The Geneva Trap

Chapter 22

In theory they had a choice of cars, but though Liz’s Audi saloon had served her well, she had to admit that in old age the car had slowed down: its engine coughed when she drove at more than 70 miles per hour, the brakes squeaked like mice if she applied them hard, and all in all the knacker’s yard beckoned. So when Edward arrived at her flat in a sparkling new Golf with leather seats, Liz climbed in without a backward glance at the Audi. When she remarked on the splendour of the new car, Edward laughed and said, ‘The one good thing about being as old as I am is that if you buy a sporty little car like this, no one can accuse you of having a mid-life crisis.’

Cathy Treglown lived a mile along the coast from Brighton Pier, in the ground-floor flat of a Victorian house that had seen better days. When she answered the door, Liz felt Cathy could use some refurbishment too. Edward had said she was only in her late twenties, but her skin was red and coarsened, her figure was shapeless and her eyes looked tired. All that, along with her unkempt hair and the stained T-shirt and ragged jeans she wore, made her look middle-aged.

She seemed resigned rather than happy to see her father, and though she was civil to Liz, she wasn’t friendly. Only the arrival of Teddy lightened the atmosphere. He rushed into the room, and jumped straight into Edward’s arms, shouting, ‘Grandpa! You’re here.’

The sitting room ran the length of the house and had been freshly painted.

‘What a lovely room,’ said Liz.

‘The landlord redecorated after the previous family moved out. It meant he could put the rent up,’ Cathy said sourly.

An awkward silence followed which Edward finally broke. ‘I’ll go and make some coffee. Come on, Teddy. You can show me where things are.’

When he had left the room, Cathy said nothing so to break the silence Liz asked, ‘Did you like living in France?’

‘I stayed ten years so I must have.’

‘But you’ve come back now.’

Cathy shrugged. ‘I’m starting to think it might have been a mistake. Anyway, let’s not talk about me. Edward says you live in London. What do you do there?’

‘I’m a civil servant,’ Liz said, expecting the usual glazed look of disinterest.

But Cathy said, ‘Doing what exactly?’

‘I work in Human Resources.’ This was usually enough to stop further questions.

‘Do you mind working for the government?’

‘No. In my more idealistic moments, I like to think I’m working for the people.’

‘As if.’ Cathy seemed about to launch into a lengthy tirade about Liz’s employer, when Edward appeared with a tray. As he passed round the mugs he said, ‘Teddy’s gone out into the garden with his football.’

‘You spoil him, Dad,’ said Cathy. ‘That bike you gave him must have cost a fortune.’ But though the words were ungracious, for the first time her voice softened, and it was suddenly obvious to Liz how much she loved her little boy.

Edward said, ‘It’s the least I can do. The whole point of grandparents is spoiling their grandchildren.’ He smiled. ‘It’s the parents who have to do the hard bit – the grandparents can shower the children with presents and love, then you lot have to make them eat their supper and go to bed at the right time.’

‘At least you admit I’ve got the sharp end,’ said Cathy, her sour mood returning. There was a gracelessness about her which seemed almost artificial – as if she were deliberately suppressing a nicer character behind the sulky façade.

Fearing how his daughter must seem to Liz, Edward was looking embarrassed. He said with a forced cheerfulness, ‘So, any news on the house?’

‘It’s on hold. I told you that, Dad.’

He nodded. ‘Well, just tell me if I can help in any way.’ He smiled, and Liz found herself feeling immensely sorry for him. The strong, confident man she knew was faltering here, walking on eggshells because he was all too aware that his daughter held all the cards – one argument too many and she’d be back in France, at the mercy of her anarchist friends, and taking Teddy with her.

Liz, thinking it would be best to leave them alone for a bit, said, ‘I’m going to join Teddy in the garden – I rather fancy a game of football. Is that OK?’

‘Be my guest,’ Cathy replied.

Liz went into the hall and, on the way to the garden, stopped in the loo. Stuck to the inside of the door was a large poster of Che Guevara, the classic one with fist clenched and a vivid red beret perched jauntily on the side of his head. Was it a joke? Surely no one of Cathy’s age in their right mind could still think of the man as a hero. But below the poster was a framed quotation from Ibsen:

As Liz came out and turned towards the door to the garden, she saw a large appointments diary on the hall table beside the telephone. It seemed oddly out of place in this ramshackle flat – a symbol of the middle-class life Cathy had so vehemently rejected.

Liz looked at the diary’s open pages, which covered the rest of the month. There were a few entries: a doctor’s appointment for Teddy the following week, a parents’ day, a dentist’s appointment the week after, and most interestingly a brief entry for the previous week: René L.& Antoine 2.30.

Was this the René who’d been round to the flat before – the man Teddy said had been nasty? Probably. But who was Antoine? René’s enforcer? Liz hoped not, but she made a mental note to ring Martin as soon as she got home.