by Ian Rankin
‘Where are we going?’ asked Elder. Charlie looked at him.
‘We’re going to find you a pint of Young’s best,’ he said.
Elder laughed. ‘I haven’t had any of that in over two years.’
‘You used to knock it back.’
‘So where do we find Young’s round here?’
‘It’s in a few places. The best I’ve tasted’s in Soho.’
They drove into the middle of Soho and, the car park being full, cruised until they found someone pulling away from a parking meter.
‘God bless you,’ Charlie called to the departing car, slipping his own resprayed Escort into the space. Elder noticed that Charlie hid his LPs under the driver’s seat, and then unslotted his radio and did the same with it.
‘These days...’ he said, simply, locking the car. He put some more money in the meter and led Elder into the dark interior of a pub. No jukebox, no television, no video games, and only a single fruit-machine.
‘It’s an oasis,’ commented Elder, who thought such pubs no longer existed in London.
‘It gets noisy at night,’ said Charlie, ordering two pints of Young’s Special. The beer when it came was dark and rich. ‘Just like my landlord,’ said Charlie. They perched on stools at the bar and exchanged histories of the past two years. Charlie had cut down on cigarettes and also on drugs and drink.
‘Doctor’s orders,’ he said. He thumped his chest. ‘Dodgy bellows, plus high blood pressure.’
Meantime, his album collection had risen from three thousand to nearer five, most of the records bought secondhand, few of them more contemporary than 1972.
The conversation was stilted, awkward. They were at the same time recalling past events and attempting to evade making mention of them. They both knew they were doing this, and smiled a few times in embarrassment as the conversation lapsed into silence.
‘So,’ Charlie said at last, ‘what can I do for you, Dom?’
Dominic Elder ordered two more pints and a couple of filled rolls. ‘I’m looking for a Dutchman,’ he said.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I thought maybe you could do your sniffer-dog routine.’
‘Long time since anyone’s said that to me: sniffer-dog. Private matter, is it?’
‘No, strictly company business.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Charlie sipped his drink thoughtfully, then shook his head. ‘I’m not sure, Dom. I mean, after that last time ...’
‘This is a team effort.’
‘Yeah, but so was that. Didn’t stop you going off and ... I don’t know. I’d be worried, that’s all.’
‘About me?’ Elder smiled. ‘I’m touched, Charlie, but I meant what I said, this time it’s a team effort.’
‘No individual skills, eh? Playing for the team.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Yeah, well...’ He straightened his back, scratched his nose, slumped again, studying his glass. ‘All right then, can’t do any harm. Mind, I don’t have the eyes and ears I once had.’
‘Just do what you can.’ Elder handed over one of the descriptions of the Dutchman. Charlie read through it.
‘Dutch pubs?’ he said.
‘We’re already covering them.’
‘Clubs, restaurants?’
‘Those too.’
‘Wonder if he’s hired a car while he’s here...’
‘We’ll check.’
Charlie nodded. He refolded the piece of paper and put it in his back pocket. ‘Like I say, Dom, I’ll do what I can.’
‘What’s the going rate these days, Charlie? I’m a bit out of touch.’
‘You and me both. We’ll sort the money out later. Don’t worry, there’s a discount for friends. Where can I find you?’
Elder gave the name of his hotel.
‘Using your own name?’ asked Charlie. Elder nodded, then thought: I shouldn’t be, though. I shouldn’t be using my own name. How long would it take her to find him, phoning all the hotels alphabetically, asking for him at reception? A day, two at most... if she wanted to, if she didn’t have anything else to keep her busy.
‘Have another?’ said Charlie. Elder shook his head.
‘Better get back,’ he said. ‘I want a clear head for tonight.’
‘Oh, yes? Still up to your old tricks, eh? Who is she?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Dinner, is it?’ Elder nodded. ‘Listen, do me a favour. After you’ve bought the forty-quid bottle of wine and you’re tasting it, just ask yourself this: does it taste any better than the pint I had this afternoon? I can tell you now what the answer’ll be.’
Elder laughed. ‘You’re probably right, Charlie.’
‘That’s me, Dom, a right Charlie. Come on, I’ll give you a lift back.’
Joyce Parry came naked from her bathroom into her bedroom and stood there again, hands on hips, staring at the clothes laid out on her bed. She just couldn’t make up her mind. Two dresses and a skirt and blouse: she could not for the life of her choose between them. And until she’d decided that, she couldn’t decide on her colour of tights or stockings, which meant she couldn’t yet choose her shoes, never mind her accessories. She was used to dressing to suit the occasion. Perhaps that was the very problem: she wasn’t sure just what the occasion tonight actually was. She wasn’t sure of Dominic’s intentions, of how he felt. Was her confusion his fault or her own? She was nervous as a cornered rat, and afraid of coming to wrong conclusions. If she dressed one way, perhaps he would come to some wrong conclusion, too.
It was so easy usually. For the office, she dressed hard and efficient, because that was what the office required. For a dinner party, she would be elegant and intelligent. Receiving friends at home, she was just slovenly enough so that they felt comfortable in her house.
And for an intimate dinner with a man ...? That depended on what she thought the man felt about her, and what she felt - if anything - in return. There was her long ice-blue dress, covering most of her body like a shield. Then there was the jersey dress, which came to her knees and showed a lot of her arms and shoulders too. Or there was the skirt and blouse. The blouse could be worn open-necked, or else clamped shut and tied at the neck with a bow.
Decisions, decisions. She turned and went back into the bathroom. If she left the choice of outfit until the last minute, she’d have to make a snap judgement. So be it. God, he’d laugh to see her getting in such a state. The unflappable Joyce. She’d flapped all right, the first time she’d met him. They’d become lovers only several years later, and then for a matter of weeks. He’d still been married then - though only just. It didn’t work. It could never have worked. But that hadn’t stopped it being good at the time.
She cleaned her teeth, rinsed, spat. Turned off the tap and stared at herself in the mirror, her hands on the rim of the washbasin.
Silverfish had aged Dominic, but she wasn’t looking so young herself. She patted her hair self-consciously. She still wasn’t sure whether bringing Dominic to London had been such a good idea. He certainly seemed full of energy and ideas, his mind sharp. He’d covered good ground in Folkestone, Cliftonville, Brighton. He got results from people, mainly because he looked like he was there to be obeyed and impressed. Even the Special Branch pair worked well with him. Not under him, but with him. That was another thing about Dominic, he consciously underplayed his role. He didn’t need to brandish his authority in anyone’s face. Yet all the time he was manipulating them.
Maybe there were still a few things she could learn from him, a few of his strengths that she’d forgotten all about. But she knew his weaknesses of old, too. The way he bottled things up, always thinking more than he said, not sharing. And now Witch had threatened him: what must the shock of finding that note have done to him? She’d find out tonight, she’d sit at the table and ask him outright, and she’d go on asking until he told her.
She’d considered putting a guard on him. After all, he was the one real and actual person so far threatened by Witch. But Do
minic wouldn’t have agreed to a bodyguard. Besides, he was working most of the time alongside two bodyguards of a sort - Doyle and Greenleaf. But she’d phoned Trilling anyway, and had asked him to have a quiet word with his men, telling them to keep an eye open for Elder’s safety. Trilling had been sympathetic, and had given her a progress report.
Too many fish, all of them possible red herrings. They were heading towards confusion rather than clarity. It wasn’t Joyce Parry’s way. The phone rang in the bedroom. Maybe Barclay and another of his too-vague reports. Maybe Dominic to say there was a fresh lead and he was cancelling dinner. She sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the receiver.
‘Joyce Parry speaking.’
She listened for a moment, frowned, shifted a little on the bed. She pulled the corner of the duvet over her lap, as though her nakedness suddenly embarrassed her.
‘What?’ she said. She listened to more. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Yes, I quite understand. Thank you.’ But the conversation lasted for several more minutes before she hung up.
Half an hour later, Dominic Elder rang the doorbell. She was dressed for travel, and knew she looked flustered and angry. Still, she opened the door to him. He was beaming. She swallowed before speaking.
‘Dominic, I tried ringing you but you’d already left. Sorry, I’ve got to call off tonight.’
‘What?’ She stood at the door, holding the door itself by its edge. There was to be no invitation in.
‘I know, I know. Somewhere I’ve got to be, cropped up less than half an hour ago. I really am sorry.’
He looked pitiable. His shoulders had collapsed forwards. He stared at the doorbell as though trying to make sense of the conversation. ‘But... where? What’s so important it can’t—’
She raised her free hand. ‘I know, believe me. But this can’t wait. A car’s picking me up in ten minutes and I haven’t finished packing.’
‘Packing?’
‘Just overnight.’ A pause. ‘It’s Barclay.’
‘What’s happened to him?’
‘Nothing, he’s just ...’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me this is nothing to do with you.’ He stood there, saying nothing. ‘Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.’ She pulled the door open wide. ‘Get in here and tell me. Tell me everything.’
The schnapps before bed was probably not necessary. Barclay would have slept on a street of broken glass, never mind between the clean white sheets provided by the Gasthof Hirschen. It had been a hell of a drive. Dominique was of the let’s-press-on school of travel, so that stops were few and far between, and what stops they made were perfunctory. Then a tyre went on the 2CV and the spare turned out to be in a distressed condition. And when a new tyre had been found and fitted, at what seemed to both of them major expense (whether converted into francs or sterling), a small red light had come on on the dashboard, and wouldn’t go off, despite Dominique’s attempts at tapping it into submission with her finger. ‘What is it?’
‘Just a warning light,’ said Dominique.
‘What’s it warning us of ?’
‘I don’t know. The owner’s manual is under your seat.’
Barclay flicked through it, but his French wasn’t up to the task. So Dominique pulled over and snatched the book from him.
‘You’re welcome,’ Barclay muttered, but she ignored the jibe. He was dying for a cup of tea, and for the simple pleasures of Saturday in London: shopping for clothes and new classical CDs, reading a book or the newspaper with the CD playing on the hi-fi, preparing for a dinner party or drinks...
‘Oil,’ Dominique said.
‘Let’s take a look then,’ said Barclay, getting out of the car. But the bonnet was almost impossible to open and he had to wait for Dominique, who was in no hurry to assist, to come and unhook the thing for him. There was less to the motor than he’d imagined.
‘Do you have a rag or something?’
She shook her head.
‘Fine.’ He tugged a handkerchief from his pocket, pulled out the dipstick, wiped it, pushed it back into place again, and lifted it out again. Dominique consulted the owner’s manual.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The oil level is low.’
‘Practically non-existent.’ Barclay’s voice was furiously calm. ‘And do we have a can of oil with us?’
She looked at him as if he were mad even to ask.
‘Fine,’ he said again.
They were parked by the side of the autobahn. The road itself looked, to Barclay, like some old airstrip, short, pitted concrete sections with joins every few yards. The sound of the 2CV rumbling over each join had become monotonous and infuriating, but even that was preferable to this.
Then it started to rain.
They sat together in the front of the car, not even bothering with the windscreen-wipers. Drops of rain thudded down on the vinyl roof, trickling in at a few places where the vinyl had either perished or been breached. Inside the damp car, not a word was exchanged for several minutes.
‘Well?’ Barclay said at last. ‘Maybe we could make it to the next petrol station.’
‘The last sign was a couple of kilometres back. The next station is sixty kilometres away. We wouldn’t make it, the engine would seize.’
Barclay did not want the engine to seize. ‘So what do you suggest?’
Dominique did not reply. A car was slowing to a stop behind them. A man hurried out and started urinating on to the verge. Dominique watched in her wing-mirror and, when he was finished, dashed out and ran towards him, asking in German whether the man by chance had any spare oil.
‘Ja, natürlich,’ Barclay heard the man reply. He opened the boot of his car and brought out a large can and a plastic funnel. And even though this man was their saviour, Barclay saw why it was that some people disliked the Germans. Their efficiency in the face of one’s own shortcomings merely intensified those shortcomings. And nobody liked to be shown up like that. Nobody.
‘What a nice man,’ said Dominique, cheered by the encounter. She turned the ignition. The red light came on but then went off again. She signalled out into the autobahn and drove off, sounding her horn at the man still parked by the side of the road. She was chatty after that, and eventually succeeded in talking Barclay out of his sullenness. The rain stopped, the clouds cracked open, and there was the sun, where it had been hiding all the time. They rolled back the vinyl roof and, only thirty or forty kilometres further on, stopped in a town for a good hour, grabbing a bite at a café and then simply walking around.
The men stared at Dominique. During the drive, she had become ugly to him, but now Barclay saw her again, petite and full of life, the sort of woman who got noticed even when there were taller, more elegant or more glamorous women around: not that there were many of those in the town. Refreshed, the rest of the drive was a bit easier on the nerves if not on the body. The Gasthof Hirschen, when they’d stumbled upon it, looked just the place to Barclay, more than adequate for an overnight stop. Dominique wasn’t so sure. She’d thought maybe they could press on a little further... But Barclay had insisted. They were only fifty kilometres, if that, from Burgwede. Fifty kilometres from Wolf Bandorff. It was close enough for Barclay. The manager had asked if they would want just the one room. No, they wanted two. And dinner? Oh yes, they definitely wanted dinner.
But first Barclay had taken a bath, lying in it until Dominique had come thumping at his door, trying the doorhandle.
‘I’m starving!’ she called. So Barclay got dressed and met her in the restaurant. After half a bottle of wine, his eyes had started to feel heavy. Then he’d decided to take a schnapps to his room. He’d telephoned Dominic Elder’s London hotel, knowing Elder expected to be back there sometime today. But he wasn’t around, so Barclay left a message and his telephone number. Then he’d fallen asleep ...
The first thing he was aware of was a weight on him. The sheets were tight around him, constricting him. He tried to tug them free, but weight was holding them down. What? Someone sitting on the edge o
f the bed, halfway down. He tried to sit up, but the weight held him fast. He struggled for the lamp, switched it on. It was Dominique. She was wearing only a long pink T-shirt. It fell, seated as she was, to just above her knees.
‘What is it?’ he said. He was thinking. That door was locked. She’s brought her lockpick’s tools with her. Then he looked at his watch. It was one-fifteen.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said. She rose from the bed, padded barefoot to the room’s only chair, and sat down quite primly, knees together and the T-shirt clamped between them. ‘I thought maybe we could talk about Bandorff.’
‘We’ve talked about him.’ Barclay sat up, wedging a pillow between him and the headboard.
‘I know, but I’m ...’
‘Nervous? So am I.’
‘Really?’
He laughed. ‘Yes, really.’
She smiled for a moment, staring at the carpet. ‘I don’t know whether that makes me feel better or not.’
‘Dominique, don’t worry. Like you say, either we find out something or we don’t. Is it me? Are you worried about my superiors finding out? I’m not worried,’ he lied, ‘so it’s stupid for you to be.’
‘Stupid?’
‘Well, no, not stupid. I mean, it’s very... I’m glad you worry about me. It’s nice of you to worry, but you shouldn’t.’
She came over to the side of the bed and knelt down in front of it. Barclay shifted uneasily beneath the sheets. She stared hard at him.
‘Michael,’ she said, ‘there’s something I want to tell you.’ She paused. The spell seemed to break, and she shifted her gaze to the headboard. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow will be time enough.’ She got back to her feet. ‘I’m sorry I woke you up.’ She smiled again and bent down to kiss his forehead. ‘Try to sleep.’ After the view he’d just had down the front of her T-shirt, he doubted he would.
Then she padded to the door and was gone. Just like that. Barclay didn’t move for a couple of minutes, and then when he did move it was merely to sit up a little higher against the headboard. He drew his knees up in front of him and rested his arms on them. He stared at the bedroom door, willing Dominique to walk back through it. She didn’t. Eventually, he slid back down beneath the sheets and turned off the bedside lamp. Etched on the insides of his eyelids were supple shadowy bodies, hanging breasts, shapes concave and convex. His forehead tingled where she’d kissed him. The birds were starting to sing as he eventually drifted off to sleep.
