The Heights

by Parker Bilal

  Then there were the misfits, the oddballs, the ones who had got off at the wrong station in life and never managed to get back on again. The ones who had no real idea what they were doing here or where they were going, let alone why. The ones who had lost their way and were simply dragging themselves along out of habit, refusing to give up without knowing why. They were down at heel, young and old, with torn, overloaded rucksacks, grubby hands and faces. Someone of them, the unbalanced ones, sought eye contact, but most of them didn’t. They wanted to be invisible. They wandered through life in a daze, as if nothing around them mattered.

  Gradually, Drake widened his circle. The rain had stopped and the sun came out, casting a strange light on the city. It seemed unnaturally bright and Drake had to squint as he walked. The striated red brick of Westminster Cathedral beckoned. Inside, he paused for a moment to look up at the gold inlay on the ceiling and the angels with their long, tapered wings.

  As he turned to leave he spied a figure down at the far end. A man wearing a cap. Drake hurried left and worked his way down, staying close to the wall. When he reached the far end there was nobody there and no sign of where the man had gone. Had he imagined it?

  Outside in the open air he sat down on the steps for a moment. People came and went across the square. He walked in a wide circle, chopping and changing direction at random, starting with the perimeter of the cathedral and working his way outwards, hoping for a glimpse of the figure he had seen.

  He didn’t even have a name for the man he had dubbed Fender. Right now someone would be going through missing person files compiling a list of possible matches. Procedure. The chances of him turning up as a MisPer or a convicted felon were slim. People moved through this city with the same fluidity as the river running through it. They came from every walk of life, high and low, and from all across the face of the earth. They changed their clothes, their hair, their names, their faces. They remade themselves. It was in the nature of this city. Its DNA. People could lay claim to it, but it belonged to no one. Not so much looking for a needle in a haystack as looking for an alibi, a shape-shifting shadow that could morph into someone else at any moment.

  Drake got as far as the Embankment, turning the corner to find himself enveloped in the national madness. Flags and banners, people yelling through megaphones. Not so much democracy as a form of mob rule seeking respectability. As he dug his way through, a group of men burst into song. ‘Rule Britannia’ followed him to the corner.

  On a bench beside two women eating their lunch a poster had come half unstuck and was flapping in the breeze. Drake walked over to take a look. It was an advert for a shelter; the Silver Linings Charity Shelter. It was a five-minute walk away. A non-descript doorway on a side street.

  The entrance was brightly lit and decorated with pictures of trees and animals. It resembled some kind of amateur art project. A row of orange plastic chairs was bolted to the floor. Over a narrow window on the wall next to these was a sign that read ‘Reception’ and an arrow helpfully pointing down.

  Drake leaned on the buzzer and waited. Through the frosted glass he could make out shadows moving about. Then the window was wrenched aside. A woman stood there. Broad faced and with her hair tied up in an untidy bun. She was talking to somebody else. When she finally turned his way, she took only a couple of seconds to appraise Drake and conclude that she didn’t much like what she saw.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘That’s the thing, he has several.’

  ‘Are you with the law?’

  ‘No, this is personal.’

  The woman’s heavy sigh indicated that he was trying her patience.

  ‘What do you mean by several names?’

  ‘He has a tendency to give people different names. I know him as Fender.’

  ‘Fender?’

  ‘On account of the hat he wears.’ Drake pointed helpfully at his head. The woman’s eyes lifted and then dropped.

  ‘Our policy is not to give out information about residents.’

  ‘I understand. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t desperately trying to find him.’

  ‘What is he, a relative of yours?’

  ‘He’s a friend.’

  She considered that for a moment before deciding against it. ‘Sorry, I can’t help you.’

  The window slammed shut and Drake stood for a moment staring at it. He hadn’t expected to get much out of it, but the figure in the church, half glimpsed in the gloom and at a distance, had given him hope.

  ‘Fender, you said?’

  The man must have come in while Drake was speaking. He was sitting in the corner on one of the orange chairs, bowed forwards. Grizzled and old, he looked as though he’d spent years on the front line. Bird’s nest hair and scruffy beard, stained nicotine yellow around the mouth, well-worn jeans and an old army parka, surrounded by a pack of bundles, plastic bags, stuff sacks. They sat around him like obedient dogs, resting before the next leg of their never-ending journey.

  ‘Do you know him?’ Drake moved closer. He dropped the concerned act. It might have worked on the carer, but not on a veteran like this. His gaze never met Drake’s but he was watching him keenly.

  ‘See a lot of things out there.’

  ‘How about him?’ Drake held out the still from the CCTV footage.

  The man’s eyes barely grazed the picture. ‘You the filth, then?’

  ‘No. Like I said, he’s a friend.’

  The man considered the answer and found it lacking.

  ‘Well, you won’t find him here,’ the man sniffed. ‘They wouldn’t let him in.’

  ‘You know that for a fact?’

  ‘Might do.’ The man scratched his beard.

  ‘What are you doing for lunch?’ Drake asked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, might stop by the Ritz.’

  Drake was counting out a couple of tens. ‘Will that do?’

  ‘At the Ritz?’ The man lifted his eyebrows. Drake added a couple more. The man smoothed the notes out as if they were made of silk.

  ‘You said they wouldn’t let him stay. Why was that?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe he had a pet. Maybe they’d had trouble with him before. ’

  ‘But you’re sure it was him.’

  ‘The hat.’ The man nodded. ‘I seen him around a lot. He comes and goes. I’m not even sure he’s really homeless.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you know, some people just get their kicks that way.’

  ‘What way is that?’

  ‘Hanging round with us. Gives them a thrill. Don’t ask me.’ The man was running his thumb along the edge of the banknotes as if they were a blade. ‘You suss people out. Learn who to trust, who to avoid. It’s all about survival.’

  ‘I could use less of the philosophy and more detail.’

  The man looked up sharply. Not annoyed so much as concerned that he wasn’t being taken seriously. ‘I don’t know his name. I don’t know where he comes from, but I do know why he’s out here.’ The white eyebrows twitched. ‘He’s hiding from someone.’

  21

  The interior of the club in Frith Street had changed its style since Crane had last set foot in there. The woman behind the high reception desk wore a skin-tight dress that appeared to be made out of rubber and was decked out in shiny silver buckles. She wore bright red lipstick with black cat’s ears in her hair. As she walked upstairs ahead of her, Crane saw that the woman’s outfit had a tail to match the ears. So far, so kinky. The playful bondage theme darkened on the first floor, with heavy crimson drapes and black leather upholstery.

  ‘Is this the new thing, or some kind of collective mid-life crisis?’ she asked as she sat down.

  ‘You’re the expert,’ said Stewart Mason. ‘You tell me.’ He looking round approvingly. ‘I quite like it,’ he said. ‘Makes me feel warm, in a good way.’

  ‘Maybe you should talk to s
omeone about that.’

  A waitress appeared, in PVC trousers with a safety pin through her nose.

  ‘I’ll have what he’s having,’ said Crane.

  ‘It’s a Tom Collins. Not bad.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Crane watched the waitress walk away. ‘This is some kind of perverse schoolboy fantasy fulfilment.’

  ‘Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘I need you to tell me about my father.’

  Stewart Mason sat back. ‘I didn’t see that coming. I always understood you didn’t want to talk about him.’

  ‘Well, that’s changed. I need to know.’

  ‘Right.’ Mason played with the swizzle stick in his glass. ‘How’s the new business venture working out?’

  ‘Are you trying to change the subject?’

  ‘Not at all, I’m genuinely curious.’

  ‘Bad choice of words, Stewart. There isn’t a genuine bone in your body.’

  ‘That’s not fair. Anyway, I meant it. How about your new partner?’

  Crane considered her answer. She decided it was probably better not to tell Mason that their latest client was a high-profile leader of an organised-crime syndicate.

  ‘Cal’s a good investigator. He’s smart and resourceful, and it beats trying to find someone to take Julius’s place. The truth is I was getting bored with consultations and the odd contract work.’ She fell silent as her drink arrived. As she was turning away the waitress flashed her a wink. No doubt all part of the service. ‘Can we go back to my father now?’

  ‘In a minute.’ Mason smiled, that bland, bureaucratic smile that Crane always associated with Foreign Office mandarins and emissaries of the Diplomatic Service. Politicians and public servants. ‘I wanted to float an idea by you. It’s very simple really. I’ve been asked to put together a team of specialists.’

  ‘What kind of specialists?’

  ‘Investigators who would be able to travel at short notice. Look, the point is that the intelligence services are this big baggy monster. Too many people and too much information. When you introduce management and accountability into the mix you wind up with something whose primary purpose is sustaining itself.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because yours was the first name that came to mind.’

  ‘This would mean joining the National Crime Agency?’

  ‘Well, not exactly.’

  ‘You want this off the books?’ Crane smiled. ‘Let me guess. You want full deniability.’

  ‘Partly, and partly it’s just old-fashioned budgetary stuff. It’s cheaper for us to outsource, like everything nowadays.’ He rolled his eyes theatrically. ‘This way we can get around a lot of corners.’

  ‘But that would leave whoever did this quite exposed, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Ahh.’ Mason rocked his head from side to side. ‘In theory, yes, but in practice of course you would be covered like any operative.’

  ‘I’m not sure Cal is ready to go back to working for the government just yet. I assume you’re talking about both of us. And neither am I, for that matter, until I get a few things straightened out.’

  ‘Such as?’ Mason frowned.

  ‘I need to know about my father.’

  Mason studied the ice swirling in the bottom of his glass.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Everything.’

  Mason sighed. ‘Okay. Well, he was recruited before my time. At Cambridge, which is where he met your mother, of course. You went there as well, didn’t you?’

  Crane gave a slight nod. ‘He was doing PPE and she was doing a masters in Persian literature. This much I know.’

  ‘Your father was a few years ahead of me. He fitted the bill perfectly. Public school education, good family background. I recall him as a stylish man, erudite, very charming.’ Mason allowed himself a nostalgic smile. ‘It seems like another world when you talk about it now.’

  ‘It was.’ Crane fought the tension she felt growing inside her. ‘How was he recruited?’

  ‘That I don’t know. I assume it happened the same way it did with me. Someone approaches you. They mix in with the crowd. A friend of a friend, that sort of thing.’

  ‘This was before he married my mother?’

  ‘No, actually it was later. He was a reluctant convert, as I understand. Resisted first time around. Still fighting the system.’ Mason broke off to wave his hand in the air and order another round of drinks. ‘They take their time. They need to know if you will go the distance. There are a few courses, summer schools. It’s all very gentle.’ He broke off. ‘Why are you putting yourself through all of this?’

  ‘It’s important to me.’

  ‘Why? I mean, why now?’

  ‘Why not? Is there ever a good time for these things?’

  The waitress returned with the drinks. As she removed the glasses she discreetly slipped a card onto the table by Crane’s elbow.

  ‘Throughout all of this he stayed on course, finished his degree, joined the Foreign Office and went into the Diplomatic Service.’

  ‘And all the time he was actually working for the Intelligence Services?’

  ‘You already know this. Why are you asking all these questions?’

  ‘Maybe I just want to hear it confirmed. So, he wasn’t working for the Intelligence Services the first time we moved to Tehran?’

  ‘No, as I said, it was later. The first time you went there was back in the eighties, wasn’t it?’

  Crane knew that Mason was only feigning doubt. It was a little disconcerting that he knew every detail of her life. Some things, like her childhood, he knew better than she did.

  ‘It was 1986. I was seven at the time.’

  ‘He wasn’t recruited until he went back to Cambridge to finish his doctorate.’ Mason nodded. ‘Two years later, in July 1988, the USS Vincennes shot down Ira Air Flight 655. An Airbus 300 carrying 290 people on board. There were no survivors.’

  ‘I remember my mother was taken in for questioning and then released.’

  ‘Because she was married to a Westerner. There was a crackdown.’

  ‘But he was never touched.’

  ‘Your parents were vulnerable. A mixed marriage. He was suspected of being a spook but they had nothing on him.’

  ‘You think that’s why he was recruited when he went back to Cambridge?’

  ‘It’s possible. People often need something like that, an event, a personal experience.’

  ‘The second time we went there was later, in 1995.’

  ‘She was never taken off the watch list. It was foolish of them to go back there.’

  ‘My mother refused to be cowed by the mullahs in Tehran. She believed in continuing the struggle. My father used her to penetrate the dissident groups she had contact with.’

  Mason shrugged. ‘He believed in the cause.’ He reached over to cover her hand with his. ‘That must have been difficult for you, seeing your mother taken away.’

  Crane withdrew her hand. ‘It was harder for her. She was tortured. We weren’t allowed to visit her in prison.’

  ‘You know how it works. He was trying to infiltrate the underground, to make contact with the resistance.’

  ‘By using my mother’s contacts.’ Crane turned over the card the waitress had left. On the back she had scrawled a phone number. Over Mason’s shoulder she could see the waitress laughing with another woman. They looked like models and were making a point of fawning over one another. As she watched, the waitress turned to look pointedly at her.

  ‘Tell me what’s on your mind,’ said Mason. ‘What’s brought all this back?’

  Crane thought about the question. The truth was that she knew now that this was the reason she had agreed to meet Mason. This whole business of her father was stirring up emotions she thought she had dealt with long ago.

  ‘The case I’m working on seems to be connected to him. He made some bad investments.’

 
‘Welcome to the club.’

  ‘Does the name Barnaby Nathanson mean anything to you?’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A solicitor who appears to have been advising my father.’

  Mason looked pained. ‘You know, Ray, I really liked your mother. I would never have willingly allowed anything to happen to her.’

  ‘Except you did.’

  ‘I wish I could have helped her.’

  ‘But you didn’t. Nobody did. ’

  ‘It was felt that it was best that way. The government didn’t want to antagonise the authorities.’

  ‘You mean it suited their purposes?’

  ‘You can’t go through life blaming people for things that happened a long time ago.’

  ‘Try telling that to her, Stewart.’ Crane got to her feet, tucking the card into her back pocket.

  ‘What about the job offer?’

  ‘I need time to think.’ She paused as she made to turn away. ‘If you want to atone for whatever you did, and I’m betting I don’t even know the half of it, then get me what you can on Barnaby Nathanson.’

  ‘Sure.’ Mason sighed. ‘I’ll do what I can. You know,’ he added, ‘I think I understand now what it is that ties you and Drake together.’

  Crane waited.

  ‘You both blame this country for orphaning you. You have to learn to forgive. Move on, get over it.’

  ‘This is funny. You’re a psychoanalyst now? Look around you, Stewart. We’re all orphaned, even you. You just haven’t realised it yet.’

  22

  The message from Archie sounded a cryptic note on Drake’s voicemail.

  ‘You might want to drop by. Something’s come up.’

  Throwing himself down on the sofa, Drake stared through the window at the skyline. The long and fruitless day had exhausted him. He had come up with nothing in his search for Fender, even though he was more convinced than ever that he was key. He reached down to the floor for his drink, feeling warm anticipation in the gentle rattle of ice as he lifted the glass. He stared outwards as the rum swirled over his tongue. Love it or hate it, there was something mesmerising about this city. There were times when he had contemplated just cutting loose, heading out into the world, learning other languages. Metamorphosing. Turning himself into something else. Someone else. That thing Crane had, the ability to just melt in and out of places. One day maybe. Someday.