‘What?’
‘Some of the details from those other interviews you listened to. I told him a little bit about other stuff I’d seen in Turkey and Egypt and elsewhere.’
‘I hope you told him to go whistle.’
‘Not in so many words. He did me a favour too, he looked at some of the stuff McCluskey sent through. Helped make sense of it.’
Carver shook his head.
‘Doesn’t matter. He’s a contact, that’s all. Don’t make me give you the extremely boring lecture I give my students on journalistic ethics.’
Patrick smiled.
‘I bet you’re a good teacher.’
‘I’m actually not bad. Not as bad as I thought I’d be anyway.’
‘But you’re glad to be back?’
Carver made a harrumphing sound.
‘I missed certain things.’ He slurped some more of his noodle soup. Patrick was about to say something, but Carver got there first. ‘How come you’re not eating, is that stir-fry no good?’
‘It’s very good. It’s nearly as good as Becs’ stir-fry in fact.’
Carver looked up from his food.
‘Oh yeah, she said something about that when I went to see her. Your romantic antics at that school auction thing.’
Patrick beamed at being reminded of the story.
‘Thanks for going to see her William. How was she when you saw her?’
‘She was fine, she was … oh, bugger …’
‘What is it?’
Carver reached for his jacket pocket before realising that he was only in shirtsleeves. His blazer was upstairs.
‘Rebecca gave me a letter to give to you, I just remembered. Do you want me to go get it? Or I can give it to you after we’ve eaten if …’
But Patrick was already on his feet.
‘I’ll go.’
‘Okay, it’s in my blue blazer pocket.’
Patrick returned ten minutes later, pale as a sheet, the letter still in his hand. Carver pushed his plate to one side.
‘Hey, you all right?’
Patrick shook his head and sat down heavily. ‘What is it?’ William knew what it was. ‘Listen Patrick, you’ve been away too long, she told me that and you know it too. Whatever she’s written in there …’ He pointed at the letter. ‘… that’s not going to be the last word on you two. You just need to get yourself back home soon, talk to her and try …’ He stopped. Patrick was smiling.
‘No, William. It’s not that …’
78 Chemistry
HIGHBURY CORNER, LONDON
The old pharmacist had a kind look about him, bright brown eyes and those deep laughter lines that make a person look like they’re always smiling.
‘Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but these tests are pretty reliable these days. If they’re giving you a negative result, then negative is probably correct. It isn’t usually necessary to keep checking.’
Rebecca blushed.
‘It’s actually positive results I’m getting.’
‘I see. Well obviously the same applies.’ He paused. ‘You were hoping the tests were wrong perhaps?’
She shook her head vigorously.
‘No, not at all, it’s just … it’s a little embarrassing … I’ve got kind of addicted to these things.’ This was true. Four times now in the last few days Rebecca had peed on a stick and four times the little blue line had told her she was pregnant. Every time, she felt the same inexplicable rush of excitement and fear and delight. ‘I can’t get enough of being told I’m pregnant.’
The pharmacist smiled.
‘Well then, congratulations. And I’m very grateful that you keep coming back and buying more tests from me – it’s good for business. But they’re expensive, perhaps you should start saving your money – for baby clothes and pushchairs and so on?’
She beamed. Baby paraphernalia. This was an avenue of adventure that she hadn’t even considered until now.
‘That’s good advice, thank you. I’ll just buy one more. Who knew weeing on a stick could be so much fun?’
The pharmacist shrugged.
‘Not me, certainly.’
‘But then … I promise, that will be it.’ She looked past the pharmacist at the shelf behind him. ‘Have you got anything that you can recommend for morning sickness while I’m here?’
He shook his head.
‘There are some drugs that say they help with that, but to be honest I would recommend you try fresh peppermint or ginger tea before anything else. My wife swore by those.’
Rebecca nodded.
‘She always said that morning sickness was a good sign by the way, she said it meant you were going to have a big, hairy baby. Although I can’t say that I’ve ever seen any scientific evidence for that.’
Walking back from Highbury Corner to the flat, Rebecca was more aware than ever of the number of buggies and pushchairs and small children on those wooden push-along bikes, out with one parent or both for a Saturday morning walk. She checked her phone, then googled the time difference between London and Hong Kong – just to be sure. William would have landed hours ago, he should have given Patrick the letter by now. As soon as he got it, he would call, she knew that. A big, hairy baby! She’d pee on one more plastic stick, just to make quadruply sure, and if he still hadn’t called her by then, she’d ring him.
79 The Octopus
NEW BROADCASTING HOUSE, LONDON W1
Donnie was watching the kid put chocolate sprinkles on his gingerbread latte when he saw the man with the moustache out of the corner of his eye. The guy was three down in the coffee queue and he was staring. Donnie stared back, expecting the bloke to get embarrassed and look away, but the man held his eye. When his drink was done and he’d paid and was halfway to the door the guy spoke.
‘Mr Donald Firpo?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘My name’s Foster, I’m from the Financial Conduct Authority.’
Donnie looked the guy up and down.
‘Really? What can I do for you?’
‘I have a couple of questions I hoped you might be able to help me with.’
‘Questions relating to financial conduct?’
‘Yes.’
‘My financial conduct?’
‘That’s right. Could we sit down outside for a couple of minutes? I promise it won’t take long.’
Donnie looked at the man properly now. A blue tailored suit, white shirt and dark tie.
‘You got any identification Mr Foster?’
The man had a laminated card with his picture and the FCA logo on it. He held it up for Donnie to take a look at and then launched right into it.
‘This is about some allegations we’ve had of insider dealing, Mr Firpo.’
‘I see.’
‘We understand you sold a significant number of shares in Public Square, just before the company announced that they would be paying a very large tax bill.’
‘A significant number?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You said a significant number of shares, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘I had about twelve hundred pounds worth of Public Square shares. I sold a third of those – four hundred pounds.’
‘Right and can I ask why you decided to sell them when you did?’
Donnie smiled.
‘I had this feeling.’
‘A feeling?’
‘Yup. In my waters. That’s how I invest. I get feelings about things.’
‘I see. You point out, quite fairly, that your investment was not large. If you were able to help us with some information about how you came to hear about the tax announcement ahead of time then I don’t think we’d need to involve you at all, not personally. It might even be to your benefit.’
‘My benefit?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘I see.’ Donnie took a sip of his latte. ‘You don’t happen to have the time on you do you Mr Foster?’
The man from the F
CA popped his cuff and glanced at his watch.
‘It’s a quarter past three. I know you probably need to get back to work, so how about this, I give you my card …’ He handed a thick cream business card to Donnie. ‘… that’s got my phone number and my email on there. Have a think about it, then either give me a call or email me and let me know what you decide.’
Donnie looked at the card, then shook his head slowly.
‘I can tell you right now, Mr Foster, save you some time. I know some Financial Conduct Authority people, they’re friends of mine. They don’t wear suits like yours and they certainly don’t wear Philippe Patek wrist watches. You know who wears those?’ Foster shrugged. ‘It’s mainly the people they’re trying to catch up with.’ Donnie stared at the business card some more. ‘I don’t want to talk to you and I certainly don’t want to find out what shit you’re planning to dump onto my phone or laptop if I call or email you.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about Mr Firpo, but I can see that you’re not interested in cooperating, in which case I think I’ll take my card back.’
He held his hand out. Donnie laughed.
‘Nope, I’m keeping this. I got friends in the police as well as in the FCA. I reckon they might be interested in having a look at this.’
Foster shook his head.
‘Go ahead then, you have no idea who you’re dealing with.’
‘Yeah, I do. I have a real good idea.’
Donnie turned and walked back across the piazza towards Broadcasting House. Once he was through security and out of sight he got his phone out and found Carver’s number. He thought about calling, then decided on a text instead.
‘That octopus of yours, it’s twitching its tentacles. Nothing to worry about my end, but you might want to warn any other people who you got tied up in this shit.’ He was about to press send then stopped and added a line. ‘Take care of yourself. D’
80 Leave
WANG’S CAFÉ, CENTRAL HONG KONG
Carver asked to borrow the landline again so Patrick could make the call. He took Mrs Wang’s phone back up to the bedroom, closed the door behind him, sat on the bed and dialled – the country code, her number without the zero. It seemed like an age passed before she picked up.
‘Hello?’
‘Rebecca? It’s me.’
‘Patrick?’
‘Yeah, Becs, I’m sorry, I only just …’ Suddenly he felt his eyes fill with tears. His voice broke. He lifted the phone away from his face and tried to pull himself together. He wiped his eyes dry on the arm of his sweatshirt then tried again. ‘… I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘I only just got the letter. William forgot, I just opened it. I just read it I mean … I mean I did both.’
He heard Rebecca laugh. The best sound in the world at that moment. At any moment.
‘So you read the letter? And you’re happy?’
‘Of course. So happy.’ He paused. ‘You are too aren’t you? In the letter you say …’
‘I’m happy Patrick, I’m …’ She hesitated. ‘… there aren’t words for how I feel right now.’
‘Very happy?’
‘There you go.’
‘It’s … it’s just incredible.’
‘It is.’ She paused. ‘Given how much time we’ve had together these last few months, I’d say it gives the immaculate conception a run for its money.’
‘Well what can I say? I guess I’m just very …’
Rebecca tutted.
‘Don’t go getting laddish on me Patrick Reid. Remember, she can hear you.’
‘She?’
‘She or he. Apparently it’s about the size of a large kidney bean right now.’
‘A large kidney bean? I thought kidney beans only came in one size.’
‘Well you’re wrong … I’ve been doing a lot of googling these last few days. You’ve got some catching up to do.’
They spoke for a while; Patrick asked about school, asked if she was eating okay, whether she’d been feeling sick?
‘A little morning sickness, but nothing serious, the pharmacist says that’s good news – it means the baby’s big. And hairy. He recommended fresh ginger or peppermint tea, I’ve bought both.’
‘No more weird stuff like with the woman at the gallery?’
‘Nothing. Speaking to William helped me feel a bit better about that and there’s been nothing else since.’
‘He said you were going to go stay with your mum and dad for a few days?’
‘I was, I will … unless …’ She paused. ‘… when do you think they might let you leave?’
‘I’m going to email Naomi straight after this. And check the flights. Carver’s already said that he can get along fine without me.’
‘Good. Because I can’t. Not me, nor this big hairy baby.’ She hesitated. ‘So maybe I’ll stay here Patrick? If it’s only going to be a day or two? I’m happier here.’
Patrick pondered this.
‘I suppose so Becs … if you’re happier in the flat. I’ll start looking at flights back straight away.’
Their goodbyes were interrupted by Carver, who arrived in the room with a bottle of whisky in one hand and two glasses in the other.
‘To wet the baby’s head.’ He explained. Rebecca overheard.
‘Tell William that’s not meant to happen until the baby’s actually born.’
Patrick relayed this information.
‘Ah, really. Well I’ve bought the whisky now so …’
The first glass Patrick drank barely touched the sides the second drink he drank more slowly, enjoying the heat of it in his mouth, the earthy taste on his tongue. While he drank, Carver talked – old war stories that Patrick had heard before. Before long, William fell asleep, mid-tale and Patrick pulled the duvet across him and turned off the main light. He sat at the desk, got his laptop out, first emailing an urgent leave request through to Naomi and then going online to look at the next available flights back home to London.
Rebecca made herself a cup of fresh ginger tea. She stood by the living room window waiting for it to cool. Down by the fields, sitting on the park bench that she and Patrick always referred to as Carver’s bench, was a face she recognised. Wearing a quilted navy-blue jacket and grey tracksuit bottoms was the young bloke she’d been chatting to just yesterday. He’d stopped Rebecca while she was walking back home from the tube. At first she assumed he was going to ask her for money and she was already reaching for her purse when he interrupted her. He wasn’t begging, he told her. It was nothing like that. He was looking for his dog.
81 Muddy Waters
WANG’S CAFÉ, CENTRAL HONG KONG
The harbour handed her back, four days after she’d gone missing. An old fisherman found Viv; his boat had been sitting lower in the water than usual, tugging at its moorings, and he’d found the body underneath the back of the boat, Viv’s dark hair tangled in the outboard.
The first that Patrick and Carver heard of it was an email from Naomi – an email in response to his late-night request for urgent leave, but one which left that question unanswered. Patrick understood. Viv’s parents were on their way to Hong Kong, they’d arrive the next day, but in the meantime someone had to identify the body. Naomi asked if Patrick would be willing to do that and he said yes.
The morgue, on the lower ground floor of the Causeway Bay hospital, felt like the coldest room that Patrick had ever walked into. Viv was lying on a metal gurney, a thin sheet tracing her body’s outline. When the aproned attendant folded the white sheet slowly back from Viv’s face and Patrick saw that it was her, a torrent of bile and undigested food jumped from his stomach. The taste of sour whisky and Chinese food burned his throat. He swallowed it back down, confirmed to the man that the dead body in front of him belonged to Vivian Fox and then rushed from the room. Crouched over the toilet bowl in a nearby disabled lavatory, Patrick vomited until there was nothing left to vomit. Viv was dead.
He went back to a
pologise to the attendant for rushing out and was handed a clear plastic bag with Viv’s belongings inside. There wasn’t much. The green dress she’d been wearing when they found her, a silver bangle and a couple of silver rings.
Her parents had asked that an embargo be put on the news of their daughter’s death until they had a chance to see her, but it did not hold. From the early afternoon, local time, several Hong Kong news websites started reporting that the missing BBC producer had been found, drowned. Within a couple of hours the agencies started saying the same. Soon the news of Viv’s death, together with photographs that had been lifted from Viv’s various social media accounts, were everywhere. Hard on the heels of this basic information came speculation and then the lies. Patrick sat at the little desk in Mrs Wang’s spare room and read the rubbish that was being written. When you typed in Viv’s name, top of the list of popular searches was Viv Fox – depression, Viv Fox – suicide, Viv Fox – spy. He kicked the leg of the desk and handed the laptop to Carver, who was sitting on the bed behind him.
‘Look at this crap.’
Carver read.
‘A spy? Where the hell does all this come from?’
Patrick shook his head. Carver kept reading. ‘I mean you only have to read a handful of paragraphs to know that these stories are nonsense, there’s no evidence for any of it. Who are they hoping to convince?’
‘They don’t need to convince anyone. It’s not really meant to convince.’
‘Then what’s the point?’
‘It’s meant to confuse. To muddy the waters just enough that people aren’t sure what to believe. I’ve seen it before, very recently in fact.’
Carver pointed at the screen.
‘Like this?’
‘Yes, almost exactly.’
82 A New Song
SANTIAGO, CHILE, SOUTH AMERICA
The band up on the stand was playing covers of American country tunes interspersed with the odd more folky Chilean number. The singer was dressed like a cowboy complete with ten-gallon hat, but the other four band members looked like they’d come straight from work – delivery guys and factory workers Jags guessed. The five could barely fit on the stand and the glitter ball that spun continuously above them looked all wrong, but he had an evening to kill in Santiago and it seemed to him that this basement restaurant bar was as good a place as any to spend it. There were a couple of no smoking signs up but no one was paying them any mind and the cigarette smoke helped hold the stink of sweat and stale booze down, like it used to back in America back before the ban. It had taken a whole day and several cash bribes to sort the paperwork necessary for Nathan’s body to be flown back home. Jags would fly back to San Francisco himself in the morning.
A Cursed Place Page 31
