by William Boyd
‘You fucked up, Jonjo,’ Bob said quietly, when he’d set his glass down. ‘Big time. Do you know what we had to do to get you out? Any idea who we had to call? The special favours we had to ask of very important people? What favours we now owe?’
Jonjo didn’t really care. Darren had told him he had every resource available so when he’d been arrested he made the call. What else was he meant to do? He smiled emptily back at ‘Bob’ and measured an inch of air between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I was that close,’ he said. ‘I’d tracked Kindred down. I had him. Until that fucking policewoman showed up.’
‘Malign fate,’ Bob said. ‘The one thing you can’t calculate for.’
‘Yeah, whatever.’
Darren said nothing, concentrating on drinking his beer – the message-boy.
‘Trouble is,’ Bob went on, ‘now we can’t even tell the police you almost had him. That would tie us in to the Wang hit – so we’re taking it in every orifice.’
Jonjo ignored him. The worst was over. ‘I know what Kindred’s doing,’ he said calmly, evenly, sitting back in his chair. ‘I figured it out while I was waiting for him. He’s been living there, by that bridge, for weeks … Just lying low. He’s not stupid: he doesn’t do anything, so there’s no trail. No cheques, no bills, no references, no mobile phone calls – only payphones – no credit cards, only cash – nothing. That’s how you disappear in the twenty-first century – you just refuse to take part in it. You live like a medieval peasant: you scrounge, you steal, you sleep under hedges. That’s why no one could find him – not even the whole fucking Metropolitan Police murder squad. He could be showing up on 300 CCTV cameras a day but we don’t know. We don’t even know what he looks like any more, we don’t know where he goes, what he does. He’s just a man walking on a city street. Big deal. Free as a bird.’
Jonjo paused, a little taken aback at his own eloquence. He decided that continued unapologetic belligerence was his best defence.
‘But,’ he said, ‘but I found him. Me – Jonjo Case. I tracked him down. Not the police. Not your hundred grand reward advert. I had him – but fucking bad luck got in the way. So don’t give me no bullshit about having to call in favours.’ He measured his airy inch with his two fingers again. ‘Nobody else got within a country mile.’
‘You may well have a point,’ Bob said. ‘But one thing’s for sure now – he’s well and truly gone.’
‘I’ll get him, don’t you worry,’ Jonjo said, with more confidence than he felt. ‘I got leads now – just give me a bit of time.’
‘The one commodity we don’t have in large supply, Mr Case,’ Rupert-Bob said, his voice heavy with cynicism. Jonjo surmised that he’d been a smart-arsed sergeant with a clever tongue who’d been promoted. It made him relax a bit: he knew what these guys were like, knew their deep insecurities. He’d wager the accent was fake too – there was something Scouse, something North about him – the Wirral, Cheshire …
‘That’s not my problem, mate,’ Jonjo said, fixing him with dead eyes.
‘Yes, it fucking is. Time is short. You don’t have much time. Got it?’ He stood up. ‘Come on, Darren.’
Darren drained his pint and gave Jonjo a wink round the side of his upended glass. What’s that meant to mean? Jonjo wondered. He saw Bob hit his mobile as he left the pub – calling in, reporting back on the Jonjo Case meeting. Who could he be calling, Jonjo asked himself, who was higher up this chain? …
He wandered over to the bar, feeling disgruntled, put-upon, undervalued, and ordered another pint from a girl called Carmencita. What are they getting so excited about? he pondered as he stood there, sipping his beer. They now knew Kindred was alive and living somewhere in London. It was, in the end, as he had said, purely a matter of time. Time was Kindred’s enemy. Time was Jonjo’s friend, time was on Jonjo’s side.
24
‘THE SUN IS IN the sky.’
‘The sun is in the sky.’
Adam rearranged the big letters and spelt them out for Ly-on.
‘The sky is blue.’
‘The sky is blue.’
‘Now you do it – do “The sun is in the sky” again.’
Ly-on began to shift the letters around to spell out the new words. Mhouse sat in her chair watching the two of them sitting on the floor in front of the TV – which wasn’t on, she realised: that was what was odd – no TV. She liked the idea of John 1603 teaching Ly-on to read – it was important, reading and writing, and she wished she could read better than she did – she didn’t need writing so much, but she had no time to spare.
‘I’m go down shops,’ she said. John looked up and smiled.
‘What going to get Ly-on present?’ Ly-on said.
‘You just stick to your …’ she couldn’t think of the word. ‘You just do what John tells you.’
She went into her room, took her leather jacket out of the wardrobe and slipped it on. She liked having a man in the flat, even if he was just a lodger. Brought in extra cash too – three weeks now, sixty quid. She liked coming in from work, finding John and Ly-on at their … studying, that was the word. They was studying hard and Ly-on looked like he could nearly read. And Ly-on liked him, even better. Nice man, John 1603.
She walked through The Shaft, heading for the high street, saying hello to the few people she recognised. She was in a good mood, she realised, smiling to herself. There was some sun today, as well – ‘The sun is in the sky’, how hard was that? She could read that. ‘The sky is blue today,’ she said out loud, seeing the letters in her head, sort of – she could write that, almost. Just needed a helping hand from John and she’d—
‘Hoi, Mhouse!’
She looked round. Mohammed sat in his Primera at the kerb, passenger door open. He beckoned her over and she stepped inside.
‘Not seen you for ages, Mo. Been away?’
‘Up north, seeing my cousins.’
‘That’s nice. Y’all right?’
‘No. Not fucking all right. No way. I was keeping me head down.’ Mohammed told her about his encounter with Bozzy and this other geezer in the car park, a ten-ton heavy, he said, fucking scary.
‘Jeez,’ she said. ‘What’s it all about?’
‘They was asking questions about that night you and me took that mim to Chelsea.’
Mhouse felt a little creep of dread inch up the nape of her neck.
‘So who was this heavy guy? Friend of Bozzy?’
‘Nah. He wallop Bozzy. I don’t know – I never seen him before. Thing was, I keep you out of it, Mhouse. I never say you name.’
‘Thanks, Mo. That was good. I owe you.’
‘That’s the point, Mhouse. You do owe me – one raincoat. Fucking Bozzy stamps it in a oil, then he sets light it.’ Mohammed’s face registered his profound loss. ‘My Blueberry raincoat – he set it on fire.’
Mhouse rummaged in her handbag and gave him a £io note.
‘It worth a hundred quid, Mhouse, easy. And I keep you name out of it.’
‘I ain’t got a hundred, Mo.’
‘I’m well short, Mhouse. Couldn’t work up north, could I? Need a hundred. Quick, like.’
‘I can’t give it you this week. What about next month? I have to pay Mr Q tomorrow.’
‘What am I meant to do, Mhouse? I skint – my pockets is hungry. Maybe Bozzy give me some—’
‘I’ll get it for you next week.’
‘Monday.’
‘Monday. No prob.’
She stepped out of the car, shivering slightly, conscious of how lucky she had been. Mohammed wasn’t lying because otherwise Bozzy and his crew would have come calling. Best to pay Mo his hundred, keep him happy. John 1603 was making a difference but it would take five weeks of rent to pay back Mohammed and she owed Mr Quality and she owed Margo – almost everything she made on the shore was going to them …
She walked down Jamaica Road in thoughtful mood. She could deal with Bozzy and his junkie pals – Mr Q would see them off – but who was this n
ew bloke, the ‘ten-ton heavy’? What did he have to do with anything? They must be looking for John 1603 – so maybe she should kick him out. Then she thought: he’s been staying with me for three weeks – they don’t know where he is or what he looks like, obviously. So why should she kick him out? – he brought in money, he bought food and drink, he was teaching Ly-on to read and Ly-on liked him. Fuck it – pay Mo his hundred, somehow, and that would be that.
At the check-out desk in PROXI-MATE she found Mrs Darling in front of her.
‘Hello, love,’ Mrs Darling said. ‘You don’t half eat a lot of bananas. Not in pod, are you?’
‘No. No, it’s Ly-on. It’s all he wants. Mashed banana, please, Mum. Morning, night—’
‘Little monkey, eh? Not seen much of him, lately. Don’t need no babysitting, then?’
‘I got this lodger now. From the church. John 1603.’
‘John 1603? …’
‘He’s teaching Ly-on to read.’ Mhouse stacked her goods on the rubber conveyor belt: rum, sugar, bananas, white bread, milk, biscuits, crisps, chocolate, forty Mayfair Thins.
‘Is that the bloke with the beard?’ Mrs Darling asked. ‘I seen him around.’
‘That’s him. “Blackbeard”, I call him.’
‘Yeah. And I seen him down the church. Must be nice for little Ly-on.’
‘Yeah. They get on real good.’
‘He’s at church most nights.’
‘Who? John?’
‘Bishop Yemi’s got his eye on him. He’s devout.’
‘What?’
‘He believes. A true believer, and Bishop Yemi thinks he’s well clever, also.’
‘Oh, he’s clever, all right. Clever-clogs.’
Mhouse paid for her provisions and bagged them up, amazed as ever at how much everything cost. That was her cleaned out again and John had already paid her this week in advance. How was she meant to find Mohammed’s hundred when she was spending like there was no tomorrow?
That night Mhouse tapped on John’s door – it was late, just gone midnight – tapped on his door, gently, with her fingernails. Ly-on was asleep, she’d given him an extra half Somnola at supper. She heard John say ‘come in’ and she pushed the door open.
‘It’s just me,’ she said, needlessly, as he switched the light on. The mattress was in the middle of the room, surrounded by her cardboard boxes. John had bought a small lamp so he could read in bed.
‘What is it?’ he said, looking at her a little blearily. ‘Everything OK?’
‘I was a bit lonely,’ she said, and pulled off her long T-shirt. ‘Mind if I pop in beside you?’
She didn’t wait for his answer, flipping back the blanket and sliding in beside him. He was naked – good. She put her arms around him and snuggled up against him. ‘Lovely and warm,’ she said. ‘Warm like toast.’ She kissed his chest. ‘I was feeling a bit lonely.’
‘Mhouse,’ he said. ‘Please. This is a bad idea. What about Ly-on?’
‘Spark out,’ she said, reaching down and finding him hardening fast. ‘Somebody thinks it’s a good idea.’
She found his mouth with hers and their tongues touched, she felt his hands on her breasts. He was trembling.
‘Just one thing, John,’ she said. ‘Before we go any further. It’s forty pounds, normal. But for you – twenty. And you don’t need no condom.’
‘All right,’ he said, a kind of gasp in his voice. ‘Yeah, anything.’
‘Deal?’
‘Deal.’
25
THERE WAS A DARK spot on his crisp, white, usually immaculate pillowcase. No – in fact there were two spots. Two dark red spots a little larger than pinheads. Ingram held his pillow up to the light. Blood. Two tiny spots of blood. Must have nicked myself shaving last night before dinner, he thought, fingertips caressing his jawline. Must have somehow rubbed the scabs off in the night. Anyway, no matter, he said to himself, rolling out of bed. He stepped out of his pyjamas and went for his power-shower.
Post-shower, in his dressing gown, he inspected his face in his shaving mirror but could see no tiny scab, nick or razor burn anywhere on his face. Could tiny drops of blood fall from your eyes? he wondered. Or your mouth – perhaps your teeth? Perhaps he’d bitten his tongue in the night. According to Meredith he ground his teeth while he slept – an unverifiable complaint – and the noise he made grinding his teeth had been the reason they had first decided to try separate bedrooms. Perhaps he had ground too hard last night and a little blood had ensued … Most odd, anyway.
He shaved and then opened the drawer in his dressing room that contained his ironed and neatly folded underwear. Was this a no-underwear day? He had a meeting with Pippa Deere at 10.00 and he always rather enjoyed his covert cock-chafing moments with her. Her nose shone, her lips shone, she wore rather too much gold jewellery: brassy, shiny Pippa Deere. But he thought not: the air of crisis in the company dictated full clothing and he slipped on a pair of red tartan boxer shorts. He could always take them off later, he reasoned, if the unclothed mood came upon him.
Once at Calenture-Deutz, he sauntered into his secretary’s office with something of a spring in his step. Mrs Prendergast leapt to her feet, her face tense, making strange signs in front of her chest.
‘Mr Keegan and Mr de Freitas are waiting for you, sir,’ she said quickly, clearly as unhappy at this state of affairs as he would be. What the fuck were they doing in his office at 9.30 in the morning?
‘I’ll have a black coffee, Mrs P.,’ he said, keeping his temper, ‘one sugar today – and a couple of those custardy biscuits.’ He opened his office door – Keegan and de Freitas were sitting on his leather sofa.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, crossing the floor to his desk. ‘What a surprise. Don’t let this happen again, please.’
‘Apologies, Ingram,’ Keegan said, his tone deferential, ‘but you had to be the first to know. The press release is going out in an hour. We didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else.’
‘Have you found Philip Wang’s killer? Pinfold, Wilfred? What’s-his-name?’
‘No. It’s about Zembla-4.’
‘Oh. Why can’t we find this man?’
‘Ingram,’ Keegan persisted, in a faintly, schoolmasterly pay-attention tone. ‘Zembla-4 goes into the FDA and the MHRA this morning. We’re announcing it. Officially, we’re ready.’
Ingram said nothing. He thought he managed to keep his face very still.
‘Since when did you become CEO of Calenture-Deutz, Burton? That is my decision and the board’s to make.’
‘Circumstances have changed,’ de Freitas butted in, more emolliently. ‘We had to move fast.’
‘Well, move faster and rescind it,’ Ingram said. ‘This will not happen. Philip Wang died just a few weeks ago – his life’s work is at stake. We are not ready. Philip would be spinning in his grave.’
Keegan held up both hands. ‘Costas Zaphonopolous has been through all the trials, scrupulously, all the data. All the documentation from the other foreign trials – Italy, Mexico – is ready, immaculate. He gave us the green light, unequivocally.’
‘I thought you said there was data missing from Philip’s flat.’
‘Not data that affects Zembla-4’s launch.’
‘I don’t care what Costas says, I’m sorry. I make this decision. I need to see the facts, the reports. Then the board must sanction the—’
‘Ingram,’ Keegan interrupted. ‘Just watch your Calenture-Deutz stock treble – no, quadruple.’
Ingram said nothing. He paced around his office, hands in pockets, head down, giving, he hoped, a good impression of a man deep in thought. There was something about the nasal twang of Keegan’s accent that he found particularly grating this morning.
‘I’m sorry, Burton,’ he said finally. ‘This is my company, not yours. I make these decisions – not you. No, repeat, no.’
‘It’s too late,’ Keegan said flatly, almost insolently, all deferment gone. Both he and de Freitas remained seat
ed. Ingram went to his desk and sat down behind it, as if that restored his authority somewhat.
Now Keegan stood and reached into his briefcase. He fanned out three magazines on Ingram’s desk. Not magazines – learned scientific journals, Ingram saw: The American Journal of Immunology, The Lancet, Zeitschrift für Pharmakologie.
‘Three articles by independent experts in their field raving about Zembla-4,’ Keegan said.
‘How come? Where did they get their information?’
‘We gave them the data and, of course, paid them extremely handsomely.’ Keegan smiled. ‘It’s a slam-dunk, Ingram. And then, next month, wait till you see the advertorials. We’re looking for a full licence well within a year. Six to nine months.’ He spread his thin fingers, blocking out the banner headlines: ‘At Last A Cure For Asthma.’
‘I’ve seen them,’ he said, pleased to score a modest point. ‘Alfredo showed them to me.’ He smiled. ‘Well, I’m going to rain on your parade, Burton,’ he continued, ‘very sorry, but the answer is still a loud and immovable “no”. It’s ridiculously premature and risky. Philip Wang himself told me a week before he died that he wanted at least another year of third-level clinical trials – he wanted more placebo comparisons – before he would confidently consider submitting for licence. No, no, no,’ he smiled his cold smile. ‘Call everything off.’
‘I’m afraid not, Ingram. Don’t go down this road, please.’
Ingram felt his stomach churn. He flipped the switch on his intercom. ‘Any sign of my umbrella, Mrs P.?’
‘Umbrella, sir?’
‘I mean my coffee.’
Both Keegan and de Freitas were now standing in front of his desk.
‘By the way, you’re both sacked – fired – as of this moment. You have twenty minutes to leave the building. Security will escort you to your offices. You will take nothing with you apart from personal effects—’
‘No, Ingram,’ Keegan said, tiredly. ‘We’re not fired. I suggest you call Alfredo Rilke.’
‘Alfredo will have your heads served up on silver platters.’
