CHAPTER 4
NO ONE HERE OF THAT NAME
West Hampstead is a district that was well served by Luftwaffe efficiency during the early 1940s.
The war era led to numerous North London bombsites, reconstruction, and pockets of incongruous, often brutalist 1950s to '60s apartment blocks and public buildings, surrounded by row upon row of the original Edwardian four-storey houses. Each of these impressive single homes has long since been converted to multiple residential flats. Mozart's Piano Concerto 21 played through the opened sash window of a ground floor. Nelson recalled his father had played such pieces at rare times of ceasefire with Nelson's mother.
Dressed in Adidas monochrome trainers, slim jeans and a light Harrington jacket, he found himself standing outside one of these featureless blocks, Grimaldi's letter in-hand.
Nelson studied the address again at the top of the page.
Flat 2³, 22 Compayne Gardens
From his vantage point, it now appeared that number 22 was a large collection of flats.
What on Earth does 2³ mean? Two cubed? Level two, flat three?
He decided on the latter. A small outdoor lift beckoned. Nelson glanced left and right as he approached, but the figure in over-sized dark glasses was carefully concealed from his view. As Nelson stepped into the lift his every movement was being recorded in high definition.
Smelling the stale musk, cabbage and old steel, Nelson pressed the button for the second floor. The cage wobbled as he moved to its middle. The doors lumbered to a close and Nelson checked his appearance in a scratched chrome mirror fixed to the lift wall. He smirked at the scrawled graffiti:
Stare at the numbers, shuffle your feet >>> and DON'T TALK!
Then scoffing, as below this he read:
Thatcher Iron Lady? Rust In Peace.
Gears ground into motion and the machine ascended resentfully upwards. The gates opened unexpectedly one floor short. The small red button displaying 2 remained lit and Nelson pressed it again. Twice. With no movement he surrendered the argument, walked out and took the stairs, emerging to a balcony with a left side railed over a sunless concrete courtyard. To the right were six high-gloss navy blue doors, the first one having an elderly man buckled over terracotta plant pots clustered around his Welcome mat. The old man's door was slightly ajar and Nelson could hear Jimmy Young on Radio 2 being played softly inside.
Levelling his watering can the man straightened to observe Nelson as he squeezed past along the balcony in an awkward tight manouevre. Nelson reflexively smiled, yet the elder remained stone-faced. Nelson continued along to his target door, showing a number 3. This was catching a final blade of morning sunlight and he knocked firmly. There was no immediate answer.
Knocking again louder, he felt the bruising on his knuckles and could faintly hear running water. He tensed his arm back fully to try thumping with his fist.
"There's a bloody doorbell!" hollered the plant-pot elder.
"Oh, thank you."
Finding the low mounted bell, Nelson pressed it, creating a loud vibrating blast within.
The running water stopped immediately, and there were a few seconds of silence. Then came a sound of bare feet on carpet. The door opened warily a small fraction, remaining on the chain. An impressive young woman with deep brown eyes and wonderful dark brows peered out. Her wet brunette hair framed an olive-skinned face with a straight fringe and long bob that was cut to the nape of her neck. Droplets fell to her shoulders and Nelson observed she was wrapped in a bath towel.
"Yes!" she snapped.
"Hello," said Nelson and then panicked. "Doctor Grimaldi?"
"Who?"
Nelson knew there was not the slightest chance this young woman could be an ageing scientist, yet he had been stunned by her looks and unwisely persisted.
"Doctor Oswald Grimaldi. I have a letter for you."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Do I look... like an Oswald?"
In mild alarm at his own behaviour, Nelson held aloft the NASA letterhead. The woman's expression exhibited clear annoyance followed by a head shake of disinterest.
"There is no one of that name here, never heard of them," she scorned.
Eyes widened, Nelson gaped at the door number and back at the letter, along the balcony, and back at the bath towel.
"But it's not a mistake, it is this address, floor two, number three" he pleaded.
Then, as a male always slower to process a situation, and without really knowing why, he added, "Can I come in to talk anyway?"
"Certainly not! Go away." The door was crashed shut.
"It's not what you think," Nelson pined pathetically, and then more softly, "Do you know where my friend Duke is?"
Footsteps were behind him as plant-pot man approached, eyeing the scene gravely.
"Are you pestering Miss Reagan?"
"No, no. Of course not. I seem to have the wrong place. Well, I seem to have the right place but the wrong person. Not that there is anything wrong with her, no. She's, well she's lovely. She's just completely... wrong."
"Who were you looking for?"
"Doctor Grimaldi."
"Doctor..."
"Doctor Grimaldi. I have a letter here that my friend Duke found, and now he has disappeared. And so, it seems, Doctor Grimaldi has as well. It's this address..." Nelson became aware he was breathing rapidly and beginning to ramble.
"Oh, you know what, it doesn't matter."
The old man watched Nelson a few moments as he trudged to the lift door and waited fruitlessly for its arrival.
"It doesn't come to the second floor. Hasn't done for years, which keeps us all fit, so we don't complain. Anyway... he's no longer with us."
"...Sorry?" questioned Nelson.
"Doctor Grimaldi, he's gone."
"You knew him!"
The old man walked up to his lustrous blue front door.
"Yes, I remember the old git... European definitely, and strangely cagey. I think Corsican, from memory. They love a secret. And you're right, he did live here pre-war, before the homes got bombed, when number 22 was a set of tiny flats in a big house. Flat 8 was his, I seem to remember."
"Two cubed!" exclaimed Nelson.
"What?"
"Two cubed... eight. It's nothing, please go on."
"Well, we all had to move out because the houses just here were mostly destroyed, then he moved back into these flats once they were rebuilt, to the one where Miss Reagan is now... with his wife."
"He was married?"
"As far as I knew. But she left him and that seemed to hit him very, very hard."
"I have a letter of his," offered Nelson, "but I don't suppose he'll want to be reading it now."
"No. I should think his eyesight's failed him completely after ten or more years underground."
"Grimaldi works on the Tube?" asked Nelson.
"No. I mean he's dead! Buried. He always used to say, 'I'm as old as the century' because he was born in 1900."
"Oh, I see, of course. So... you said he was still here ten years ago?"
"At least. It was back in the early Seventies when he went."
"Hmm. That's just after the moon landing."
"If you say so, young man," and he smiled broadly at Nelson. "It's so very nice to be telling you all this. That time holds clear and fond memories for me. My kids never ask about it anymore. Ah well, is there anything else you'd like to know?"
Nelson detected a faint sadness creep in to deflate and stoop the old man's gait and was therefore pleased for him that he had more questions.
"So, you said Grimaldi was secretive. Any clue about what he was hiding?"
This perked him up.
"Well, I got very close once. Grimaldi loved numbers, and science. But he was hopeless at DIY and back in the sixties he would ask me in... to do odd jobs for him, always clearing down before I arrived. Boxes with locks, piles of tied paper rolls, drawing tools neatly stacked. And huge cigar butts stubbed in his ashtray, smoke still rising. And then boom, he did his back in."
A pause ensued, perhaps as if the connection was so obvious. Nelson gave in, unable to grasp it.
"And so?"
"Well, he had trouble walking and asked me to pick up his post from our letter boxes downstairs. As his back worsened, Grimaldi gave me keys to let myself in. One day he's fast asleep in the living room with a half empty bottle of Jameson whisky. He always said it was to help the pain."
The old man took a step closer to Nelson and lowered his voice conspiratorially.
"So, I put his post gently down and as I tiptoed out, I went past his study... and the temptation was too huge."
"Go on," encouraged Nelson, getting the hang of his cues.
"One of his paper scrolls was fully opened and pinned down by a Marmite jar... and another bottle of Glenfiddich. Amazing what sticks in the mind."
"Of course."
"So, I spent a few minutes staring at this... very detailed diagram. And suddenly, I knew he was standing behind me."
"Ouch. What happened?"
"I stood my ground and asked if I'd found what he'd been working on. He stared at me clear eyed and said, in that Corsican accent: No, no, mo amico, eeet's thee oldest treek in thee boook. I leave-a thee old diagram's een case someone snoop around-a thee flat."
"Did you believe him?"
"I had no choice. He told me to get out."
"That was it?" barked an unsated Nelson. Ashamed of his outburst he let his head sag down to gaze back at the letter.
"Afraid so. And that's all I have really. Apart from..."
"Apart from...?"
"Well, bearing in mind this was early sixties and before all that moon landing stuff you mentioned."
"Go on."
"There was this weird title on that giant sheet of paper. I can still remember it, clear as day."
Nelson's stare came up from the NASA envelope and direct into the old man's eyes.
"What was on it?"
"Well, the title said..."
"Go on."
"International Space Station. Then ISS. For heaven's sake, what the hell is one of those?"
They shrugged in unison through a silence.
"That was a long time ago. Anyway, young man, I've enjoyed our little chat. If you want anymore, just come back. You may even get to meet Miss Reagan," and his smile returned as he winked.
Nelson remained silent as he processed these statements. The old man turned away as he spoke.
"Well, it's going to be a hot day and my begonias are thirsty."
He tipped the spout of his can and gently poured glistening drops of water onto their dry soil. Through the man's partially open-door they both heard Jimmy Young introducing a pre-release of Karma Chamaeleon by Culture Club, predicting it would soon be number one.
So high in the sky above Nelson and the old man, a silent drone swooped lower to maximise the clarity of its 8K images.