by Ian Rankin
“And if you can’t?”
Reeve shrugged again; he didn’t want to consider failure, though really it should be considered. With any plan, there should be a fallback position.
“You could talk to Giles Gulliver,” she suggested, dabbing crumbs of toast from her plate.
“That’s an idea.”
“And then?”
“Depends what I learn.”
She sucked at the crumbs. “Don’t expect too much from Giles, or anyone like him.”
“What do you mean?”
She grabbed the newspaper and opened it to a full-page ad-vertisement, placed by Co-World Chemicals. “Don’t bother read-ing it,” she said. “It’ll put you back to sleep. It’s just one of those feel-good ads big corporations make up when they want to spend some money.”
Reeve glanced at the ad. “Or when their consciences are bothering them?”
Fliss wrinkled her nose. “Grow up. Those people don’t have consciences. They’ve had them surgically removed to make room for the cash-flow implants.” She tapped the paper. “But as long as Co-World and companies like them are throwing money at advertising departments, publishers will love them, and the publishers will see to it that their editors never print anything that might upset Sugar Daddy. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
She shrugged. “Will you be here this evening?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll have to see how it goes.”
“Well, I’ll probably be late. There’s a second Giannini’s opening in Covent Garden and I’m invited.”
“Giannini’s?”
“The designer.”
“Hold the front page,” he said. She scowled and he held up his hands. “Just a joke.”
“I want to know what you find, no matter what. Even if it’s only a phone call from Scotland, let me know.”
“Sure, it’s the least I can do.”
She left the kitchen and returned again wearing a coat and carrying a briefcase. She made show of adjusting the belt on the coat. “Just one thing, Gordon.”
“What’s that?”
“What are you going to do about the flat?”
He smiled at her. “It’s yours for as long as you want it.”
Finally she looked at him. “Really?” He nodded. “Thanks.”
Maybe he’d found his fallback position. If he didn’t get any further with Jim’s story, he could always track down her ex-boyfriend and make a mess of the rest of his life. She came over and pecked him on the cheek.
Which was payment enough in itself.
He found a telephone number for the NFU, but nobody could give him a forwarding address for Joshua Vincent. A woman who had tried to be helpful eventually passed him on to someone who had more questions than answers, wanting to know who he was and what his connection was with Mr. Vincent.
Reeve put down the telephone.
Maybe Vincent lived in London, but there were several Vincent J’s listed in the phone book. It would take a while to talk to them all. He went to Jim’s notes again. They were a hodgepodge of the detailed and the rambling, of journalistic instinct and alcoholic excess. There were jottings on the backs of some sheets. He hadn’t paid them much attention, but laid them out now on the living-room floor. Doodles, circles, and cubes mostly, and a cow’s warped face with a pair of horns. But there were names and what looked like times, too, and some telephone numbers. There were no names beside the numbers. He tried the first one and got a woman’s answering machine. The second just rang and rang. The third turned out to be a bookmaker’s in Finsbury Park. The fourth was a central London pub, the one Fliss and her journalist colleagues used.
The fifth was another answering machine: “Josh here. Leave your message and I’ll get back.”
An evasive message. Reeve severed the connection and wondered what to say. Eventually he dialed again.
“Josh here. Leave your message and I’ll get back.”
He waited for the tone.
“My name’s Gordon Reeve, and I’m trying to locate Joshua Vincent. I got this number from my brother’s notes. My brother’s name was James Reeve; I think Mr. Vincent knew him. I use the past tense because my brother is dead. I think he was working on a story at the time. I’m hoping you can help me. I’d like to find out why he died.”
He gave the flat’s telephone number and put down the receiver. Then he sat down and stared at the telephone for fifteen minutes. He made more coffee and watched it for another fifteen minutes. If Vincent was home and had listened to the message straightaway, even if he wanted to check James Reeve had a brother, he would have been back by now.
So Reeve telephoned Fliss’s paper, spoke to Giles Gulliver’s assistant, and was put through to the editor at last.
“Good God,” Gulliver said. “I can’t believe it. Is this some sort of joke?”
“No joke, Mr. Gulliver. Jim’s dead.”
“But how? When?”
Reeve started to tell him, but Gulliver interrupted. “No, wait—let’s meet. Is that possible, Mr. Reeve?”
“It’s possible.”
“Just let me check my diary.” Reeve was put on hold for the time it took him to count to sixty. “Sorry about that. We could have a drink at midday. I’ve a lunch appointment at one, so it would make sense to meet at the hotel. Would that suit you? I want to hear everything. It’s quite ghastly. I can hardly take it in. Jim was one of—”
“Where’s the hotel, Mr. Gulliver?”
“Sorry. The Ritz. See you there at midday.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Gulliver.”
And still Joshua Vincent didn’t call.
In Jim’s notes, Giles Gulliver had always been “the old boy” or “the old duffer.” Reeve was expecting a man in his sixties or even seventies, a newspaperman of the old school. But when he was shown to Gulliver’s table in the Ritz bar, he saw that the man half-rising to greet him from behind a fat Cuban cigar could only be in his early forties—not much older than Reeve himself. But Gulliver’s actions were studied, like those of a much older man, a man who has seen everything life has to throw at him. Yet he had gleaming eyes, the eyes of a child when shown something wondrous. And Reeve saw at once that the phrase “old boy” was perfect for Giles Gulliver. He was Peter Pan in a pinstripe.
“Good man,” Gulliver said, shaking Reeve’s hand. He ran his fingers through his slicked hair as he sat back down again. They had a corner table, away from the general babble of the bar. There were four things on the table: an ashtray, a portable telephone, a portable fax machine, and a glass of iced whiskey.
Gulliver rolled the cigar around his mouth. “Something to drink?” Their waiter was standing ready.
“Mineral water,” said Reeve.
“Ice and lime, sir?”
“Lemon,” said Reeve. The waiter retreated, and Reeve waited for Gulliver to say something.
Gulliver was shaking his head. “Hellish business. Surprised no one told me sooner. I’ve got a sub working on the obit.” He paused, catching himself. “My dear chap, I’m so sorry. You don’t want to hear about that.”
“It’s okay.”
“Now tell me, how did Jim die?”
“He was murdered.”
Gulliver’s eyes were hidden by the smoke he’d just exhaled. “What?”
“That’s my theory.”
Gulliver relaxed; he was dealing with a theory, not a story.
Reeve told him some of the rest, but by no means all of it. He wasn’t sure of his ground. On the one hand, he wanted the public to know what had happened in San Diego. On the other, he wasn’t sure whose life he might be endangering if he did go public—especially if he went public without proof. Proof would be his insurance. He needed proof.
“Did you know Jim was going to San Diego?” Reeve asked.
Gulliver nodded. “He wanted three thousand dollars from me. Said the trip would be worth it.”
“Did he tell you why he was going?”
Gulliver pressed the Off button. “Apologies.” He glanced at his watch. “Did Jim tell me why he was going? No, that was one of the irritating things about him.” He caught himself again. “I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead…”
“Speak away.”
“Well, Jim liked his little conspiracy; and he liked to keep it his own secret. I think he thought it gave him more power: if an editor didn’t know what the story might be, he couldn’t come straight out and say no. That’s how Jim liked to play us. The less he told, the more we were supposed to think he had to tell. Eventually, he’d give you the story, the story you’d shelled out for, and it was seldom as meaty as you’d been led to believe.”
Listening to Gulliver, especially as the whiskey did its loosening, Reeve could hear hard edges and jagged corners that were a long way away from the public school image Gulliver presented to the world. There was street market in those edges and corners. There was street smart. There was city boy.
The fax bleeped and then started to roll out a page. Gulliver examined the sheet and got on the telephone again. There was another technical discussion, another glance at the Piaget watch, a tug at the crocodile wristband.
“He didn’t tell you anything?” Reeve persisted, sounding like he didn’t believe it.
“Oh, he told me snatches. Cooking oil, British beef, some veterinarian who’d died.”
“Did he mention Co-World Chemicals?”
“I think so.”
“In what connection?”
“My dear boy, there was no connection, that’s what I’ve been saying. He’d just say a couple of words, like he was feeding an infant egg from a silver spoon. Thinking he was stringing one along…”
“Someone killed him to stop the story.”
“Then prove it. I don’t mean prove it in a court of law, but prove it to me. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Gulliver’s eyes seemed clearer than ever. He leaned across the table. “You want to finish what Jim started. You want an epitaph which would also be a revenge. Isn’t that right?”
“Maybe.”
“No maybe about it. That is what you want, and I applaud you. I’ll run with it. But I need more than you’ve given me, more than Jim gave me.”
“You’re saying I should finish the story?”
“I’m saying I’m interested. I’m saying keep in touch.” Gulliver sat back and picked up his glass, washing the ice with the amber liquid.
“Can I ask a question?” Reeve said.
“We only have a minute or so.”
“How much does CWC spend a year on advertising in your paper?”
“How much? That’s a question for my advertising manager.”
“You don’t know?”
Gulliver shrugged. “CWC’s a big company, a multinational. They own several subsidiaries in the UK and many more in Europe. There’s UK production and some importation.”
“A multimillion-pound industry, with a proportionate advertising budget.”
“I don’t see—”
“And when they advertise, they do it big. Full-page ads in the broadsheets and—what?—maybe double-color spreads in the financial glossies. TV as well?”
Gulliver stared at him. “Are you in advertising, Mr. Reeve?”
“No.” But, he might have added, I was well briefed this morning by someone on your fashion page. The fashion page, apparently, was a sop to certain advertisers.
Another glance at the watch, a rehearsed sigh. “I have to go, unfortunately.”
“Yes, that is unfortunate.”
As Gulliver rose, a hotel minion appeared and unplugged his fax. Fax machine and telephone went into a briefcase. The cigar was stubbed into the ashtray. Meeting most definitely over.
“Will you keep in touch?” Gulliver implored, touching Reeve’s arm, letting his hand rest there.
“Maybe.”
“And is there any good cause?” Reeve didn’t understand. “A charity, something like that. You know, for mourners to make donations to, as a mark of respect and in memory.”
Reeve thought about it, then wrote a phone number for Gulliver on the back of a paper napkin. “Here,” he said. Gulliver waited for elucidation. “It’s the number of a bookie’s in Finsbury Park. They tell me Jim owed them a ton and a half. All contributions gratefully received.”
Reeve walked out of the hotel thinking he’d probably never in his life met someone so powerful, someone with so much influence, a shaper and changer. He’d shaken hands with royalty at medal ceremonies, but that wasn’t the same.
For one thing, some royalty were nice; for another, some of them were known to tell the truth.
Giles Gulliver on the other hand was a born-and-bred liar; that was how you worked your way up from market stall to pinstripe suit. You had to be cunning, too—and Gulliver was so slippery you could stage ice dancing on him and still have room for the curling rink.
The phone was ringing as he barged into the flat. He willed it to keep ringing and it obliged. His momentum took him onto the sofa as he snatched the receiver. He lay there, winded, trying to say hello.
“Is that Gordon Reeve?”
“Speaking.”
“My name’s Joshua Vincent. I think we’d better meet.”
“Can you tell me what my brother was working on?”
“Better yet, I think I can show you. Three stipulations.”
“I’m listening.”
“One, you come alone. Two, you tell nobody where you’re going or who you’re going to meet.”
“I can accept those. And number three?”
“Number three, bring a pair of Wellies.”
Reeve wasn’t about to ask questions. “So where are you?”
“Not so fast. I want you to leave Jim’s flat and go to a pay phone. Not the nearest one. Try to make it a pub or somewhere.”
Tottenham Lane, thought Reeve. There are pubs along that stretch. “Yes?”
“Have you got a pen? Take down this number. It’s a call box. I’ll wait here no longer than fifteen minutes. Is that enough time?”
Reeve thought so. “Unless the telephones aren’t working. You’re taking a lot of precautions, Mr. Vincent.”
“So should you. I’ll explain when we meet.”
The line went dead, and Gordon Reeve headed for the door.
Outside in the street, just before the corner where the quiet side road connected with Ferme Park Road, there was a dull-green British Telecom box, a metal structure three feet high which connected the various landlines into the system. A special key was used by technicians to open the box’s double doors. The key was specialized, but not difficult to obtain. A lot of engineers kept their tools when they left the job; an ex-BT engineer could open a box for you. And if he’d moved to a certain line of work, he could fit a call-activated recorder to any of the lines in the box, tucking the recording device down in the base of the structure, so that even a normal BT engineer might miss it.
The tape kept spooling for a few seconds after the call had ended. Then it stopped, awaiting retrieval. Today was a retrieval day.
TEN
IT WAS A TWO-HOUR TRIP from London. Reeve didn’t bother going out to Heathrow to retrieve his car. For one thing, it would have taken time; for another, Vincent wanted him to travel by public transport. Reeve had never heard of Tisbury. As his train pulled in, he saw beyond the station buildings a country town, a narrow main road snaking uphill, a soccer field turning to mud under the feet of the children playing there.
It had been raining stair rods the whole journey, but now the clouds were breaking up, showing chinks of early-evening light. Reeve wasn’t the only one getting off the train, and he studied his fellow travelers. They looked tired—Tisbury to London was a hell of a distance to commute—and had eyes only for the walk ahead, whether to
parking lot or town house.
Joshua Vincent stood outside the station with his hands in his Barbour pockets. He was quick to spot Reeve; no one else looked like they didn’t know quite where to go.
Reeve had been expecting a farming type, tall and heavy-bodied with ruddy cheeks or maybe a sprouting beard to match the wild hair. But Vincent, though tall, was rake-thin, clean-shaven, and wore round, shining glasses. His fair hair was thinning badly; more scalp showing than follicles. He was pale and reticent and could have passed for a high-school science nerd. He was watching the commuters.
“Mr. Reeve?”
They shook hands. Vincent wanted them to wait there until all the commuters had left.
“Checking I wasn’t followed?” Reeve asked.
Vincent gave a thin smile. “Easy to spot a stranger at this railway station. They can’t help looking out of place. I’m so sorry to hear about Jim.” The tone of voice was genuine, not overwrought the way Giles Gulliver had been, and the more affecting for that. “How did it happen?”
They walked to the car while Reeve started his story. Through several tellings, he had learned to summarize, sticking to facts and not drawing conclusions. The car was a Subaru 4x4. Reeve had seen them around the farming towns in the West Highlands. He kept on talking as they drove, leaving Tisbury behind them. The countryside was a series of rises and dips with irregular wooded sections. They chased crows and magpies off the rough-finished road, then rolled over the flattened vermin which had attracted the birds in the first place.
Vincent didn’t interrupt the narrative once. And when Reeve had finished, they drove in silence until Reeve thought of a couple of things to add to his story.
As he was finishing, they turned off the road and started bumping along a mud track, churned up by farm machinery. Reeve could see the farm in front of them, a simple three-sided layout around a courtyard, with other buildings dotted about. It was very much like his own home.
Vincent stopped in the yard. A snapped command at a barking untethered sheepdog sent it padding back to its lair. A lone lamb bounded up to Reeve, bleating for food. He had the door open but hadn’t stepped out yet.
“I’d put your boots on before you do that,” Vincent warned him. So Reeve opened the bag he’d brought with him. Inside were all Jim’s notes plus a new pair of black Wellingtons, bought in the army surplus store near Finsbury Park Station. He kicked off his shoes and left them in the car, then pulled on the boots. He swiveled out of his seat and landed in a couple of inches of mud.
