Dead Line (9 page)

Danny laughed out loud and Hannah noticed how white his teeth were, in contrast to the walnut colouring of his skin. He was probably Sabra, a native-born Israeli. Who knew where his parents had come from? It could have been almost anywhere.

Suddenly Danny’s face sobered and his expression grew serious. ‘What’s missing here is
fear
. Oh I know they had IRA bombs for years, and after the July bombings you could see the apprehension on the Underground, the mistrust in everyone’s eyes. But it didn’t last, because the status quo here is peace. When people leave home in the morning here, they expect to return home safe and sound in the evening.’

‘Spoken like a true Israeli,’ she said. It was true; life in Tel Aviv was constantly tense. It was the one thing she didn’t like about living there. Danny nodded and she went on. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t see the situation in Israel changing any time soon.’

‘Not while the two sides are at such loggerheads,’ he said, and she was gratified that at least he understood that there were two sides to the issues. Mr Teitelbaum would never countenance that; he was a hawk through and through.

She said tentatively, wondering if he would disapprove, ‘I’ve joined the peace movement.’ But far from disapproving, it turned out that he knew some of the people involved well and was sympathetic to their ideas. He even allowed that yes, he was related to Teddy Kollek, the late Mayor of Jerusalem and a famous dove, though he stressed that he was a distant relation.

‘Did you ever meet him?’

‘Yes,’ he said, looking down modestly. ‘But only once or twice. He was very kind, but I was just a boy then.’

Dinner seemed to pass in minutes and when Danny called for the bill, he raised his wine glass and proposed a toast. ‘To the genius of Mr Stoppard, and to my elbow.’

‘Your elbow?’

‘Yes, for inadvertently spilling your glass of wine.’

She laughed and he added, ‘And thus for providing me with your company this evening.’

As she smiled at him he asked, ‘I wonder if by any chance you would be free two evenings from now. I am sure you are very busy with your family, but a colleague at work has given me two tickets to a chamber concert at St John’s church in Smith Square. I am told the acoustics are marvellous.’

‘I’d like that very much,’ she said, this time without hesitation.

Outside Danny hailed a taxi, and Hannah gave the driver the address in Highgate. Danny said goodnight and shook her hand formally. As the taxi drove off, Hannah found herself thinking what a nice man he seemed, and how pleasant dinner had been.

But she was not naïve - not after thirty years of life with Saul - and inevitably part of her wondered what Danny Kollek was after.

Her body? she wondered, then suppressed a giggle at the thought. It seemed most unlikely; Hannah was flattered by the attentions of this good-looking young man, but she had too little vanity to think he was really interested in her sexually. Could it be her money, then? She thought not. She wasn’t dressed expensively this evening, or wearing any jewellery, and nothing she’d said would have indicated personal wealth. And Danny had picked up the cheque for dinner at once, refusing her offer to share.

No, it couldn’t be money attracting him - a conclusion confirmed beyond doubt when the taxi arrived at her son’s house. As Hannah got out her purse to pay the driver he shook his head. ‘It’s all been taken care of, luv,’ he said, waving some notes that Danny Kollek had given him as he said goodbye to her.

So neither gigolo nor gold-digger, thought Hannah contentedly as she entered the Highgate house. Just a companion - and a very amusing one at that. Best of all, he hadn’t asked her one blessed thing about Saul.

FOURTEEN

It was a very small house for Hampstead, a cottage really, single-storey with one Gothic gable. Nineteenth-century, perhaps even older, and Liz wondered if the roof had once been thatched. The cottage sat behind a tall, shaggy yew hedge. The wooden entrance gate moved slightly in the breeze, its hinges squeaking mournfully; when she gave a push, it swung wide open.

Liz took two tentative steps and found herself in a small front garden hidden from the street by the hedge. A path of old paving stones led to the front door of the cottage, which seemed to be badly in need of repair: several roof tiles were slipping, and the window sills on either side of the front door looked rotten.

She rang the bell and heard it echoing loudly. No sound of movement inside. She peered through the letter box but couldn’t see any post lying uncollected on the mat inside. She waited a little while, then rang again. Still no response.

It was while she was wondering what to do next that some second sense made her turn round and see the man standing in a corner of the garden, next to a small circular rose bed. He was over average height and wore a baseball cap, tilted down, making it hard to see his face or tell his age - anywhere from thirty to fifty, Liz decided. Around his waist a gardener’s apron was wrapped, and in his right hand he held a pair of secateurs. He waved them casually at Liz, before turning to prune one of the tall roses.

‘Excuse me.’ Liz raised her voice as she crossed the lawn.

He turned around very slowly, but didn’t look her in the eye. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m looking for Mr Marcham. Is he in?’ She wondered if this could be Marcham himself, tending his garden, but no - Marcham’s photographs had shown an angular English face. This man looked slightly foreign; dark-skinned, Mediterranean.

The man shook his head, turning away from her. ‘I haven’t seen him today. Did you ring the bell?’

‘Yes, but no one answered. You don’t happen to know where I might find him?’

The man now had his back to her. ‘Sorry. He’s not often here when I am.’

‘Right,’ said Liz, wondering if she should leave Marcham a note. ‘Thanks very much,’ she said, and the man merely nodded, continuing with his pruning. I hope you’re a better gardener than communicator, she thought as she left.

She walked out and looked both ways along the street, as if willing Chris Marcham to appear. Where could he be? The source at the
Sunday Times
had said there was no wife or children, no family that he’d ever heard about. ‘A bit of a loner,’ he’d added for good measure. Liz cursed Marcham - if he was so bloody unsociable, then why couldn’t he stay at home?

But he couldn’t be doing too badly, she concluded as she started the long walk back to the Underground. His house was small and pretty run down, but it was in Hampstead, and right on the edge of the Heath. It should provide a handsome pension in his old age. And he could afford a gardener, though from the look of the ragged flower beds this one didn’t seem to be much cop. A funny bloke, thought Liz, suddenly realizing the man hadn’t even been wearing proper shoes for the job - they were slip-ons, shiny-looking ones, more at home in a wine bar than a flower bed. What had he been doing anyway? Pruning the roses, that was it.

Liz stopped suddenly and stood still. Her mother ran a nursery garden, but you didn’t need her knowledge to see what was wrong. No one prunes roses in August - not bush roses, that was for sure. The man had been a fake. Whatever he was, he wasn’t a gardener.

She wondered what to do. Looking back, she saw that she was barely a hundred yards from the house. Ought she to ring the police? She paused. Better to go back herself, right now, before he’d sloped off, and see what he was really up to.

She hesitated, since if he wasn’t a gardener, then he couldn’t be up to anything good. But she made her mind up to ignore her apprehension, and started half-running towards the little house. When she got to the gate she saw the front door was wide open. She slowed only momentarily, then walked quickly inside, calling out ‘hello’ loudly as she entered.

Silence. She stood in the small hallway next to a living room remarkable for its lived-in drabness. Through the door she could see a television perched on a MDF cabinet in one corner, covered by a thick layer of dust. Along the far wall sat a shabby, stained sofa badly in need of reupholstering. The low coffee table in front of it was covered with newspapers and magazines. Never mind the gardener, thought Liz, Marcham should get himself a cleaner.

Directly ahead of her the short hall led to a closed door. She walked up to it, quietly turned the knob and pushed it open. She was looking into a small, square kitchen. Dirty dishes sat in the sink; an open box of cereal stood on the pine table in the middle of the room. Beyond were two more doors, one also closed, the other open and leading to a bedroom. She walked across the kitchen and, peering in, saw a brass bed, neatly made. On the bedside table there was a dog-eared copy of
England’s 1000 Best Churches
, and on the wall a framed picture of Jesus on the cross.

Then she heard the noise. Something being moved, or pushed, the sound of wood sliding, coming from the room next door. Retreating to the kitchen, she looked around for something to defend herself with. Not a knife, she thought; facing a stronger man, she might find a knife turned against her. But there was a heavy frying pan on the stove. Grabbing its handle, she moved to the closed door and opened it cautiously. She was just in time to see a man drop from the back window.

‘Stop!’ she shouted, knowing he wouldn’t, and by the time she got to the window, the man was scaling the low wall that separated the rear garden from Hampstead Heath. All she got was a glimpse of his shoes. Slip-ons, still shiny.

Her pulse racing, she put the frying pan down and looked around the room, which was a small study - the bedroom must be next door. In contrast to the squalid sitting room, the study was tidy and well organised. Books lined two of the walls, neatly arranged, and a small antique bureau sat next to the window, its lid down to double as a writing surface. On it sat a closed laptop computer, a digital tape recorder the size of a cigarette lighter, an A4-sized notebook, and three HB pencils, sharpened and aligned in a row. The arsenal of a professional writer.

She examined the tape recorder, but it was empty. Noticing a pile of file folders on the bookcase, she extracted the top one, which lay askew across the neat stack. She read its label with sudden interest.
Al-Assad Interview, Notes and Final Copy
. The article on Syria’s President that the
Sunday Times
was waiting for so eagerly. Yet when Liz opened the file it was empty. Was that what the ‘gardener’ was after?

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Liz jumped at the sudden noise behind her. She turned and found a middle-aged man in jeans and a white shirt standing in the doorway. He was tall and he was very angry - an accomplice of the burglar she’d just surprised? Liz looked quickly around, but the frying pan was out of reach.

It seemed best to take the initiative; maybe she could catch him off-guard long enough to get past him. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

‘My name’s Marcham. Now perhaps you’ll tell me just what the hell you’re doing in my house?’

FIFTEEN

Sophie Margolis sat in the kitchen of her large Highgate house, thinking of her mother-in-law. For once, Sophie had time on her hands, a cup of coffee in front of her, and Hannah for the moment out of the way - the attentive granny, walking little Zack on the Heath.

Sophie had always liked Hannah, but she reflected how little she really knew about her. For one thing Saul had always got in the way - Hannah’s former husband, a bullying missile of a man who mistook pugnacity for energy, monopolised attention and had done his best to undermine everyone around him. Not least David, his son, Sophie’s husband, whose gentleness had so attracted her, and still did. In the end Hannah had called ‘time’ on Saul. It had been a contested divorce, a fiery business, full of animosity. Had it wounded Hannah? Not to all appearances, thought Sophie. She was full of enthusiasm about her new life in Israel; acting in fact as though she was only just beginning to live life to the full.

A pair of blue tits was picking greenfly off the roses. Sophie got off her stool to watch them and to cast an eye at the pram containing her latest offspring.

There was something, though, about Hannah - something not so much worrying as puzzling. When she’d first arrived in London it had been hard to get her out of the house on her own. She’d gone with Sophie and David to the theatre, to dinner with a few friends, that was all. But now there seemed to be a man in the picture. Where had he come from? Sophie had first spotted the two together when she had been pushing the buggy down Highgate High Street and to her great surprise her mother-in-law had emerged from a coffee shop in the company of a male at least twenty years her junior - attractive, too. There had been no attempt at concealment. Hannah came straight up and introduced her companion - Danny Kollek from the Israeli Embassy. And from there it had taken off. It soon transpired that Hannah was seeing a lot of Mr Kollek. They went to concerts, to restaurants, sometimes for walks and once, amazingly, to the zoo.

Well, thought Sophie, resuming her stool and running her eye over the
Times 2
crossword puzzle, was it really so surprising? At least Mr Kollek was as unlike Saul as it was possible to be. He seemed intelligent and cultured and he was, frankly, handsome. Surely he couldn’t be after sex with Hannah, could he? She hadn’t spent a night away from the house. Money? Well, Hannah had fought Saul tooth and nail for a good settlement. She was worth the best part of twenty million dollars, Sophie knew for a fact. So Kollek could be after her money, but he seemed to be going an odd way about it. Hannah had told her that he always insisted on paying for their entertainment. Still, twenty million dollars justified a careful, tactical courtship. It was with this in mind that Sophie decided that she’d better do something.

They were on the Heath by the dog pond, taking turns to push the baby in the buggy, when she broached the subject. The sun had moved from behind the clouds, warming the air, and Sophie took off her pullover, feeling frumpy in an old T-shirt and jeans. Hannah was dressed casually too, but smartly - in linen trousers and a silk shirt.