He controlled himself. They’d be evenly matched, and his father had a bodyguard waiting outside ready to turn Jason inside out if need be. Maybe a dose of Derek’s own medicine would work.
‘How’s Mum?’
His father sent him a sharp look as if wondering where this was going. ‘Your mother’s fine. She’s just bought another dog.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘How is that “lucky me”? I hate the stupid mutts.’
This was the first time his father had shown any sign of passion, and Jason savoured it. Fifteen-love to me.
‘She’ll be too busy to notice your new bit on the side, then, won’t she?’
Thirty-love. Derek turned a fraction paler, visible to Jason but probably not to anyone else. His father was a devout Catholic and believed strongly in commitment within a marriage, but as Jason had discovered in his late teens, Derek did have a slight problem with the fidelity issue. Or maybe it was about control, Jason could never figure out which.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Brunette. Former X Factor contestant. Nice legs, lives on Finchley Road.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I have my own spies.’ He didn’t, but had followed his father himself a couple of weeks ago in a fit of pique.
Derek regarded him for a long moment, a small muscle twitching over one eye, but Jason held his father’s gaze with steely resolve. Finally Derek said, ‘All right, I’ll consider it.’
‘You’re forgetting, I need an answer now. Next week might be too late.’ Jason waited to see how far he could push the old man.
‘You expect me to just give you the place?’
‘Well, it’s not as if it’s worth much. And you’ve got plenty of houses like it.’
Derek hesitated a fraction of a second longer, then capitulated. ‘Fine, drop back in a few days and I’ll have the papers ready for you.’
Forty-love. Game over.
Jason felt like shouting it out loud but decided his father would probably change his mind if he realised Jason was comparing their squabble to a tennis match. Derek hated losing. He also had a tendency to become suspicious when something was important to his son. Better to remain neutral.
‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’
‘You realise there’s no way back. This is the life you’ve chosen. I can’t be seen to be involved. I can’t jump in and protect you. My business associates would be rolling on the floor with laughter.’
‘I don’t need you to.’
‘That,’ Derek paused for effect, ‘remains to be seen.’
‘You seem awfully pleased with yourself today.’
His father’s secretary eyed him over her spectacles as he left the office. Ms Barclay – he had no idea if she was a Miss or a Mrs – was a formidable woman of indeterminate age, dressed in a timeless uniform of grey skirt, unadorned white blouse and black pumps. Her only concession to fashion and femininity was a pair of red-rimmed reading glasses and blood-red lipstick which she applied generously several times a day.
She was the sort who could tell even the Krays to wait in reception and expect them to obey, and she guarded the door to the inner sanctuary like a dragon. Jason liked the old battleaxe.
‘He’s just signed over the house in Acton to me,’ he explained.
‘Well, good for you. Now if you don’t mind, he has important matters to attend to.’
Jason grinned at her and left. This was as close to praise as she’d ever come, and he was happy with that.
The week after Sweetman’s visit passed in a blur for Helen. As he’d intended, the solicitor’s words had hit home. No way could Helen carry on hiding out in India, or anywhere else, with Fay out of prison.
Fay who’d killed her mother.
Giving up her rooms, she bunked in Joe’s apartment for a few days. She said her farewells to the boys on the beach, to some of the long-term visitors, whom she’d got to know, and to Mamaji.
The old woman kissed her on both cheeks. The gesture brought a lump to Helen’s throat. She didn’t think she’d ever see her again, but she’d been like a thing possessed since Sweetman delivered his bombshell.
‘No tears, bhachē.’ Child. ‘Life moves on and so must you.’
She snapped something in Hindi at her daughter-in-law, who stood behind the counter of the shop. The daughter-in-law gave a petulant shrug and Mamaji gestured wildly, sending a torrent of words in her direction, some of them clearly expletives. Helen caught the word āalsī, lazy.
The younger woman rolled her eyes demonstratively and disappeared into the back of the shop. She returned with a small parcel wrapped in a strip of saffron-coloured cloth, the Hindu holy colour. She handed it to Helen and put her hands together in the traditional Indian greeting.