‘So what does “maslih” mean?’
McCluskey snorted.
‘Funny you should land right on that one, Carver. That’s my word of the week.’ She joined him at that section of the wall. ‘It usually translates as reform or restoration or something like that. But it’s being used in a slightly different way …’ She pointed. ‘… here and here.’
‘Reform? Just in Arabic?’
‘Not just Arabic, I’ve heard words and phrases that mean more or less the same thing in Russian and Greek, Spanish and, more recently, in Mandarin and Cantonese.’
‘Heard them where?’
‘Here and there.’
Carver stared at his old friend.
‘This obviously isn’t BBC monitoring business you’re doing here, is it?’ She shook her head. ‘You’re wandering a little off reservation with all this stuff aren’t you McCluskey?’ She laughed.
‘I haven’t seen my wigwam in months.’
‘Go on then, walk me through it.’
McCluskey pointed at the lines of thick blue marker pen that linked certain stories.
‘It’s connections I’m looking for … like the toughest game of Pelmanism you’ve ever played.’
‘Pelmanism?’
‘Pairs … but you’re pairing small parts of each picture, not the whole thing. Then you have to pair the pairs and so on. There are definite patterns, but it’s confused; every time I think I have it in my hand, it slips away. I’m beginning to think that confusion and contradiction is part of the strategy. Do ye get me?’
‘Not really.’
‘No. I don’t get me either. It’s starting to send me a little mad. I’ll end up in the funny farm.’
Carver looked again at his old friend.
‘Are you getting enough sleep, McCluskey? You look knackered.’
‘How much is enough these days?’
‘I don’t know. Five hours? Six maybe?’
‘Then no. Not much. I’m having to pay attention to stuff across a fair few time zones …’ She stifled a yawn. ‘But anyways, I got to thinking, maybe I can’t see it because it’s just too abstract. I’m too far from the places where this shite’s actually going down.’ Carver nodded. ‘An’ so I got to thinking about your boy Patrick.’
‘I see.’ Carver paused. ‘I’ll call him for you, I’ll call him now.’
‘Thank you William.’
McCluskey insisted that they make the call some distance from the house.
‘I’ll walk you to the end of the close, I’ve been sitting in that room fer too long, I need to loosen my legs.’ She left the door on the latch and they walked a hundred yards, up to the corner where cars turned in off the main road. McCluskey stopped next to a recently painted red postbox. ‘This should do us.’ She watched as William got his phone out and scrolled through contacts. ‘Were you going to call him on that?’ He nodded. ‘Is it your BBC phone?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do me a favour and use mine instead.’
‘Why?’
‘I dinnae like those BBC-issue phones. They’re no’ very secure as it is …’ She paused. ‘… and from what I hear, there’s a good chance they’re going to get a lot less secure very soon.’
‘How come?’
‘There’s an intriguing commercial partnership coming down the pipe. I shan’t spoil the surprise. In the meantime, use this …’ She handed William a blue Nokia.
‘You’re using burner phones now McCluskey?’
‘I am. If you don’t like the blue I’ve got other colours.’
McCluskey briefed Carver before he made the call. No details over the phone, just a simple question: would Patrick be happy to help a friend? That plus confirmation of the hotel where he was staying and his room number were all she needed for now. Carver sighed.
‘You’re aware how unhinged this all seems, are you McCluskey? No names, burner phones, bugs in your own house, all of it?’ Jemima nodded.
‘I am, yes. But you’ve only seen a fraction of what I’ve seen, Billy Carver. Take the most batshit crazy paranoid stuff you can think of …’ McCluskey paused. ‘… then double it. Go on, please, make the call.’
15 Crossed Lines
THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY, LONDON
Rebecca was at first confused and then genuinely disturbed by the strange encounter inside the entrance to the Portrait Gallery. She walked into the gallery shop as she’d intended but then straight out again with no memory of what it was she’d meant to buy there. She considered heading home, but what if the red-haired woman was waiting outside? Her legs felt weak, she needed to sit down – quickly – before she fell down.
She took the stairs down to the café and bought a pot of tea. She carried it to the far end of the catacomb-style restaurant with the teacup shaking on its saucer and found an empty table facing the bare brick wall. She slumped into the seat and used the paper napkin to wipe a film of nervous sweat from her forehead and the back of her neck. She breathed in through her nose and out of her mouth as slowly and fully as she could until she managed to get her breathing back on track. She needed to think. Why would some weird woman want to follow her around London? She definitely hadn’t been at the school open day, Rebecca would have seen her. And she hadn’t been hanging around afterwards either, so how did she know to find Rebecca at the Portrait Gallery? Who the hell was she? Not a prospective parent, that was for sure, but why tell a lie like that? She looked at her watch – after five p.m. in London would be the early hours of the morning in Hong Kong. Patrick might be asleep and an unexpected call from home might panic him. Rebecca wondered whether she should wait, but her heart was still thumping in her ears. She needed to calm down and at the moment, the only voice she knew would help was Patrick’s. She could talk it through with him and work out what just happened. Rebecca poured three sachets of sugar into her tea and stirred it well before gulping half the cup down. She didn’t want to sound like a complete mad woman when he picked up. She took a couple more breaths then dialled Patrick’s number. The strange slowed-down ringtone chirruped half a dozen times before he picked up.
‘Patrick?’
‘Becs, hey how are you? I was going to call but …’
‘Patrick, something really strange just happened …’ She talked him through the last half hour and the earlier encounter with the woman, too. She could feel him trying to focus, to make some sense of it all, although he was ah-ha-ing and umming a little too much. ‘Where are you Patrick?’
‘I’m … you know. In the hotel.’
‘In your room?’
‘Not yet, just heading there now.’
‘That’s a late night.’
‘Yeah, I just needed a drink, to help me sleep, you know?’
Several other questions occurred, but Rebecca didn’t ask them.
‘I’m a bit freaked out, Patrick. Have you any idea what all this could be about?’
He paused.
‘There’ll be an explanation, Becs.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well … like …’ she could hear the booze in his voice now. ‘… maybe she just fancied you, maybe …’
‘Fancied me? Don’t patronise me Patrick, do you think I’m an idiot?’
‘Course not, listen Becs, you’re upset, I get it. It is weird, I’ll give you that …’
‘You’ll give me that?’
‘I mean yes, it’s definitely weird, but there’ll be a simple explanation, like …’
‘It couldn’t have anything to do with anything you’re doing?’
‘What? No, nah …’
‘You’ve been followed before.’
‘Yeah, but in places like Turkey and Egypt, Bahrain …’
‘Or there.’
‘Sure, maybe here in Hong Kong too, but not back in London. Not where you are. Like I say, it’ll just be some kind of mis—’ Rebecca heard a beeping sound at the other end of the line. Another call coming through on Patrick’s phone, at … nearly two in
the morning.
‘I’m sorry Becs, let me just get shot of this other call. It’ll be London, some kinda problem with the package. I’ll call you right back, I promise.’
16 Maslih
CAVERSHAM, ENGLAND
McCluskey listened carefully to Carver’s phone call, nodding her approval as he stuck to her suggested script and kept it short.
‘Nice job.’
Carver made a harrumphing sound and handed the phone back.
‘Hardly the toughest assignment, making a bloody phone call …’
‘Course, no offence. Come on back to the house and have a quick cuppa before you go. I’ve got some of those Fondant Fancies.’ Carver nodded and followed McCluskey back towards the house. Tousled clouds zipped across the fast-darkening blue sky, heading west. The truth was that it had felt good hearing Patrick’s voice after so long, even if only a handful of words had been exchanged. He’d sounded okay, perhaps a little the worse for drink, which was unlike Patrick. Then again, it was the middle of the night in Hong Kong, maybe he’d woken him. Either way, Patrick wasn’t a kid any more, he didn’t need anyone worrying about him, least of all Carver. Whatever it was that McCluskey wanted Patrick to do, Carver was sure he could handle it.
‘Yellow or pink?’
‘Huh?’
‘What flavour Fondant Fancy d’you want?’ They sat in the living room, surrounded by McCluskey’s collection of snow globes featuring landmarks from every corner of the world – many of them gifts from Carver himself. She saw him staring. ‘I’ve not had a new one for a while now.’
‘Ask Patrick, I’m sure he’ll sort you out.’
‘I’d rather be asking you.’
‘Yeah well …’ he looked at his watch. ‘I need to be going.’
‘Okey dokey, wait one minute though will you?’ McCluskey disappeared up the stairs and Carver listened to the floorboards above his head creak as she moved around. When she reappeared she had a bundle of papers with her. ‘How about a wee bit of light reading for the train? I gathered up all the bits and pieces I’ve got on that word that caught your eye … maslih.’ Carver was tempted, he thought about it. But then he shook his head. He had a bundle of student essays in his bag that he had to mark and anyway, he’d done his bit.
‘I can’t. I’m sorry. I made a promise to myself McCluskey – just to focus on the teaching for a while. It’s better for me, better for everyone.’
‘Okay. I understand. I don’t agree but I understand. I just thought I’d see if I could push my luck that wee bit further. If you change your mind, well, you know where I live.’
The train back into London was quiet, a few youngsters dolled up for a night out in the West End up at one end of the carriage, but Carver had the other half to himself. He tried marking essays for a while, but his concentration kept slipping. He stared out of the window at dark furrowed fields and let his mind wander. Maslih – meaning reform or restoration. It meant something else as well, though. Carver was sure of it.
17 Soledad
BROCHU CEMETERY, CHILE, SOUTH AMERICA
Jags sat in his Chevy, watching the dogs.
‘A real fifty-seven fuckin’ varieties, aren’t you boys?’ The dogs wandered around Brochu in packs of various sizes; a couple wore collars, but most were stray. There were some odd mixes, like this one – a bulldog head on a border collie body. They were the complete opposite of the dogs he saw back in California. Those were pure breeds with hefty price tags and they were treated more like children than animals by their owners. The mutt in question lifted its head and sniffed the air; three hundred million odd odour receptors had caught a whiff of something new. Jags recalled that one of the projects Fred was working on back in his lab was a computer that could smell. Humans had a pathetic number of odour receptors compared to a dog, but still millions more than any digital device anyone had come up with. At the last annual hackathon that Public Square organised – a day-long event where everyone in the company came together to eat hot dogs, drink beer and fix a problem that had so far eluded the rest of the world – the staff had been asked to pick something that humans can do that tech still couldn’t. Suggestions had included joke, feel, smell and cry. Crying was ruled out first of all, since no one could think of a reason why you’d need a computer that could cry. Joking and feeling were put on the back burner and the combined might of the Public Square brain set about inventing a computer capable of smell.
The bull-collie or whatever the hell it was made a low growling sound and the rest of the dogs turned in his direction and set off after him up the road towards the graveyard. They were digging a hole for Pablo Mistral up there and Jags guessed that they might have dug up something that the dogs liked the smell of.
He hadn’t gone to the little dark stone church for the ceremony and he wouldn’t go to the grave either, at least not until the funeral party had moved on. It could be another hour or two yet, Catholics took their sweet time about these things and Chilean Catholics seemed to take even longer than your average. Jags yawned and shunted his seat back; the flight from Los Angeles had been a bumpy one, he hadn’t slept. He pulled his mesh-back baseball cap down over his eyes, folded his thick arms across his chest and tried to sleep.
A peal of bells woke him and he saw that an hour had passed. People were drifting back from the cemetery, past the church and towards a nearby bar or home. It looked like most of the mourners had done their mourning and it wasn’t a bad-sized crowd. He saw Pablo’s wife and sons walk by with the priest in close attendance. Jags waited a little longer, then climbed out of the car, locked it and headed up by the church and towards the graveyard.
He’d been up here before, more than once, paying his respects. One grave stood taller than the rest and looked better tended than most. It belonged to an English missionary who’d spent the last years of his life trying to spread the good word to the indigenous people in this part of Chile in the early 1900s. Jags read the dedication and did the math: the man was in his late forties when he died – he probably didn’t intend to die out here. Edward Butler was his name and the dedication claimed that Mr Butler had ‘Closed a Useful Life’ in this unlovely corner of the world.
‘What a crock.’
Jags guessed that a useful life was something to aspire to, but how would you go about measuring a thing like that? Many people had made use of Jags’ time and talents. Did that mean he’d led a useful life? He walked on up the hill. ‘Up to the cheap seats.’
Soledad was standing at her father’s grave, though her thoughts were far away.
‘I’m guessing you’re Pablo’s daughter?’ Soledad turned at the sound of the stranger’s voice, but she did not appear startled. She looked Jags square in the eye and then glanced at his baseball cap. He removed it and held it out in front of him. ‘I’ve come to pay my respects.’
‘The mining company sent a representative.’ Her English was good, he’d heard that it was. Top of her class, she would’ve gone to university if there’d been money.
‘Right. I knew the mine were sending a rep, but I’m different. I’m Jags.’ He held out his right hand for her to shake, but the young woman ignored it. ‘I knew your father, he did some work for me. Now and then.’ Still no response. ‘Odd jobs. Stuff around the copper mine. But not mining.’ Nothing. Jags glanced around. The shadows were lengthening, the sun was beginning to set. ‘A lot of graves here, aren’t there? Filled, unfilled.’ He was starting to get impatient. In order to negotiate with Soledad he needed her to talk to him. ‘I guess one of these will be yours one day, won’t it?’ She shrugged. ‘Where’d you reckon it’ll be?’ She heard everything, understood everything, but as yet Pablo’s daughter showed no sign of being interested. ‘Halfway up that hill would be my guess. Give or take a few yards.’ She looked up at the rocky ground and nodded. Unmoved. Indifferent. ‘I guess that’s not your main worry right now though, is it?’ He paused. ‘Nope, your prime concern right now is how the fuck to pay for this grave here, the one y
our father’s lying down dead in.’ They stared down at the freshly turned, red-hued earth and Jags kept on talking. ‘Yeah, you gotta pay for that and for the headstone … and for the priest.’ He sucked at his teeth. ‘That can’t have been cheap, getting that priest of yours to bury a suicide. Catholic priests don’t care for suicide.’
Soledad turned and waved a hand in the direction of the dark little church.
‘The man in there is more a thief than a priest.’ Jags nodded. It seemed that anger was the way to reach her.
‘How much did he charge you? For everything I mean.’ Soledad looked at the American. There was no reason not to tell him. She could not burden anyone in her family with the information and she felt a strong need to tell someone.
‘Four hundred and fifty dollars.’
‘American?’
She nodded.
‘Four hundred and fifty bucks?’ Jags whistled. He could have taken a few notes from his fat black wallet and paid the debt right now, but this did not suit his purpose. For Soledad and her family, four hundred and fifty dollars was an astronomical sum. It might as well have been a million. ‘How much money have you got?’
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