Smart Moves

by Adrian Magson

  ‘This is bloody good shop,’ Willi informed me knowingly, proudly surveying the shelves of blue videos, magazines and sex aids. He nodded with obvious familiarity to the bearded giant behind the counter, who steered us through a plastic curtain into a back office. ‘You have same in England, ja?’

  ‘Ya,’ I agreed, stepping carefully over a broken box of inflatable strap-on breasts. ‘Not quite so out in the open, though.’ The thought of a sex shop opening right opposite the Arrivals door at Heathrow was a bit of a stretch. But it was nothing like the surprise I got when I handed him his envelope, and he reached into a box behind him and slapped a giant rubber penis into my hand. It was a lurid pink and purple and covered in veins, and looked like something I’d once seen hanging underneath a shire horse when I was a kid. My brother and a couple of his friends had spent ages flicking small stones at it until the horse had tired of the game and trotted away, its lengthy appendage swinging back and forth.

  I gave Willi his toy willy back, and he looked crestfallen. ‘You don’t like?’

  ‘If it was my own, I’d be delighted,’ I said. As I left the shop a trio of nuns went by. The looks they gave me should have scorched my socks.

  Some days you can’t do anything right.

  I returned on three more occasions to see M. Philipet, during which I managed to hand over the envelopes without having to fight off the huge dog. In fact we became quite good friends. A Señor Fuentes lurked in morose and sinister fashion in Madrid on four occasions, reeking of strong tobacco and accompanied by a large helper who insisted on patting me down and checking my bag every time. A small, neat Frenchman named Gustav darted up to me on two occasions in Nice, identified himself and took the envelope I had for him, all without saying a word. And a Belgian named Ruyncke, with two assistants hovering in close attendance, waited for me in the multi-storey car park at Brussels airport and made no attempt to look anything other than furtive. With the collar of his black leather coat turned up and a cigar hanging from his lower lip, he looked like a character from an old Jean Gabin movie.

  It was a pale reminder of my old job visiting hospitals, sewage plants and bridge projects in out-of-the-way places, and I wondered how many other similar jobs there were out there, being done by individuals like me, all trotting around the globe with mysterious and apparently innocent little packages for strange and secretive clients.

  The packages themselves, in sealed envelopes, felt like A4 papers, with the occasional memory stick in a jiffy bag. Whatever they were, I was neither curious nor desperate enough to pry under the flaps. Having seen at close quarters some of the people I was handing them to, I needed no warning to keep my fingers to myself.

  It was after my second delivery to Gustav on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice that I discovered I was being followed.

  Nice being the kind of place it was, it seemed criminal to go there and not take a stroll along the famous seafront now I was in no particular rush. Having spent years going to places where doing the tourist bit was neither encouraged nor safe, I handed the silent Gustav his packet, watched him dart away like a minnow in a stream and decided to walk in the direction of Monaco to take in the sights and some sea air before heading for the airport.

  As I turned, a man coming the other way did an abrupt about-turn and slammed into a Lycra-clad jogger running diagonally across the promenade. Amid the yells of pain and flailing arms and legs, I couldn’t help but note the man who’d caused the accident. He was of medium build, wearing a business suit, and had a florid face and a thin moustache, with a slight kink in one side which could have been caused by an accidental slash of a hasty razor. He picked himself up, muttered to the stunned jogger, who’d now got a severe case of promenade rash on the kneecaps, and bustled away towards the centre of town. He seemed unaware that he had a strip of fabric hanging from the side of his trouser leg where the concrete had torn it.

  ‘Espèce de con, va! Idiot!’ yelled the jogger in true subtle Gallic fashion, with a pumping clenched-fist gesture in case anyone was in doubt about his feelings. He looked round for support, but when he saw none was forthcoming he clambered to his feet and limped away at a half-jog.

  Thirty minutes later, as I wandered through the narrow backstreets back towards the town centre, I noticed a familiar figure in the reflection of a silver-backed window display. He was lurking about fifty yards behind me in the doorway of a pizza restaurant. The strip of fabric hanging from his leg was too much of a coincidence for it to be anyone else.

  At first I dismissed it. He probably had business in the area. Like me, perhaps he’d fancied a stroll along the front until his unfortunate collision with the jogger. But when I saw him a third time, loitering on the other side of the street when I came out of a shopping mall, internal alarm bells began to shrill.

  I’d harboured no illusions about what I was involved in. Delivering small packages with strict instructions about whom they should be handed to, the proviso being that I shouldn’t return at all if I made a mistake, was evidently not normal business. I’d argued with myself on several occasions about how illegal they might be, and managed to convince myself each time that they were innocent. It wasn’t as if I was transporting little plastic bags of white powder or diamonds; nor was I hefting a Russian AK47 down my trouser leg. But who was I kidding?

  Were they technical plans? Commercial blueprints? Design specifications? Product information? Anything was possible.

  True, I’d heard of papers being soaked in a drug solution for extraction later, but since these envelopes seemed perfectly ordinary and not airtight or protected against airport sniffer dogs, it seemed unlikely.

  I made my way back to the airport and, within minutes, spotted my follower lurking near the check-in desk after I’d gone through. He evidently didn’t want to risk getting too close to me in such a restricted area. I lost track of him on the plane, then saw the damaged trouser leg sticking out from a seat several rows ahead of me. Whoever he was, he wasn’t being overly subtle. Maybe he was just lousy at his job.

  As soon as we landed and cleared immigration I found a quiet corner and rang Clayton.

  ‘Are you sure?’ No denials, no incredulous laughter; just a calm, steady request for confirmation.

  I told him about the incident on the promenade and spotting the man again in the town centre and on the plane.

  ‘It does seem more than coincidence,’ he said blandly, as if discussing the authenticity of a piece of fine antique furniture. ‘Can you see him now?’

  ‘No. He hasn’t shown up yet.’ Unless he’d handed over to somebody else, I thought.

  ‘Okay. Leave it with me. Well spotted. You’d better keep your head down for a couple of days. I’ll call you as soon as I have anything else.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ I asked.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Could he be official?’

  ‘I doubt it. He’s probably working for one of Gustav’s competitors. He may have picked you because you were a new face. Don’t worry – it happens.’

  Not to me, it didn’t, which was why I was worrying. Being followed by strange little men isn’t part of my normal routine. It made me wonder if he was nothing to do with Clayton or Gustav at all. Perhaps he’d been employed by Susan’s solicitors to find out if I had gainful employment and therefore some income they could latch on to.

  I rang Hugo and asked him, in case pillow talk had been exchanged.

  ‘No idea, old boy,’ he said unhelpfully. ‘Juliette hasn’t said anything. Why – has someone in a dirty mac been taking compromising piccies of you?’ He chuckled as if being watched was his idea of a boyish prank.

  ‘Not exactly.’ I told him about the incident on the promenade at Nice.

  If I was expecting support from him, I was disappointed.

  ‘Told you, old son,’ he muttered quickly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘You should stop doing that delivery stuff – it’s not safe. This fellow watching you might have b
een Inland Revenue… Customs and Excise or whatever they call themselves nowadays. Christ, Jake – they could even be the anti-terrorist squad! They could lock you up and chuck away the key!’

  ‘Thanks a lot for that, Hugo,’ I told him. ‘But I got this job through you, remember? One of your old school pals? The old alma mater? Not what you know but who you know?’ It was a little ungrateful, turning it back on him, but I was beginning to feel isolated, like someone pronounced stricken with a disgusting and extremely contagious fever and not to be approached unless wearing rubber gloves and carrying a very long stick.

  I rang Marcus, who at least was friendly and interested in where I’d been. We met up in a burger bar off the Strand and faced each other over weak coffee and greasy food. I watched him squeeze ketchup over a giant burger and take a bite. He chewed for a few seconds, then looked at me.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I sighed. I didn’t like bringing him into this but there seemed to be no other option. ‘Is Susan having me followed?’

  NINETEEN

  ‘Really? You mean by a detective?’ I could have sworn he looked almost excited at the idea.

  ‘Christ, I don’t know – I didn’t think to ask him for his card!’

  He shook his head, shedding pieces of lettuce and bun-crumbs on the table. ‘But why should she do that?’

  ‘Money,’ I said bluntly. ‘Someone’s been dogging me, that’s all I know. I thought it might have been Susan’s idea.’

  ‘She’s definitely pissed off with you, I can tell you that. After your chat the other day she said as far as she was concerned you’d burned your bridges.’ He shrugged. ‘But she also said there couldn’t be another woman because you haven’t got–’ He stopped and looked down at his burger, stopping short of a faux pas. I felt sorry for him. Being caught in the middle and watching two people galloping away in opposite directions couldn’t have been fun.

  ‘Haven’t got it in me?’ I finished. ‘Haven’t got the balls?’ I tried not to sound bitter but it wouldn’t come out any other way. Some things just set you off, especially having your manhood called into question.

  He nodded. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well, don’t you believe it,’ I said defiantly. ‘I may not be in the Action Man class, but I’m working on it.’ I gave him a sanitised version of what I was doing for Clayton and some of the odd characters I’d met, although I didn’t mention where I’d been or my suspicions about what I might be carrying. ‘But that stays between you and me, okay?’

  He looked at me as if he was seeing a different person. ‘Bit of a change of pace, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it’s not a long-term career, but it has its moments.’

  ‘But why? I mean, why not go back to your old work? There must be other firms out there you could approach, people who know you.’

  ‘I’ve thought about it. But right now there’s nothing I’d like less. Maybe Dunckley was right; we’re a dying breed and computers are taking over.’ Big mistake; thoughts of Dunckley reminded me that Susan was now sharing his bed, and I felt a burning indignation rise up at the thought that the devious toe-rag, even while he was giving me the elbow, was probably thinking about her. Oddly enough, though, the idea of them together no longer rankled the way I’d expected.

  ‘I saw him the other day.’ Marcus looked gloomy. Clearly he wasn’t in favour and I felt a rush of gratitude. It would have been unbearable if he’d found even a grain of interest in the slithery little bastard. ‘He was at the house.’

  ‘Our house? What were you doing there?’

  ‘I dunno… just happened to be in the area and went for a look.’ He picked at a piece of limp lettuce and dropped it on his plate. ‘I saw them – him and Susan. She was trying to get those squatters evicted. They’d called the police to get them out on the grounds they’d caused damage and forced their way in. But the police weren’t having much luck. Some big Aussie was standing in the upstairs window laughing at them. It was a real carry-on. Dunckley was making threats and trying to come over all manly and in charge, but it didn’t seem to have any effect. Mrs Tree was shouting about refugees taking over the country.’

  ‘They’re Kiwis,’ I corrected him absently. ‘From New Zealand. The big bloke’s name is Dash. He has a girlfriend called Dot. They’re just passing through. I doubt they’ll be around long.’

  ‘You know them? I wouldn’t have thought they were your sort.’

  I smiled, suddenly pleased at being able to spring another surprise and shake his perception of me. ‘Well, that was then. This is now. Seen ’em, met ’em, liked ’em. I even said they could stay a while. It’ll keep the house aired, at least. They made me my very own coffee mug for when I come calling. And I can contact them on the internet. They’re nice people; you’d probably get on well with them.’ I made a mental note to warn Dash off tangling with Dunckley; as big as he was, if Clayton’s comment about Dunckley was true, the young Kiwi could find himself in trouble.

  Marcus had a vague smile beginning to dawn on his face. I wasn’t sure what it conveyed, but at least he wasn’t scowling any more. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ he said eventually, with a tone of wonderment. ‘I mean, I’ve been waiting for you to be all depressed and wanting to go out and get off your face. But you’re not. I thought breaking up was supposed to be hell… and that I’d have to be talking you out of wanting to chuck yourself off a bridge somewhere.’

  ‘What’s the point? Susan made her choice, and on reflection I can’t say I blame her. Anyway, what good would it do for me to wear sackcloth and ashes or to top myself? Besides, I can’t stand heights. And if you mean I’m enjoying my change of direction, well, I suppose I am in a way. Not what brought it about, though – that’s not fun.’ I wondered if he’d feel the same admiration if he found out I was the phantom intruder into Jane and Basher’s relationship, however brief and unintentional it had been. That thought prompted another.

  ‘How’s things with your friend Basher? Has he found out who was with his wife yet?’

  Marcus shrugged, uninterested. ‘I don’t know. It all got a bit boring and dramatic in the end. He even went and hired a private detective. I think he’s nuts.’

  ‘Detective?’ I felt my bowels contract as a cold shiver went through me, and wished I hadn’t mentioned being followed earlier. If Marcus put two and two together, I was done.

  ‘Yes. Some bloke from Acton who specialises in surveillance work. Basher says he’s had the man watching Jane for a while now.’ He finished his coffee with a frown. ‘Which is really odd, because I spotted her in Piccadilly this morning.’

  ‘What was odd about it?’

  ‘Well, I spoke to Basher at lunchtime, and he said this private snoop was following up a lead he’d picked up. But he can’t be following Jane at the moment because he said he’d just flown to France. Somewhere down south, I think Basher said. Was it Marseille or Nice? Nice – that was it.’ He smiled dreamily. ‘Always wanted to go there. Casinos, the Promenade des Anglais, sun, sea and beautiful women – what more could a bloke want?’

  A deep hole to hide in would be good, I thought.

  TWENTY

  As soon as I could get away I rang Clayton and asked him if he had any jobs lined up. It seemed suddenly prudent to be off and doing somewhere rather than hanging around waiting for Basher’s private stooge to catch up and put the finger on me. I didn’t think I’d look very good propping up a motorway, and adding to the methane in Hackney Marshes would play havoc with more than just my sinuses.

  ‘I’ve got plenty,’ he said. ‘Are you free and clear?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  ‘Okay.’ He paused and I heard the keys of his computer clicking in the background. ‘I’ve got a delivery for a place on the Dutch coast, near The Hague. Scheveningen. Do you know it?’

  Oddly enough, I did. I’d been to a conference there once, on land reclamation. It was a small seaside resort much favoured by
the Dutch, and was virtually a suburb of The Hague. Ideal if you liked brisk winds fresh off the North Sea, it boasted sweeping sands and a smattering of good restaurants for the clean-living burgers of Den Haag, or the not so clean-living conference delegates who weren’t allowed anywhere near the fleshpots of Rotterdam.

  ‘Good,’ said Clayton. ‘Come round tomorrow morning and the package will be ready for you.’ He hung up in his customary fashion, and I took it as a good sign that he hadn’t raised the question of stalkers in torn trousers. Far be it from me to confess that it may have been Basher’s man following me in France; I had a feeling Clayton may not have taken kindly to a divorce snoop elbowing in on one of his transactions by mistake.

  After a night in a local hotel, I collected my car from the garage, then drove to Clayton’s place and picked up the package, along with brief instructions about what to do. I flew to Rotterdam, where I picked up a taxi for the short drive to Scheveningen. The roads were busy but flowed smoothly, and if anyone was following me, I didn’t spot the same car more than once.

  I examined the envelope on the way, which felt as if it contained either A4 sheets of pasteboard or even acetates – the sort used for overhead projector presentations. Written on the envelope was the name of the conference centre – the Kursaal – where I was to meet someone who would identify himself as Rik Heysens.

  The resort of Scheveningen was quiet and upmarket, with an air of calm that was at odds with the city of Rotterdam not far away.

  The atmosphere inside the Kursaal was steady, well-heeled, with small knots of people enjoying sophisticated coffee or an early lunch. A snooty-looking man in a penguin suit was playing a piano in the bar as if the whole thing was beneath his capabilities, and if there was a single suit among the patrons which came off a peg or a dress which wasn’t handmade, I didn’t spot it. Whoever these people were, they wore their wealth comfortably.