A Poison Tree (Time, Blood and Karma Book 3) (18 page)

26

DAVID

October had arrived.

Originally the eighth month, thanks to the conversion of the 10-month Latin calendar into a twelve-month one, it now found itself a misnomer, a throwback to the days when togas were fashionable.

Weather-wise, the month had started horribly. Gales off the Isles of Scilly resulted in the death of a fisherman when his boat sank. Swathes of England were flooded. In Herefordshire
, a man was drowned trying to release flood waters through a sluice gate. Wales opened the Rugby World Cup with a 23-18 victory over Argentina in the new Millennium Stadium in Cardiff, and England thrashed Italy 67-7 at Twickenham – a game I watched from the comfort of my dry armchair.  For England’s next game against the All Blacks, I would be there at Twickenham in person, assuming civilisation hadn’t come to an end in the meantime.

The portents weren’t good. In the days that followed, thirty-one people died in the Ladbroke Grove train crash two miles from Paddington Station, and
Dr. Harold Shipman went on trial for murdering fifteen female patients in the Greater Manchester area. In the end, up to two hundred and fifty deaths would be ascribed to him, making him one of the most prolific serial killers in recorded history. Hitler, Stalin and Mao Tse-tung aside, that is.

Elsewhere in the world,
Japan was struggling to come to terms with its worst-ever nuclear accident – excluding Hiroshima and Nagasaki, if you classify those as ‘accidents’ – at a uranium reprocessing facility in Tōkai-mura, northeast of Tokyo. I had little time for world events. There was enough to worry about in Little England.

Work remained busy. Rover had launched the 25 and 45 models in the previous month, and
it was announced that Nissan’s facelifted Primera would be built at NMUK, Washington. My father continued to nag and fret about the state of our business, in spite of the fact that, as far as I could see, 1999 was going to be a record year for us. I confirmed Harry in post, to his obvious relief. After the shock of Mark’s suicide, the Coventry staff needed some stability and a familiar face in charge.

At home, things were calm. I chatted
every week to Katie on the phone. Oxford suited her. Claire seemed more like her old self, and whenever she said she had a late meeting, I said I understood and told her not to work too hard. I gathered from incidental remarks that Jack and Eleanor were having some problems with their teenage daughter, Ruth, who was around Katie’s age but much less mature.

“Boys,” said Claire. “And
maybe older men too,” she added darkly.

“I bet that doesn’t go down too well with Eleanor. Embarrassing for her, particularly. Fornication is not exactly encouraged in church circles, is it?” I observed.

“Jack’s not too thrilled either. If he has a temper outburst, I’d worry for any boyfriend of Ruth’s on the end of it.”

I didn’t know how to broach
with Anna the subject of my seeing Max at the hotel. She had been operating below the radar recently, snowed under with manuscripts, and I didn’t feel I could just call her and tell her what I’d seen. That felt like a clumsy, insensitive thing to do. Yet I needed to talk to her.

Then an opportunity presented itself.

“Anna is going to be down in London at the same time as you’re there for the New Zealand game,” Claire told me one evening as she unpacked groceries. “You should meet up and have dinner.”

“That’s a good idea.
”

I called Anna from work the next day.

“Hello, stranger.”

“Oh, hi, David. How are you?”

“I’m good. I hear you’ll be in London on the ninth. I’ll be down for the rugby. Want to meet up for dinner or will you be eating with boring, self-obsessed writers?”

“No. I’ll get my full quota of writers and agents during the day. It would be lovely to have dinner with you.”

“I might be a bit late getting back into central London from Twickenham.”

“I don’t mind if you’re buying.”

“Where will you be staying?”

“At
the James Hotel, off Victoria Street. I can walk to the Bright Sparks offices from there. We’ve got some important meetings coming up. They’re still trying to persuade me to join them instead of me being freelance.”

“Of course they are.
Why wouldn’t they? OK. I’ll see if they have any rooms or find a place nearby. I’ll call you again nearer the time.”

“You’ve left it late to book.”

“I know. I like to make things difficult for myself.”

The day before the rugby, I worked late and grabbed a coffee and a sandwich at Leicester railway station.  I couldn’t face the driving and parking hassle in London, so the train was the sensible option. I had no intention of rushing around. This was going to be a relaxing and civilised trip, culminating, I hoped, in an unlikely English victory over New Zealand.

On the platform, I struck up a conversation with a
n attractive Asian woman who, while petite, had legs that went on forever. In my mind, anyway.

What is it about black boots?
They elicit a Pavlovian response in any libido in possession of a male. They should be outlawed. They stack the deck unfairly against stupid men. Which is to say, most men.

She
introduced herself as Ellen, and told me she was touring the UK and had been misinformed about the Midlands being interesting. She was from Hong Kong, had black shoulder-length hair and a cuteness about her. Ellen was ‘doing’ Europe, and I had no doubt Europe would only be too happy to ‘do’ her.

I helped her with her luggage as the train came in, and we sat opposite
one another. We almost had the carriage to ourselves, just a couple of weary backpackers and a grey-haired guy wearing nothing but purple who muttered to himself from time to time. The train needed a good clean, just as the girl who had made my sandwich needed a lesson in what constituted food.

“So how is the approaching Millennium being viewed in Hong Kong?” I asked.

“We’ve already had our Apocalypse in 1997.”

“Ah, yes, the handover of the colony back to China. With our Mr
. Patton making things difficult, I understand.”

“There has been some tension. Things will change, but so far nothing too fundamental for the ordinary person.”

“Are you sure it’s OK for you to talk to me? I am one of the Running Dogs of Imperialism, you know.”

“I’m an English major, so everyone thinks I work for the enemy anyway,” was her response. A collection of Charles
Bukowski’s poems rested on the table. I wished I’d brought something more highbrow to read than Nick Hornby. Ah, well.

As it turned out, neither of us opened our books. We passed the journey chatting about nothing in particular, while the English countryside sped past us in the dark. It was almost midnight when we p
ulled into St. Pancras, and I bade goodbye to my black-booted companion.

“If you’re ever in Hong Kong,” she said, “Call me. I can tell you where all the best restaurants are.” She scribbled her number on a scrap of paper and handed it to me.

“Thank you. I can’t see me visiting Hong Kong, to be honest, but you never know.”

“You never do. Lots of Western
people end up living in Asia, though admittedly Thailand is a more popular destination, especially Phuket and Samui.”

“
I’m sorry I don’t have the time to show you around London.”

“Don’t worry. I’m used to finding my way in strange cities. Anyway, your wife might not be too happy about it.” She grinned a
s I touched my wedding ring.

“You could be right.”

“Nice to meet you, David. Thank you for your company.”

“Likewise. See you in Kowloon.”

I took a taxi to the James Hotel, where I had secured a room.

Anna would be fast asleep by now
.

I checked in,
had a shower then crashed.

“That looks like a healthy breakfast.”

I kissed Anna and sat down. The dining room was busy
. I ordered coffee and tucked into bacon, eggs, sausages, fried bread, beans, mushrooms, the lot. There is nothing to beat a Full English breakfast on a cold morning.

“What time are you off to Twickenham?”

“After breakfast, I think. Kick-off isn’t until half past four, so I’ll have time for a couple of drinks beforehand.”

“I hope you’re not going to get rowdy and turn up pissed to take me to dinner.” My sister-in-law fixed me with a stern eye.

“That’s football supporters you’re thinking of. We rugby types are much better behaved.”

“I hope so.”

“I’ll get back into town as fast as I can, OK?”

“No problem.”

“So what’s happening with you today?”

“Author culling.
That always happens on a Saturday, so the authors don’t expect it.”

“Sounds nasty.”

“It is.”

An expensive taxi ride got me to Twickenham, where I watched a rampant Jonah Lomu power the All Blacks to a 30-18 victory over England. We were behind after eleven minutes and the raucous home support in the end counted for nothing. A second-half fight back got us to 16-16, but then we ran out of steam. In spite of the defeat, it was difficult not to feel exhilarated by some terrific rugby. Never mind, a win over Tonga would still see us through to the next stage.

Finding a taxi after the game was hell, and the drive back into central London slow and frustrating. I arrived at the hotel around twenty to nine. I’d called ahead to Anna, so I leapt into the shower, changed and met her in the lobby ten minutes later.

We agreed to walk down Victoria Street where Anna knew there was a reasonable Italian restaurant. They managed to find us a table and we ordered some pasta and a good bottle of wine.

“This is going to ruin my diet, David.”

“You don’t need to diet.”

“I do.”

“Shut up and have some more wine.”

“OK.” She giggled.

“Are you still eating meat?”

“Yes.”

“I’m shocked.”

By the time we’d had Irish coffees
, it was approaching half past ten. I still hadn’t brought up the subject of my seeing Max.

When we stepped outside it was cold, but the hot food and alcohol served to keep us warm.
Although the sky was overcast and we couldn’t see the stars, rain seemed unlikely.

“
Do you fancy a stroll down to the river?” I said.

“Why not?” Anna put her arm through mine.

We walked at a slow pace, huddling together against the chill. We passed the Collegiate Church of St Peter and the Houses of Parliament. Big Ben chimed eleven. We stopped at the centre of Westminster Bridge, and leaned against the iron fascia. On the South Bank, preparations were under way to lift the great wheel of the London Eye into place. The sluggish river flowed below us and a slight breeze blew through Anna’s hair. I put my arm around her shoulders.

“There is something I need to tell you,” I said.

“What?”

“There hasn’t seemed an appropriate time before –”

“Never mind that. What is it?”

“I saw Max. In Leicester. He was meeting a woman outside a hotel.”

She looked away from me. “I don’t want to know.”

“I’m sorry.”

Anna was silent for a few moments. Then she turned her face back to me. “I’m thinking of leaving him, David. I’m considering taking the job with Bright Sparks and moving to London.”

I looked down at the black river. “I see.”

She put a hand on my arm. “What do you think?”

“What does it matter what I think? It’s your life, Anna.”

“It matters to me what you think.”

“Claire is having an affair.” The words were out before I could stop them.

She took my head in her hands and held her face close to mine. “Are you sure?” She sounded more concerned than shocked.

“The detective I hired is sure.”

“Oh, David. I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I shouldn’t have spoken. I’m sorry.”

Anna pulled me away from the parapet and wrapped her arms around me.

“Shall I tell you what we are going to do now?” she asked.

“Yes, tell me.”

“We are going to go back to our hotel and raid the mini-bars. We’ll never have a better excuse than this for getting drunk.”

“Are you serious?”

“I absolutely am.” She gave me a peck on the cheek.

We retraced our steps and in spite of everything, we joked. It felt like some great weight had been lifted off both of us.

When we arrived back at
the James, Anna went to her room to collect bottles. Within five minutes she was knocking on my door. She arranged the miniatures on my bedside table and sat down on the bed next to me.