Next of Kin (41 page)

A little blood had come from the side of Raymond's mouth and stained Montignac's shirt but he didn't notice it as another knock was heard on the door downstairs and there was Gareth Bentley on the street outside, hands up to the glass, face pressed to it as he peered in, waiting to meet his fate.

*   *   *

MONTIGNAC HAD DELIBERATELY CHOSEN
a seat in the Bullirag pub which was slightly out of the sightlines of the bar, and had been the one to make sure that the drinks kept coming.

‘No more, no more,' Gareth said, each time a fresh beer or whisky came his way. ‘I told you I can't drink like this.'

‘Oh come on, man, we're celebrating,' Montignac said cheerfully. ‘You've got a thousand pounds in your pocket. You can't allow your employer to drink alone. That's just bad staff relations.'

He could see the look of concern in Gareth's eyes as his last remnants of resistance began to wear down and his taste for the stuff took over. Watching him was a study in itself. The worry, the disintegrating self-knowledge, the lack of control, slowly replaced by a desire for more, by faster drinking, by more animated and even vitriolic conversation. The sudden and embarrassing confessions of admiration. Montignac had no idea how many drinks he had had that night but there was no question that if he didn't get him home soon, he would collapse on the floor of the pub and that would not be a good thing; he had to be seen to be leaving standing up.

‘Come on, Gareth,' he said, dragging him outside after settling the bill. ‘Let's get some fresh air into you.'

There was a wind blowing as they opened the door and stepped out on to the street and Gareth lost his footing for a moment, his hands pressed to the sides of his head as the alcohol and air mixed through his system.

‘I don't feel very well,' he mumbled as Montignac struggled to keep him erect. He whistled for a passing taxicab and opened the back door, pouring his friend inside.

‘Best you don't go back to Tavistock Square. I don't think they'd be impressed, do you?'

Gareth looked up at him with bleary eyes, barely aware of what he was saying.

‘You can go back to mine,' said Montignac. ‘Sleep it off there, all right?'

‘Thanks, Owen,' said Gareth, collapsing into the back seat of the cab. ‘You're a pal.'

‘Bedford Place,' he said to the driver, giving him the number of the flat and passing him his keys. ‘Give these to him when you get there, will you? And be careful, they're my only set,' he added, slipping a few shillings across which the driver accepted gratefully before speeding off.

From there, Montignac walked back to the Threadbare Gallery and unlocked the door, revelling in the peace and quiet of the darkened space. He hadn't drunk anywhere near as much as Gareth but enough that he was starting to feel a buzz from it and drank several glasses of water in quick succession in order to maintain his equilibrium. He glanced at his watch. It was only nine thirty and Keaton wouldn't be there until it was dark, well after midnight.

A little nervously, he made his way up to the storeroom and opened the door tentatively, convinced for a moment that Raymond would have vanished, but he was still there, lying in the same position he had left him in, sleeping soundly and appearing none the worse for wear. Montignac closed the door quietly and went back downstairs.

To pass the time he sat down at his desk and began to work his way through the gallery accounts, a process which took him the best part of an hour and a half and took his mind off what was to come.

By eleven o'clock he was thoroughly bored and began reading a novel that Alexander Keys had lent him, something he had said was surprisingly good despite the fact that it was written by a textile worker from Milton Keynes, but his mind wasn't able to focus on the words and no matter how often he read the same paragraph over and over again he couldn't seem to remember what had just taken place. His eyes kept glancing in the direction of the storeroom and he got a chill, worrying that Raymond would wake too soon. In the end he spent the remaining time pacing the floor, trying to decide which of the pieces he would ensure got left behind in the event of a fire.

The phone rang just after midnight and he picked it up quickly, his heart starting to beat faster as the night's events began to play out.

‘Montignac,' he said, answering it quickly.

‘I'm not far away,' said Lord Keaton. ‘Just outside the Museum of Mankind. I'll pull in down the laneway.'

‘Is there anyone out there?'

‘Not a soul. We're in luck.'

Montignac nodded. ‘Good,' he said. ‘I'll be right out.'

He ran to the back door and unlocked it just as Keaton arrived and he stepped inside, rubbing his hands together briskly. ‘Chilly night, isn't it?' he said.

‘Is it?' said Montignac. ‘I've been in here for hours. I hadn't noticed.'

‘Well it is. So how did things go with our young friend?'

‘Very well, I think,' said Montignac. ‘He was pickled by the time we left the pub and he's gone back to mine as arranged. I made sure the taxi driver would remember that I was staying behind.'

‘Good, good. Well I've organized your alibi for the next few hours so you've nothing to worry about on that score. It came quite cheap too. Decided where you're going to sleep yet?' he asked.

‘I thought I'd just come straight back here,' he said. ‘There's nowhere else I can go. A hotel would be too risky in case someone remembered seeing me there.'

‘True. Well it won't be a very comfortable night for you but there we are. That's the price we pay to get the things we want,' he added pleasantly. ‘Shall we get on with it?'

Montignac nodded and led the way up the stairs towards the mezzanine level, where the small storeroom was. ‘He's in here,' he said, unlocking the door and pulling it open.

The man stared inside at the body of Raymond Davis which lay on a plastic sheet on the floor, and grimaced. ‘Poor chap,' he said. ‘He looks quite peaceful, doesn't he? How much longer do we have, do you think?'

‘Not long,' said Montignac. ‘I think we need to get him back to Bedford Place as soon as possible.'

‘Right you are,' said Keaton. ‘Well let's get on with it then. I don't want to be late home, I have an early start in the morning. Should we untie him first?'

‘Yes, I think so. Just to be safe.'

They removed the masking tape from his arms and legs and, with one quick pull, from his mouth. The action of doing this seemed to jolt Raymond for a moment and he emitted a loud groan, although his eyes remained firmly shut. Montignac and Keaton stared at him for a moment before judging it was safe to continue.

They picked him up under each arm and walked him carefully down the stairs and out into the laneway, where they propped him up in the back seat of the car as if he was simply a passenger, and drove on towards Bedford Place.

‘Poor bugger,' said Keaton at one point, catching sight of him in the rear-view mirror. ‘What did he ever do to you anyway?'

‘Does it matter?' asked Montignac. ‘You said we needed a victim. He got the job.'

‘Well it doesn't matter to me. I'm just interested, that's all.'

Montignac breathed heavily through his nose and considered it. ‘He was an unwelcome intruder,' he said finally. ‘Someone I should have taken care of a long time ago but never thought would become such a regular fixture in my life.'

‘Well he's not going to be now,' said the man.

‘No.'

‘As long as we both get what we need, that's all that matters,' said Keaton. ‘It's been very convenient that we can help each other out like this. First with the Cézannes, you made a nice little bundle out of that, didn't you?'

‘It came along when I needed it, certainly,' admitted Montignac.

‘And now we get to help each other again. What's this Gareth fellow like anyway?'

Montignac shrugged. ‘He's all right, I suppose,' he conceded. ‘One of life's losers. No goals, no ambitions. But fairly harmless. Looks at me like I'm some sort of god. Every time I turn around he's standing there, desperate for my approval. I think he just lacked direction in life. Positive role models, as they say. Still, he won't have to worry about it now, I suppose.'

‘No. I blame the parents of course,' said Keaton. ‘And they'll be paying for it. It's unfortunate for the lad but it was the only way I could be sure of influencing his father. If only he wasn't such a stickler for formalities I wouldn't have had to take things this far. If he was just corruptible, just a little bit, then none of this would have been necessary. Most of them are, you know. I'm one of the more honest judges in the system.'

‘That says a lot.'

‘Don't be sarcastic,' said Keaton quietly. ‘There are greater principles involved here.'

‘Do you really hate this American woman that much?' asked Montignac. ‘I'm just interested, that's all,' he added, echoing Keaton's earlier phrase.

‘Wallis Simpson doesn't matter to me one way or the other,' said Keaton with a shrug. ‘In fact I've never even met her. Personally I couldn't care less if the king wanted to marry a donkey. It doesn't make a blind bit of difference to me. But the man has a way about him that has to be stopped. All this business with the miners in the North-East. The little visits he makes. This nonsense of “something has to be done”. He thinks the monarchy is there to be shared with the people. He understands nothing about our ways. It's as simple as that. But Baldwin … now he understands. He can see the damage the man is doing.'

‘But the people love him,' said Montignac.

‘The people!' snorted Keaton, shaking his head as he drove along. ‘Who cares what the
people
think? The people, as you put it, are an ill-educated, senseless mob. They look for leadership, they need it, and they see this prancing fellow going up and down the country, patting them on the heads, looking terribly terribly sympathetic, drinking mugs of tea in their tiny cottages and they think he's one of them. Or that they're one of us. And by extension that makes
me
one of them, and I'm not. You know what the last king said about him, don't you? His father? He said that six months after he was dead his son would have destroyed the monarchy. And believe me, if he's not stopped that bloody man will tear down all the palaces in the land and share out the wealth among every poor man and woman in the country, every starving tramp on the streets.'

‘And would that be such a bad thing?' asked Montignac with a smile.

‘You know damn well it would,' he replied. ‘So don't pretend otherwise. No, the man has to be stopped and this ridiculous infatuation of his with Wallis Bloody Simpson has given us the perfect artillery. Still, the PM needs the judiciary to back him up. I help him and he's ready to help me in return.'

Montignac frowned. ‘Help you with what?' he asked. ‘What's he going to do for you?'

‘Have you ever had anything stolen from you?' asked Keaton after a lengthy pause, feeling that perhaps he owed his co-conspirator an explanation.

‘I've had things taken away from me that I expected to be mine.'

‘Then you'll know how I feel,' he said. ‘Until you've had your birthright taken away from you by people who have no right to it, you won't understand how bitter it can make you.'

‘But I have had that happen to me,' pointed out Montignac. ‘When my grandfather cut off my father and mother he left us with nothing. The irony of it is that the entire inheritance was not his to decide upon. He'd just come into it like everyone else, it wasn't as if he'd actually earned it. The right and proper thing was to leave it to my father and then to me. It wasn't his place to make such a decision. They stole it.'

‘Then perhaps you do understand,' said Keaton thoughtfully. ‘But I'll get mine back when I put York on the throne.'

‘It sounds like we're back in the Middle Ages.'

‘The same principles are involved,' insisted Keaton. ‘The monarch doesn't just represent the country, Owen. He's not just there to open church fêtes and meet with the prime minister for tea and coffee every week and wave from the balcony of Buckingham Palace every so often. Think of your history, boy. The monarch has a greater responsibility than that. Think of all the wars that have been fought for the crown, the lives that have been lost. And your young Mr Davis is just another casualty of that war. No, by Christmas I will have one man off the throne and another man on. And the country will be a safer place for it, you mark my words. The present king will destroy us all if he's left in charge. He'll make communists of everyone. He'll bring the whole system crashing down about our heads and the poor man's too stupid to see that when it falls, it's his head that gets crushed in the vice first. Of course my rewards will begin when he's gone, but that's neither here nor there. I'm serving a greater cause than just my own.'

‘Crowning a king isn't reward enough?'

‘Goodness me, no,' said Lord Keaton. ‘That will be York's glory, the poor bugger. And Baldwin's triumph. Mine will be in all the things he can do for me then. I will have the position that was always owing to me.'

‘And will he thank you for it?'

‘Oh, he'll hate me for it,' replied Keaton with a laugh. ‘He no more wants to be king of England than the man in the moon. But he won't have any choice and he won't know that it was down to me. And once he's installed…' He shook his head and laughed. ‘Well I haven't cultivated him for all these years for nothing, put it that way. I will have a great deal of influence at court. The influence my father should have had. And his. But I will have saved the country, can't you see that? This is patriotism at its finest. What we are doing is in everyone's best interests. We are protecting our way of life from ignorant princes who know nothing of the real world.'