A Friend in Deed Read online

  ‘Sounds very glamorous. And you live here in London?’

  ‘Da. But I not model anymore. Too long in my teeth, too many younger girls. I stop modelling at twenty-six. For last ten years I work for your government. British Council. They want Russian-speaking person to organise charity events in Ukraine and Russia, to impress with your British culture. When Saatchi Gallery, Tate Britain, these places, when they send paintings to Moscow and Kiev, I handle reception, make sure top people visit. National Portrait Gallery is organising show of Great Britons of Twentieth Century, so I was here for meeting when you saw me.’

  The waitress came over to take our order. We agreed to skip a starter. Tanya was probably thinking the same as me: easier to make an early exit. But we didn’t need to worry. I could see why she had got her job as she chatted away like the seasoned networker she undoubtedly was.

  ‘And you, Duncan? You said you are writer? Famous one?’

  I decided it was better not to talk about the Chronicle job cuts.

  ‘No, not really. I’m more a blogger these days. I write under my author name, Mark Jackson, mainly about the trials and tribulations of working surrounded by people less than half my age.’ I smiled at her. ‘I do some consultancy for social media sites, and when I go into meetings, I’m usually forty years older than anyone else in the room. The oldies who read my blog seem to get a kick out of enjoying my occasional discomfort.’

  ‘Like taking Ukrainian girl to dating room and feeling like old pervert?’

  I laughed. ‘You spotted that, did you? Yes, things like that. But you’ll be pleased to hear that if I do go out dating, it’s usually with someone more my age.’

  The conversation settled into deeper topics. I told her about Patti dying of breast cancer, that my love life these days consisted of occasional hook-ups with some women friends who also felt too set in their ways to go out and find another partner at their time in life. I told her about my Mark Jackson books, and my writer’s block, but I didn’t tell her why. Also, I kept quiet about my Richard Foxe political site. I work hard at keeping the two identities separate; even my Mark Jackson Wikipedia page doesn’t refer to it, and so I never let on unless I have to.

  Tanya, on the other hand, didn’t seem to believe in keeping secrets.

  ‘So, I’ve told you about my love life, what there is of it,’ I said after the waiter had cleared our plates. ‘What about you? Anyone?’

  ‘Plenty and none,’ she replied. ‘British Council seems to be dating agency between nice posh girls from your Home Counties who work there, and civil servants and bankers who give us sponsorship. I stick out, like my thumb is sore.’

  She gave me a grin, and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Anyway, I prefer bad boys. Plenty of them around in my modelling days. Working in Whitehall, not so many. In London, I am single. Nice girl, no scandal. In Moscow, Kiev, Minsk, I always have company. Oligarchs. Dodgy politicians. Some guys maybe gangsters. You shocked?’

  I laughed. ‘As long as you promise they’re not going to misunderstand us having dinner together, no, I’m not shocked. But isn’t that a dangerous lifestyle? I had a friend who got mixed up with a crime lord once, and it all ended in tears.’

  Tanya looked impressed. ‘Ah, so you are not so white? Who is friend who was with gangster?’

  ‘Maybe another time. It’s a long story.’ I was annoyed at my momentary indiscretion. I’d blurted out a reference to skeletons that I wanted to keep firmly locked in their closet.

  Luckily, she didn’t seem that interested in pursuing the story. Instead, I listened to tales about a life of fast cars, private jets and luxury yachts. When Tanya went out to party, she did it in style.

  We were among the last to leave as the restaurant closed around nine, along with the gallery. Despite the financial worries of losing my newspaper column, I gallantly offered to pick up the tab as it had been my call to turn our meeting into dinner, but Tanya insisted on going halves. I didn’t protest too much. As we got our coats and headed for the lift, she said we’d meet again, and that it wasn’t a hollow promise.

  Always nice when you make a new friend.

  * * *

  From new to old. I settled down for my video call with Bobbie the next day.

  Bobbie had given up acting after the Michael Mitchell scandal broke, split up with her husband shortly after and then moved to the isolated community of Scoraig in the Scottish Highlands, where Rita, a friend from London, had gone to live. There’s no road to Scoraig; it’s either an eight-mile walk from the road end or a boat trip across a sea loch to reach the straggled ribbon of crofts along the side of Loch Broom. That made it difficult to keep in touch. We had been able to chat and message, but it was only the previous year that Scoraig had got fast enough broadband for video. Some of the community had resisted it, said it defeated the point of moving there, but it finally happened. Still no plans for a road; that’s the one thing I think they’ll never change.

  I poured myself a large Merlot and waited for her to appear.

  The cheery sonic logo announced her arrival and a few seconds later she appeared on my computer screen. Streaks of grey shining through her curly brown hair, the story of her life etched on her face. Crow’s feet around her eyes telling of times of laughter, times of love; the lines on her forehead reminders of darker moments.

  I saw Davie lurking in the background. It hadn’t taken long for the only single crofter in the community to latch on to Bobbie when she’d arrived. Him, I liked. Solid, practical, reliable; he’d helped Bobbie become more grounded than she’s ever been in her life. Not sure if he felt the same about me – he’s never been entirely comfortable with the two of us being so close. But he’s smart enough not to make an issue of it.

  ‘Hello, Bobbie. How the devil are you?’

  There was a slight echo on the line. I could see Bobbie adjusting her microphone.

  ‘Excellent. Davie’s going out to check on the lambs. Say hi to Duncan, Davie.’

  Davie appeared behind her. Said a gruff hello, but his eyes were smiling.

  ‘A man of few words,’ Bobbie said after he had left, and she laughed. ‘So, come on, tell me your news.’

  ‘You first. How’s the photography business?’

  ‘Great since I got the new website. Now the world can buy prints of the Scoraig landscape in its ever-changing glory!’

  ‘Well, I love mine, and lots of people comment. You have a great eye, always did.’

  ‘Thanks, Duncan. So what about you? Still the fearless reporter holding our dodgy politicians to account?’

  ‘Until this week. There was a big cost-cutting meeting the other day. I was summoned to the office, along with all the other hacks. There’s only going to be four in-house Chronicle columnists going forward. They’ve thrown the rest of us to the wolves. A vague promise that we’ll be considered for an article, but only if we come up with something groundbreaking.’

  Bobbie’s mood darkened in an instant. ‘Duncan, that’s awful. Did you see it coming? And why didn’t they keep you on? Your writing’s the best the paper’s got.’

  ‘The paper wants new, fresh faces. That’s not been me for a long time.’

  ‘That sucks. Can’t you sue them or something? Age discrimination? Redundancy at the very least?’

  ‘No such luck. I’m freelance, don’t forget. My employment rights amount to zero. Not to worry though, I have a Plan B. Remember that investigative piece I did, about the Saudis taking over our nuclear industry? That was with the help of a guy who dug up all the info. Nigel – bit of a geek. We’ve talked about partnering up to do more of the same. If I could get a couple of articles like that a year and sell them to the highest bidder, I’m pretty sure I’d come out ahead financially.’

  I was trying to convince myself as much as Bobbie.

  ‘Sounds cool. Why not start with Act Now! and
what the hell they’re up to? Be careful, though. They don’t play by the rules. I don’t think they’ll take kindly to people poking around in their dirty laundry.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I was on a panel with one of them the other day and I’m sure there was a whiff of brimstone every time he spoke. Got to be something about them worth knowing.’

  Bobbie wanted to know more about what and who I’d be investigating, and I was making it up as I went along. Didn’t mind, though. New dreams began to take flight in my imagination. The more we talked, the more it seemed Nigel really was the answer.

  ‘The plan is that I tell him what to look for. He finds the dirt and I write up the story. Then we share the fee. A partnership, sort of.’

  ‘So, he’s a hacker? Isn’t that unethical? Not to say illegal?’

  ‘I tell him what I want to find out and insist he’s not to do anything dodgy. After that, it’s up to him.’

  I could hear the false bravado in my voice. Bobbie was right: I was heading into dangerous waters. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m conflicted about this guy. I mean, he’s an adult, he can make his own decisions. He certainly knows his stuff about computers. He works from home, freelancing for an AI software company, one of the best. But when he operates in the real world, he can be … well, a bit obsessive. He plays computer games non-stop, and he hardly ever leaves his flat. He’s fixated on always having the best and most up-to-date equipment and software all the time – told me he changes components and microprocessors and such every three months. That’s an expensive compulsion, which is why he’s looking for ways to make extra money. You’re right; he might take more risks than he should. I need to keep an eye on him.’

  ‘You be careful,’ Bobbie said, her voice dropping to a whisper. She looked around as if she expected some Act Now! heavies to burst into her croft at any second. ‘The pair of you sound like a dangerous combination. You’re not the most practical of individuals. If you’re telling me you’re the sensible one in the relationship, that’s a scary thought.’

  ‘I’ll admit, it’s a bit of a last-ditch effort to hang in there. And I don’t know yet whether the fact that he was first to find out about Saudi Arabia was just good luck. He certainly went looking at the right time. I’m sure the big guys have hordes of researchers, sifting through that stuff all the time. But if you don’t take a risk, sometimes you risk even more. I’m a grown-up now, Bobbie. I’ve even got my senior railcard to prove it. Trust me on this.’

  ‘Trust me, I’m a journalist?’ She laughed. ‘If you say so. Okay, I’ll stop nagging. Last time we spoke you were licking your wounds over your latest break-up. Anyone else come along?’

  ‘Not really. I like my own space these days; not sure if I’ve got the flexibility to change enough to let someone else join me. Being on my own feels good.’

  ‘Well, if you’re happy that’s the main thing. Keep in contact with the human race. That’s something I’ve learned living in the back of beyond – it’s all too easy to become a hermit.’

  I went to take a sip of my Merlot, ended up gulping down half the glass.

  ‘I’m glad you think that. Met someone new the other day. Young Ukrainian lass, reminds me a lot of you, back in the day. Bumped into her at an art gallery and we met for dinner yesterday.’

  ‘Young Ukrainian lass? Dinner? Let me guess – student just arrived in London, looking for someone to help her get a visa.’ There was a twinkle in her eyes.

  ‘She works for the British Council if you must know. Helping promote our culture to the Ruskies.’

  ‘Duncan, Duncan, these friends of yours seem to get younger every year.’ Bobbie rolled her eyes and grinned condescendingly. ‘Are you sure she’s not taking advantage of you?’

  I gave an exaggerated pout. ‘I don’t think so. I like her. And I think she likes me. Don’t think she’s got any hidden agenda. And the more young people I know, the better I can understand how Act Now! seem to appeal to their generation. Their latest idea is that we do away with government policy-making altogether. Can you believe that? Trust the instincts of the people rather than the experts, decide everything by plebiscite. All the government has to do is make sure the sums add up and join all the dots.’

  ‘It’s a brave new world and no mistake. Glad I’m well away from it up here. As long as Davie keeps the croft self-sufficient and people still want to buy my photographs, we can leave the rest of you to worry about where all this is leading to.’

  We chatted for another twenty minutes, and after the call I felt inspired enough by Bobbie’s good-natured teasing to fire off a quick blog post about my second meeting with Tanya, exaggerating for comic effect my discomfort at leading her into a room of courting couples. It worked well, and I was gratified to see it sparked a debate in the comments, some people congratulating me on my good fortune, and others tut-tutting and calling me a dirty old man. None were really mean-spirited, and more than a few made me chuckle, so I thought I came out of it well.

  I drifted off to sleep with Bobbie’s warnings about working with Nigel swimming round in my head, and wondering whether it would be more sensible to stick to what I know, writing political commentary, rather than venturing into pastures new.

  You can’t, I decided, start the next chapter of your life if you keep rereading the last one. But I would have to be careful.

  chapter four

  My phone beeped at eight the next morning.

  So now I am world famous for picking up guys in art galleries? x

  Shit. I should have told Tanya what I was posting. But I was sure I hadn’t implied that she had been flirtatious. I logged on, full of trepidation, and reread the post. It was all Bobbie’s fault: she had planted the seed of my musings. I looked again at Tanya’s message. There was an ‘x’ – at least that was something. But no smiley face. Where were emojis when you needed them?

  Should I WhatsApp a reply or call?

  Definitely call. If I talked to her, at least I would have a chance to apologise and explain. Messaging would be feeble.

  I messaged.

  Sorry. No offence intended. It was meant to be funny. Am I forgiven?

  I added a praying hands emoji. Didn’t risk an ‘x’.

  Nothing.

  I checked my phone; the little tick showed she had read the message almost immediately. A follow-up before she replied would be pathetic. I got back to writing my Richard Foxe post – a critique of Act Now!’s populist policies. A discussion on inviting economic catastrophe versus respecting the will of the people; a lot less contentious than trying to read between the lines of a message about an encounter in an art gallery.

  Three hours later, I finally got a reply.

  You are forgiven.

  There was an angel halo. Safe to call, I decided.

  ‘Hi, Tanya. You’ve read my blog.’

  ‘Da. I liked. And now I know Doctor Who.’

  I looked heavenward in relief. ‘It was very rude of me not to tell you I was posting about our meeting. Glad you took it the right way.’

  ‘No problem. Maybe it was me being rude; I googled you. So, we are even-steven, okay? That is right phrase, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, even-steven. Or is it even-stevens? You probably know better than me. So now you’ve read what I said about you, do you still want to meet again?’

  ‘Of course. Maybe in a few days, now is very busy. When is good for you?’

  We arranged to meet at a nice little fish restaurant where Soho meets Holborn. You see fewer tourists there and less of the theatre crowd, and it’s cheap by London standards. I was seeing Nigel at five, so seven-thirty was a safe bet for Tanya. I couldn’t see any meeting with Nigel taking long.

  I sent Nigel a message, checking if we were still okay to meet. He replied straight away saying he didn’t understand the question. I messaged back to say I was making sure nothing had changed o
r he hadn’t forgotten.

  Nothing has changed. I never forget. Don’t ask me unnecessary questions.

  I arrived at his flat ten minutes early, but decided to wait until precisely the time we’d arranged. I was beginning to realise that Nigel liked things to be as he expected them. That was going to make this conversation a challenge.

  At five, he opened the door, stood to one side and stared at the floor as I entered.

  ‘Should I go through to the living room?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. And then you should tell me about developments.’

  Nigel had already positioned the kitchen chair in the same place as before. I sat down as he took his seat opposite me.

  As usual, no small talk.

  ‘You might read about some changes at the Chronicle which are going to be announced tomorrow,’ I said, trying to sound as positive as possible. ‘They’re cutting back the number of journalists on retainer to four, and I’m not one of them. From now on, I have to pitch any story I want to write to the editor, and he’ll decide if he wants to run with it, and if so, how much he’ll pay for it.’

  Nigel started doodling on a pad of paper. I waited for him to say something, but as every second passed, he dug his pen deeper and deeper.

  ‘But not to worry. I’ve worked out a deal that I think you’re going to like,’ I said, flashing a cheery smile that went unnoticed. ‘The restructuring is actually good news. If we’re going to do this right, I need to focus. Rather than spend some of my time writing a weekly column and monthly articles on other stuff, all I’m going to work on from now on are our investigative projects. I’ll sell them as finished pieces to the Chronicle and we’ll split the fee fifty-fifty as agreed. If the story’s as good as the last one, four stories a year will pay more than we’d make on retainer, and if they don’t want the story, we’ll take it elsewhere. What do you think?’

  Nigel started swinging in his chair. Finally, he spoke.

  ‘You need to keep working at the Chronicle. You need to tell them to keep paying your retainer. Then you can be sure you get paid. You promised me I’d get paid. How can you promise me, if you don’t work there anymore?’