There was nothing written on the back. Tell had called to tell her about his conversation with Karpov, and the man’s ill-timed lecture on ancient artefacts. Something was niggling at the back of her mind.
When Beckman walked into the kitchen, Rebecca was on the phone. She waited by the sink, close to the door of the study, which was ajar.
‘. . . it has to go. The new system has already been installed . . . Yes, I can hold. Thank you.’
Beckman hadn’t heard Rebecca’s formal voice before; presumably that was how she addressed her colleagues. Her professional voice. Her private voice was more defensive. Tense, reserved and ready to attack.
This was how Beckman usually walked into people’s lives: straight into their grief, their vulnerability, their fear. No introductions, no getting-to-know-you. In that way it was a peculiar job. In many ways it was a peculiar job.
It sounded as if Rebecca was talking to a workman.
‘I just want it dismantled. No, you’ll need metal-cutting equipment. That’s right, in the cellar. There’s a door at the back and it’s three steps below ground level.’
Beckman moved so that Rebecca could see her; Rebecca mimed that she would be another minute, then spun the chair around so that she had her back to Beckman.
‘When was the boiler made? I have no idea. Does it matter?’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘I’ll check and call you back.’ She slammed the phone down. As she spun around to face Beckman she looked tired, with dark shadows forming hollows under her eyes.
‘The boiler’s bust. I bet it wasn’t half as much trouble having it installed as getting rid of it appears to be.’
Beckman made appropriately sympathetic noises. She knew nothing about boilers, but was surprised by Rebecca’s friendly tone of voice. This woman was certainly unstable. Was she even aware of the confusion she inspired in other people?
‘I’m taking these with me,’ Beckman said, showing her the DVD and the photograph. ‘Have you any idea what the photograph is of?’
A shadow passed over Rebecca’s face. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I suppose it might have something to do with Henrik’s course; why are you taking it?’
‘I don’t actually know,’ Beckman said honestly. ‘But you’ll get it back.’
24
Gothenburg
Torsen needed to be on his guard. He had been in pain the night before, but had taken very little medication. He had made sure he stayed awake. He needed to think, to make decisions. Stay in Gothenburg and see what happened. Await new orders from Knud. Or say sod the lot of it. Sell the figure he’d kept hidden from the lad. He deserved the money. Go back to Copenhagen and forget the whole bloody thing.
The fact that they hadn’t found ancient gold from the Middle East, as they’d been promised, was something the boy found as difficult to understand as Torsen. The lad thought they’d been conned, and he didn’t like it. His face rarely showed emotion, but suspicion and discontent had filled his narrowed eyes.
Torsen should have taken control of the situation yesterday, but it was all he could do to stay on his feet. And now he had no money. He only had enough smack for a small fix. But he needed more than that.
When day broke, he finally decided to leave the sinking ship. The lad’s purple, veiny eyelids twitched as Torsen passed the alcove in the hallway, where their rucksacks and a couple of blankets formed a temporary camp.
He went out the back way, moving as quickly as he could in the direction of the tram depot because the car belonged to the lad, and he watched over the keys like a hawk. As Torsen headed for the city centre, he was already beginning to have doubts. For the second time he broke his resolve not to contact Knud while he was in Gothenburg.
After the break-in, he had left a message out of sheer frustration. It was cryptic, but Knud would understand: only one object that matched the pictures he had been shown. Now he rang again to issue a warning. The clay figure they had found would barely cover his costs. He had taken risks. For twenty-four hours, no more and no less, he would lie low and wait for new orders.
The number you have called is not available at present.
The cops were hanging around down by the stop at Gamlestadstorget. Two of them, leaning on their patrol cars.
His stomach turned. If they searched him, he would go down both for the break-in and for possession. He was sweating. Without arousing too much suspicion he had to dig a couple of tablets out of the nylon pouch he wore around one calf. His mouth was powder-dry, saliva a distant memory. The tablets scratched his throat as he swallowed them. The revolting taste would last for hours.
He jumped off at the central station and headed straight for Nordstan. There, he searched out a dealer he knew only by sight; it was a crazy idea and he had to pay over the odds, but Torsen had neither the time nor the energy to look further. Having spent the last of his money, he stuffed the goods in his pouch and said he’d be back in a couple of hours with more cash.
The figure was burning a hole in his pocket. Brunnsparken was swimming with cops too; he wanted to get rid of it as quickly as he could.
Knud had told him that many antique dealers didn’t give a fuck who was buying or selling. Private individuals, buyers within the trade and even museums would irresponsibly purchase artefacts which had been smuggled or stolen from graves. Those in the business would usually pay up for exclusive items, no questions asked. If the figure was as valuable as Knud had said, Torsen hoped he would be able to shift it pretty quickly. Cash in hand, no names, no receipts. When he walked into one of the three shops he had found via Directory Enquiries, he tried to hide his shaking hands.
‘How may I help you?’
The man behind the desk was elderly, slim, dressed from head to foot in beige, and wizened. Along his hairline the wrinkled skin of his forehead gave way to a crusty landscape of yellowish-brown flakes. Torsen focused his gaze on something else; he would be out of here in twenty minutes max and would find somewhere safe. He rummaged inside his jacket and imagined that he was gaining strength from the object pressing against his chest.
Before he went in, he had decided to say as little as possible. He placed the figure, which looked like a woman, carefully on the desk and asked in only slightly accented Swedish: ‘How much will you give me for this?’
Beneath the eczema the antique dealer’s skin had turned pale. At first it seemed as if he didn’t dare touch it, but then he picked up the figure and looked at the base, scraped it gently with his nail and shook his head, murmuring something Torsen didn’t catch. The man looked shyly up at Torsen, as if he were unsure what to do next. Torsen broke out in a sweat. It smelt bitter from the tablets he had taken for the pain in his back. A drop fell from his forehead onto his dry, cracked hand.
A couple who had been conducting a muted discussion in the corner fell silent and edged towards the door. Torsen realised he had jumped the gun. His decision to keep the lad in the dark would no doubt bring a whole heap of trouble on his head.
He wasn’t well enough for trouble. As he tucked the clay figure back in his pocket, the antique dealer started, then groped under his desk – did he have an alarm down there?
Torsen backed away, spun around and was back on the street once more. He had the feeling he was being followed, and kept looking over his shoulder. His fix was burning against his calf. He needed to get away from these busy streets.
With one more glance over his shoulder, he rounded the corner. His heart was pounding. The whole thing had been a mistake. He couldn’t think clearly. He could see a church, greenery and trees in his peripheral vision. Up ahead lay narrow cobbled streets and old buildings. In between were the tram lines; the ground came closer and he had to rest for a moment. He covered his eyes with his hand and breathed. He was still on his feet, it was just the sun dazzling him. It was spring and the sun was bright.
The shrubbery in the churchyard was sparse; there was nowhere to hide. He walked past a dark door set back in a stone porch, then another. He could feel
his knees giving way and turned back to the porch. This would have to do. He saw shadows in the corners of his eyes, groped for support to keep his balance.
By the time the lad hurled himself at him, Torsen was already numb with pain. He took a kick in the guts and another in the ribs. He stopped breathing briefly, a pure reflex, but when the lad smashed his head against the stone wall, he felt nothing.
Torsen was unable to place the pictures that came to him in the minutes before he came round. They had no connection with his life, or maybe the blonde woman with the troubled expression reminded him of the adults when he was a kid; they were worried and soft-hearted and cross all at the same time. Mads, what have you been up to now?
Far away he heard a woman’s voice; she seemed to be on the phone. ‘Hello? The other guy’s run off . . . He’s lying in a funny position and he’s bleeding quite heavily from his head. Either he’s unconscious or . . . No, nobody here knows who he is. I was just walking past and I saw what happened. I didn’t have a phone on me so I ran into Holmström’s, the antique shop next door, and . . . hang on a minute.’
Although he was drifting in and out of consciousness, he was aware of someone crouching down beside him, uncertain and keeping as far away as possible while still able to reach his neck. He thought he ought to defend himself, but his body didn’t react. He felt a faint tickle beneath his skin for a few seconds after her fingertips had touched him.
‘I think he might still be alive,’ the woman said. ‘Wait a minute, he might have some ID on him. Yes, there’s a driving licence.’
His body jerked. A stab of pain ebbed away as he floated into the mist once more.
When he vaguely regained consciousness, he heard an anxious man saying something about the recovery position, and that the ambulance would be here any minute. The man’s voice was shrill and somehow familiar; Torsen opened one eye a fraction and saw that it was the antiques dealer. Feeling returned to his body in fits and starts, along with fear and the realisation of what had happened, what was happening. He moved almost imperceptibly. Yes, he could still feel the figure rubbing against his aching ribs.
The lad had taken his revenge, but had been interrupted.
Torsen’s eyelids twitched; they were swollen and stuck together, but through his bloodied eyelashes he could see glimmers of light, and the blurred outlines of people standing over him. The ambulance was on its way, they reassured him again, the ambulance and the police.
If it was the last thing he did, he had to get back on his feet. He had to get out of there. Soon it would be too late. Torsen gritted his teeth.
With a rattling in his throat, he hurled himself upright. The pain made bile surge into his throat. He was dizzy, whimpering, and he crashed into the wall. The blonde woman cried out and jumped to one side to avoid his flailing arms; he managed a feeble blow to the antiques dealer’s midriff, enough to make him double over in shock and sink to the ground.
Torsen summoned up every last scrap of strength and ran.
25
Istanbul, September 2007
Henrik closed his eyes and tipped back his head. Even the sky looked different in Istanbul. A veil of smog coloured the woolly clouds a dirty brown, as if someone had slipped a nylon stocking over the sky.
He didn’t want to accept that it would all be over soon. Three more days and he would be back in Sweden. Standing in front of his red door, suitcases in hand, then putting them down in the hallway with a thud. He would begin to feel guilty towards Rebecca, and realise quite how badly he had betrayed her. The smell of incense and cherry tobacco would quickly evaporate from his clothes, disappearing along with the image of himself and Ann-Marie Karpov between crisp hotel sheets. Everyday life would drop down like a lid, pushing them both back into their former roles. The memory would slowly fade.
It was a humid day, and his scalp felt itchy. In a sudden, pointless rage, he scratched his head furiously. Then he contemplated his nails: damp and lined with dirt. And yet it was only a couple of hours since he had scrubbed his hands clean back at the hotel, and had a shave. Washed his hair and slicked it back with gel. The exhaust fumes had turned his white Eton shirt grey, and after a day out on the streets a black mess emerged when he blew his nose.
The heat really was unbearable. Henrik looked around. There was no shade in sight.
Ann-Marie had gone to a meeting with the head of the archaeology department and someone from the Museum of Archaeology to discuss a future exchange between the universities. She had arranged to meet Henrik afterwards at the entrance to Gulhane Park, at the bottom of the hill leading up to the museum. Like two giggling teenagers they had planned to steal an hour in each other’s company before rejoining the rest of the group later that afternoon.
There was quite a while left until he was due to meet Ann-Marie.
He got up, his legs wobbly, without any real plan. The main thing was to get out of the sun. The shade of a balcony, even of a tree, anything but this exposed, crowded square where his brain would begin to boil at any second.
He passed the queue for the Hagia Sophia, pushing through a group of Americans who were fanning themselves with maps and brochures. One of the guards, who had been on duty at the entrance to the nearby Blue Mosque earlier that week, reluctantly acknowledged him. It was a sign that they had shared a less than pleasant experience.
Axel, thought Henrik, his fucking integrity and those bloody shoes.
On the plane from Amsterdam to Istanbul they had discussed fingerprints and the new regulations surrounding passport applications. Both Henrik and Axel had been united in their determination never to supply their fingerprints as long as it was voluntary. It was a question of principle. But when Axel decided to apply his libertarianism to the Blue Mosque’s ban on shoes and expressly refused to cooperate with the guards, Henrik had been forced to intervene.
‘Don’t piss about when they’re carrying sub-machine guns. Take your fucking shoes off, OK?’ Axel had eventually come to his senses, sulkily removing his trainers and walking on the oriental carpets in his socks, just like everyone else.
Henrik began thinking about Ann-Marie again and a foolish smile spread involuntarily across his face. He decided to go for a walk before heading towards the park entrance. Beyond the open square it was both cooler and quieter: fewer tourists, fewer persistent hawkers. Even the smell of half-charred corn on the cob was less intrusive here.
Contentedly, he groped for his cigarettes.
‘Mister.’
Henrik deliberately didn’t turn towards the rasping male voice. It had taken a couple of days to learn how to avoid the worst of the hassle from street vendors, and from then on the response became a kind of reflex. How to appear uninterested through a total lack of body language, when the tiniest misguided hint of politeness could lead to devastating consequences, bringing a surge of other hawkers. And they sold everything. From keyrings and jewellery to silver cutlery and socks, a little bit of everything packed into a box or spread out on a piece of cloth on the ground.
The voice belonged to a man with neither a box nor a blanket. He didn’t look like a typical street vendor either; he was wearing a loose brown shirt and grey waistcoat. His feet were brown and dry, spreading over the soles of his flip-flops.
‘Mister,’ he said again. He looked around warily before coming closer. Henrik felt uncomfortable. Even if the man probably wasn’t intending to rob him – he would hardly have made the effort to attract his attention if that were the case – no doubt he would try begging for money. Henrik found it difficult enough to ignore beggars on the street, where he was just one of hundreds of tourists. It was much worse now he was away from the crowds. It was so clear-cut: a rich man, a poor man.
He searched his trouser pockets for spare coins, rattling them in some embarrassment when the man didn’t seem to understand. He wanted to explain that he wasn’t rich at all. That, by Swedish standards, he was poverty-stricken, up to his ears in debt, and that he’d had to borrow the mone
y for this trip.
The man shook his head in horror, no, he didn’t want money.
‘You’re selling something?’
He nodded, and gestured that Henrik should follow him.
Henrik hesitated. Maybe he was hiding stolen goods somewhere nearby. But Henrik was curious. If there was any trouble, he was still not too far from the crowd outside the Blue Mosque, he could shout for help. Besides which, the man wasn’t young, he must be about twice Henrik’s age. Henrik could beat him in a fight.
He followed the man but didn’t speak, afraid of committing himself to something if he gave any verbal encouragement. The man limped across the car park.
‘Come now,’ he said from time to time, waving his hand.
This is what travelling is all about, Henrik thought as he kept up with the man. Taking a chance, having the courage to let yourself be challenged, questioned. Throwing caution to the winds occasionally and going with the flow.
They didn’t go very far; just beyond the main tourist drag. The city was still beautiful, but strikingly poor and much the worse for wear. Henrik soon lost his bearings.
The man stopped by an ancient pick-up truck, falling apart with rust, in a yard full of overflowing dustbins. For a moment Henrik gave in to his instincts, allowing himself to be both nauseated and fascinated by the rats scrabbling among the garbage, as big as cats with their swollen bellies dragging on the ground.
A boy emerged from the shadows of the yard. He seemed to have been doing something for Henrik’s guide, because as soon as they appeared he vanished silently around the corner. The man held up a finger indicating that Henrik should wait, then hurried around the vehicle as he fished a key out of his waistcoat pocket. The driver’s door opened and he leant in across the seat.
Babylon Page 14
