Smoke and Whispers

by Mick Herron

  Down the steps and halfway across the terrace in front of Sarah, another shape stopped.

  18

  She couldn’t hear it, but she knew what it would be.

  Dah-dah – da-da-dah – da-da-da-da-da-dah-dah A tinny Stones riff, buzzing in a pocket.

  She couldn’t believe she’d not seen him until he stopped, because there he was in open view, halfway across that neat expanse between Sage and Baltic. As she watched, he too raised a fist to his ear.

  Sarah turned back to the woman on the bridge.

  Who didn’t look like anyone she’d seen before. She wore a calf-length white raincoat, and a tight-fitting black cap. Except it wasn’t a black cap. She’d had her hair cut, that was all. A pretty brutal cut, but just a cut.

  Not like anyone Sarah had seen before, but it was Zoë all right.

  Talmadge’s arm dropped, and he turned to face Sarah. For no reason she could have readily explained, she pointed at him. Rude, of course. But ruder to kill women. He shook his head, as if disappointed by her vulgarity, then continued his sweep of the area. He spotted Zoë swiftly enough. Still with her phone at her ear, she began walking his way.

  Now Sarah’s phone rang.

  I want you back . . .

  ‘It’s important we don’t lose him, Sarah.’

  ‘Fine, thanks. How about you? Not dead?’

  ‘Can that wait?’

  Sarah cut the call.

  Talmadge was walking away from them, fast. For some- one anxious to know where Zoë was not five minutes ago, he now seemed keen not to encounter her.

  But it was all about choosing your ground. Talmadge wanted to control events. So Zoë appearing from nowhere, getting the drop on him – no wonder he was off.

  Zoë was coming off the bridge, Sarah advancing from the Sage. The pair of them forming a pincer movement, cutting off Talmadge’s lines of escape.

  But he didn’t glance round. It was as if this was where he’d always been headed: the Baltic; once a flour mill, now a museum of modern art. He was heading inside: shop to his left, café to his right. When Zoë and Sarah intersected, they were about a hundred yards behind him.

  Without slowing down, Sarah said, ‘How did you know where to find us?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. How about you? Not –’

  ‘Zoë –’

  ‘He’s got my phone. You’ll have noticed that.’

  ‘So what, you’ve got it bugged? Your own phone?’

  Zoë looked at her. Her eyes were darker than ever. And with her hair all but buzz-cut, and that white coat – Zoë in white? That’s what Sarah called a disguise – she looked like a bruised ghost.

  She wasn’t dead. But she gave good affect.

  Now she said: ‘My own phone? I might be paranoid, Sarah. But I’m not . . . fucking paranoid.’ Sarah. But I’m not . . . paranoid.’

  Talmadge disappeared inside the building.

  ‘How many exits does this place have?’

  ‘He’s not slipping away,’ Zoë said. ‘Not this time.’

  That smell – Sarah suddenly registered that smell. ‘You’re smoking again.’

  Zoë said, ‘A mobile phone gives off a pulse. Everybody knows this.’

  ‘I’ve seen Spooks. But how do you –?’

  ‘You don’t. But you pay people who do.’ She snorted. ‘The Internet’s not a toy, Sarah. You can buy any service you need.’

  And then they were inside too.

  ‘You’ve been following him.’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for him to stick his head above the parapet.’

  ‘So you can cut it off.’

  Zoë said, ‘Can I remind you who this guy is?’

  The shop had a wide, wide doorway. Zoë stopped as they reached it, and pointed. ‘Check the café.’

  ‘Sir,’ Sarah said.

  But it needed doing.

  In the café, a family sat around one table; harassed young parents too busy shushing their infants to pretend to be Alan Talmadge. The rest were couples; a few solo women. No Talmadge. On her way back, Sarah stopped at the toilets. In here? Of course. The women’s were empty, an unusual occurrence. Stepping back out, a thought nagged: what if he slipped past while I was inside? But what could she do about it if he had? She stepped smartly behind a young man heading into the Gents. He paused to hold the door for her, and executed a perfect double-take.

  ‘He can run,’ Sarah told him. ‘But he can’t hide.’

  A man at a urinal looked over his shoulder, bemused, while another paused in the act of washing his hands. Neither was Talmadge. The doors to the stalls mostly hung ajar. The one that didn’t swung open at her push.

  ‘Is this a happening?’ the young man asked.

  ‘Is it a what?’

  ‘Some kind of art event?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. A sort of installation.’ She nodded at the urinals. ‘I’m thinking of having one of them installed.’

  Back in the lobby, there was no sign of Talmadge. If he’d got past her, he’d got past her. She joined Zoë at the shop’s entrance.

  ‘He went inside.’

  ‘It’s not a small place, Zoë.’

  ‘He’s not getting away again.’

  Her voice was tighter than Sarah remembered. As if something were slowly strangling her; its invisible fingers rippling round her throat.

  As they headed towards the entrance into the museum proper, Zoë’s coat flapped round her knees like a gunslinger’s duster.

  ‘I’m taking the lift,’ she said. ‘I’ll work my way down. You take the stairs.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Sarah. This is important.’

  That was good to know. It was good to know she’d come all this way to identify her friend’s body, and it turned out to be important.

  . . . Identify her body? The woman was right in front of her now, and Sarah could hardly recognize her.

  The lift arrived. It was empty.

  Zoë said, ‘Sarah. You want me to owe you forever? Help me catch this man.’

  She stepped inside and jabbed a button. The door slid shut.

  When Sarah turned, a middle-aged woman with a Baltic logo-ed sweatshirt was watching, her jaw hanging slightly.

  Sarah said, ‘It’s not as creepy as it sounds.’

  ‘Are you a polis?’

  ‘Actually, it is as creepy as it sounds. A man came this way, last five minutes. Long dark coat? Neat dark hair?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘I don’t monitor them, pet. I just make sure nobody crawls over the exhibits.’

  Sarah looked at the stairs, then back at the woman, who had a radio clipped to her belt. ‘Please call whoever.

  Security. Tell them what I’ve just told you. There’s a man in your museum, a dangerous man.’

  ‘I just tell them that, do I?’

  Sarah was heading into the stairwell. ‘You’re probably not his type. But you never can tell.’

  There were a lot of stairs. More than seemed correct in a six-storey building. But then, these storeys were high-ceilinged.

  And this wasn’t the only set of stairs, and Zoë’s wasn’t the only lift, and there’d be God only knew how many hiding places; places where it would look like you were communing with art . . .

  Which was another way, Sarah told herself through gritted teeth, of giving up before you started.

  So she took the stairs two at a time, heart racing before she reached the first floor, which wasn’t crowded. A couple by the far wall were having an argument, judging by their body language; otherwise there was only a man with a rucksack on his back, which on second look turned into a baby-carrier. Producing a baby at short notice would be setting the bar high even for Talmadge. But she was aware of an ever-growing urgency. Every second put him a little more distant. Even if he remained in this big square building, he’d be slipping moment by moment out of reach, like a fistful of sand.

  She checked that the couple hadn’t morphed into a single man while her gaze was elsewhere. They hadn’t.
>
  Above their heads, a twisted length of neon tubing changed colour. Eatshitpissdie, it read.

  This was no time for a disquisition on modern art.

  But sweet Jesus.

  Sarah headed back to the stairwell.

  Where she learned again the hard way that exercise was one thing – regular long walks; even regular long walks featuring steep inclines – and running up never ending flights of stairs another. Her heart was pounding like a basketball before she’d reached the next set of doors: these gave on to a gallery, looking down on the space she’d just left. Nobody had moved. Eatshitpissdie was bleeding blue to red. Sarah’s legs felt ready to give, and her entire body was wrapped in sweat.

  But there were plenty more stairs to climb.

  This time she settled for a steady upward propulsion, as if her legs were pistons. Her legs weren’t fooled. If she ever got to the top, she’d not be able to stand. But if she got to the top, that would mean she’d missed Talmadge.

  The other stairwell nagged at her – there was at least one other stairwell. He could be below her even now, calmly trip-trapping out into the light.

  And I really don’t want to be the one to explain to Zoë that he’s got away.

  Above her a door slammed, and somebody clattered on to the stairs. Sarah stopped, and pressed against the wall. If it was Talmadge, maybe she could stick a foot out; send him tumbling head over heels – But it wasn’t. It was a young woman whose brown-tasselled boots clashed horribly with her pink jacket. She gave Sarah a twisted smile, unless she was chewing gum, and vanished, heading for an up-close encounter with Eatshitpissdie.

  An artefact that was definitely taking up too much space in Sarah’s head.

  She leaned over the waist-high banister and peered upwards. The stairwell still went on forever. But when she looked down, there was quite a drop already . . . Dizzy, Sarah stepped back. Shook her head to release the feeling, then started on the stairs once more.

  Another full circuit brought her to another artspace: this one in moody darkness. A series of screens at irregular angles had the same film unspooling on each, at different speeds: a tower block collapsing in a mini-Hiroshima of dust. She knew how it felt. The soundtrack was a playground chant: Ring-a-ring-a-roses. There were more art lovers here than downstairs, but Talmadge wasn’t among them. She patrolled the room twice, at a canter, and then was back on the stairs.

  He was gone. She knew this. He’d been smoke from the moment he entered the building. What had made them believe he was cornered?

  Something fell past; a sudden downward dush of noise.

  Sarah stopped.

  When she looked up, she saw a man hanging halfway into space.

  * * *

  If you wanted a dodgy situation turned into a circus, just add Zoë.

  That was the thought banging round Sarah’s head in time to her feet on the stairs: If you wanted a dodgy situ-ation . . . And she might throw up. Another thought, edging its way through the gaps. She might barf without reaching the top.

  More noises dropped down the stairwell; muffled and clangy, like a badly judged soundtrack.

  Heart in mouth, she reached the next landing and stopped to look down. People were gathering on ground level, pointing. You’d think they’d never seen a grown man hung over a banister before.

  Eatshitpissdie swam back into her mind. If Zoë lets go of this guy, it’s going to make more of a splash than a neon crudity.

  Talmadge was a ventriloquist’s puppet; a loose-limbed breakable thing half-sitting on the railing, knees hanging over the safe side. The rest of him leaned horizontal, taunting gravity. His fists were wrapped tightly round Zoë’s upper arms. His knuckles shone white.

  Behind Zoë was a set of doors she must have come through at a whack. Must have leaped without warning; pushed so hard, Talmadge would have gone over if she’d not held his lapels.

  ‘You found him then,’ Sarah said. The words hurt, coming out. Last time she’d climbed stairs this quickly she’d been younger, and newly in love.

  ‘I found him.’

  ‘I’m still here,’ Talmadge said. ‘Don’t talk as if I wasn’t.’

  To give him credit, he sounded calmer than Sarah. All Zoë had to do was let go. It wasn’t even an action; more a cessation. One brief surrender, and Talmadge would bounce off hard edges all the way down to death.

  The shaking in Sarah’s knees wasn’t entirely due to exertion.

  A coppery taste rose in her mouth. She said, ‘Took him by surprise, then.’

  ‘He’s not used to accidents happening to him. He’s usually on the other side of them.’

  ‘Zoë,’ Talmadge said. ‘This is all a mistake.’

  ‘Why don’t we save the speaking for when we’re spoken to?’

  ‘Let me go.’

  ‘You might want to choose your words more carefully.’

  ‘Zoë. This would be murder.’

  Zoë flexed her arms, and he yelped.

  Not as calm as he’d like them to think.

  Zoë said: ‘A little push here, a little nudge there. People fall under trains, and die in cold ditches. What did you plan for me, Talmadge? If that’s what you’re called this week?’

  Sarah said, ‘Zoë? Is this the way to deal with this?’

  ‘It’s working for me.’

  ‘Let go and he’ll die.’

  ‘That’s what I meant.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  A man wearing one of those Baltic sweatshirts had appeared on the landing above.

  Zoë said, ‘Private chat.’

  ‘You’re about one inch from killing that man.’ The newcomer paused, checking his measurements. ‘An inch.’

  ‘Oh, I’m a lot closer than that,’ Zoë assured him.

  Sarah said, ‘Have you called the police?’

  ‘It’s been done.’

  ‘Whose side are you on?’ Zoë asked her.

  ‘Do you know this . . . woman?’

  Sarah said, ‘It might be best if you backed away. Maybe the other side of that door?’

  ‘I’m in charge here,’ he told her.

  ‘That’s good. But your chances of breaking his fall are slim,’ she said. ‘While your chances of making a bad thing worse are looking good.’

  ‘The police are on their way,’ he said. ‘And an ambulance,’ he added.

  ‘I’m not sure an ambulance’ll help,’ Zoë said. ‘A spatula and a jiffy bag might work.’

  Talmadge said, ‘You’re not going to drop me, Zoë.’

  ‘You sound sure of that.’

  ‘I know you. This isn’t what you want to do.’

  Sarah said to the Baltic man: ‘Really. Your presence isn’t helping.’

  ‘So this is my fault now?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Zoë said without turning. ‘This is all about you.’

  ‘I only meant –’

  ‘Just fuck off, okay?’

  Sarah said, ‘It’ll be better if you left. Really.’

  ‘This isn’t some kind of event, is it? Because I was never told –’

  ‘This isn’t art. Trust me.’

  He didn’t look like he did. But he pushed backwards through the door behind him, on to the viewing gallery.

  Sarah looked up. They were one flight below the top. Which wasn’t going to matter to Talmadge, if push came to shove. They were too many flights above the bottom for that.

  ‘Zoë,’ she said. Her legs were shaking. Her lungs ached. She could feel her pulse in her fingernails. ‘Zoë, this has got to stop.’

  ‘Oh, it’ll stop. Go and join your new friend. I’ll whistle when I’m done.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she said.

  ‘Great. How about you, Talmadge?’ Zoë flexed her arms, jerking him another inch lower. He dropped his head back; took an upside-down look at what might be his last journey. ‘Having fun yet?’

  ‘What do you want from me, Zoë?’

  And now there was fear. There
was no hiding any more.

  He could disappear in crowded places, Alan Talmadge, but hang him over a banister, and he was all too visibly present.

  ‘You followed me up here. To Newcastle.’

  ‘Okay. Yes. I followed you.’

  ‘With a woman.’

  ‘Are you jealous?’

  ‘You dumb fuck, this is not a joke. Do you want to be a splash on the downstairs walls?’

  ‘She was a friend, Zoë. Nothing more.’

  ‘She looked like me.’

  ‘Superficial.’ And this was a yelp. ‘There was a superficial resemblance. Listen, the police are on their way. Do you really want them to –’

  ‘You took my things. Stole my identity. Dressed her up. So you could pretend she was me. Tell me that was superficial, you sick fuck.’

  The light seemed to be growing stronger, Sarah thought. Seemed to be falling on them from above, as if this moody tableau were being incorporated into the museum. Soon the three of them would freeze into place. Future staircase users would ponder their meaning. Talmadge would hang forever, and never fall.

  Her head was pounding in time with her heart. The light wasn’t growing stronger; her eyes were growing weak.

  ‘You killed her, didn’t you?’ Zoë said. ‘Just like you killed the others.’

  ‘You know that’s not true.’

  ‘She was pulled from the river, Talmadge. Don’t you read the papers? Yanked from the Tyne by men with poles. Dead as you get. They’ve already cut her up.’

  ‘That’s ugly, Zoë. You sound like you’re pleased.’

  ‘I’m pleased you’re not walking away this time. That’s what I’m pleased about.’

  ‘You’re acting like I put her in the river, Zoë. And I didn’t even know where she was. Not till they pulled her out. You of all people have to believe that.’

  ‘You’re missing the point. It wasn’t river water in her lungs, Talmadge. She didn’t drown in the Tyne. And didn’t drown herself anywhere else, unless you’ve a plausible reason for her jumping in the river afterwards.’ She pushed again. A faraway gasp rose up from way below. ‘The accident story won’t wash this time.’

  Sarah said, ‘Let him up, Zoë.’

  ‘I want to hear him say it.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what he says. Not while his life’s in your hands.’