A Line to Kill

The speaker was a very handsome man with thick, prematurely grey hair falling in waves from a high forehead. He had already announced himself with a loud public-school accent and it fitted his aristocratic looks: clean-shaven with an aquiline nose and bright blue eyes. He was expensively dressed. It was impossible not to notice the cashmere polo neck, the Armani jacket, the brand-new jeans and loafers, the chunky Rolex watch weighing down his wrist. He had the perfect tan of the yachtsman or the millionaire. He was quite probably both. He was about forty years old, slim, athletic, pleased with himself.

He had rounded on Marc Bellamy, who was gaping at him with a mixture of shock and resignation. The crowd had parted as if to give them space for the encounter.

‘How do, Charles,’ Marc said. He still used the Yorkshire epithet but all the confidence that he had shown at Southampton Airport had, for the moment, drained away. Why didn’t you tell me he’d be here? I had no doubt that this was the ‘he’ Marc had been referring to.

‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw your name on the programme. You’ve done very well for yourself! I love your show, by the way. You always did like to get your hands on a steak pie. Even when you were thirteen.’ The new arrival spread his hands, explaining himself to the crowd. ‘Tea Leaf and I were at school together at Westland College.’

‘Why do you call him that?’ Anne asked.

‘We all had stupid nicknames for each other,’ Marc replied, before Charles had time to embarrass him further.

‘We haven’t seen each other for …’ Charles tried to work it out.

‘Twenty-five years.’

‘You left so suddenly!’

‘Well, life moves on …’

They had been to the same school, but they were very far from old friends. I could feel the tension between them.

‘Did you ever marry?’ Charles asked.

‘Married and divorced.’

So I had been right about that.

‘I never thought you’d end up as a TV celebrity. I always remember you as being the quiet type, stealing up into the dorm! What’s your show called?’

‘Lovely Grub.’

‘That’s the one!’ Charles laughed. ‘Never watch it myself but Helen says it’s a lot of fun. It’s great to see you, Tea Leaf. We’ve got to catch up and have a proper chat.’ He turned to the assembly. ‘The stories I could tell you about this chap!’

It was all said in jest with plenty of smiles, but as Charles walked over to us I could see Marc Bellamy gazing at him with complete loathing. Kathryn Harris was watching the two of them with dread. She was the one who had brought Bellamy here. This was her fault.

Charles reached us and once again Judith did the introductions. ‘This is Charles le Mesurier. He lives on the island and it’s thanks to him that this festival is happening.’ The words sounded well practised but they were unenthusiastic. She kept her distance from him. ‘It’s his company that’s sponsored us and we’re very grateful.’

‘Always happy to give something back to this island.’ Charles had developed a certain bonhomie that was entirely surface. I had seen it in his dealings with Marc Bellamy. He’d been complimentary enough, but every word he had spoken had carried its own little knife. ‘It was my parents who first brought me to this island. Or rather, they sent me with the bloody nanny! Never thought I’d end up living here, but I’m hoping you’re all going to come up to my place tomorrow night. We only completed The Lookout last year and it’s quite spectacular. The weather forecast couldn’t be better. It’s the big party, with Marc knocking off the snacks! Seven o’clock to ten thirty. You’re all invited.’

‘Will Helen be there?’ Judith asked in a tone of voice that made me wonder if she would actually be happier if she wasn’t.

A shadow of annoyance crossed Charles’s face. ‘She’s stuck in Paris. A shopping trip that won’t end until there’s nothing left in the bloody shops. She said she’d be back in time for tonight, but I guess we won’t see her until tomorrow.’

The drinks lasted about another forty minutes, although Hawthorne slipped away long before the end. He didn’t tell me he was going but I guessed he wanted to eat alone in his room and then hang around in the car park, smoking. Maybe I’d see him later. Meanwhile, Anne Cleary had invited me to join her for dinner and I’d accepted gratefully, hoping to make up for my clumsiness at the airport when I’d failed to remember her.

I found myself leaving at the same time as Charles le Mesurier, who had worked the entire room and seemed to be in a particularly good mood. From the way he behaved, it wasn’t as if he just sponsored the festival. He owned it. I had already decided that he wasn’t the most attractive of characters, but what happened in the last few moments as we made our way to the door really shocked me. You have to remember that this was a year before Harvey Weinstein was arrested and the Me Too movement really took off, but even so there were standards of behaviour, lines that no man would dare to cross. Or so I’d thought.