipment stolen or destroyed.’
‘So all the work was lost.’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘My Farrokh was a clever boy, he knew there was such wickedness afoot. He made a copy, you see, of the most important pieces of the research. On his laptop. And he kept it with him so that whatever happened he would be able to complete his report. But he told me he was very worried, Mr Jones. I think a little afraid for his people. So he sent them home. None of them knew what was in the report, except for my Farrokh. And at the first opportunity he flew back to Brussels to present his findings.’
She poured fresh cups of tea; Harry was desperate to urge her on, but he knew she must do this in her own way.
‘Would you care for some more biscuits, Mr Jones? You seem to enjoy them.’
He glanced down at his plate; it was empty. He had eaten automatically, both his mind and his manners adrift two thousand miles away on the shores of the Caspian Sea. ‘Forgive me. That was rude.’
‘Not at all. I regard it as a considerable compliment to my poor cooking skills. But I suspect that most of all you would like me to finish my story.’
‘Yes. Please.’
‘When he arrived in Brussels he waited to present his report. And he waited, and he waited. He kept being told that his superiors on the Commission would see him the following day. Always the following day. It was Christmas, you see, and eventually he was told that everyone had left and he should come back after the New Year. Farrokh was very angry, but there was no one to whom he could protest. And he was more than a little frightened by this time. He thought he had – how do we say it? – covered his tracks on his journey from Russia, but one night he found his hotel room had been broken into, and his luggage was searched.’
‘The laptop?’
‘He had kept it with him. He was such a clever and careful boy, Mr Jones, everyone used to say so. He called me the morning before he left, saying he was coming back home.’
‘On Speedbird 235.’
‘Precisely. With his laptop.’ Suddenly tears began to fall, making tiny dark spots on her sari; she fought to control them.
‘But I don’t understand, Mrs Maneckjee. Why did you not tell all this to the police?’
‘But I did!’ she protested, the tears wiped by a flash of anger. ‘I called, they said they would come, but it was many, many days. They complained that they had so many relatives to see. And when I told them, they looked at each other, closed their notebooks, and said I must be mistaken. The plane had been shot down by the Egyptians, they said, because of the children, not because of my Farrokh. I insisted they make enquiries, they said they would, but nothing happened. I telephoned many people, wrote many letters, but you know how it is. They concluded I was simply a disturbed old lady, an immigrant with a foreign accent, and it is the truth that nowadays unless you think in the accent of Essex, they believe you cannot think at all. No one took any notice, Mr Jones. U
ntil you.’ She smiled, even though it hurt, while he felt a little ashamed about his countrymen. ‘So you see, Mr Jones, I don’t have to be brave about what you came to tell me. I already know.’
‘Then you are even braver than I thought.’
‘No. It was Farrokh who was the brave one.’ She got up and went to his shrine, picked up his photograph. Harry stood beside her as she showed it off with pride. ‘Such a wonderful son,’ she whispered, and kissed his image. She set about making tiny, entirely unnecessary adjustments to the immaculate shrine, wanting still to do something for her son, repositioning the candles, adjusting its garland of small white flowers. Then she turned to Harry. ‘Is there anything else you would like to know, Mr Jones?’
Much, but he didn’t think Mrs Maneckjee would be able to tell him. ‘I don’t think so. You have been very kind.’
‘What will you do now?’
‘I’m not sure. I wish I could promise that I was in a position to reveal all this and get you a little justice – but justice isn’t being very kind to either of us right now.’
She nodded in acceptance. ‘At least I have been able to share my feelings with someone who understands. Who believes. Not even my husband . . . Thank you for coming. And for caring, Mr Jones.’ She led him slowly towards the door. ‘He was such an intelligent boy, wrote such clever things. But I think I have already said that several times. You must forgive a mother’s pride.’
‘Such a pity we couldn’t read his last report.’
She stopped, her hand on the door latch. ‘Oh, but you can. He emailed me a copy before he left from Brussels. In case they stole his laptop.’
‘What was in that report?’
‘I do not know. It is far too technical for me.’
‘May I see it?’
‘If you would like.’ And once again Harry was invited into her home. This time she took him to a small side room filled with books and files. A comfortable chair sat in one corner with sewing paraphernalia around it. In the other was a computer. ‘Please make yourself comfortable. And I have some food prepared. Would you like a plate, while you read?’
‘That isn’t necessary, thank you.’
‘Not necessary, perhaps, but my very great pleasure, Mr Jones.’
So he ate, while he read, and began to understand.
When he had finished, Harry sat quietly for many moments. The report had been technical and dense, as Mrs Maneckjee had suggested, but its conclusions rang out with a clarity that took his breath away and, for a while, scrambled his sense of everything that had happened. Only when he had grappled with its findings and forced them into some sort of submission did he reach for his phone and tap at its keys.
‘Hello,’ he said dully when it was answered. ‘This is Harry Jones.’
A silence. ‘How did you get this number?’
‘You don’t cover your tracks well enough.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Through the Internet. I got your village by searching the local press for its report of your husband’s death, then your address from the electoral register. After that, your phone number was easy. It was kid’s play, once I realized you were Mrs Felix Wilton.’
‘How despicable of you to turn up at his funeral service today,’ she said, her voice controlled and unyielding.
‘It was necessary. To discover who else turned up. You. I’m sure you understand.’
‘You keep turning up in all the wrong places, Mr Jones.’
‘Just as you seem to have been turning up under every stone I lift.’
She hesitated; he thought he could hear a cigarette being lit. Then: ‘What do you want?’
‘To meet.’
‘What, meet a man with your violent reputation?’
‘You know it’s not true.’
She sucked in a lungful of nicotine. ‘But why on earth do you want to meet? You know I’ll have the entire police force of Wiltshire waiting for you, plus some very interested parties from London.’
‘I don’t think you would want me to talk to the police. Not about the pipeline. And the Russians.’
A much longer pause, one that seemed to stretch as long as a hangman’s rope. ‘Very well. Where?’
‘I’m not so far away.’
‘Then come to my home.’
‘I don’t think so, I’m sure it’s bristling with security. Somewhere neutral.’
‘Then the village church.’
‘Very well.’
‘The churchwarden opens it at ten every morning. Shall we say . . .’
‘Ten-thirty?’
‘Tomorrow morning. It will be most interesting to meet you, Mr Jones.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
He had just finished the call when Mrs Maneckjee came in. ‘I am sorry for the interruption when you seem so thoughtful, Mr Jones.’ She had brought him a cup of tea.
‘No, I should apologize. I have overstayed my welcome.’
‘You have discovered what you are looking for?’
‘I think so.’
‘Then you should celebrate with tea.’ She put the cup down beside him.
‘Thank you.’
But there was no hint of celebration. His mood seemed resigned, focused, inexorably sad. It made her feel uneasy.
‘I’ve stolen some of your writing paper and an envelope,’ he continued. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I’d like you to post it for me.’ He sealed it and handed it across.
‘To Mr Usher? The former Prime Minister?’ she exclaimed in surprise.
‘At his home address. I don’t want to send it through official channels. Neither of us have any reason to trust such things, do we?’
‘I think you are very wise.’
‘But I’m afraid I don’t have a stamp.’
‘Do not worry, I shall take the most excellent care of it.’
‘It’s just some things I think he ought to know.’
She gazed deep into his eyes, saw trouble, resignation. ‘In case you are not in a position to tell him personally,’ she said softly.
‘Something like that.’
‘I think my Farrokh was not the only brave person in this matter, Mr Jones.’
He tried to muster a reassuring smile, it didn’t convince. ‘I’d better get going. I’ve got to be about thirty miles away by tomorrow morning and I doubt whether taking the bus or train would prove a very good idea for a man in my position.’
‘So how will you manage?’
‘I’ll walk, Mrs Maneckjee,’ he said, pointing to his feet. ‘These things haven’t let me down yet.’
She shook her head. ‘Walking at night is not to be recommended, either. Come with me.’
She led him to the garage in the rear garden. Inside, amongst a collection of boxes and garden paraphernalia, was a motorbike, a Honda, 250cc, far from new but meticulously polished and cared for, with neat panniers on the back. ‘Farrokh’s,’ she declared.
‘That would be wonderful but . . .’
‘I know. You cannot promise to return it.’ She knew. ‘I think my son would understand, and so will I. May your god travel with you, Mr Harry Jones.’
He drove through the evening, the light fading, the wind whipping through his hair – Farrokh’s helmet had been too small to fit. He kept to the back roads, throwing the bike into the corners, slipping through the gears, filling his lungs with the heady, scented air of the hedgerows, bringing back memories of moments like this when he’d been in his twenties and thought he was immortal. It felt so long ago.
Harry didn’t drive into the village but pulled over well short, not sure of what might lie ahead. He hid Farrokh’s bike in a copse of scrub beech and took to the fields, using the hedgerows as cover. At this time of year there was always light in the sky and he made good progress, catching the laments of the countryside as owls, foxes, ferrets and feral cats lay about their business. Cows continued to tear at the grass as he passed, heedless of his presence, but at one point he stumbled upon a covey of resting partridge a
nd they stormed low across the field, their wings beating like kettle drums in protest. Yet for the most part he heard nothing but the nocturnal rustles of the undergrowth and the sighing of trees in the breeze.
The village of Upper Marlsford lay in the fold of the valley along the course of the river that at this time of year flowed languidly through its midst. It was a community that time had treated gently; its walls were of flint, brick and chalk, its roofs mostly red tile or thatch, and from its size Harry reckoned that it was home to no more than five or six hundred souls. The church was easy enough to spot, even from a distance, its bell tower thrusting through the jumble of surrounding trees. He worked his way around those parts of the village that appeared most busy, like the pub and the manor house where lights still blazed, but for the most part Upper Marlsford was falling to sleep, and as he approached, cautiously, along the path that ran beside the riverbank, he disturbed nothing but the occasional drowsy dog. He avoided the road and came to the church through the graveyard, where he found a gardener’s hut nestling beside a looming cypress tree. The rich smell of composting grass seeped from somewhere close at hand. The gardener was trusting, the lock even more so, and it came away easily. Harry slipped inside, and waited.
The sun rose early and Harry was soon fully alert, and aching from a night spent sitting propped against a slatted wall. He’d brought water with him, a large plastic bottle, and he used it to rinse his face. His hair was matted from the bike ride, his suit a fearful mess; the trouser leg had got itself ripped somewhere along the way. With his many days of stubble he looked more than unkempt, yet just a few months earlier he’d been one of the most eminent men in the country, a home in Mayfair, a life that glittered and had him showered with respect. Patricia Vaine had done her work well.