Smoke and Whispers

by Mick Herron

  ‘Now now,’ he said. ‘I’ll make the slighting regional references.’

  He seemed quite serious about this, and perhaps was.

  Sarah looked beyond him, to the crowd at the bar. ‘I’m interrupting your party,’ she said. ‘You’ll want to be with your friends.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘I’m using the term loosely,’ she assured him.

  ‘I’ve never met most of them,’ he said. ‘But you know what it’s like when you’re in a new town. You want to leave your marker with the movers and shakers.’

  This was so far removed from Sarah’s experience that she couldn’t reply directly. ‘And what brings you here in the first place?’

  ‘You can’t guess?’

  ‘Business?’

  ‘You always did have my number, didn’t you, Sarah?’

  They both knew this wasn’t so. They’d met during a troublesome upheaval in Sarah’s life – the same upheaval that had brought Zoë into it – and for a while she’d thought Gerard Inchon the cause of her problems. The fact that she’d been wrong should have taught her a lesson, she supposed, about first impressions and surface values. She was never really sure, though, that life’s lessons stuck.

  She said, ‘I wouldn’t have thought the Bolbec tony enough for you.’

  ‘Tony? That’s New Labour speak for classy, yes? I didn’t have you down as a snob.’

  ‘I mean it doesn’t have wi-fi, Gerard. Or an atrium. Or a TV chef.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think he used to be on Steptoe and Son.’

  ‘It doesn’t even have a sauna. Why aren’t you at Malmaison?’

  ‘Fully booked. Chelsea are in town. But don’t worry, I’ll sack my PA first thing in the morning.’

  ‘You haven’t changed, have you?’

  ‘Still the capitalist monster?’

  ‘Exactly.’ But she smiled as she said it. They had an understanding, Sarah and Gerard. They’d clash broadswords, but refrain from whopping each other’s limbs off. ‘How’s Paula?’

  ‘Fine. Fine. Fine.’ He glanced round. The group he’d abandoned had been augmented by half a dozen more: all male. ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘I’ll just finish my drink and slip off quietly. I didn’t mean to drag you from your guests, Gerard.’

  ‘Not at all. I mean, that’s not what you’ll do at all. You’ll join us, of course. I assume you haven’t eaten?’

  ‘Well, no, but –’

  ‘Have to have gone completely bloody native to have done that. It’s not eight yet. They call it “tea”, did you know? Anyway, it’s a buffet, so you’ll hardly upset the placement. That’s settled, then.’

  Sarah felt conscious that she was under-dressed; that everyone in sight, Barry excepted, was suited and tied and generally dolled to the nines. Gerard himself was tailored just short of perfection: a dark grey suit; a rich blue tie.

  ‘Well, I’m . . .’

  But she wasn’t anything. All she had lined up was another attempt to contact Russ. And while meeting a bunch of strange businessmen wasn’t her idea of a night out, neither was sitting in a hotel room waiting for morning, when she’d take a trip to the morgue. If she stayed in her room, she wouldn’t be alone. Zoë’s potential ghost would be with her, rattling memories and whispering dread.

  Besides, Gerard had a deaf spot where ‘No’ was concerned.

  ‘Thank you. I’d enjoy that.’

  And besides again, what were the odds? Of Gerard Inchon being here, in the same hotel Zoë had stayed, in what might have been the last week of her life? Sarah wasn’t aware they’d ever met, but she was a point of connection between the two. If time was the means by which the universe prevented everything from happening at once, coincidence was the excuse it used when things occasionally did. But as an excuse, it quickly wore thin. Zoë, dead or not, was whispering already. What are the chances, Sarah? What’s he doing here, anyway?

  Come to that, what had Zoë been doing here?

  Gerard, smiling, took her by the arm once more. ‘Let’s have another drink,’ he said. ‘And meet these no doubt charming people.’

  She was poured another glass by a smirking Barry, and in quick succession met two no doubt charming people whose names she immediately forgot. Gerard evidently had a Rolodex where part of his brain should be. If his story could be trusted, he’d barely met anyone here himself, but there was no hesitation in his introductions, and as soon as he’d made them he was off. The bar was filling up still, and Gerard worked the room like a politician, pressing flesh on each new arrival; producing brief barks of laughter and intakes of breath in about equal measure. It was early yet, though. She’d seen him split bigger crowds than this.

  ‘So you know our host?’

  ‘Not well. But yes, we’re acquainted of old.’

  A waitress had joined the gathering throng; was cruising with a bottle of fizz, topping glasses, all bright-eyed and shiny. Sarah guessed someone had once told her her eyes were her best feature, because she was holding them open wider than natural. God, the hoops you had to jump through. It was a wonder footbinding had slipped off the agenda. She remembered Ginger Rogers’ remark: that she’d made the same moves Fred did, only backwards, wearing heels. And even as the thought occurred, Sarah realized she was drifting, and that her new friends were visibly unimpressed with her sparkle . . . Perhaps this had been a mistake. Perhaps she should have sneaked off to her room after all.

  ‘I’m sorry, excuse me a moment?’

  She abandoned her glass, found the loo, then washed her hands and took a good long stare in the mirror. More and more often, this was her way of facing herself. She liked to know which Sarah she was talking to. ‘Are you up to this?’ The Sarah in the mirror mouthed the words back at her. ‘Because otherwise you could hide in your room and think about your dead friend.’ Not necessarily dead, the answer came. And then, again, What’s Gerard Inchon doing here anyway? Not a question to be answered by hiding in her room. Nor by standing like a lemon while folk talked round her.

  ‘Party time,’ she told the Sarah in the mirror.

  Knock ’em dead, Sarah replied.

  She collected a glass of fizz from the circuiting girl; had barely taken a sip before a man approached her with a smile. ‘We haven’t met, have we?’

  ‘We have now.’

  ‘That’s good. My name’s Jack.’

  ‘Hello, Jack. Mine’s Sarah. I don’t need to ask if you’re from round here.’

  ‘Holding a census?’ He glanced round the room, which now held about twenty people. ‘I’ll save you a few minutes. There’s yourself, your man Inchon, and those two in the corner, there, Little and Large. My friend John. And everyone else is toon-grown.’

  ‘You know them all?’

  ‘The ones I don’t, I can tell.’

  She nodded in the direction of the bar. ‘And Barry there’s from Australia.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘A place named Wallaby Springs, would you believe.’

  ‘Now you mention it,’ he said, ‘no. I wouldn’t.’

  He was neither little nor large himself, this man Jack; he was tall but thin, the kind of thin steel cables were. Sarah found herself remembering a soldier she’d once known. Jack, though, looked reasonably user-friendly. His dark hair, neatly styled, fell fuller than the military allowed, and the suit he wore – blue as evening fog – cost as much as everyone else’s put together, Gerard’s excluded. Patches of acne scarring on his cheeks were a reminder of an adolescence as far behind him as Sarah’s own.

  ‘And what is it you do, Jack?’

  ‘I’m a career criminal.’

  It was so unexpected, she couldn’t help but laugh. ‘You’ve fallen in good company, then.’

  ‘A regular thieves’ gathering,’ he agreed. ‘No, these gentlemen are what pass for the great and good in these parts. By which I don’t mean they’re either great or good, just that they can be relied upon to turn up when money’s in the air.’
/>   ‘Is that what I can smell? I’m surprised the room’s not fuller.’

  ‘If the money was free, you’d have trouble bending your elbow,’ he agreed. ‘No, they’re here to gawp at your man Inchon. Hoping some of it will rub off.’

  ‘It?’

  ‘It’s always tempting to think other people’s success is based on luck.’

  ‘And what’s yours based on?’

  ‘My success?’

  ‘You’re here,’ she said, ‘aren’t you?’

  ‘Good point.’ He drained his glass, examined the empty vessel a moment as if surprised it wasn’t larger, then said, ‘The family business started in haulage, but these days it’s mostly storage. You know those big depots you see outside city centres? The kind trains go past when they’re reaching the station?’

  ‘Acres of dismantled cars,’ Sarah said.

  ‘That’s from a poem, I can tell. Well, we – the family – we own a lot of those. You wouldn’t believe how much people will pay to fill them with junk.’

  ‘Nice for you.’

  ‘As you say. So there’s capital to take care of, and never let anybody tell you that’s not a full-time responsibility. Hence, as you’ve pointed out, my being here.’ He pointed with his empty glass to where Gerard was doing his three-ring circus act. ‘Your man Inchon’s been scaring up local talent. I’d be failing in my duty if I didn’t take an interest.’

  Your man Inchon. His third use of this. ‘What makes you think he’s mine?’

  ‘Just a turn of phrase. But you’re the only lady here. And we’ve established you’re not from these parts.’

  Invisible quote marks hovered over that. These parts.

  ‘Fair enough. We’re old friends as it happens, but I’m here by chance. I didn’t know Gerard was in Newcastle. I’m on . . . other business.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘What were you about to say before you changed it?’

  ‘Nothing I particularly want to elaborate on. If that’s okay.’

  ‘Aye, of course.’ He didn’t try to work it, either. ‘He has quite a rep, your friend.’

  ‘We haven’t seen each other in some years.’

  ‘Well, he’s managed all right in your absence.’

  Sarah didn’t doubt it for a minute, but it was an interesting slant on Gerard Inchon: that people in cities he didn’t frequent were keen on getting a gawp at him. Not the big beast Branson was, but he obviously punched above his weight in the marketplace. And his weight, as she’d already noted, hadn’t diminished in recent years.

  ‘And what is it you do, Sarah?’ she was being asked.

  ‘And what is it you do, Sarah?’ she ‘Editorial stuff. I’m a sub-editor.’

  ‘With a newspaper?’

  She shook her head. ‘I freelance. A lot of publishing houses outsource their hands-on work. I do bits and pieces.’

  ‘But you’re your own boss.’

  ‘That sounds nicer than “spends a lot of time trolling after work”.’

  ‘Still true, isn’t it? It’s all down to spin. People take you at face value. You want to make a good first impression, you’ve five seconds to do it in. Ask your man Inchon.’ He put a hand on his heart. ‘Turn of phrase. Honest to God.’

  The girl with the bottle refilled their glasses. Barry, Sarah saw, was busy behind the bar too: a lot of the company had moved on to spirits. She didn’t think that was a direction she’d be heading in. On the other hand, if they didn’t eat soon, the fizz would be damaging enough.

  As if hearing her thought, the girl said, ‘There’ll be food in five minutes. Just through the doors, like.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The girl moved on. Like. The distance from Kensington to Tyneside could be measured in the placement of that syllable.

  Jack had turned to greet a friend. Sarah sipped fizz, reminded herself to drink more slowly, then sipped again. She scanned the room as if absorbed in what she saw. Now that she was here, she was in it for the long haul. No sneaking off to commune with Zoë’s ghost.

  Someone materialized beside her: short man, strange hair, dark suit, orange tie.

  He said something she didn’t catch.

  ‘Could you speak up? Your tie’s very loud.’

  Her conscience would kick her for that in the morning.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said, I didn’t quite hear what you said.’

  He was mid-to-late fifties, with a round face, its shape emphasized by a neatly trimmed beard which decorated his face cheek to cheek without bothering his upper lip. Beard; no moustache. A style choice so ill-advised, she wondered if it weren’t actually a medical condition. ‘Wright,’ he said to her. She thought he’d said right at first, as if he were about to get down to putting her straight. ‘John M. Wright,’ he continued.

  Sarah was pretty sure no one had ever introduced himself to her using his middle initial before.

  ‘Sarah,’ she responded. ‘Em, Sarah Tucker.’

  ‘I see you’re our token woman tonight.’

  ‘I’d noticed. But thank you for pointing it out.’

  Jack was back. ‘Ms Tucker’s in publishing. She owns her own company.’

  The ghost of a wink accompanied this information, but it slipped past Wright without causing a draught.

  ‘I also keep livestock,’ she said. ‘Ostriches.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Good money in them, is there?’

  ‘Small change mostly. Also bracelets, watches, bottle tops. They’ll eat anything, really. What do you do, Mr Wright?’

  ‘Medical research.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’

  ‘It’s fascinating.’

  Why did she feel she’d just been contradicted? ‘Involved how?’

  ‘I run a facility.’ He took a sip from his wineglass. There was something very precise about this, as if he’d calculated in advance the exact amount of liquid he cared to ingest. ‘A small one. Privately funded. Which is one of the reasons I’m here now.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Funding. Wherever the moneymen gather, you see?’ He laughed, as if he’d said something amusing, and stroked his ridiculous beard. ‘Most scientific research these days is dunning investors.’

  ‘You’re here to mug Gerard, then.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gerard Inchon.’ She made a vague gesture in Gerard’s direction. Gerard happened to be watching them at that moment, though that didn’t mean he’d ceased talking to the folk around him, or indeed ceased drinking. And they said men couldn’t multitask. She gave him a wave. ‘Our host.’

  ‘Not actually mug him, no.’

  ‘Not actually him, no.’

  Mr Wright didn’t seem comfortable with the frivolous approach. But she couldn’t stop herself saying, ‘But it was worth wangling an invite anyway.’

  Jack said, ‘John’s here with me.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean –’

  ‘None taken,’ Jack said, though the offence hadn’t been headed his way. ‘John and I have certain interests in common.’

  She made a stab at what they were. ‘You stash your equipment overflow in his storage depots?’ she asked Wright.

  Jack laughed, but John M. Wright said, ‘Mr Gannon’s family are my main investors.’

  He wasn’t local – had no particular accent she could pinpoint, but certainly wasn’t a Tynesider. This was the John Jack had identified as an out-of-towner.

  The girl with the bottle reappeared, this time sans bottle. ‘Would you like to move through to the restaurant?’

  ‘We would indeed,’ Sarah said. ‘Thank you.’

  Word of food shimmered through the gathering like wind through a field of corn. John M. Wright was among the first to head through the restaurant doors.

  ‘I hope I didn’t offend your friend,’ Sarah said as they followed.

  ‘I’m not sure personal offence figures high on John’s radar.’

  ‘What sort of medical research does he do?’

  ‘Respirato
ry diseases. Or conditions, whatever. You know, asthma, allergies, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And you’re happy about introducing him to other backers.’

  Jack said, ‘If he finds a cure for asthma, we’ll be delighted to share the profits.’ He caught her look. ‘I hope you didn’t think this was a charity do, Sarah.’

  ‘God forbid.’

  ‘The kind of work John’s facility does, it takes a lot of money to keep it going. And he’s not happy about his current housing.’

  ‘Could you put him in one of your warehouses?’

  He smiled politely. ‘Do you really keep ostriches?’

  ‘A pair, yes. We rescued them when the bottom fell out of the ostrich-meat market. From a nearby farm.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Russ. My partner and I. Are you married, Jack?’

  ‘I have been.’

  ‘Me too.’ Perhaps she’d had too much to drink. Or perhaps she just liked Jack. ‘Funny, isn’t it? When it’s over, you can’t really remember what you thought you’d wanted out of it.’

  After a moment or two, Jack said: ‘I think I wanted the usual stuff. Shall we follow the food?’

  The restaurant was much the same size as the bar, and similarly decorated; i.e., a while ago. Its tables had been shifted to the edges of the room, and loaded with plates of sausages and samosas; of ham and salmon; of bread rolls and tuna sandwiches and bowls of salad and rice. This was what she needed. Something to soak up the wine. Plus more wine, of course. There was no point pretending she was about to come over abstemious.

  Plate filled with food, she found herself drifting towards the nucleus of the gathering, which was Gerard. It was hard to tell whether he was being viewed with fascination or horror, though she doubted he’d have minded which. For some reason, the song ‘Lawyers, guns and money’ came to mind. Gerard collected guns, and it was a fair bet he had no shortage of lawyers, either. And only Gerard, she decided; only Gerard could breeze into town, get a fix on the local players, and set up an evening like this, inside what – a couple of days? He might have been lord of the manor, and these men his long-suffering tenants. No: he might have been the conqueror, entertaining brand-new subjects.

  ‘So where’s the future, then?’ he was being asked. ‘In your field, I mean.’