‘Well?’ he said.
Goodman shrugged, helpless, thinking quite suddenly of Suzanne. He realized he missed her badly. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind.
‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Use the fire axe.’
Suzanne led the way across the road to Harry Cartwright’s offices. Gillespie had parked the Cortina under the shadows of the buildings opposite, lights off. They ran across the road. The door was still unlocked, wedged by the folded leaflet. Suzanne pulled it out. The door opened. She stepped in, switching on the light in the narrow hall, Gillespie behind her. He gazed round. The tasteful regency stripes. The framed prints of the city a hundred years back.
Suzanne was in the main office by now, standing over the fax machine, quickly checking the roll of paper, the dense lines of type, the names, the addresses. She looked up and he nodded.
‘Take it,’ he said.
She hesitated for a second or two, then tore off the list, and folded it quickly, before rejoining him by the door. They were back at the car in seconds, the engine coughing into life, the dim headlights disturbing yet another cat.
Gillespie glanced in the rear-view mirror. No sign, so far, of Cartwright. Or Mick. Or Albie. Nothing but the leaves, and the rain, and the windy darkness. He pulled the car into a tight U-turn, and set off, back towards the seafront. Suzanne ran a hand through her hair.
‘Where next?’ she said.
‘Your place.’
‘My place?’ She glanced across at him. ‘You want the address?’
He shook his head. ‘No thanks,’ he said.
She gazed at him, wanting an answer, information, some clue to this puzzle, this strange man beside her, the big hands on the wheel, his knowledge of her, culled from God knows where, for God knows what reason. Questions queued in her head. Why this? Why you? Why me? But she kept her peace, sat quietly, clutching the list from Cartwright’s fax machine, saying nothing. There was something forbidding about this man, and she knew instinctively that it was best to let him make the running, take charge. She thought of Martin, in his Bunker, at his command post, trying to keep chaos at bay, trying to cope. She must phone him, she realized, she must tell him what was really happening.
Gillespie parked the Cortina outside Ocean Towers, and waited a moment longer before getting out. The roads were quite empty. He opened the door and motioned the girl out. They took the lift to the ninth floor, saying nothing. At the door of the flat, the girl fumbled for her keys, and opened it. They walked in. He closed the door behind him. The place was warm. Yards of fitted carpet. The smell of fresh flowers. He hesitated a moment. He could hear the ticking of the central heating, and fainter, miles away, the heavy thwack-thwack of one of the big Sea King helicopters. Suzanne had disappeared into a room at the end of the hall. She stood by the big picture window in the lounge, staring out at the darkness.
‘Who are you,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Gillespie,’ he said.
He looked round, recognizing the framed photo of Goodman on the television. He was leaning against a low wall, his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up, a wide smile on his face. There was water behind him, a riverbank, and the familiar buttresses of the Houses of Parliament. Westminster Bridge, Gillespie thought, a summer excursion, a stolen hour or two aboard one of the pleasure boats that cruised up and down the Thames. Suzanne turned round. She was still holding the list. She saw Gillespie, followed his eyeline.
‘London,’ she said, ‘July. I expect you know all about that, too.’
Gillespie shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, not bothering to explain any further.
He wondered briefly what he’d find in the flat. Goodman’s favourite aftershave in the bathroom. A couple of his old sweaters in the wardrobe. Keepsakes. Smells. Her tenuous grip on this busy life of his, some small comfort during the long hours when he was half a generation and a wife away. He glanced back at Suzanne. She’d shaken off one shoe, and she was rubbing her knee, not daring to take her eyes off Gillespie. She looked bewildered, frightened, utterly lost in it all. Poor bitch, he thought. Poor, bloody bitch.
He held out his hand. He wanted the fax. She gave it to him, without comment. He opened it. There was a brief greeting, a cheerful line and a half, someone who obviously knew Cartwright well. Then a list of names and addresses, a figure beside each. He glanced quickly through them, recognizing the odd name here and there, putting faces to the dense, smudged lines of type. The sums of money were large – one or two in six figures – and it wasn’t immediately clear what role they played in the scheme the girl had outlined, but the fax closed with a brisk paragraph about mooring berths, and tide times, and there was no doubt whatsoever that the message directly related to the trawler they’d left at the quayside. ‘Timothy Lee also booked,’ ran the final sentence, ‘please inform overall length.’
Gillespie folded the fax again and put it in his pocket. He motioned the girl into the big armchair. Hand stitched cushions. The same pattern he’d noticed in the car.
‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘take the weight off that knee.’
Suzanne did what she was told. Gillespie glanced at his watch. Nearly half-past eight.
‘What time are they due to load?’ he asked. ‘When do you expect passengers?’
She blinked. ‘Ten o’clock,’ she said, ‘Martin said ten. He wanted them to sail before midnight.’
Gillespie nodded. ‘Are you in touch with him?’
‘I’ve got a number.’
He nodded, and held out his hand again.
‘Give me your keys,’ he said.
She frowned. ‘Keys?’
‘Car keys.’
‘Why?’
‘I need to borrow your car.’
She looked blank. ‘You do?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ She hesitated. ‘Am I allowed to say no?’
Gillespie shrugged. ‘Say what you like,’ he said, ‘I still need the keys.’
‘Do I get the car back?’
He nodded. ‘Of course, I’ll be back for you later.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you shouldn’t stay here.’ He nodded at the door. ‘Anyone comes looking for you, don’t answer the door.’
He walked quickly across to the picture windows, and opened the sliding glass door that opened onto the balcony. Outside the wind whipped round the edges of the building, cold, from the sea. He glanced over the parapet. There was a clear drop to the concrete path below. He stepped back into the room again, glad of the warmth, and locked the door behind him. Suzanne watched his every movement, one leg tucked up beneath her.
‘You’ve done this before,’ she said drily. ‘Are you some kind of policeman?’
Gillespie shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.
He bent quickly to her shoulder bag, tan leather with brass buckles. He’d seen her slip the keys inside the moment they’d entered the flat. He found them at the bottom of the bag. He took them out. Car keys and door keys. She watched him, quite helpless, quite resigned.
‘That’s robbery,’ she said, ‘I should phone someone.’
‘Do,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back later.’
‘Why?’ she said again.
He paused, half-way through the door.
‘To get you out,’ he said, ‘before they get really nasty.’
He smiled at her for the first time, and she fought the temptation to smile back, a battle she lost. He had a nice smile.
‘OK,’ she said, ‘whatever you say.’
He nodded, a brusque farewell, and left the flat. She heard him pull the door behind him, test it once or twice to make sure it was secure, then footsteps, quickly receding, down the concrete stairs. She sat quite still in the chair for a full minute, her face a mask, not looking right or left, scarcely daring to breathe. Then she shivered, a deep, involuntary spasm of movement, and reached for the phone. Martin, she thought. Please, please, Martin.
It took almost a quarter of an hour to sma
sh the locks on the security store in the Bunker. Two men worked at it, Quinn with the fire axe, and Bob Spiller, the housing Chief, with a crowbar. Spiller claimed some working knowledge of demolition but even he had to admit that the job was far from easy. Finally, Quinn saw the gap widening between the door and the splintered jamb. One lock was already smashed, tumblers and springs scattered on the floor at his feet, and the other one was hanging on by a single screw. He raised the axe, and drove it down against the tongue of the lock. There was a harsh sound, metal against metal, and the thick lozenge of hardened steel sprang back. He put the axe down and pulled the door open. Faces turned towards him. In a confined space, the noise had been nearly unbearable, and in the last hour or two something had gone wrong with the air-conditioning, pushing the temperature into the seventies. Several of the heavier men were sweating, their faces gleaming under the harsh neon strip lights. Others had simply gone quiet, withdrawing into themselves, taking occasional sips of water from the clear plastic beakers, not looking at each other, not risking conversation.
Quinn stepped into the storeroom, and began tossing out the NBC suits, each in its clear polythene bag. Spiller stacked them in a pile, sorting them for size. They were working fast. Fiona, Goodman’s secretary, watched them from her desk across the room. She saw the urgency, the quick, impatient movements, the deep ‘V’ of sweat on the back of Quinn’s shirt. And when Spiller glanced round suddenly, her phone beginning to trill, she saw something else in his face, and recognized it at once. It was fear. Everyone had seen Davidson hurrying through with the telex. And everyone knew what it probably meant.
She reached forward and lifted the phone. She placed the voice in seconds, from the dozen of other calls, discreet, personal, over the past year.
‘Controller’s line,’ she said automatically, ‘may I help you?’
‘It’s Suzanne.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Suzanne. Suzanne Wallace …’ The voice paused. ‘A friend of Martin’s …’
Fiona hesitated a moment, catching Goodman’s eye, semaphoring Suzanne’s name, the usual code. The girl sounded frightened. Goodman shook his head and resumed a conversation with Davidson. Fiona bent once again to the phone.
‘I’m afraid he’s busy just at the moment,’ she said. ‘But I have a message for you.’
‘Oh?’
‘He says he wants you to be on the boat. He says he’ll come down at ten to collect you.’ She peered at the pad, making sure of her shorthand. ‘Does that make any sense?’
There was total silence at the other end of the line. Fiona frowned, quite sure she’d got the message word perfect.
‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Are you still there?’
The girl’s voice came back again, very faint, barely audible.
‘I need to talk to him,’ she said. ‘Please.’
Fiona glanced up at Goodman again. He was watching her closely. He shook his head at once. Very firm. Very positive.
‘I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘He’s in conference.’
‘But … please …’
Fiona glanced up. Quinn stood by her desk. He had a handful of NBC suits. One was clearly for her. She blinked at it. She’d missed the Civil Defence course, and she’d never seen one before. It looked horrible. Dark green. Folded in the bag. Two big perspex eyes in the black rubber mask. It reminded her of Hallowe’en. She swallowed hard.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly, ‘I have to go.’
She put the phone down and looked at Quinn again. He nodded at a small curtained area at the end of the room.
‘Change in there,’ he said briskly. ‘If you’re modest.’
Joanna stirred Marge’s cocoa, and put it carefully on the floor beside her chair. Her neighbour had volunteered to babysit for another hour or so while Joanna went out. All the children were asleep, and she had a pile of old copies of Vogue to keep her company. Joanna promised she’d be back by ten at the latest. Just a silly errand, she said. A piece of business she should have seen to long ago.
She checked her make-up in the hall mirror, pulled her coat around her, and stepped out into the night. Before she got into the car, she felt in her pocket for Gillespie’s card. It was still there. She read the address once more. Suzanne Wallace. 913 Ocean Towers. She hesitated a moment, wondering whether she really had the strength to go through with it. Then she realized, once again, that she had no choice. One way or another, the thing had to be done.
Ingle finally got the call from Reese at 8.32 p.m., a strange, old, gummy voice at the other end of the telephone. Ingle was sitting in his office, feet on the desk, reading a French novel about Oran. The last thing he expected was a call from Reese on the public telephone system.
‘Where are you?’ he said. ‘What’s happened to your radio?’
Reese explained as much as he knew, trailing Gillespie to the eastern edge of the city, watching his car bumping away into the darkness, beginning to follow, having second thoughts.
‘I was jumped,’ he said. ‘Set up.’
‘By?’
‘Gillespie.’
‘And?’
Reese skipped the rest of it, his face smashing down on the edge of the car roof, the blacks and the reds swirling together, the sheer speed and strength of the man, his efficiency, years of steady practice. He’d come to in pitch darkness, his car gone, his pass gone, his body holster empty, bits of his teeth in the wet grass. He’d half crawled, half limped the four hundred yards to a phone box, and even then he’d had trouble getting the hospital switchboard to accept a transfer charge call.
‘Not your night,’ Ingle commented tartly.
‘No,’ Reese agreed.
Ingle glanced at the big street map of the city his assistant had pinned up on the wall opposite. Green crosses tallied arrests to date. Gillespie’s name had yet to join the list.
‘Where does he live?’ he said.
‘Glengarry Road,’ Reese muttered, ‘number 20.’
Ingle made a note on the fly leaf of the novel.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Give us a ring later.’
Reese put the phone down without saying goodbye, and Ingle hesitated a moment before dialling another number. The number answered at once. Ingle smiled, fingering the address.
‘Rambo?’ he said, making the usual joke. ‘Got a little job for you.’
The first of Cartwright’s passengers arrived at the dock an hour and a half early, a prosperous estate agent with a Volvo, three kids, and a wife called Sarah-Jane. He parked the Volvo and gazed down at the rusty trawler. The boat stank. He looked round for signs of life. There was no one on the dock, only a light in the cabin aft and the low murmur of voices. He frowned, wondering what to do. His wife was still in the car, trying to persuade the youngest child to go to sleep. Fat chance, he thought, eyeing the mattresses jigsawed into the hold below. There had to be some mistake. Had to be.
In McNaught’s cabin, aft, Cartwright stood beside the tiny basin, looking thoughtfully at the Channel chart still open on the table. McNaught sat in his armchair, glass in hand, a new bottle of Scotch on the floor at his feet. Mick was sprawled on the bunk. Albie dripped slowly onto a small square of threadbare rug. He’d done what he could with McNaught’s one towel, but his clothes were soaking, and his hair was still wet.
‘What about the dosh?’ he said again.
Cartwright hesitated. He’d already spotted the lights of the Volvo up on the quayside. Soon there’d be more cars arriving, more hands to shake, more explanations to be made, the mattresses, the single working toilet, the smell, the times we live in.
‘Dosh?’ he said.
‘Money.’
‘Ah …’ he nodded. ‘A hundred pounds a berth.’ He paused. ‘Cash.’
Albie frowned. ‘A hundred?’ he said. He turned to Mick. ‘You said thousands.’
‘I did,’ Mick admitted, ‘you’re right.’
‘So what’s all this then? A poxy ton?’
Harry looked a
t him with obvious distaste. The man with the Volvo had made it to the deck. Footsteps suggested he was picking his way aft.
‘There may be more…’ he said, ‘under certain circumstances.’
‘You’re fucking right,’ Albie said. ‘How much more?’
‘I don’t know.’
Albie stepped towards him, a trail of drips across the cabin floor. Mick closed his eyes. He’d seen this happen before. It was never less than ugly.
‘Albie …’ he hissed, a man talking to his pet alsatian, impatience and caution in about equal measure. Albie hesitated, his head about six inches from Cartwright’s face, measuring him up, all the frustration and contempt focused in one swift butt, the plain man’s answer to all the fancy talk about profits and losses and tens of thousands of pounds. A shadow fell over the cabin. The Volvo owner. Nice new blazer. Crisp white shirt.
‘Harry …’ he said, beaming, ‘I thought for one moment we were sailing on this shit heap.’
Cartwright extended a limp hand and gave him a watery smile.
‘We are,’ he said. He turned to Mick. ‘This is Michael,’ he added. ‘He’s in charge of accommodation.’
Suzanne Wallace sat alone in her flat, gazing at the wallpaper, trying not to think of anything in particular, trying to forget it all. The brief phone conversation with Martin’s secretary had left her numbed. The message had been quite unambiguous. There’d been no room for mistakes, or misunderstandings. She was to go on the boat. She was to ship out, to head off into the darkness, down Channel, away from him. There’d been no apologies, no attempt to soften or explain it, just a curt message, passed on by a third party. Do as you’re told. Pack your bags. Get out of my life.
She poured herself another drink, a double measure of gin from a bottle she hadn’t touched since Christmas. She added orange juice from a carton on the floor but didn’t bother with ice. The fridge was in the kitchen. Going to the kitchen felt like crossing the Atlantic. After the phone calls, and the business with the fax machine, and the encounters on the trawler, and Gillespie, her body had given up. She was exhausted. She sipped at the drink, her mind quite blank.
Rules of Engagement Page 30
