The Alembic Valise (5 page)

Deacon was sat on a bench in the embankment gardens, it had started to snow but he scarcely noticed. For the past fortnight he had come here every day. In that time he had seen Joel pass by numerous times, usually head down frowning, but once with Mai, laughing together. He had seen Detective Z watching the boat that Joel lived on from the sunken garden. He had seen Dave go aboard the same boat. He had even seen Darren Shah watching the very same boat. Of course he did not know any of these people passing him on his bench but the one person he was hoping to see had not appeared; his estranged twin brother.

Two weeks ago when walking through Hammersmith he had thought he saw Jim striding along ahead of him. Surprised to see his brother in this part of town, he thought that maybe Jim was searching for him and so set of in pursuit. Lost him in the crowd then saw him in the distance taking the underpass towards the river. But when Deacon emerged into the small park there was no sign of him. So every day since then, after the day-centre closed, he came and sat on the same bench in the gardens, where he could see in all directions, along the embankment and across the park.

Of course he knew that he could simply telephone his brother if he wanted to speak to him and had many times thought of doing just this. But in his mind it was hard to reel back the years. They had argued bitterly about what seemed now like a trivial matter. But now he had the belief that if he were actually to see Jim there would be reconciliation. He just could not put it into the words required for a phone call. The snow flurries continued and he was about to give up, when he saw a familiar figure enter the park.

Tomorrow the story would appear in The Gazette. This would inevitably put Joel and his houseboat in the public spotlight, and not in a good way. So Joel had spoken to Dave and they had agreed that he would temporarily and covertly move into the room above Dave’s boathouse. This was just around the bend in the river from the Gate.

At dusk Joel was to take his skiff and navigate a trouble free passage to his “new crib”. Described thus by DC Sharma when she returned his email and gave her blessing to his voyage. The boathouse would have to be his route to dry land. He could not help feeling he had less options than a hypnotised chicken. Mai had laughed when he said that to her. She was in Brighton but would be returning tomorrow, and not seeming to be fazed by the current wonkiness of his trajectory at all.

He began to put on Marino wool underwear, then a layer of micro-fleece, lastly a jacket, all in dark colours, no Day-Glo or reflective panels. The two bags he had packed earlier were on the table one held his laptop and notebooks the other a few clothes and his travel kit. Theoretically he would be able to slip back to his boat at night as and when required. Joel checked around the cabin one more time. Then putting on his black cap he moved towards the door.

There were tiny flakes of snow dancing in the arcs of the onshore lights as he cast off and began to row away from the boat. He had told himself that his relocation was only temporary; nevertheless her felt a lonely pang as he edged out further into the darkness.

Dave had acquired the boathouse several years ago. The school rowing club that originally owned it was moving to a larger facility closer to the school itself, so Dave had bought it and applied to the local council for a change-of-use to convert it to a residence. His application was declined, so he was stuck with it and used it only to store his Ducati. For a while Sophie had used it as studio to paint in, and when she and Joel had been lovers they had spent several passionate afternoons there. A lifetime ago, he thought philosophically.

High tide was in half an hour, but any current was imperceptible, the river was entering the slack-tide phase; thus allowing him to navigate a straight and true course towards his destination upstream. Pockets of mist were gathering over the slick water and the only sound was the creak and splash of his oars. Hearing the faraway tinkle of celestial music brought him out of his reverie. It was his cell phone ringing from a zipped inner pocket. It was Dave.

“Listen I am still at the Gate. It’s Sophie’s lecture tonight and I promised her I would be there. I completely forgot. Have you passed yet?”

Lights glowed in every window of the Gate. Joel altered his course and in a few minutes was alongside the mooring platform. He allowed a couple of metres slack in the ropes as the river level dropped quickly once the ebb tide took hold. Climbing the metal ladder he stepped onto the deserted terrace and then realised he was looking straight into the room where Sophie’s talk was taking place. It must have ended because people were standing around drinking and chatting. He saw Dave moving around the room, he looked smashed. Sophie, looking radiant in a blue dress was standing with a tall dread-locked guy. A dozen or so other people milled about. Joel was about to cover the last couple of yards to the warmth of the saloon bar when he froze. There was a man in a grey raincoat crossing the room towards the drinks table. It was Detective Z. His reflex was to step back into the darkness but as he did so his movement must have caught the detective’s eye because for a moment he seemed to be looking directly at Joel. Then his attention returned to the table and picking up what looked like a glass of orange juice he disappeared out of Joel’s field of vision.

Deacon had recognised him from across the park and followed along the embankment. It was not however his brother Jim he had seen but rather his father’s chauffeur and minder, Seraphim.

Seraphim Volt had operated with the KLA in Kosovo in the nineties but his military activities had ended when a sniper’s bullet shattered his left knee as he and his comrades were attacking a Serbian police station. That put him in a wheelchair for six months. After his recovery Seraphim had come to the UK to find work as security consultant but had ended up driving limos for a living, until Cuthbert gave him a job.

He walked briskly despite his slight limp, his shoulders hunched in a leather coat and his hands thrust in his pockets, a carrier bag swinging at his side. Deacon had trouble keeping up. Seraphim passed by the alley leading to the Gate, turned into the side street and got into a car. Deacon went straight up to it and tapped on the glass. Seraphim opened the window looking anything but startled.

“Get in, you look really cold,” he said.

The bag Seraphim had been carrying contained a large box of fried chicken and he shared it with Deacon. They sat in silence eating for a while.

“Mr. Cuthbert and Jim are in there,” Seraphim gestured with a piece of chicken in the direction of the Gate. “At a lecture of some kind, your father will be so glad to see you. Why do you never come and see us, Deke? It’s been a long time.”

Before Deacon could think of an answer there was a beeping sound and Seraphim had to hurriedly wipe the grease from his hands before extracting a phone from the pocket of his black leather coat. He winked conspiratorially at him and stepped out of the car to take the call. Two minutes later he was back. He climbed into his seat and started the car.

“Just got to run a little errand, then we can come back here and wait for Mr Cuthbert and your brother. Are you ok with that, Deke? Here let’s have some music on.”

“Sure,” said Deacon. “Got any Brahms?”

As they drove off he looked across at Seraphim whose craggy features were illuminated by the cold blue light of the sat-nav screen on the dashboard. He remembered him from his teenage years, picking Jim and himself up from their boarding school in Oxfordshire on Friday afternoons in their father’s black Mercedes. When Seraphim had come to work for the family, their father had told them he was a soldier, a freedom fighter in fact. It was only years later that he found out that the KLA had a very different reputation. There is a controlled intensity about everything this man does, he thought. He’s probably got a resting heart rate of about forty BPM, even when snapping an adversary’s neck.

Numerous times in his life Joel had been accused of being irresponsible, immature, unreliable or just plain flaky. This ire that he had in the past earned from disappointed girlfriends, wives, colleagues and friends was based upon one simple action that he had often performed when experiencing situational ambiguity. He left. This time though it was different, it was clear that hiding-out was an act devoid of integrity. Furthermore he resolved that come hell or high water he would not leave Alembic Valise. It was his home. And so he crossed back across the terrace, climbed back into his boat, cast off and started to row back, pausing only to phone Dave and leave a message on his voicemail to the effect that he was aborting tonight’s mission. Once back on board the Val he removed his hat and tried to call Dave again. Dave did not answer and so he left another message.

As he sat by the stove drinking tea, gradually beginning to warm up, his cell phone made a warbling sound and he saw he had a text message from Dave. It said - Gotta problem here, come quick. Joel quickly put his jacket back on, grabbed his motorcycle crash helmet and made for the door. He paused before opening it and took out his phone once again and dialled.

“Earlier yes, then he went off. He was being very mysterious. Said he had to go to the boathouse. Siobhan is here and starting to fret.”

Joel sprinted up the gangway to where his Vespa was parked; he tore off the cover and stuffed it behind a nearby bin. Now came the moment of truth. He had not used the scooter for over a month and therefore dared not use the electric starter. Fortunately there was a kick-start fitted and he used it. The engine caught on the third kick and he jumped aboard. And although illegal to do so, he rode along the embankment path. At the park exit he negotiated the bollards and turned into the narrow street. The river had encroached leaving it slick and although the snow had ceased, fog was now beginning to roll in. Joel rode as fast as he dared.

Detective Z had first confirmed the exact location of the boathouse with Sophie and then called the local police station to get a car to attend. He was still waiting at the end of alley when he heard the whine of an approaching motorcycle. It was Joel. Rather than continue waiting for the patrol car, he flagged Joel down and jumped on the back of the scooter. He could feel the back wheel fishtail from side to side as they sped off. He wished he were dressed more warmly as he felt the wind chill rapidly lowering his body’s core temperature. He held tightly to Joel’s jacket.

Joel slewed the scooter to a stop, kicking out the side-stand and jumping off all in one movement; his numb fingers scrabbling at the strap on his helmet as he moved towards the metal door, calling out Dave’s name. There were no lights showing from the upstairs window and the place looked deserted. Calling Dave’s name once more he pushed on the door and it swung open on well-oiled hinges.

Detective Z was much slower in getting off the scooter, his knees seemed to have seized up and he was shivering uncontrollably. Ten minutes ago he was discussing the archaeological marvels of the area following Sophie’s compelling exposition, in the warmth of the Gate. Now he seemed to be experiencing the onset of frostbite. Must get a grip, he thought as he stumbled after Joel. In the distance he could hear a police siren.

When Joel finally found the light switch Detective Z was at the threshold alongside him. The florescent lighting stuttered and flashed several times before light flooded the long room. At the far end curled up on a green tarpaulin next to his motorbike, was Dave. The place stunk of marijuana. Both men moved quickly over to where he lay with his eyes closed. Joel shook his shoulder gently while Detective Z stood over him with a strange look on his face.

With a deep sigh Detective Z turned away, to head-off the police car that was skidding to a halt outside, lights flashing and siren wailing. In a moment he was back.

“I should do you for wasting police time, and being in possession of a controlled substance. I will be outside to take your friend home,” he said addressing the final part to Joel.

Dave made it to the police car while Joel locked up the boathouse with the keys he had taken from him. Joel and the police car then set off in procession, through the fog, back to the Gate. Everybody had dispersed in the function room except Siobhan, who took Dave off like a naughty schoolboy to his bed, and Lorna and Sophie who were talking by the window.

“Yes, this is where all this began. But I had a change of heart.” Joel explained what had been happening to him over the last couple of weeks.

“Sorry I missed it,” said Joel turning to pick up his crash helmet. “Look, do you mind if I call you tomorrow about Dave. I’m worried about him?”

“Sure.”

“Good to see you Sophie.”

“Goodbye Joel, take care in the fog.” Sophie started turning out the lights one by one whilst singing softly to herself. It was an old country and western song that she remembered her father playing on the Dansette.

Deacon returned to his flat without having seen either his brother or his father. He had gone with Seraphim on his errand which involved driving slowly along the riverside road until all the houses seemed to stop. Then there was only one solitary building, set back a little from the river and surrounded by trees. It was hard to tell where they were in the fog and even Seraphim seemed uncertain.