The Crash, page 16
This morning, OCD is delaying my cycle to the BBC. Having said goodbye to Dog and left the flat, I go back to the front door to check it’s properly shut. I press it, walk a few yards, and then feel anxious that I haven’t double-locked it. I return. The key won’t move any further in an anti-clockwise direction. So yes, it must be double-locked. I try to get on my way again. But what if the lock is just stiff? I go back, unlock and then lock. Again. And again. Till eventually I get to the final test of whether all is secure. I press with my knuckle so hard on the door that it hurts the bone. My knuckle will continue to hurt for a few minutes, long enough for me to reach the street. The pain is the proof I need that I really did lock it. No turning back now. Yes, the back of my hand hurts. I can unfold the bike and mount it.
As I cycle round the fields, I tell myself that I am being mad and irrational. I don’t understand how I can observe my rituals, know that they’re crazy, and yet not master them and abandon them. I take a few calming breaths while I pedal. In through the nose, out to the count of five between pursed lips. I am assaulted by all the duties I’ve neglected, like checking in on Mum and Dad. I’ll ring them later. Now I’ve got to get my head in the right space for lunch with Peter Law, the BBC’s director of communications.
I’ve known him for years: we first met when he was Johnny Todd’s deputy spin doctor, before Pete left for the more lucrative world of public relations. He rang me for mutual condolences after Marilyn died, and we said we’d get together, for our own private wake. His idea. But there’s something I need from him.
We’re meeting in the BBC Club, where the food is marginally better than the canteen, and where legendary television executives and actors were for decades able to get rat-arsed drunk any time of the day or night. Not many of the cravat-wearing, lecherous, alcoholic producers are still alive. National treasures all of them, though they wouldn’t be if the young female producers coerced into having sex with them ever told their stories. When I arrive, Law is already at the table, grazing on a bowl of crisps. I can see from the open bottle of Chablis that he’s at least two glasses in. I hate drinking at lunch, but I want Law to be relaxed enough to give me what I want. So I need to encourage him.
‘Glass of Shabbliss, old cock?’ he says.
Pete’s Yorkshire, from Halifax, he’s carrying two stone that are surplus to any kind of requirement, and he has a brain that processes information at the speed of light. Obviously I hate anyone and everyone who works in PR. They are the enemy. But he’s never dull, and is both off-the-charts outrageous and a trove of gossip. I’ve been meaning to follow up what he told me about the relationship between a member of the royal family and an American billionaire for ages. He’s also got an unexpectedly strong moral core. When he quit Downing Street, most – including me – thought it was greed, a desire to monetise his relationship with the new regime. Years later, off his bonce in the Groucho, he told me it was because he had come to the conclusion that Todd was driven solely by his insatiable narcissistic appetite, and that – in his words – ‘his commitment to the Labour cause is a tissue of self-deluding fiction’. He is one of the few people I ever told about Todd’s affair with my late sister. It turns out he already knew. ‘Probably no comfort,’ he said, ‘but now he’s fooking everyone up the arse.’
I haven’t pre-warned Pete that I am going to ask him about his life after Todd, and more precisely about the months after Modern Labour’s landslide victory in 1997. He’d left Downing Street to work with Alex Elliott, who had quit Media Corp to set up his own PR firm. Tory-supporting Elliott, whose first job out of Oxford was in the Conservative Research Department, desperately needed privileged access to the new Labour prime minister. Pete’s inside track was so valuable that the firm was renamed Elliott and Law. They were joint owners, and accumulated considerable income and wealth, until in 2004 they had a spectacular row. Without consulting Pete, Elliott had signed a contract to launder the reputation of a repressive Gulf state. Pete’s capacity for ethical compromise was tested beyond endurance. His unexpected moral core became a bother to him again. As he explained it to me, ‘I told Alex he was corrupt, and I wasn’t going to work for tyrants who torture and execute their opponents.’ He walked out, and a few months later he joined the Beeb.
He splashes Chablis into my glass, and tops up his own. ‘I’m only drinking because I can’t get over Marilyn topping herself,’ he explains. ‘It’s a disgrace. I loved Marilyn.’
‘I know you did, Pete.’
‘I wish she’d let me fuck her. I tried often enough.’
‘Pete!’
‘Sorry, old cock. I was always jealous of the two of you.’
I should have remembered there’s never any need for foreplay with Law. I might as well just ask. ‘You know when Marilyn and I broke up for a while, after the election, did she take up with anyone?’
Law grunts and fills up his glass. ‘Bottle’s empty already. I’ll get another one. What were you asking?’
‘Whether Marilyn was dating anyone, or was with anyone, after we stopped seeing each other for a bit in ’97.’
Law looks around for a waiter. They’ve all vanished.
‘Why are you asking?’
‘Because it turns out there’s lots about Marilyn I didn’t know, and I want to fill in the gaps.’
Law has finally managed to catch a waiter’s eye. He shakes the empty bottle at him. ‘I meant why are you asking me?’
‘Because you used to be close to Elliott.’
‘Well then you have your answer.’
‘Not really.’
‘Are you sure you want to know? It was a pretty dark time for Marilyn.’ I nod, though my chest tightens. ‘After the two of you broke up, Marilyn was in a terrible state. I’d never known her messed up. She was drinking too much, doing way too much coke. Quite how she managed to hold it together at work I’ll never know.’
‘You and I were supposed to be friends. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘She swore me to secrecy. Anyway, long story short, Elliott saw an opportunity and moved in.’
Now that he’s confirming my worst fears, I’m not sure I do want to hear.
‘How long did it last?’
‘A few months, maybe. Towards the end, she even moved into his place.’
His words hang in the air, taunting me. Why, Marilyn, why? I’m afraid to ask, but I need to put my finger in the wound, to clean it out. ‘Did she ever tell you what she saw in him?’
‘Sort of. Years later, after I fell out with Alex, I asked why she did it. She didn’t really answer, just said it was a time in her life when she’d done a load of terrible things. I guess fucking Elliott was a test of how much humiliation she could endure.’
Pete scoops up a handful of crisps and starts to speak and munch at the same time. ‘If it’s any consolation, she said she felt really bad about how she’d let you down. She wouldn’t explain what she meant, but she started crying.’
I look at him in disbelief. Marilyn never cried. My mind is racing. I remember Jess’s verdict when she saw Marilyn’s photograph. The photograph is so . . . violating. She’s exposed, helpless. Marilyn sent me the photo to tell me she’d fallen back into darkness, and this time she could not tolerate the loneliness and the pain.
A decade ago she pulled herself out of the swamp. How was she dragged back in? Find me Gil.
Law raises his glass and clinks it against mine. The sound is clinical, icy.
‘To you Marilyn. I miss you.’
*
An hour later, I’m in my Ikea cupboard of an office. I did once complain about its size to Janice, and she made clear I was being a self-important, pampered tosser. I’ve logged on to my PC and am browsing the website of Elliott and Partners, which is what Elliott and Law became after Pete walked out. It doesn’t display a formal list of clients, but in a section about recent assignments there are photos of various reputation-enhancing projects that the firm has created for assorted businesses.
I am struck by Elliott’s commercial promiscuity. One article on the site is about how Elliott helped MHH and the Johnny Todd Peace Institute launch and run the ‘Jackson Development Economics Prize’. It’s illustrated with a picture of Johnny Todd awarding the prize to a young black doctoral student from the London School of Economics. Another ‘story’ talks of a press trip Elliott organised to show off a massive Gulf property development. It lists Chris Ravel’s Lulworth Securities as an anchor investor, and includes a quote from him about the rapid modernisation of the region. A third page shows a photo of Elliott grinning in a hard hat and high-vis jacket, standing next to a lean man with close-shaved hair, wide Slavic cheekbones and a broad nose. He’s leaning on a pick-axe, and somehow his smile conveys menace. The caption reads: The Russian investor and philanthropist Petr Primakov breaks ground on oil refinery upgrade, Odessa, Ukraine.
‘I’ve found you,’ I mutter. Petr Primakov. The Russian from Jackson’s office, who interceded when I embarrassed myself with Meathead at Elliott’s party. There are so many routes to learning more about him. I choose the laziest, and dial on the landline.
‘What do you know about Petr Primakov?’ I ask Jess, the instant she picks up.
There’s a nanosecond pause, as she accesses the database in her head.
‘Worth billions. Proper oligarch. Picked up oil, gas, metals in the fire sale of state assets after the collapse of the Soviet Union. He’s kept a lower profile than many. Close to Putin, of course, the normal insurance policy. We think he’s moved to the UK. Can’t be sure.’
‘How dodgy is he?’
She laughs. ‘He’s an oligarch.’
I remember the fragment of conversation I heard outside the lift in Jackson’s office. ‘Would he be interested in buying NewGate, do you think?’
‘It could make sense. NewGate massively promotes its work in the north-east, as a community bank. Buying it would be a way to put down new roots, acquire new friends. A bit like Abramovich buying Chelsea.’
‘Reputation laundering.’
‘You said it.’
‘Thanks, Jess.’
‘Why are you so interested in him?’
I’m about to tell her when the bat-phone BlackBerry buzzes. It’s Kim Jansen. ‘Sorry, Jess. Must take this.’ I don’t need to hear Jess’s sigh to feel it as I hang up.
‘Hello assistant commissioner.’
There are no formalities from Jansen. ‘I went back to the pathologist to raise the point you made, to double-check whether or not someone with so much ket in their system would have been capable of hanging themselves. He confirmed it depends on the scale of her habitual use, her tolerance of the drug. His assumption is that Marilyn’s system had adapted to regular, heavy intake.’
For a few seconds I say nothing. I am taking this in. I don’t understand how she could disguise such recreational drug excesses from her work colleagues, from me.
‘Are you still there, Gil?’
‘Yeah. I was processing. And I need to apologise. I shouldn’t have put you to that trouble. I’ve been reflecting on what you’ve been saying and I no longer doubt she committed suicide.’
I don’t explain about the note in the book. It’s my most important physical connection to Marilyn, and the idea of passing it to Kim, of it vanishing forever into some warehouse of forgotten evidence, is too troubling.
‘It’s my job to cover all angles.’ I think I hear relief in her voice at my capitulation. ‘Can I just follow up on one thing, though?’ she asks. ‘Last time we spoke, you said you were unaware she still had such a serious drug habit.’
I wince. ‘Yes. That’s true.’ It’s painful being reminded of what Marilyn hid from me.
‘Even so, I don’t suppose you have any clue where she sourced her Class A substances?’
‘Why would that matter?’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, drug dealing is still a serious criminal offence. I can’t ignore it.’
I do have an idea, actually: Elliott, via Raoul. But I’m not going to mention them. Elliott would deny it, and there’d be no proof, just a world of recriminations and pain for me.
‘I accept she killed herself. But I don’t understand why. You haven’t found anything that helps explain it, have you?’
‘The drug abuse could be part of it. But we’ll keep looking. It would probably help if you and I could meet. I’d love to understand more about her.’
So would I.
‘Sure.’
‘Have you got your diary there?’
A diary. I suddenly recall Marilyn’s routine, a nightly ritual. Before going to sleep, even after sex, she’d scribble down what was in her head, the events of the day. It would take five minutes, maximum. She’d never discuss what she wrote, never show me. It was just a thing, like brushing her teeth.
‘Just out of curiosity,’ I say casually, ‘did you find anything like a diary?’
‘I’ll ask.’
We make a date to meet and Kim rings off, leaving me agitated. I can’t believe I forgot about the diaries. I don’t trust the police and Kim not to bury them. If they haven’t found them, I need to. I telephone Jess.
‘You’re kidding me, Gil. We’re not breaking into Marilyn’s flat.’
‘I have a key.’
‘The police have explicitly told us to keep out. We’d be committing an offence.’
‘I’m not asking you to come with me. I’ll do it after the news tonight. I’ll be in and out in ten minutes, and I’ll report back in the morning.’
*
Once I’ve done the Ten, I walk up Wood Lane towards Shepherd’s Bush Green, till I flag down a black cab. I tell myself I am well within my rights to enter Marilyn’s home. She gave me a key. She would have expected me to find out what happened. Even so, I’d rather no one saw me go in, and I ask to be dropped thirty yards from the house.
My wariness is justified. As I walk up the opposite side of the street, I spot someone loitering to the right of the entrance. That’s unsettling. Why would Jansen leave an officer on duty here, so long after Marilyn’s death, and when she’s already decided it’s suicide? The best course may be to cut my losses and go home.
Before I can make up my mind, the figure spies me and hurries across the road. Jess.
‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ I whisper, trying to get my heart rate under control.
‘That’s because you are spectacularly thick. What in our history led you to think I would let you do something so idiotic on your own?’
I take out the keys, we go in the front door and climb three flights to the top floor. There’s still police tape across Marilyn’s door, but it’s starting to droop and peel away.
‘We shouldn’t be here,’ Jess says, for form’s sake. She knows I’m going to ignore her.
‘You’re right.’ I put the key in the lock, break the tape and we enter.
The moment I step inside, a digital beeping sounds from a box on the wall, broadcasting our transgression. Shit. I forgot about the alarm. The police must have found an electronic fob and turned it on. I run to the keypad on the left of the corridor and frantically try to remember the back-up code, before the beeps become a wailing siren.
‘This could be over quickly,’ says Jess.
Numbers suggest themselves. Marilyn’s birthday? No. My birthday? The beeps seem to get more urgent, mocking me for my egotism. What’s Johnny Todd’s birthday, for fuck’s sake? How many attempts do I get before it locks me out?
I need to think. What would be a significant number sequence for Marilyn? Something clicks in my head, as the beeping increases in volume, a warning of the deafening blast to come. If this fails, we’re toast. Zero one zero five nine seven.
The beeping stops. I can breathe. I did know you, Marilyn. A bit.
‘You remembered,’ says Jess.
‘More deduction. The date of the 1997 general election.’
‘Todd’s apotheosis.’
‘Marilyn’s.’
We move into the flat. ‘Don’t turn on any lights till I’ve drawn the curtains,’ Jess says, whispering even though there’s no one to hear. ‘And I don’t think we should put the lights on.’ She takes two small torches with powerful beams from her coat pocket. ‘Here.’
I give her an admiring look. ‘You’ve done this before.’
I walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the main reception room that give on to a small balcony, with its black wrought-iron balustrade. As I cross the room, I try to keep my eyes on the wooden parquet floor, away from the steel beam that spans the mansard. They’ve removed the rope. I press hard on my right earlobe, to exorcise the image. Kill me now, kill me now, kill me now.
I fumble for the drawstring, pull and close the heavy damask curtains. The beam hides in the shadows.
‘Let’s start in the bedroom,’ I say.
It is a mess, more or less as Marilyn left it. Our torchbeams move over unwashed coffee mugs, wine glasses stained red at the bottom by dregs, knickers and bras all over the floor. Her habitual chaos. This is even more upsetting than I expected. The growl of anxiety in my head is becoming louder. On the desk, there is a picture of Marilyn. She’s about five years old, standing proudly in front of a sandcastle, bolt upright with a spade sloped across her shoulder, like a soldier, beaming. Mum and Dad are crouched next to her. Untroubled happiness. No clue to the darkness that awaits.
I open the desk drawer. Random bank statements. Nothing much else. I shove them in my rucksack, just in case. I check that Jess isn’t looking in my direction and surreptitiously add the framed photo.
‘Have you found anything?’ I ask.
Jess is on her hands and knees, at the bottom of a cupboard, torch held in her mouth. She’s gingerly removing cuddly toys and teddy bears, old, patched and loved too much. ‘Your girlfriend was more sentimental than she let on,’ says Jess.
‘I’m as surprised as you.’
Jess pulls out a heavy-duty plastic shopping bag from the back of the cupboard. Harvey Nichols.
‘This looks promising.’
It contains maybe half a dozen cloth-bound, greeny-brown Letts diaries. Two pages per week. The kind many of us were given by optimistic parents when we were eleven or twelve, and maybe wrote in for a couple of weeks or months before getting bored and losing them. There are also Filofax diary pages, in brown paper envelopes with a year written on the front. Jess spreads them on the bed. They go all the way back to Marilyn’s early teens, and she’s written on every page.
