35 Being Careful
CAVERSHAM, ENGLAND
McCluskey checked the time; this Skype call with Patrick had already taken longer than she’d intended. The longer they talked, the more likely that anyone scouring the lines looking for them might get lucky.
‘I’m going tae go back to my command and control centre and try to work out what these repairmen of yours are all about. Where else in the world they pop up. If we can work out who’s asking for them, then mebbe we can figure out why.’
‘Sure, that makes sense …’ He hesitated. ‘… what do you want me to do?’
‘You’ve done well enough for now. Get on with the day job and I’ll be in touch when I’ve got something, but listen …’ She was silent for a moment. ‘… you need tae start being more careful.’
‘I thought we were being careful?’
‘Not careful enough. Where’ve you put this collection of yours? These interviews?’
‘They’re all on my laptop … but hard to find, I’ve buried them pretty deep.’
‘The people we’re dealing with like digging. Move them, put them somewhere else, somewhere safer, ’til we know what it is we’re dealing with.’
‘Okay.’
‘You’ve not noticed anything particularly odd going on out there have you?’
‘Odd? The whole place is in turmoil.’
‘Sure, but anything specific to you? Emails that don’t look quite right? Funny noises on the phone? No one following you?’
‘Following me? Not here no, I had a bit of that in …’ He stopped. His thoughts switched suddenly to Rebecca. ‘… I don’t think anyone’s been tailing me here in Hong Kong, but if it’s weird stuff we’re watching out for, then I need to tell you something else …’
He recounted every detail that he could remember of Rebecca’s recent experience. Her original conversation with the woman outside her school and then the odd encounter at the National Portrait Gallery. Patrick had dismissed it as a coincidence or some strange mix-up and he’d managed to convince Rebecca of this too. Now he wasn’t so sure. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think that given what we know already, it’d be wise to assume that there are no such thing as coincidences. At least for the foreseeable. What do you want to do about her? You want me to go and talk to her?’
Patrick gave it some thought.
‘Thanks, but I think that might just upset her all over again. She doesn’t know you.’ He paused. ‘She knows … out mutual friend though. She’s always liked him. Do you think he might agree to go and talk to her, find out exactly what happened and figure out whether it’s connected?’
‘I’m pretty sure I can persuade him. Leave that one with me. We’ve been talking too long, take care you and well done son, you’ve redeemed yerself.’
A musical plop confirmed to Patrick that McCluskey was done with him and the line had been dropped. He gazed out of the window; the sky was lightening now and the traffic getting busy. Above his head, Patrick could hear the muffled tap and shuffle of ballet shoes continue. The fat man in the building opposite was no longer standing, but kneeling down on the floor. All he could see of him now was a balding head and a pair of binoculars.
McCluskey powered down her spare laptop and unplugged the new modem from the socket. She went downstairs to make a fresh pot of tea. The tortoiseshell cat was sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, a haughty look on her face. McCluskey saw that the food bowl was empty.
‘I’m terribly sorry, has madam been waiting long?’ She filled the bowl with the stupidly expensive dry food that the cat seemed to prefer and put the kettle on. She stood at the kitchen sink, staring at the window, out past her reflection out into the pitch-black night, deep in thought. McCluskey hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in a long time, she wouldn’t sleep much tonight either. The plan was to take her tea back up to the spare room and get to work. First she would gather every mention of repair and repairmen together on one wall; once she’d done that, she could … McCluskey frowned, her train of thought derailed by a movement in the garden, hard to discern but definitely something. She leant closer to the window and squinted past her reflection into the dark. The cat stopped crunching at its food and looked up, tilting its head in the direction of the door. ‘Dinnae mind that, it’s just the foxes. You stay in here ’til after they’ve gone. You’re safe in here.’ When she looked back up, a woman was staring straight at her. Standing just the other side of the glass, a few feet away. McCluskey screamed and grabbed for the counter to stop herself from falling. The cat arched itself into a horseshoe and then bolted, out through the cat flap and into the night. The white-faced stranger on the other side of the glass glanced at the cat, then back at McCluskey. No facial expression, no words, just a stare. A look that froze McCluskey’s blood. The ghostlike form took half a step forward and for a second she feared the woman was going to walk right through the glass, through the wall and into the kitchen. Instead she stopped, just inches from the window, and stood there, still staring. She lifted a leather-gloved hand and pointed at McCluskey, then turned and walked slowly back down the garden, the darkness swallowing her before she had taken more than a dozen steps. McCluskey could hear her heart pounding in her ears. She needed to sit down but when she let go of her grip on the counter her legs would not turn or lift. She fell, collapsing in a strange slow motion, down onto the linoleum floor. The cat returned and sat down next to her, licking tentatively at her hand.
36 Secrets
RULES RESTAURANT, LONDON W1
Elizabeth pushed her food around the plate, creating the impression she’d eaten more than she actually had. She looked around the restaurant. Faces gawped back in her direction and she acknowledged this attention with a nod and a polite smile, directed at no one in particular. She could put up with some staring, she would rather do that than buy out the entire restaurant as was Fred’s preferred option. Not only was it stupidly expensive to do this, it was also bad PR. Elizabeth’s main objection, however, was that eating in an otherwise empty restaurant just felt odd. Her dad had drummed into her that when it came to restaurants, busier was better. ‘I don’t always hold with that wisdom of crowds stuff, Lizzie, but when it comes to the wisdom of people’s bellies – I’ll buy that every time.’ She changed the angle of her chair by a few degrees, moving her gaze away from the gawpers and towards her dinner companion.
‘How’s your food Jags?’
‘It’s good …’ He waved his fork in the direction of their fellow diners. ‘D’you want me to go and tell this lot to stare at the people they’re eating with instead of you?’ Elizabeth shook her head. ‘You sure? I’ll ask them very politely.’
She smiled. A real one this time.
‘I’m actually not sure it’s me they’re looking at, I think it might be you.’
Jags smiled.
‘Well, I did shave.’
‘That’ll be it.’ She filled Jags’ wine glass and then her own. ‘How’d you find time to shave? I thought you’d been tearing around all day?’
‘I was. Tearing around after you.’
‘Not all the time. My team said you kept disappearing … running some errands, you told them.’
Jags sucked at his teeth. God, how he hated her little team of sycophants and squealers.
‘I had to do one or two other things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Just company stuff.’
‘It’s my company. Remember?’
‘I remember.’ Jags was starting to worry that the unexpected dinner invitation was, in fact, an ambush. ‘Is this gonna turn into some kinda inquisition Elizabeth?’ She looked at him.
‘No, not at all …’ She leant across the table. ‘I just wanted to give you that new raincoat I’d promised.’ She gestured at the new purchase, which was sitting wrapped in tissue paper in a smart Savile Row bag next to Jags’ chair. ‘And I wanted to buy you a fancy meal. Go ahead and eat.’ Jags ate and Elizabeth watched. She had never know
n anyone for whom eating was so obviously a straightforward refuelling job. Jags ate quickly and without care or comment. He didn’t seem to have the vocabulary to describe what he was eating; she suspected that he didn’t have the taste buds to fully appreciate it. ‘How’s that pork?’
‘It’s good.’
‘It’s glazed with honey and single malt whisky.’
‘Is that right?’ Jags could feel her studying him. ‘You want some?’ He chiselled off some meat and crackling and handed her the fork.
‘Thank you.’
She took a tiny bite; it was – as he’d said – good. She passed the fork back. ‘You know this meal will probably cost the best part of six hundred bucks?’
Jags lifted an eyebrow.
‘Are you short? How about we do a runner? I’ll make a fuss, you hit the door, I’ll follow. I bet you’re pretty fast in bare feet, you just need to push those heels off.’
‘I’ve never run from a restaurant.’
‘Never? You should, it’s good for the digestion. I bet your old man would’ve approved.’
Elizabeth smiled.
‘He probably would.’ She paused. ‘I wanted to ask you about Chile … did you make some progress with this new plan of mine?’
Jags looked at her.
‘I think I might’ve found the right girl to front up what it is you want Public Square to do.’
Elizabeth frowned.
‘Girl?’
‘Beg your pardon … woman. Young woman. She and her mom are both on board and they fit the bill – pillars of the community, smart, all that stuff.’
‘Sounds good. And you think they get how ambitious we want to be about all this? I want it to be a model for how we can do things … going forward.’
‘Yeah, I reckon so. I think you’ll like ’em, ’specially Soledad.’
‘Soledad? Is that the daughter?’ Jags nodded. ‘That’s a beautiful name.’
He realised now just what the blue colour of Elizabeth’s eyes reminded him of. It was the perfect shade of faded denim. Like your best pair, those few months when they’re just right, before they fade right out, beyond blue. Jags wanted to go write this down. He didn’t want the thought to slip his mind, but nor did he want to leave the table. He repeated the thought to himself several times while half listening to Elizabeth describe her day. She’d said something about the meeting she’d had with MPs at the Palace of Westminster. Jags picked up the thread.
‘Oh yeah, I meant to ask how things went with the politicians?’
‘Things went fine, I bamboozled them with technical terms like mobile phone app and advertising model … spent most of the meeting explaining how the internet works.’
‘You promise a couple of dozen jobs and a million bucks for that Silicon Roundabout of theirs and they’re doing cartwheels, was that it?’
‘It was a little trickier than that …’ She stared at Jags over the rim of her wine glass. ‘… if you’d been there you’d have seen. I was pretty impressive.’
‘I don’t need to have been there to know that you were impressive.’ He wiped the plate clean with a scrap of brown bread and munched it down. Elizabeth shook her head.
‘You know that taking you out for a meal feels a lot like taking a car to the gas station for a fill-up.’
‘Is that right?’
‘I’m not sure how rewarding an experience it is.’
‘For you? Or for the car?’
She laughed.
‘Let’s start with the car …’
‘Well, I think maybe the older cars ’preciate it. I used to have a Buick that would gurgle like a baby when you put gas in her. She ran way better on a full tank. I’d always buy her the good stuff mind, top notch gas and oil.’
‘That’s touching.’
‘I knew you’d understand …’ There was a silence. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you wow those political folk over at Westminster. Those errands, all that other stuff I need to do, it’s nothing secret, it’s just …’ Jags took a moment to find the right word, a word that was neither the whole truth nor an absolute lie ‘… it’s just mundane. You carry a big old load on your shoulders Lizzie. Too much. So when there’s some stuff I can do, I do it.’
‘At Fred’s instruction?’
Jags nodded grudgingly.
‘A fair ’mount of the time, yeah.’
‘Okay. But I wanted to tell you that if there’s ever anything that Fred asks you to do that you’re not okay with, you can bring that to me. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I do now.’
‘Good, good …’ She paused. ‘… so nothing he’s got you involved in right now makes you … uncomfortable?’
Jags shook his head.
‘No.’
And this was true. None of the dreadful things he’d done left him feeling uncomfortable. No matter how wrong, illegal, unjust … pick an adjective. Pick an atrocity. Jags didn’t feel uncomfortable with any of it. He didn’t feel anything in fact. He glanced up and saw Elizabeth smiling at him. Hardly anything.
‘Good, I’m glad to hear that. I was … concerned.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘I won’t. But remember, you can talk to me. Any time.’
Jags looked around for a change of subject.
‘You’ve never run from a restaurant huh? Maybe tonight’s the night.’
‘We should finish the wine first.’
‘It’s good.’
‘It’s Château Lafite.’
‘Cool, cheers …’ He lifted his glass and clinked it against hers. ‘Here’s to your good day.’
‘Pretty good … the only downside is that Public Square is probably going to have to pay a shade more tax … I promised to look at it.’
‘Why?’
‘I got interrogated about it by this old radio guy after my speech at the BBC. It was clever, doing it in front of a roomful of journalists.’ She paused. ‘Paying a shade more tax over here is no bad thing. It’ll be good PR – and it’s the right thing to do too, I reckon we’ve been getting away with nought point three per cent of profit for long enough.’
Jags shrugged.
‘Fred’s not gonna like it much.’
Elizabeth put her unfinished wine back down.
‘Now and again, I have to do things that Fred won’t like.’ She smiled. ‘If only to stay sane.’
She stared at Jags’ empty plate. ‘It’s been a long day Jags. I think I might head back to the hotel.’
He nodded. ‘Sure, good idea.’
She reached down for the white silk clutch bag that was propped against her chair leg. She tipped the contents onto the table. Inside was her mobile phone, a credit card, a red lipstick and a small pale pink envelope with the crest of her hotel embossed on the front. She was reaching for the envelope when her phone began to buzz. The blue screen lit up and the caller’s name appeared then quickly disappeared as Elizabeth pressed reject.
‘Poor Fred. His ears must have been burning.’ She smiled at Jags. ‘I’ll call him back later.’ She put the mobile back in her purse then slowly removed one of two key cards from inside the envelope. Elizabeth palmed the card across the table before pushing it underneath Jags’ crumpled napkin with one painted fingernail.
‘So … I think I’ll take the car. If that’s okay with you?’
‘Like you said before … it’s your company. Your car.’
‘Right.’ She stood. ‘You stay and have a coffee, dessert or something.’
‘Okay.’
She paused.
‘But maybe I’ll see you later?’
‘There’s no maybe about it.’
Jags ordered a double espresso and drank it then called for the bill, only to be told that it had been taken care of. The maître d’ informed him that Elizabeth had paid not just for their dinner, but also for the dinners of everyone else still eating in the restaurant.
‘She is a remarkable woman, Mrs Curepipe …’
Jags nodded. G
ood for public relations he guessed, although looking around it seemed blindingly obvious that no one eating in this restaurant needed their meals buying for them.
Out on the street it was raining that particular London rain that soaks you to the skin without you really noticing. He had his new coat in its smart bag, but he decided to leave it there and wait and smoke a cigarette beneath the restaurant canopy instead. He lit a Marlboro, got the notepad and pencil from inside his coat jacket and wrote.
A wet London wind
Pushes down a Soho street
Blue eyes wait for me
He read it through a couple of times before tucking the notebook away with a satisfied grunt. It was unusual for him to be happy with his first try, no crossings out or corrections. Maybe he’d read it to her? Through the restaurant window he saw the waiter clearing their table. The grey-haired man stacked the plates carefully and wrapped the cutlery up in a dirty napkin before placing that bundle on top, then he stopped. He picked up Elizabeth’s glass and, after checking back over his shoulder, drank the inch of red wine she’d left undrunk in her glass. He held the wine in his mouth a moment and closed his eyes. Jags looked away, pulled up the collar on his old coat and stepped out into the rain. The only thing that was bothering him was the phone call. The caller’s name had appeared so fleetingly, for a tiny fraction of a second – but Jags had seen it anyway. It wasn’t Fred who’d called Elizabeth. The name on the screen was Eldridge. Jags thrust his hands in his pockets and walked faster; he didn’t want to wonder what that call meant right now. ‘Blue eyes wait for me.’
Maybe it meant nothing.
A Cursed Place Page 19
