Читать книгу The Honey Trap - Vivien Armstrong - Страница 8

CHAPTER 3

Frederick’s Civil Service pension allowed few luxuries but one of them was private medical treatment. The Darwin Clinic sat grandly just off the Marylebone Road and he was grateful to Simon for loaning his splendid limousine. It certainly made for a smooth conclusion to a very exciting few days, almost too absorbing to allow him to fret about the proposed tests.

The girl was a better driver, for a start. She handled the car with smooth dexterity and was not the victim of the irascibility which clouded any drive with Simon. Gliding through Hyde Park opulent with the merest touches of autumn gold was a royal progress indeed.

He almost purred.

Drawing up outside the hotel-like entrance of the clinic, the girl leapt out and shepherded him to the reception area, smiling disarmingly at the doorman’s appraisal of her double-yellow parking. Inside, all was soft lighting, easy chairs and lots and lots of pink carnations. Very like a hotel foyer, in fact. He was early, the appointments clerk’s softly-spoken response reassuring. Frederick felt like a famous vintage lovingly passed from hand to hand. Rowan passed him a current copy of Country Life and settled him on a leather sofa before disappearing to park the car.

Cocooned in the gentle ambience, Frederick relaxed, secure in twenty minutes’ respite before the jaws of hell were due to pluck him into one of the stainless consulting rooms. The rasp of someone demanding his missing copy of The Times struck a discordant note. An argument ensued, clearly audible to the waiting patients and hovering relatives all too eager to be distracted from the matter in hand. A large young man in a tentlike kimono, seated in a wheelchair, his leg encased in plaster, harangued the woman behind the counter of the kiosk in the corner. Being seated and well below her line of vision in no way diminished the man’s control of the dispute, which ranged from icy contempt to flashes of childish temper. It seemed a lot of fuss about a newspaper.

Frederick swivelled round, curious, open to live entertainment of any kind. The voice seemed familiar. The doorman was moving in, sternly intent on shifting the chairborne patient who was ruffling the carefully nurtured calm.

Frederick strode to the kiosk.

‘Aran. Aran Hunter, you noisy bugger!’

The young man expertly spun the wheels of his chair, grey eyes skewering the interfering old party. The frown evaporated.

‘Fred! What are you doing in this Valhalla?’

Frederick smoothly manœuvred the wheelchair back to his sofa and the abandoned Country Life and sank back, smiling broadly, ignoring the question. He tapped the plaster cast. ‘Been kicking up the dust, old son?’

‘Fell off some scaffolding in Venice. Trying to photograph some bloody frescoes for assessment. Flew me home, luckily my insurance covered it.’

‘Bad luck. In here long?’

‘Ten interminable days. It was a complicated fracture. But I’m pretty fair now, just pissed off wasting time I could usefully spend in my studio.

‘When are they discharging you?’

‘As soon as I’ve convinced them I’ve got some place to go which doesn’t involve any more monkey tricks.’ His scowl reappeared, furrowing a tanned forehead untidily overhung with hair the texture and colour of Shredded Wheat.

‘Can’t you work from a wheelchair?’

‘Some,’ he replied guardedly. ‘Problem is they’re trying to shunt me to some convalescent palace of varieties in Torquay which they use here.’

‘If you got an au pair or someone you could probably rest at home just as well.’

Frederick had known Aran Hunter for several years, admired his work enormously, but could hardly imagine this dynamo quietly recuperating in a post-operative lay-by until his plaster was removed.

‘Tried that. Got one of my students to agree to live in but it won’t work. You see, I’ve no lift. Four floors up and I couldn’t possibly cope with the stairs.’

The soft announcement of Frederick’s appointment led them to break off, but, anxious to catch up with Hunter’s news, Frederick pressed him to meet after his check-up. They exchanged details of Aran’s room number and Frederick hurried in the wake of a pair of dark stockings leading him towards the row of steel elevators. In contrast to the cosiness of the reception area the streamlined efficiency of the lifts gave the game away: the Darwin Clinic meant business. Like everything else beyond the ground floor, the lift equipment was probably sterilized daily, he decided.

Rowan was waiting in the reception hall when Frederick reappeared, sickly pale but determinedly cheerful.

‘Hope I haven’t kept you waiting, my dear. I bumped into a young friend of mine who’s a patient here. We had a chat in his room after my tests and I persuaded his doctor to let him out to lunch. He’s on parole,’ he confided as she took his arm, ‘so we must return him reasonably sober.’

Frederick’s protégé appeared on cue, now turned out in a kilt of virulent yellow and black tartan and a tweed jacket of such proportions as to involve the cooperation of several alpaca. Wheeling himself between the leather sofas, Aran Hunter, bright-eyed as a schoolboy on half-term release, was greatly impressed by the old man’s driver. Michelangelo would have swooped on this one, all woman indeed, her male get-up lending a tantalizing fillip to this unexpected exeat.

The doorman gladly assisted the unlikely trio into the street, anxious to maintain the reverential hush which distinguished the Darwin from other less classy establishments.

The Volvo was illicitly to hand.

‘Where to?’ she said.

Confused, Frederick began to stutter about the wheelchair. She patted his arm. ‘Now, have you booked, Frederick?’

‘I thought the Chelsea Arts Club.’

‘Oh no.’ Aran’s response was unyielding.

‘Your leg—?’ Frederick queried.

‘It’s not that. I really can’t face that nosey crowd. To be honest, Frederick, I’d rather the word doesn’t get around that I’m back from Venice,’ he explained, only adding to the confusion.

Rowan took them in hand.

‘Well, how about a little place I know where we can eat in the garden? There’s a back entrance so we can wheel you straight in without struggling through the restaurant proper. Wonderful food. No hassle.’

Frederick nodded; Aran concurred; the matter was settled.

‘We’ll get a taxi,’ Aran said. ‘While you go ahead to clear the way for me and the leg.’

Rowan expertly summoned a cab with an ear-piercing whistle.

The taxi-driver manœuvred Aran, the plaster cast and Frederick into the cab and folded up the wheelchair with a flourish, stowing it inside. Frederick bounced about trying to catch the girl’s eye, worried about the lunch booking.

Aran leaned out of the window.

‘What’s your name? In case we get there first?’

‘Rowan. Just Rowan. They know me. Ask for Toto.’

Aran looked nonplussed. ‘Rowan?’

‘Mountain ash,’ Frederick explained.

‘My mother smoked a lot,’ she said.

‘I thought Rowan was a man’s name.’

‘Well, it’s not. What’s yours?’

‘Aran.’

‘I thought Aran was a jumper.’

He laughed. ‘Touché.’

Lunch was a huge success. They spread themselves beneath a flame-red maple in the walled garden behind the restaurant. The sun lent a gilded touch to the fag end of a hot summer and for weeks tables in the courtyard had been in great demand, giant tubs of geranium, rosemary and basil lending a spicy un-English scent to a backyard only yards from the choked artery of King’s Road.

Aran sat sideways to the table, his leg propped on a chair, his restored bonhomie embracing the entire population of Chelsea. They ribbed Rowan about her previous night’s dip in the Thames, she, in turn, refusing to elaborate on the bizarre event. Aran, more than a little drunk, leaned across the table.

‘Why hide all that loveliness under a man’s shirt?’

‘Same reason,’ she tartly retorted, ‘you wear a skirt.’

Frederick roared with laughter. They made wonderful sparring partners.

‘Needs must,’ Aran confessed. ‘I wasn’t going to pass up Fred’s generous offer of lunch away from that snake pit. One of the orderlies, Jimmy Macleod, offered to lend me his Burns Night kit.’ He patted the plaster. ‘Trousers over this are a problem. I could get used to the kilt,’ he said, grinning. ‘Convenient all round.’

‘Couldn’t you try shorts, the baggy Boy Scout sort?’ Rowan suggested.

‘It’s an idea. My flat’s just round the corner.’ He paused and then urgently addressed Frederick. ‘Would you mind if this glorious girl of yours nipped up to my apartment and packed a few things? It wouldn’t take more than five minutes.’

Frederick turned to Rowan, who shrugged and laughingly agreed to go through Aran’s drawers. Aran emptied the bottle and mentally weighed Frederick’s discretion. ‘There’s something else, old chap. I hate to ask you but this accident has put me well and truly in the cart.’

He lowered his voice and Rowan, unabashed, moved in, all three heads bent over the littered table.

‘My flat’s in a new block at the end of Tite Street. The developers put in for eight floors but the planning people cut them down to four—something to do with existing rooflines. As the profit depended on twice as many units the builder cut his losses by eliminating lifts, which is OK unless you have luggage or a broken leg. I agree it’s a luxury “walk-up”, as they say in New York, but in practice there’s no real problem. In the normal course of events, four floors is nothing out of the way in London. I don’t use it all that much. Travel a lot,’ he explained, ‘working on site, and then there’s this workshop and photographic studio I rent in Rome which has most of my technical gear.’

‘What do you do?’ Rowan interjected.

‘I’m a conservator.’

‘A leading restorer,’ Frederick enthused. ‘Aran Hunter’s put his hand to some tremendously important art works, the royal collection, too, am I not right, my boy?’

Making a dismissive gesture he continued, sotto voce.

‘I’m freelance these days. Mostly Italian fifteenth- and sixteenth-century stuff, all scientific tricks mostly, a sort of make-do and mend.’ He paused. ‘The problem is, Fred, I have a picture at my flat which I intended to assess for one of the dealers. The building is pretty secure, only one entrance and a twenty-four-hour porterage, but I had no notion the thing would have to sit possibly for weeks in an empty flat. Could you, as an enormous favour, take it back with you to the country? Just for a month or so? It would be safer in your custody and I’d feel happier. The central heating goes on this week and most of the residents in my block seem to prefer desert heat.’ Appealing to Frederick’s kind heart, he wheedled, ‘It’s a very small painting.’

‘I suppose it will be all right,’ the old man reluctantly agreed. ‘But you would have to introduce Rowan to the porter. He’s not going to allow a stranger to enter your flat and pack a suitcase unless he sees you in person, is he?’

Rowan said, ‘We could follow Aran’s taxi in the Volvo and I could pack a bag and get the picture from the flat. Then you could take the cab back to the clinic and Frederick and I drive straight to Oxford.’

‘It’s a big responsibility,’ Frederick demurred, desperately aware of the treasures Aran dealt in. An alternative struck him. Excitedly he banged the table, overturning his Chablis.

‘Why don’t you come down to Mayerton with us? Stay as long as you like. I couldn’t guarantee a thatched cottage would be more environmentally sound than an overheated flat, but you could keep an eye on the picture yourself. What’s the insurance situation, moving these priceless objects?’

‘No problem,’ Aran assured him. ‘I do it all the time. Even big stuff. I’ve got my own security van parked at the flat, fitted with special niches for crates and so on.’

‘How about convalescing at Mayerton, then?’ Frederick enthused.

‘Would get you out of the clinic,’ Rowan added. ‘And if you like, I could drive us all in your van and then you’d be able to spread out your leg in the back and take the wheelchair along too.’

Aran brightened. ‘That sounds really too generous for words, Fred. Are you sure? I’m a cantankerous sod, hell to live with even without a broken leg.’

‘We’ll manage.’ Frederick beamed across the table, enchanted by the unexpected turn of events which had brought such exhilarating company into his dull pond of a life. ‘Will your doctor allow it?’

‘Let’s not ask,’ Rowan countered. ‘Just go. I’ve got to come back to London. I’ll call in and return the kilt if you like and Aran can phone his doctor from the cottage.’

It all seemed preposterously simple. They looked at each other and clinked glasses, conspirators in crime.

The sky had become overcast. The waiter brought the bill, anxious to clear the outside tables before the rain. Rowan went off with him to greet the chef, an old chum of hers who appeared fifteen minutes later, wreathed in smiles, one arm affectionately about her shoulder. She and the waiter bundled Aran back in his wheelchair amid much ribald speculation from the chef regarding the underpinnings of ‘ze wunnerful Scotch skirt’.

Once out on the pavement, Rowan proposed getting a taxi for the men while she followed in the Volvo. Just as she magically produced one, Frederick declared an undeniable call of nature and ducked off down to the men’s lavatory conveniently to hand.

Simon had warned Rowan about Frederick’s unscheduled stops, often of indeterminate duration and always inconvenient. It began to pour. Aran had already lurched awkwardly inside the taxi and she joined him, anxiously wondering if it would eventually be necessary to dispatch the cab-driver to winkle the old man out.

Seated close to her, Aran relaxed in her fragrance. It was what he could only describe as ‘earthy’: entirely natural and infinitely appealing to a man whose girlfriends moved in synthetic clouds of Chanel and Givenchy. Unaware of his appraisal, she sat on the edge of the seat, holding the door ajar, watching through the sheeting rain for Frederick’s reappearance at the top of the steps.

With a sigh of relief she jumped out and pushed the old man into the taxi, mouthing directions to the driver, her hair already drenched. Frederick offered up a silent prayer that he had not seen the last of Simon’s Volvo and Aran for his part prayed that he had not seen the last of this new style Artemis rapidly disappearing into the wilderness of rain-sodden Chelsea.