The Catch

by Mick Herron

  And when he got home, Richard Pynne was in his sitting room, Solly’s sitting room, holding a ceramic cat, plucked from Solly’s collection of knick-knacks.

  “You have a key,” John said, redundantly.

  “I have a key.” He nodded towards the other chair. “Do sit.”

  John sat.

  “You’ve been out early.”

  “Places to go, people to see. You know how it is.”

  “And is any of this activity connected with, ah, with the matter in hand?”

  “With finding Benny Manors?”

  Pynne nodded.

  “Yes. Yes, it was.”

  “Good. So where is he?”

  “I said it was connected,” John said. “I didn’t say I had a definitive answer yet.”

  “I’m here to remind you of the, of the urgency involved.”

  “Nobody said anything about it being urgent,” John said.

  “That was implicit in our interview.”

  “I know who you are,” John said. “You’re the one took over Hannah Weiss.”

  Pynne’s face darkened. It made him look younger, somehow; not an angry man, but a sulky boy. He let the cat fall to the floor. The carpet was thick enough that this didn’t matter. “That’s none of your business.”

  “You’re like me,” said John. “Peaked early. You get used to it. You just have to not care that other people are doing so much better.”

  Pynne looked round. “I haven’t sunk this low,” he said. “An old man’s flat. An old man’s life. And none of it yours, not really.”

  “Can I offer you some peach brandy? It’s surprisingly moreish.”

  “You need to focus on the task in hand,” Pynne told him. “That’s what I came to remind you. Where’s Benny Manors? Everything else, that’s background static. Find Benny Manors, and do it quickly. Or all this, crappy as it is, comes to an end.”

  “What did Benny do?” John wondered. “Or what did you do that he found out about?”

  “Task in hand,” Pynne repeated.

  “You’re not as threatening as Edward. You need to work on your menacing skills.”

  The younger man stood, and John’s heart thumped faster. But all Pynne did was stoop and collect the cat. He put it back on its shelf, then stepped back to admire the collection as a whole, the bits and bobs that accumulate during the years spent standing still. “I don’t need to be menacing,” he said. “All I need do is make one phone call. And then you’re back sleeping in your car. If they don’t lock you up.”

  “I never slept in my car,” John said, though he’d come close. And there’d been snow on the streets then, and would be again before long. The winters rolled round faster than they’d used to.

  “Just find him.” Pynne put a hand on his shoulder; took a brief grip on his collar. “You’ve got one more day.”

  And then he left, leaving the flat’s front door wide open, so John had to follow after him and close it.

  It seemed a childish form of aggravation.

  But the whole encounter had lacked point. True, his heart had been thumping for a moment, but only because a large young man had got to his feet unexpectedly, and John—let’s face it—wasn’t built for confrontation. Still, though, why had Pynne bothered coming, if that was all he had to offer? He’d have mused on this more if his phone hadn’t rung. Private number, the screen read. He was prepared for Taverner’s voice before he answered.

  “Your missing friend.”

  “Let me guess,” he said.

  Taverner paused.

  John said, “He’s in Newcastle, isn’t he?”

  “. . . Where?”

  “Newcastle upon Tyne.”

  “What the hell are you on about? No, he’s not in Newcastle upon Tyne. He’s in Seven Dials. Or that’s where he’s been using his plastic.”

  John wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

  “Are you still there?”

  “You don’t have an actual address?”

  “You’re supposed to be a spook, John. A clapped-out, useless one, true, but still a spook. Try to get in touch with what’s left of your ambition.”

  John Bachelor’s main ambition was not to wind up homeless.

  Di Taverner said, “Have you got a pen?”

  “Sec.”

  He found one on the little hall table, next to Solly’s landline, which still rang occasionally. Cold calls; wrong numbers. There was a neat little notepad too.

  Lady Di read him a list of places where Benny Manors’s credit cards had been lately, and rang off without wishing him luck.

  John Bachelor went to find the peach brandy. It had been a long morning.

  Oliver Nash was there when Di Taverner made that phone call. Head of the Limitations Committee, he was a frequent presence at the Park, above and beyond the regular meetings his role demanded; was so much in evidence that one or two voices had been heard wondering if he were nursing romantic feelings for Lady Di herself. When these musings reached Taverner’s ears, which they did with an immediacy suggesting the use of either advanced surveillance technology or the supernatural, she made it be known that random executions were her preferred means of dealing with gossipmongers. She was famous for many things, Diana Taverner, but not her sense of humour. The wonderings ceased.

  And anyway, Nash’s romantic yearnings were directed less at her than at the workings of the Park—a career bureaucrat, he could still find hidden within himself the super-spy of his adolescent daydreams. And who was to say that hero wasn’t still in there? There was certainly space for him, with room left over for an astronaut and an engine driver, Nash’s ongoing diet having proved dogged rather than successful, like an English tennis player.

  “So Bachelor came to you in person,” he now said. “Something of a surprise?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “That’s how mediums and other charlatans work. Providing answers with maximum bandwidth.”

  She said, “We’d expected Pynne to be the one pointing him in the right direction. But Bachelor had other ideas, and doorstepped me instead.”

  “Resourceful type?”

  “More the cowardly lion. It was a damage limitation exercise. He seems to think I was unaware of his living arrangements. But we always allow for a degree of improvisation.”

  Nash nodded, as if he knew full well the way operations were handled, but it didn’t seem as if his heart were in it.

  “Don’t worry, Oliver. We’ll get the desired result.”

  “It depends on what you class as desirable.”

  “Now now. Queen and country.”

  “I suppose so,” he said. As always, he had his smartphone in his hand; as always, he couldn’t conduct a conversation without it attracting his attention. At present, a morning headline filled his screen. The dead American sex trafficker. He shook his head. “Filthy business.”

  “That’s often the way, I’m afraid.”

  “I have nieces,” he said. “Teenagers. Young teens.”

  “Sometimes you have to focus on the bigger picture,” she explained.

  Seven Dials. He seemed to recall an Agatha Christie with that in the title, which suggested he might encounter the usual suspects in the usual places: spinsters in the kitchen, colonels in the bar. Maybe a vicar or two in the library. As it was, Monmouth Street was just another London thoroughfare, cheerful in the sunshine and grubby round the edges, and peopled by the usual young, the usual old, the former acting like they owned the place while the latter actually did. He’d made a list of the places where Benny Manors had paid bills, frequently enough that it could be assumed that this was his, well, manor. John Bachelor recognised the territorial instinct. With all the freedoms London offered, its natives tended to stick to their own warrens: local haunts, local habits. If Manors had drunk here last night, the n
ight before, he’d drink here tonight, too.

  Which meant John was early, but that was better than being late.

  He could kill time any number of ways—there were shows to see, galleries to visit—but shows cost a fortune and galleries were full of art, so cafés and bars it was. The first was Italian: reasonable coffee, a stool by the window. Benny had been here last week for breakfast. It was only morning, but felt like evening already. John had been up hours. And had work scheduled that obviously wasn’t going to happen, so spent twenty minutes on the phone while his coffee cooled, making apologetic calls to clients he wouldn’t be seeing. He liked to think he made a difference to their lives—made them feel important, or at least, remember that they’d once been so—but the equanimity with which his absence was greeted caused him to wonder. On the other hand, little about his current situation didn’t cause him to question something or other. If he remained in one place long enough, he’d doubt himself out of existence.

  And there was money to think about; there was always money. He’d saved on rent these past eight months; on the other hand, what he’d saved on rent he’d spent on drink, to quell the anxiety caused by the means he’d adopted of saving rent. Life was a series of loops, each smaller than the last. He did sums on a scrap of paper: he wasn’t carrying that much debt, if you didn’t count the credit cards, but his bank balance didn’t look healthy. Where did money go? If he could only answer that, he’d be free to live a happy, healthy life. Where did money go? All he did was eat and drink. He bought another coffee at London prices while he pondered. If he was kicked out of Solly’s flat—when he was kicked out—best-case scenario, he’d be looking at a room in a multi-occupancy hovel, unless he could work his way round Diana Taverner first. She was the key. He had to work his way round Diana Taverner, which meant he had to be really, really lucky. He sipped his coffee, stared out of the window, and Benny Manors walked into the café and sat two stools along.

  It was like being on a safari, or visiting a wildlife park, when you realise a lion has just wandered into view. First of all, don’t scare it away.

  Secondly, don’t get eaten.

  Instead of wasting time not believing what had just happened, John went with it, putting the scrap of paper in his pocket and gazing out of the window: sunshine and strangers, tourists and taxis. Meanwhile Benny had a newspaper and was turning to the back pages. Cricket. He hadn’t looked John’s way. And without his having placed an order, food was brought to him: scrambled egg and sausages. Definitely his regular breakfast haunt.

  He ate unhurriedly, a man on his own timetable. John tried to match his carefree manner, addressing his coffee with what he hoped was insouciance, and thus slopping some onto his jacket. He fumbled for a napkin and dealt with the damage. By the time he’d finished, Benny Manors, instead of studying his paper, was staring at John, not bothering to hide his disdain. “That is one cack-handed approach to a cup of coffee.”

  “It just sort of splashed out.”

  “I’m trying to remember your name, and failing. But I know who you are.”

  “John. John Bachelor.”

  “Are you following me, John Bachelor?”

  “I was here first.”

  “This morning, maybe.” He also picked up a napkin, and dabbed his lips with it. “How worried should I be?”

  John, nodding towards the paper, said, “About the Ashes? Very.”

  “I remember last time, I flattened you. You going for the double?”

  “I just want to talk.”

  He seemed no older, John thought. Sure, it was only a couple of years, but they’d been the sort of years that can wreak damage—look what they’d done to the country, not to mention John himself—and Benny had weathered them like months in spring. He was wearing a cream linen jacket over a white shirt and blue chinos, and might have been about to head off to a relaxed office, a creative consultancy or whatever. With a bouncy castle in the lobby, roller skates in the corridors. As he hadn’t seen him come in, John hadn’t clocked how Benny was walking, whether the limp was better. But he didn’t appear to be using a stick.

  “So,” Benny repeated softly. “Should I be worried?”

  “Probably. But not about me.”

  “So how come you’re the one who’s here?”

  “Maybe it’s your lucky day.”

  Benny Manors said, “You don’t look like anyone’s idea of a lucky day.” He glanced down at his plate, and speared half a sausage with his fork. “They called you a milkman, right?”

  “Yes, well. There’s a lot of jargon.”

  “But you were never important. Messenger boy type of thing. Despite your advancing years.”

  “Yes, well,” John said again. He was going to have to work on his conversational stopgaps. “Reason I’m here, a couple of real spooks are looking for you, and they’re doing it off the books. What that’s about is anybody’s guess, but it’s unlikely to be because they had a sudden hankering to buy you scrambled eggs.”

  Benny gave an unamused smile. “Good job I can afford my own, then.”

  His phone rang.

  Without taking his eyes off John, he answered it. The voice on the other end was a tinny whistle, but John could make out a name, almost: It’s Daisy. Davy? No, Daisy.

  Benny said, “Five minutes,” and disconnected.

  “Best guess,” John said, “is that you’re back to your old game. And that you’ve got hold of information you think is worth something.”

  “I’m trying to eat my breakfast.”

  “And I could walk away and let you. But that won’t help you in the long run. These guys, the ones looking for you, they’ll find you. Even I found you. How hard could it be?”

  “I’m guessing you had help.”

  John blinked, which was probably a giveaway.

  Benny returned to his breakfast.

  John said, “Okay, I had help. And you know what? That emphasises that you’re in a hole, Benny. Enough of one that you’ve got two spooks looking for you on their own time, and the Service putting a pin in you because they want to know what’s going on. So I could walk out of here now, but all that would mean is, you’d lose your one contact on Spook Street. Your one chance to have someone to stand behind when things get complicated. Which they will do.”

  “Is that your hero speech?”

  “. . . I don’t follow.”

  “It sounded like something you’ve been practising. A hero speech. You know, so everyone, or me anyway, will realise you’re the good guy.”

  “I just don’t want to be kicked out of my flat.”

  John hadn’t realised he’d been about to say that. It revealed him as weak, as frightened. In some situations, that was the right move, but Benny Manors was a blackmailer, the last man on earth to be moved by someone else’s predicament. Which made it strange, the look on his face now. He laid down his knife and fork. His mouth turned serious; his eyebrows clenched. “You’re going to be kicked out of your flat?”

  “. . . It’s possible.”

  “Boo fucking hoo.”

  He got working on his final sausage.

  John nodded: yeah, okay. That was not unexpected. He had about an inch left in his coffee cup, and drained it, wondering what his next move should be. He didn’t really have one. He could call Taverner; he could call Richard Pynne. He was leaning towards the latter: if Pynne and Edward were working this under the bridge, then chances were they planned harm to Benny Manors. Right now, that sounded good.

  A young woman had entered the café and was standing behind Benny. He didn’t look round when she spoke. “Stuffing your face again.”

  “But also working.”

  “Yeah, right. In what way exactly?”

  Manors tilted his head towards John, without looking at him. “Told you they’d make contact.”

  The young woman
turned John’s way, regarded him speculatively. It was possible that she was not overwhelmingly impressed. “Him?”

  “Regent’s Park’s finest,” said Benny Manors, and laid his cutlery down again, this time on a clean plate. “You wanted proof. Here’s your proof. They wouldn’t be trying to stop me if they weren’t worried.”

  John tried to look like he knew what was going on.

  Mostly, though, he was just happy to learn that he wasn’t the only one who was worried.

  To say that the business with Hannah Weiss, when he’d found himself handling an agent who was spying on the Park rather than for it, still rankled with Richard Pynne was tantamount to suggesting that Tom might remain a little pissed off with Jerry. Before and after snaps of his career resembled those you’d get of a seventies kids’ TV presenter pre- and post-Yewtree, and if he hadn’t been exiled from the Park—assigned to Slough House, the spook equivalent of Devil’s Island—he was persona non grata on the Hub, which was where the power plays went down and where he’d assumed his future would be spent. Richard had been Lady Di’s go-to boy; she’d been grooming him for bigger things. So he’d foreseen a numbered desk there: a Second, at least. Instead, he was now taking up space in the press liaison office. Which meant that, sitting on a visitors’ bench in the Park’s central lobby as Diana Taverner approached, it was hard not to feel bitter about what might have been.

  But hard, too, not to quell the spark of hope lately ignited. He’d fallen from grace but here he was all the same, chosen for an op, and who’d have had the sign-off on that but Lady Di herself? So maybe he’d done his penance, and was ready to be welcomed back into the fold.

  “Richard.”

  “Ma’am.”

  “What have you got?”

  He’d hoped for a how’s it going?, a good to see you. But he could manage the business tone as well as anyone.