The Evidence

by Christopher Priest

  The local news was also gripping, if for different reasons. The shortfall in the finances of RabaHome.com was now reckoned to be in the millions of thalers, the result of fraud. This had led to the consequent failure of their largest creditor, a major bank based in the financial sector of Raba City but with connections and influence all over the world. It happened to be the holding company of the small branch I had visited the day before, where I obtained cash.

  Later in the afternoon, out of curiosity, I drove across to the area. There was a huge crowd of people outside the building, which was now closed and shuttered. Security guards were holding back the anxious throng. Although I often used that local bank for small transactions, my own main account was elsewhere.

  In the distance, I could glimpse the silvery towers of the Raba financial district, rising above the trees, bathed in the sun, standing as if untouched by events, unexcited, unruffled.

  As soon as I was back at my desk I checked online. My bank was unaffected by the collapse of RabaHome.com, and had issued a statement to the effect that it had adequate reserves to meet all its liabilities. To me, always a sceptic about utterances from large organizations, this sounded concerning. I noticed that the price of their shares had taken a slide, but to no greater extent than any of the other banks that day.

  The next day came the news that the largest loan provider on Raba, which was mortgagee for more than two million homes on the island, had called in the administrators following a drastic reduction in their remaining loan capital.

  Jo and I had managed to pay off our own mortgage two years earlier, so once again I was not directly affected by this disturbing news. However, house prices all over the island, as well as on the two Salayean islands closest to Raba, were predicted to fall sharply.

  There was a distinctly silver lining to this cloud of gloom. I followed the news with a deep if guilty pleasure.

  Properties in Ocean Domaisne, where most of the bankers, brokers and hedge fund managers lived, were said to have halved in value overnight. These expensive properties within the coastal gated community had famously been developed as a commercial enterprise. They were outside the rules and traditions of the feudal system, so were bought and sold freely and profitably on what was described as the open market. However, they also lacked the benign protection of manorial fiefdom, and so were utterly vulnerable to the whims of capitalism. There was no safety net from the seigniory, or from anyone else. They prospered alone, now they impoverished themselves alone.

  The financial situation was looking bad in general. I listened closely to the news several times a day.

  For now I felt relatively unaffected by the financial collapse. Jo and I discussed it nervously online every evening. We were cautious savers and investors. We had never actually owned much of value, so we habitually invested whatever spare money we had in fringe banks and small savings accounts. Most of these were linked to environmental schemes or projects. They did not pay much in interest or dividends so they were unattractive to people with real money. We had always assumed that in the event of some financial crash, if any of these savings were swept away our losses would not be great. And some of the places would probably benefit from their obscurity and manage to survive.

  When the capitalists suffer, everyone else is affected to some extent. In my part of the island it soon became impossible to use plastic money. Cash was demanded everywhere. But even that meant driving around to find a bank that was still open and trading. There was always a long wait. Now there was a charge for withdrawing cash. Prices in shops were rising.

  A spokesperson for the group that represented banking executives went on TV one evening. She claimed that the banks’ IT systems had been hacked. Not only was data missing, vast sums of money, in transit between transactions, had disappeared. Their IT experts were working urgently on the problem, and it was expected everything would be corrected. Normality would return soon.

  This supposedly reassuring message, or others just like it, was repeated every day. The financial chaos continued, worsening all the time.

  I was working on my new novel.

  ‘He called me again,’ Spoder said, when he called me again.

  ‘Jeksid? What did he say this time?’

  ‘He wants to meet you, and get some answers.’

  ‘Answers? From me?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘I’ve been wondering,’ I said. ‘If he’s trying to make contact with me, why is he calling you?’

  ‘I can explain that. He contacted Police HQ in Ewwel, the first. They know of my links with you, and so they passed him on to one of the station houses here on Raba.’

  ‘You’ve never even been to Ewwel,’ I said. ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘I was there briefly as a young man, sir.’

  ‘I hardly know it. I’ve only ever passed through when changing planes. So how would they know about our so-called links?’

  ‘Maybe someone there has read your books? You always print an acknowledgement. Anyway, I still have contacts. As you know.’

  As I knew, perhaps, but not fully. Spoder covered his remaining lines of contact to the serving police with lack of detail. I assumed it was deliberate. I had worked with him on and off for several years and still felt I hardly knew him. I wasn’t even sure where he lived, although he had once said it was in an apartment in an unfashionable part of Raba City.

  He seemed able to access files and other intelligence remarkably quickly, almost as if he was there in the office and could download them, or walk across to a filing cabinet and pull out old papers. It made me wonder, often, how fully retired he really was. It was a reminder of Frejah Harsent’s ambiguous working relationship with her force. Did all cops semi-retire?

  As for Spoder, surely the police would have internal procedures to guard against the kind of enquiries that from time to time interested me? Because Spoder usually came up with the material I wanted I took advantage, and never asked questions. He was useful to me.

  Writers lead quiet, unobjectionable lives, but on some subjects we are ruthless.

  Spoder did not seem to behave like a cop – but then, how did cops normally behave? I had never been in the police, nor ever had any job like it. Being a police officer is just a job, but what does an ordinary copper think or believe when not at work? My guess is as good as anyone’s. Writers make things up, we are professional deceivers. What we do not know, or can plausibly invent, we try to find out. Mostly we look in other books, we go to libraries, we browse the internet, and when we still can’t find what we are looking for we ask someone like Spoder. We guess at the rest.

  Anyway, novels are a form of entertainment. They are not documentaries.

  ‘So this Jeksid,’ I said. ‘How was it left? Did he give you a contact number, or an address? Is he going to try again?’

  ‘I could offer to meet him myself. He suggested that.’

  ‘No – don’t do that!’ I said at once. The thought of Spoder acting as some kind of spokesman for me was alarming. Who knows what he might say, or inadvertently reveal?

  ‘Then, if you did agree to meet him I could arrange to be there at the same time. Keep an eye on him, if you like. I thought he sounded a bit menacing.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me that before.’

  ‘It was a sort of feeling I had. He said things that made me think he might be another cop after all, but he denied that.’

  ‘He is a cop,’ I said. ‘A Dearth cop. Did he deny anything else?’

  ‘He said he didn’t want to hurt you.’

  Three days after Spoder’s call I heard on the news that the money missing from the accounts of RabaHome.com had been discovered. Officials from Raba Home Supplies, embarrassed and apologetic, blamed the omission on an accountancy error. There was no explanation for this, but it was important news that the company was no longer in danger, and that the jobs of more than four thousand five hundred employees were safe. The head of the accounts department had be
en fired, and an enquiry was being set up.

  The financial gurus were now certain that the unified computer system used in the Raba financial district had been targeted by a hacker, or by hackers. The hacker was believed to be based somewhere on Raba, or on another near island, but even the top software experts, who had flown in from all parts of the Archipelago, could not yet be sure.

  That was unlikely to be the end of it, because the catastrophic collapse in the company’s share price led to quick profits of millions of thalers for market speculators, who had taken out put options. Had these unknown, silent operators, gambling on a sudden price collapse, been given advance warning of what was about to happen?

  Nor was it the end of the matter in other ways. The bank that went bankrupt remained bankrupt. Two more major financial houses had fallen deeply into the red – one that day, one the day before. Jobs were being lost, small companies as well as large ones were sliding into insolvency.

  Meanwhile, credit was unavailable to citizen serfs like me. We paid in cash, but inflationary pressures were making cash worth less and less. The banks where cash could be withdrawn were harder to find every day.

  I was for the time being relaxed about the state of the financial woes suddenly paralysing my island. Over the years I have discovered, by experience, that writers like me are relatively untroubled by the ups and downs of the wider economy. Of course we are victims of inflation. Sometimes, as now, we have to pay cash when cash is hard to come by. We suffer if interest rates are set too high or they sink too low. We see our pension savings devalued. Mortgage rates are too steep, and when they are not a mortgage is harder to obtain. In all of these we suffer the same as anyone else.

  Equally, we do not necessarily benefit when things are going well. Twice during my writing career I have suffered serious downturns in my literary fortunes. These were brought about by titles going out of print, by sales of translated editions not materializing, overall by poor sales figures. Some of my books were markedly less successful than others. Both periods brought me hardship. I had to borrow money, Jo and I tightened our belts, we abandoned various plans for trips or holidays, we put off carrying out repairs to the house.

  This is an illustration, not a hard luck story. Both of these personal downturns occurred at times when the general economy was said by seigniory market analysts to be booming. Inflation was under control, unemployment was low, house prices were rising, expensive holidays were being enjoyed by almost everyone else.

  The difference is that in economic terms books are slow moving. This acts as an informal buffer against money-market madness.

  For example: I started the novel I am writing now about three months ago, and it will take a few more weeks or months to finish. There will be a delay while the publisher decides whether or not to bring it out, but assuming all goes well the publisher will pay the usual small advance and eventually set a date. That is likely to be over a year and a half later. In short, the manuscript I’m working on now will not be published and on sale in bookstores until about two years after I began it. Any royalty income arising from the book will not reach me until about a year after it is published. The book trade rewards its authors slowly.

  It is not of course my only book. The novel whose proofs I have recently read and returned was mostly written last year. It will be published early next year. Income from that will follow several months later.

  I have a novel out at the moment, on sale in bookshops. Assuming the shops stay in business and ordinary people spend their meagre cash allocation on some copies (not a likelihood at the moment, I have to admit), I will eventually receive an income from it. That book was completed more than two years ago.

  The slow production methods, and the sometimes unpredictable sales, mysteriously accounted for, therefore have a spreading effect. The novel of mine currently on sale in the shops is likely to suffer, but the next one might be launched into a more expansionary economy. The one after that – who knows? Things could be better, they might be worse. They have been both for me in the past. This does not mean I can be complacent.

  The publisher, like the bookseller, might be forced out of business by the financial crash. That would be unquestionably tough on me, and on a lot of other writers too. But nothing like as tough as for those four and a half thousand RabaHome.com employees, or the tellers and ordinary staff who worked for the banks now bankrupt, who face the possibility of finding themselves suddenly and entirely without an income.

  I was thinking about money, something I usually tried to avoid doing. But it reminded me that the University of Dearth Historical and Literary Society still had not refunded my expenses on that trip. Nor had they paid my fee.

  I sent an email reminder to Professor Wendow, with copies to his assistant in the Revisionist History department, and the controller of the finance department.

  That’s something else writers have to do: beg for the money that someone else has neglected to send.

  Meanwhile, the news from Fellenstel was good and bad.

  The stricken ship had been patched up, then examined by marine experts. She was cleared to continue her voyage as far as the destination port named on the manifest: a military base on the coast of Sudmaieure. The ship had to be fully repaired and re-examined before she would be allowed to re-enter Archipelagian waters. Details of how this stipulation might be forced on a country fighting a war were not spelled out.

  The darker news was that the young conscripts had been held below decks throughout the crisis, and were still confined in the crowded quarters as the ship sailed away. There was no information about their physical or mental condition after the ordeal. I could barely think about what they must be suffering.

  The small armada of rescue tugs and salvage ships dispersed. Two of the larger tugs shadowed the troopship at a distance.

  More than a week went by and I still had no response from Professor Wendow. I sent a second email pointing out that he had promised a prompt refund of my expenses. I added that to break a promise was unprofessional and would likely lead to stronger action from me. I attached copies of all my receipts, also his letter in which he had made the promise and offered the honorarium.

  This is the second level of escalating reminders sent to recalcitrant payers. Here the unpaid writer has thrown aside the begging bowl – now there are dark hints of connections with footpads and muggers. We all know that threats are a waste of time: what could I do in reality to coerce him? The money would only be sent as and when it suited the university finance department, but for the time being a bit of bullying had its own quiet satisfaction.

  I received an automated reply within about fifteen seconds, one I probably deserved: Professor Wendow was on a twelve-month sabbatical and regretted he was not able to reply to emails in person. All enquiries should be sent to his assistant.

  I had already sent copies to her or him: I knew only a surname and an initial.

  Spoder telephoned me again.

  ‘Sir, I wondered if you would put me in touch with an editor at your publisher?’

  ‘My publisher?’

  ‘Well, not necessarily yours. One of the others, if you prefer. You must know most of them – could you suggest some names?’

  ‘Why on earth do you need to contact a publisher?’

  Spoder was briefly silent.

  ‘I’ve been doing a bit of writing,’ he said in a moment. ‘Nothing like yours, but I thought I might try to get it published. I’ve seen how you do it, how you take some of the things I tell you and turn them into a book. It looks so straightforward. I thought I could try that. Just an idea. Then I could find out if what I’ve written is any good or not. Maybe you could give me some advice?’

  ‘What kind of thing is it? Are you writing a novel?’

  ‘It’s a sort of memoir. About my life before I joined the force.’

  Images of unwonted autobiographical literary activity briefly danced through my mind. Hitherto unsuspected. What else was I likely to le
arn about Spoder?

  ‘Can you tell me anything more about this?’ I said.

  ‘Next time we meet, sir.’

  ‘I don’t want to put you off. But you know, it takes many years to establish yourself as a writer. A lot of hard graft is necessary.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Spoder’s voice was suddenly less assertive than normal, almost timid. He was backing away, sounding as if he wished he had not called. ‘I have to go now.’

  I realized I had been insensitive. I should have been more supportive.

  ‘Let me read some of it soon?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, sir. If it’s not too much trouble. Thank you.’

  Before he could hang up I said: ‘Did you ever hear again from the person you told me about? The man called Jeksid?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  I felt sorry and guilty after the call. Spoder was a good man and I believe he was hurt by my reaction. I regretted what I had said, and what I had not.

  20

  Engine of Destruction

  I heard the car before I saw it. I would never have seen it anyway because the road runs at a lower level than our garden and was screened off behind the foliage of the trees. The sound of its powerful engine was distinctive, full of reminders. The smell of engine fumes started drifting towards me on the sea breeze almost at once.

  I tried to ignore it. Was it Frejah Harsent? But she was half a world away. If it was her, how did she get her car across from Dearth? She could only have come by ship. Cars like hers were not a common sight on Raba outside the Ocean Domaisne, but because of the beach and the relative proximity of the wealthy quarter we did sometimes see over-powered roadsters similar to hers in our part of the island.

  I was sitting on the patio outside my office, skimming slowly through a new book which I had received from an online bookseller that morning. It was an illustrated dictionary of the pathological terms applied to forensic procedures carried out on a body when the cause of death had to be scientifically established. It made for gruesome but fascinating reading. The publishers clearly intended the book for a general readership as well as a specialist one. Coloured photographs were included of many procedures in progress: close ups of bullet and knife wounds, arteries torn apart, crushed and broken bones.