The Company of Fellows (37 page)

“
Why not this
time?” Tommy asked.

“
He only
ordered six, so it wouldn’t have been much of a party.”

“
So I guess
you couldn’t reuse the moulds?”

“
Not if you
want them to look perfect.”

“
When, by the
way? Sorry, when at the weekend did Charles have the
moulds?”

“
Saturday
morning. I posted them Friday. He called to say he’d got them the
next day.”

“
I don’t
suppose,” Tommy added in hope more than expectation. “He mentioned
what he wanted them for?”

“
Sure. He said
he fancied a Tuesday treat.”

Tommy breathed
in sharply. If he’d told his ice sculptor when he was planning to
use them then goodness only knows whom else he’d told.

“
Thank
you.”

“
Sure. Give my
sympathies to his family. I think he said he had a daughter,
right?”

“
Yes,” said
Tommy. “I will.” As an afterthought he added: “I don’t suppose
anyone else ordered moulds recently?”

“
No, it’s a
cast I kept for him. I don’t advertise them.”

“
Thanks.”

“
You’re
welcome.”

So whoever put
poison in the ice had been at Shaw’s sometime around Tuesday
morning, legitimately, or through an open door, and had known he
was having a banquet for one on Tuesday. Which could be most people
he knew. The list was getting smaller, but not small enough yet to
rule out anyone on a suspect list.

As he clicked
his mobile shut he felt it vibrate. New message. Unknown
number.

Let it rest.
Now.

____

57

Tommy almost
dropped the phone as it vibrated again and started pumping out
Wagner “Tommy,” he fired off.

“
Hey, man, you
sound like you’re mainlining coffee. You should stick to
roll-ups.”

God it was
good to hear the deep Spanish accent, “Damn, I’m glad to hear
you.”

“
Well I don’t
think I’ve got particularly good news for you.”

“
Not to worry.
Thanks for getting back to me at all. Look, I’m sorry, I seem to be
completely wired every time we talk these days. How about you bring
Juanita over in November? We can chill out, maybe go and see the
fireworks at Blenheim.”

“
Sounds
great.”

“
So what’s the
bad news?”

“
Not really
bad news, more no news. I spoke to the old faces at the main ports,
Cadiz, Algeciras, Tarifa, Huelva. A couple said they might have
seen an Englishman matching the description at the right time, but
he never shipped anything except a few cases of wine.”

“
Wine. That
sounds like Shaw. I guessed he didn’t live off sherry for two
years. Any idea what?”

“
A mixture,
all reasonable quality, none outstanding. Let’s have a look.
Chateau Musar from Lebanon, Nektar from Samos, Mavrud from
Bulgaria, Chardonnay from the Dalmatian Coast.”

“
It doesn’t
sound like a rich man’s taste.”

“
Maybe that’s
what he served to his neighbours.” Tommy heard a throaty laugh down
the line. “No way of telling what he drank for best, or if he drank
for best.”

“
Not if it
came from France or Spain, or Germany, I guess.”

“
Exactly,”
said Angel. “This is all stuff it makes sense to ship through the
Mediterranean and land in southern ports. If he brought anything in
from the north you’re going to have to try and find the dealers
yourself. I’m sure you could do it but it wouldn’t be a quick
job.”

“
Hey, thanks,
Angel.”

“
Take care of
yourself.”

Tommy looked
around Cornmarket. It seemed more crowded than usual, an oppressive
throb of people. He felt eyes catching him in their crossfire. He
didn’t fight the anxiety, just moved to the side to lean against
the window of Lush and take in the fresh smells of handmade
cosmetics being piped into the street.

As he relaxed
he couldn’t help a little smile. The wines might not have been a
rich man’s taste, but as mid-budget wines went you could hardly do
better.

He flipped his
mobile open to call Becky.

“
Hi, Tommy,”
she answered. “You’re going to blow me off, aren’t you?”

“
You’re not
bad at reading people yourself, you know.”

“
No, I just
know men.” She laughed.

“
I really need
a few hours just now. I’m sorry. I think I’m getting close,
though.”

“
Yeah, well in
that case you can make it up to me tonight.”

“
I
will.”

“
I know you
will. Come and cook for mum and me at ours. You do the travel, you
do the work.”

“
Not a
problem.”

“
And Tommy.”
Becky had quit the playful-angry act. Her voice was soft but
deliberate.

“
Yes.”

“
Don’t cancel
tonight. I need to speak to someone before I have to try and get to
sleep again.”

“
I
won’t.”

“
Take care of
yourself, Tommy.”

“
A lot of
people have said that to me, recently.”

“
Well perhaps
there’s a reason for that,” she said, slipping back into her
playful voice. She blew him a kiss and hung up.

____

58

Tommy headed
through town, threading through the scaffolds that fronted the
city’s great buildings like a forest of spider legs.

He rounded the
tunnels and tarpaulin of one major works and drew level with St
Vitus College, he saw that there was a large skip outside Number
37. That was new since he went to Spain, he thought. There was a
van parked up outside with
H Milligan,
Interior Decorators
in reverse writing
across the front end of a shiny silver Mercedes Sprinter. It was a
company that he’d used many times. Harry Milligan had been a
decorator since the 1960s and had worked on the renovation of most
of Oxford’s most prestigious houses almost as long. He knew every
quirk and habit of these houses, like an attentive lover. Tommy
always paid whatever premium it took to have him on board an Oxford
job.

The front door
of Number 37 was open and Tommy could hear the sound of working
coming from the basement. He wondered where, and when, the wine had
been shipped.

The rugs and
runners had been replaced with plastic sheeting, laid out equally
neatly in the hall. “Harry!” Tommy called out. No answer. He went
to the top of the basement stairs and called again.
“Harry!”

He heard
muttering, the sound of tools being put down, and the lithe
skipping of feet. Harry Milligan’s straggly mullet appeared, it
seemed, a few seconds before Harry did. He was a tiny man, no more
than five foot six, and so thin he looked like he hadn’t eaten for
a week, but his taut tanned arms were immensely strong. His gaunt
figure did no favours to his drawn face, which looked every one of
his 59 years. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“
Well, I’m
actually here to ask you the same thing, Harry.”

“
Since when
have you been interested in College work?”

“
Since I knew
the owner of this house,” said Tommy. “Who died last Tuesday. They
don’t believe in letting the grass grow, do they?”

“
That’s a bit
creepy,” was all Harry said. When Harry was on a project, he worked
as many hours as noise bye-laws would allow, and usually got around
those by painting at night and banging by day. He always worked in
silence with no stereo or radio. His only distraction was the books
that he read in tea breaks, so he wouldn’t have seen anything about
Charles’ death in the papers, seen it on the news or heard it on
the radio. He pointed Tommy up the stairs and into the kitchen
where he put on his portable kettle for some tea.

“
So how did
they get you to do the work at this notice?” Harry normally had a
calendar backed up in months rather than weeks.

“
Top whack.”
He smiled, revealing an immaculate set of white teeth, courtesy of
several Christmas holidays in the Philippines.

“
Any reason
for the urgency? Other than greed.”

“
No idea.
Getting ready for term I imagined. It’s none of my business as long
as they pay. I had the Warden himself on the phone, though, giving
me instructions.”

Tommy was sure
his eyebrow must have hit his curls on the way up, but Harry said
nothing, just drank his scalding hot tea. “What instructions?”
Tommy asked.

“
Start in the
basement. Rip the shelves out, then take the paint off layer by
layer, careful not to miss one. Leave plenty of each exposed and
call him straightaway.”

“
Didn’t that
seem strange?”

“
You know me,
Tommy. I work, I don’t ask. There’s a lot of people like it that
way. Besides, lots of those academic places have the archaeologists
in before they refurb. Just to make records. They probably thought
I’d do the job just as well and ten times quicker.”

“
And have you
called him back?”

“
Give us a
chance.”

Tommy stared
at him. He knew Harry would be ahead of any schedule that had been
set.

“
Almost
finished the stripping, though.” Harry grinned.

“
Can I have a
look?” Tommy wondered how far his friendship with Harry stretched.
He also paid top whack, but he didn’t have the constant drip of
Oxford work that St Saviour’s could supply.

Harry finished
his tea and looked as though he were sizing Tommy up. It was the
way he’d looked at him the first time Tommy had asked him for a
quotation. He’d given Tommy a rate that was top end but absolutely
fair, exactly what his work was worth. Tommy had shaken hands on it
straightaway. They’d established a strange mix of trust and respect
based on the fact that although they were different in every other
way they were perfectly matched in their ability to size each other
up.

Harry got up
and motioned with his head for Tommy to follow. He took him through
into the wine cellar. Without the shelves it was huge. Tommy could
feel the tills ringing in the Domestic Bursar’s head.

“
They’re not
keeping the wine cellar, then? Probably a wine bar
instead.”

“
It’s hardly
like they’re destroying a historic monument.” Harry always sounded
matter of fact. He loved these houses but he had little time for
the people who lived in them and whatever imprint they decided to
leave or take away. “It’s only been a wine cellar for a few months
at the most.”

“
I’m sorry?”
Tommy’s mind started flying. No wonder the shelves were so clean.
No wonder there was no dust down here. Why on earth would Shaw move
his whole wine cellar?

“
Come here.”
Harry took Tommy to a piece of wine rack he’d sawn in two. It was
still bracketed to the wall. The racking was painted the same
off-white colour as the wall. Where it had been sawn away there was
a different paint underneath. Harry put his finger on the sawn-off
joint.

“
See this?” he
said.

Tommy
nodded.

“
Painted after
the racking was put up, right?”

Tommy nodded
again.

“
See this
paint underneath? This is all over. Whole room was painted in it,
no bits missed.”

“
OK.”

“
Well this.”
Harry pointed to the undercoat. “It’s a Farrow and Ball paint, OK?
Good taste, the owner. It’s tough stuff, totally washable, totally
durable – look how some of the new paint’s chipping easily because
it can’t get a grip. Didn’t bother to strip it back or prime
it.”

“
Like it’s not
a permanent job?”

“
Exactly.”

“
That doesn’t
mean it’s only been there a few months,” said Tommy. “Charles was
very careful, and you can hardly get to the walls through racking.
There’d be no need to go the whole hog.”

“
True, but
that’s not the point. The point is this paint underneath. The
finish is called exterior eggshell. It’s only been in the range for
a few months.” Harry stood back allowing Tommy to take the
information in. Tommy could see the pride on his face. Harry knew
his stuff. Which is why Tommy always used him. And why Sansom had
used him.

____

59

Tommy’s mind
was running too quickly to catch up. What did Shaw have down here?
Whatever it was, it was what Sansom wanted to know. It was what
Sansom was keeping from him. He tried to slow his mind down. Let
him catch up. Let him ask the right questions. OK, Harry, just how
good are you at this?

“
Any idea what
was down here before?” Tommy asked, trying to make it sound off the
cuff. He could see by Harry’s smile that it didn’t. But Harry was
enjoying himself too much to stop telling.