Least of Evils (5 page)

Whereas Oliver Ketley shut himself behind the high walls of Thorley Grange and eschewed publicity, Jack Burgess courted it. Whereas few of the people of Brunton even knew Ketley's name, Burgess's name was now known to many from the gossip columns and the photographs of
Hello
. Two very different men, most would have said. And yet increasingly bitter rivals.

One of the many useful qualities possessed by Jack Burgess was that he needed very little sleep. He had that in common with Margaret Thatcher, he told anyone who commented on it. Most of the people he associated with professed a great admiration for the Iron Lady. Hadn't she encouraged initiative in all sorts of unlikely places?

At one o'clock, Burgess's guests had left, most of them with serious admonitions from their host about driving carefully. The police reaped a rich harvest of speeders and drinkers on a particular stretch of road which most of them would be using. Most people in Jack's position would now have been happy to plod their way to bed, perhaps in a pleasant alcoholic somnolence. But Jack Burgess was neither drunk nor tired. He called in a man who had not been at the party. He wished to discuss business affairs, and in particular the way Oliver Ketley was beginning to trespass upon his territory and annoy him. In reality it was the other way round, of course: as the newer shark in this polluted sea, it was Burgess who was seeking to take away business from his older rival. But like most gangland bosses, Jack assumed a natural right to dominate the territory. He had long since passed the stage where his staff dared to point out anomalies in his assumptions.

‘Ketley's been in touch with Van Heusen. What's he up to?'

Van Heusen was the international dealer who supplied drugs to the Burgess organization. In the mysterious and fabulously profitable world of illegal drugs, no one knew whether the man was Dutch or where his huge supplies came from. Van Heusen might indeed be an assumed name; even Burgess himself had never met him. Nor had he any desire to do so.

Geoffrey Day, the man he was speaking to, handled the dealings with Heusen's representatives, but even he knew little of the man himself and was content that it should be so. In this trade, knowledge was a dangerous asset; people who knew too much disappeared suddenly, with no one caring to follow up their deaths.

Day said uneasily, ‘I don't know quite what he's up to. But we've no evidence that he's trying to muscle in on your territory.'

‘Supplies aren't inexhaustible. Even Van Heusen's supplies. And the same goes for markets. Ketley isn't going to increase his sales without affecting ours.'

Geoff Day nodded slowly. ‘There are more drugs being used every year. Everyone knows the government and the police are fighting a hopeless battle. But I agree: Ketley operates in the same geographical areas as we do. If he's planning large-scale expansion, it will affect us. I've got contacts with people who work for him. I'll make discreet enquiries.'

Jack Burgess had set things in motion. He felt for the first time in the day a little weary. He smiled acidly at Day and said,‘There's not one of them, but in his house I keep a servant fee'd. Eh, Geoff?'

Geoffrey Day looked suitably puzzled, as he had intended him to. Burgess said loftily, ‘It's a quotation from
Macbeth
. Benefits of a public school education, you see.' Jack made the most of the scraps of knowledge he retained from his erratic schooling; he had once been a page in a production of the Scottish play. Nowadays he pretended to his followers that he was a Marlborough man; he liked them to think that he had an entirely different schooling from most gangland bosses.

At that moment, his patchy remembrance didn't extend to any consideration of what had happened to Macbeth at the end of that eventful play.

FOUR

G
reta Ketley looked fondly at the emerald necklace, then picked it up and fastened it around her slim neck. ‘I've always liked this. I'm so glad you didn't let that thief get away with it. I should have been very upset.'

Greta was Swedish, but she had lost all trace of her accent, save on the rare occasions when she was excited or angry. She was fourteen years younger than her husband. When she had married him twelve years ago, she had looked very much the trophy wife. She had had long, straight, blonde hair, green eyes, and the willowy but curvaceous figure which suggests both expertise on the ski slopes and enjoyment of the pleasures of the après-ski. Greta had never been stupid. She could play the dumb blonde when it suited her, but it was strictly an act, usually reserved for men whom she held in quiet contempt. If the act had been used less and less over the years of her marriage, that was simply because as time passed she saw less and less need for it.

At forty-two, she remained an attractive woman. She used that attraction when it suited her even more capably than when she had first come to Britain as a capable and dazzling au pair. She was sitting before her dressing table in a light-green silk slip when she donned the retrieved necklace. Oliver Ketley walked across the room and stood behind her as she looked into the mirror. He paused for a moment until her eyes rose to meet his in the mirror, then slipped his hands round her shoulders and on to the emeralds. ‘They match your eyes,' he said softly. He stooped over her and slid his hands from the stones of the necklace to the smooth skin beneath it, then down to rest softly on to her breasts beneath the slip. ‘You really should take more care of your jewellery, you know.'

He spoke like one addressing a favourite child, who repeats the conventional wisdom but knows he will not be obeyed.

‘I know, Oliver. You've told me before. They should really be locked away safely. But there aren't so many occasions in the year when you can wear stuff like this. I like to take my things out and look at them and handle them, even when I don't plan to wear them.'

‘I know that. And I like to see you enjoying things. But valuable things aren't safe, in today's world.' He spoke as if he were one of the righteous bastions of that world, without any ring of irony.

‘Even when my protector is Oliver Ketley?' She leaned her head back and looked up into those very pale blue eyes which she had come to know so well.

He smiled. ‘Even then, my darling. The fact that that little toerag came so near to getting away with it proves that.'

‘What will happen to him?'

He never knew how much she knew about his business and his actions, and Greta was careful to keep it that way. He had no idea whether she knew that the thief was in hospital and he didn't want to explore it with her. ‘Oh, he's been taken care of. I don't think he'll be back here again.'

‘Will you prosecute?'

The idea was outlandish and he fancied she knew that, but he affected to treat it as a serious enquiry. ‘Oh, I don't think so. We've got our property back and the toerag has learned his lesson. No point advertising to the world at large that you possess stones like this and don't choose to keep them under lock and key.'

She put her hands on his and held them affectionately for a moment. Then she unfastened the clasp of the necklace and put it beside the rest of her restored finery, signifying that this moment of intimacy was at an end. ‘I saw the chap who helped me with that puncture going out with a holdall this morning. He's not leaving, is he?'

‘Wayne Taylor? He's going down to Birmingham for a few months. We need someone to help out at one of the clubs there.'

‘He was very quick and helpful with that wheel when I was stuck near the gates. Promotion, is it?'

It would have been a foolish man who didn't rush to the aid of the boss's wife, Oliver thought. After all these years, he was still pleased to see small demonstrations of the power he held. ‘It's a sort of promotion, yes. There'll be more opportunities for him there.'

‘I see.' She nodded several times, as if she divined more than he knew. He was never sure exactly how much she knew about him. Did she ever think about where the money came from to support this huge place and the way she dressed and lived?

She put the necklace and the other jewellery away in exactly the place from which it had been stolen. Oliver Ketley knew as she shut the drawer that she would never put it in the safe and that he would never make her do so, but he could not explain to himself why that should be. The emotional world was a mysterious planet for him; he had laboured since his childhood to keep it so.

Greta thought as she completed her dressing and made up her face that he would be pleased to crush her emotions as he had his own. If she were not careful, she would become one of those cynical people who knew the price of everything and the value of nothing. She must make every effort to avoid that.

She waited until she was in her car before taking the mobile phone from her handbag and putting it on the passenger seat beside her. She drove though the big gates and alongside the wall until it fell away behind her and she was between open fields. Then she stopped the car, glanced into the rear-view mirror to make sure she was not observed, and dialled the familiar number. Her face lit up and the years dropped away as she heard the voice which answered.

Greta Ketley said, ‘I'm on my way. I should be with you in half an hour.'

The man was impeccably dressed, impeccably mannered. He spoke excellent English in the preliminary exchanges. But he was patently not white Caucasian; that was the official term you had to use, Michael Knight thought.

He was the chef at Thorley Grange and he was interviewing for a new kitchen assistant. He was glad to have the chance to appoint his own staff, but he had little experience of interviewing. He glanced down at the letter of application in front of him. It had been typed on a computer and signed simply ‘C. Lee.' He had assumed this would be an English applicant, probably a local man. He had thought choosing his staff would be a simple process; now it seemed to be a potential minefield. He wondered how he could investigate the man's background without being accused of prejudice by those damned race relations people. Mr Ketley wouldn't like that; he didn't like anything which brought any sort of publicity to the place. And that certainly wouldn't be good publicity.

Knight wasn't even sure of the man's age; you couldn't deduce anything from those smooth, regular, olive-skinned features. He looked down at the letter: it told him in the second line that the man was twenty-eight. He glanced through the rest of it again. There was nothing in it about a country of origin or work outside the UK. But then there was no reason why there should be. Applicants had been directed to summarize their previous work experience in relation to this post, and the details in front of him did just that, simply and expertly.

Knight tried to make it an informal, friendly enquiry as he said, ‘Were you born in this country, Mr Lee?'

A small, very polite smile. ‘No. I was born in Vietnam. But I have been here for years now; I feel quite British. I have a passport I could show you, but I did not think that it was necessary for this post.'

‘No. No, of course it isn't. I was just doing my job, just finding out a little about you.' Michael Knight felt on the defensive, when it was surely the man seeking a job who should be nervous. An idea struck his spinning brain. ‘We'll be working quite closely together, if you get the job. It's nice to know a little about each other.'

He couldn't be sure, but he thought the man leaned forward on his chair and gave him a tiny bow. ‘My first name is Chung. I have a brother who plays football for Norwich City. Please feel free to ask me anything you wish.'

Chung threw in his footballer brother at all sorts of unlikely times; for some reason he had never fathomed, it seemed to reassure people, to persuade them of his reliability. Sure enough, the chef now nodded, as if he had been offered some convincing evidence of this candidate's kitchen competence. Knight glanced again at his letter and said, ‘You seem to have the kind of experience which would be useful here, Mr Lee. You say you were doing “kitchen and other work” in the hotel at Preston. Why did you leave there?'

‘I moved to a restaurant because I wanted to work in catering full-time, to get the experience I need. I hope that eventually I may become a chef myself.'

‘Well, most of your work here would certainly be in the kitchen. If you do well, you may in time even stand in for me, when I have time off. But I would need to be convinced that you were up to the task, before anything like that was possible.'

‘Of course. But I feel the work here would provide me with the experience I need to run a kitchen, whether here or elsewhere.'

He was a bit too sure of himself, this smooth-faced man with the clean hands and immaculate nails. Getting ahead of himself, voicing his ambitions about becoming a chef. Knight said sharply, ‘Really? I'd better watch out for my own job, hadn't I?' He followed this with a laugh, but he didn't sound amused. There was a pause before he added, ‘I should stress that this is quite a junior post. You'll get the sort of experience we've been talking about, but you'll be expected to help out wherever needed around the kitchen. You may also be serving food, when Mr Ketley has visitors.'

‘I understand.' Another small smile, and this time Knight was sure that the man bowed.

‘These will mostly be business visitors. Mr Ketley doesn't do a lot of private entertaining. You will need to be discreet about anything you hear.'

‘Yes. I have always made it my practice to be so.' He had heard that phrase in a radio play and stored it away.

‘It is very important that anything you hear at Thorley Grange should not pass beyond its walls.'

Michael Knight repeated the phrase which had been used to him on his own appointment, and again the man seemed to find nothing surprising in it. Chung Lee merely inclined his head again and said calmly, ‘That has always been my practice.'