Poisoned Cherries (15 page)

She thought about that one for a moment or two, then, clearly having decided that she didn’t want to know what I meant, she told me to hold on.
 
Finally, at least fifteen minutes after I’d dialled the number, she came back on the line and announced that Mr.
 
Torrent had a meeting in Glasgow that afternoon, but that he could fit me in at ten-thirty, for half an hour at the very most.

“That suits my schedule,” I told her, then hung up.

I was fairly chuffed with myself at getting in there without having to spill any beans, so much so that I almost forgot the reason why I was going there in the first place.
 
Remembering, I called Ricky, to check that Alison hadn’t done a runner in the night, and to let them both know that I was going to see the man.

She sounded more nervous than ever when I spoke to her, she was still waiting for the lab to report to Morrow, and Ross had warned her not to expect good news.

“You did tell me the truth about Torrent, Alison, didn’t you?”

I half expected her to be offended by my question, but she wasn’t.
 
“Yes, honest,” she said.
 
Her tone took me back a few years.
 
I guessed that the last of her carefully constructed image had been ground away by the pressure of the last couple of days.
 
I wondered whether she’d be able to rebuild it; I should have known better.

I was about to call a taxi to take me to see Torrent when I remembered that I’d bought a bloody car... it’s an everyday occurrence for us rich folk, see ... so instead I had it take me down to Willowbrae.

The Merc was ready and waiting, shining in the morning sun.
 
It seemed to have a personality of its own; I took to it at once, more than I had to Susie’s M3.
 
Say what you like, there is a difference between a Mercedes and a Beamer.
 
I mean could you imagine Janis Joplin singing, “Oh Lord won’t you buy me a 3-series BMW?

Once Simon had finished his delivery run-through, I headed off, following the signs for the Al, then picking up the by-pass and heading for Edinburgh Park, following the directions that Alison had given me.
 
The car handled like, like .. . like a pram; fatherhood was having its effect on me, right enough.

She had told me I wouldn’t have any trouble spotting the new Torrent headquarters, and she was right.
 
It had a bloody great red “T’ on a pole in front of the main entrance, high enough and garish enough to be seen a mile away.

The visitors’ car park was full, but I spotted a space in the directors’ area and slid carefully in there, right in the middle of the bay to cut down the chances of my shiny car being bumped by one of its neighbours opening a door in a hurry.

The brand new, ready-to-be-opened office was a four-storey building of fairly conventional design.
 
It looked as if it had been built out of solid stone blocks, and it shouted “Money!”
 
at me as I approached.
 
There was a man in uniform standing just inside the big marble-clad atrium; I could see him as I trotted up the steps, and as he swung the heavy glass door open for me.
 
Some job; still, it was better than being a traffic warden.
 
“You know you can’t park there, sir,” he said.
 
He had the same instincts, though.

“Yes,” I answered .. . one of my finest lifetime moments was being sick over one of those guys .. . and headed for the desk which was positioned in the centre of the hall, under the high glass roof.
 
“Oz Blackstone for Mr.
 
Torrent,” I announced, loudly.
 
The receptionist was Chinese; a plastic card clipped to her blouse identified her as Anna Chin.
 
She had a very nice one too, with a dimple that deepened as she smiled at me.
 
On her desk, there was a big wooden bowl, full of red cherries, and beside it a small ceramic dish for their pips.

“Good morning, sir,” she said, in an accent which might have been honed at Mary Erskine or St.
 
George’s School, then slid a thick folder across the desk.
 
“If you’d just like to fill in your details there.” She pointed.
 
“And sign alongside ... a Health and Safety requirement.”

“Sure,” I told her, flashing her a quick twinkle.
 
“I’m pretty healthy, and relatively safe.”
 
I filled in the form, and signed it; she ripped it from the pad and tucked it inside a plastic holder, then produced a small book from beneath the desk.
 
“If you could sign here, too, I’ll let Mr.
 
Torrent’s chief personal assistant know you’re here.”

I couldn’t help it; I hesitated.
 
I think I probably frowned as well.
 
Doesn’t matter how often it happens, I reckon I will always be just a wee bit embarrassed when someone asks for my autograph.
 
She misunderstood me; Anna’s Chin seemed to fall and her dimple almost vanished.
 
“I’m sorry,” she began.

“Don’t be,” I reassured her.
 
“I’m flattered, honest.
 
I’m just a dentist’s son from Anstruther.”

Her smile returned, even brighter this time.
 
“Not any more,” she said, firmly.
 
“You’re a film star now..
 
. and I’m still just a doctor’s daughter from Barnton.”

I shot a quick glance at her left hand as I took the autograph book from her; no ring.
 
“Stop it, Blackstone!”
 
I told myself, and signed the blank page she offered me.
 
I flicked through some of the other pages; it’s always good to know whose company you’re in.
 
In the few pages back from mine, I recognised the careful signature of Scotland’s First Minister, the flamboyant scrawl of my friend Scott Steele, the names of two members of Texas, augmented by a tiny cartoon guitar, a well-known Edinburgh novelist with a noughts and crosses trademark, a football manager who had printed his name below his signature to make sure that everyone knew who he was, and a couple of others which were just plain indecipherable.
 
Of these the least decipherable was one that looked just like the picture on the screen of a heart monitor.
 
I wondered whether, over time, the signature would get flatter and flatter, until one day, it was a straight line.

“Where did you pick all these up?”
 
I asked her, as I handed back her book, and helped myself to a couple of cherries.

“I got all of them here,” she told me.
 
“Mr.
 
Torrent has been running a series of cocktail parties for celebrities.
 
You won’t tell him though, will you?
 
He might think I was abusing my position.”

“I couldn’t imagine you abusing anything.”
 
I almost added, ‘... except me’; old habits and all that, but I stopped myself.

Anna picked up her phone and pushed a button on her console.
 
“Mr.
 
Blackstone,” she said, her accent still impeccable, without a hint of an oriental ‘r’ .. . even though she was from Barnton.
 
She nodded into the handset, replaced it then turned and pointed to two glass-walled lifts behind her desk.
 
“Please take the one on the left,” she told me.
 
“It goes directly to the top floor.”

I jerked my thumb in the direction of the guy in the uniform.
 
“Does he get to open the door for me?”

She gave a quick tinkling laugh.
 
“No, it’s automatic,” she answered, quitetly, as if we were sharing a secret.
 
I liked that; I gave her a wave through the glass as the lift started to go up.

It went fast; I counted off the floors as I rose.
 
I assumed that it would stop at the fourth, but to my surprise it kept going.

James Torrent’s office suite was on the roof of the building; out of sight from the car park, surrounding the glass panel of the atrium.
 
Like the capsule that had brought me up, it appeared to be built almost entirely of glass, although part of it was smoked to the point of blackness.
 
The back wall of the reception area was not.
 
Through it, I could see the tops of the two Forth Bridges, and the hills of West life beyond.

A woman approached me, hand outstretched.
 
“Mr.
 
Blackstone.”
 
I felt as if she was telling me who I was, not welcoming me.
 
The Galaxy chocolate voice, and more imperious in the flesh; somehow I knew that this woman was not going to ask for my autograph.

She looked me up and down as we shook hands, so I gave her the same treatment.
 
She was tanned and tall, with legs that seemed to be reaching for her armpits; I touch six feet and I was barely looking down on her.
 
Her dress matched her voice; it was a warm brown colour, in a clinging fabric that could have been cashmere.
 
It fitted from her throat to just below the knee, and she looked as if she might have been poured into it.
 
There were no visible lines; if she was wearing anything under it, then it was even sleeker than the dress.
 
What she definitely was not wearing was a label, like Anna Chin’s or like the one she had given me.
 
I glanced beyond her to an empty desk; there was a triangular metal bar on it, bearing the name “Natalie Morgan’.

“Natalie Morgan,” she said.
 
“I’m Mr.
 
Torrent’s chief of staff

“That makes him sound like a general,” I murmured.
 
She wasn’t smiling, so I didn’t either.
 
A while back, a woman like her could have eaten me for breakfast; I think I must be less digestible now.

“He is,” she replied, soft and low.
 
“You’re a few minutes early, but he’ll see you.
 
Follow me, please.”
 
She turned on her heel and led me along a passageway.
 
The roof of the atrium was on my right; on the other side was another panelled wall.
 
It was double-skinned, with a Venetian blind between the panels, but the slats were open and I could see through into a long room that looked eastwards, towards Edinburgh and the castle.
 
If I’d looked, I could have seen my apartment from there.
 
I guessed that was where Torrent held his celebrity parties.

At the end of the passage there was a black glass wall, which

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stretched the full width of the suite.
 
A door was cut into it, but you wouldn’t have seen it, but for its round gun-metal handle.
 
Natalie Morgan opened it and moved aside, for me to step into the sanctum.
 
As I passed her, I caught a strong fragrance that I recognised from Hollywood.
 
That place floats on Giorgio of Beverley Hills.

I stepped into the office, and looked around.
 
For a while, I thought that it was empty.
 
The door opened more or less into the middle of the room; on my right there was an oval meeting table, and beyond that a wall which looked as if it could have been made of ebony, but also of the blackest glass.
 
Another door was set in it.
 
To my left there was a big kidney-shaped desk with a plasmatronic computer screen and three telephones.
 
Two leather armchairs faced it, and behind it there was a third, which turned slowly towards me as I looked at it.

James Torrent pushed himself to his feet and moved round the desk to greet me, a great podgy hand outstretched.
 
He wore what might have been described as a smile on someone else, but which looked on him like something halfway between a leer and a grimace.

The man looked to be in his early fifties, and he was massive.
 
He was no taller than me, but tremendously solid; not so much fat, but more like a small mountain on legs.
 
He had sleek black hair, which swept back from a receding forehead.
 
His facial features were as gross as the rest of him; thick rubbery lips, piggy eyes and ears and a great bulbous nose.
 
His complexion was so swarthy that I knew at once that my earlier guess had been right.

“Oz,” he said, in a gravelly voice, devoid of accent.
 
“So glad to meet you.”

“Likewise,” I lied, with the same mock politeness.
 
“Spanish?”
 
I asked.

“My father was; he left during the Civil War.
 
I was born and educated here.
 
How did you guess?”

“From the way your staff pronounced your name; I’ve encountered it before.”

“You’ve travelled in Spain?”

“I lived there for a while.”

“More than me, then; I won’t go back there.
 
Franco shot my grandfather.”
 
He pointed me at one of the two visitor chairs.
 
“Sit down,” he said, returning to his swivel chair.
 
“You’ll have coffee?”

“No, thanks.
 
I’ve had my dose for today.”

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“Yes, we tend to drink too much of it, I always think.
 
So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?
 
I have heard of you, of course; quite the coming man in the film industry, so they say.”

“It’s more than I’d say, in that case.
 
I’m getting along though.
 
But that’s not the only string to my bow.”

Torrent raised his heavy black eyebrows.
 
“No?”