by Mick Herron
‘He’s, er –’
‘Back at the office? Don’t piss me off, Howard. I heard about your contretemps. That’s a bit more fucking French for you, you seem to like it. Put you on the floor, did he? He’s a fucking animal. Always has been.’
‘I don’t know where he is. I think he went after Downey.’
‘Nobody ever claimed he didn’t enjoy his work. But it’s gone too far, Howard. Thanks to the piss poor job those bastard brothers have done, there’s another civilian on the dead-list. And given the hard-on Crane’s got now Downey’s boxed his brother, it’s not likely to be a pretty death, either. I don’t want to read about Mrs Trafford being found in six different locations. Alastair Bloody Campbell couldn’t make that sound accidental. So Crane’s off the job, got it? Yank his leash and bring him home. As far as I’m concerned, you can pension him off. But do it properly. No amateurs. And I don’t want his body turning up anywhere, ever. Clear?’
‘Can I have that in writing, sir?’
‘Fuck off. Now, what happened to Mr Trafford? He been secured?’
‘I think so.’
‘How excellent. If I were interested in what you think, Howard, I’d be saving up for your memoirs. Has he been secured or not?’
‘We’ve got him with his fingers in the till. His job’s gone, obviously, but as far as his bank’s concerned that’s the end of it. Reputation to maintain and all the rest. But we’re holding criminal charges open, and one squeak from him and we’ll bury him.’
‘Who made that clear?’
‘Amos Crane.’
‘Good enough.’
. . . Amos had told Trafford, apparently, to expect no chance of a holiday in an open prison, improving his squash, followed by an early release with temporary senile dementia. Amos, in fact, had been extremely graphic about just what Trafford could expect.
‘He’s staying with a friend of his, I gather. The story is, his wife’s done a bunk. And no noise about finding a body in the kitchen.’
‘But he knows the body was in the service.’
‘He couldn’t not, really,’ Howard admitted.
C sighed slightly, as if picturing another accident happening in the not too distant future. ‘How long have you been doing this job, Howard?’
‘Six years, sir. Just under.’
‘Wonderful. Stick with it another six years and the population explosion could be a nightmare of the past. Perhaps we should send you overseas. Africa, India. One of those very crowded places. Oh, stop looking so fucking resentful. I know it’s not entirely your fault.’ C scratched his chin malevolently. ‘I just don’t much bloody care, that’s all. Now. Where’s Downey headed? Assuming he lives long enough?’
‘The child’s on the island. Crane expected he’d go there.’
‘Does he think Downey’s very clever or very stupid?’
‘Very stupid, I think, sir.’
‘Fair enough. Either way, Crane’ll be heading there himself, unless he tracks Downey down en route. I’m serious about this, now, Howard. Crane finds them before they get to the island, he’ll leave a mess all over the landscape. On the island, it doesn’t much matter. We can hose it down and forget it. But I don’t want more of a pig’s ear made out of this than you’ve managed already. So stop Crane. If he reaches the island first, fair enough. Let him do his job. But I don’t want him leaving it. I don’t mean to be harsh about this, Howard, but he’s like a pit bull that’s tasted blood. You can never trust him again.’
‘I think I know what you mean.’
‘And stop pretending it’s a painful duty. I’m sure you’ll piss on his corpse. Now get out.’
There was a spring in Howard’s step as he walked back across the park. It wasn’t often a revenge fantasy received official sanction. Almost enough to make up for the amount of shit he’d had to eat to get it: that man was a foul-mouthed bastard all right. Still. One fantasy at a time.
He hoped Crane made it to the island first.
He also hoped Downey still had a gun.
Chapter Six
The Good Soldier
I
The hire car was a red VW, one of those compact, city models. Michael put his new rucksack in the back, along with the canvas bag Sarah had inherited from him. Two days ago, she’d left home with nothing. Already she had luggage; was accumulating a new history. It wasn’t that easy to leave everything behind. You junked what you could, and new junk came right along and took its place.
At least there was a new Sarah, though. She turned the windscreen flap down, and checked herself out in the vanity: in Boots, she’d bought a dye-pack, and transformed herself from an average, mouse-brown woman to a raven. She wasn’t sure how many washes it would take. From the state of the towel when she’d finished, not a lot. But it would do. She no longer looked like the Other Sarah Tucker. She looked like her own woman.
Michael saw what she was doing. ‘I told you,’ he said. ‘It looks fine.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You could be anybody.’
‘Thanks,’ she said again, but he didn’t register the difference. They were on the road now, leaving the town behind. She saw a pair of buzzards hovering over a concrete bridge. It was sad, with all the space their wings might afford them, that they chose to live by the hard shoulder.
‘How did you hire a car?’
He looked at her briefly.
‘Don’t you need ID? Aren’t you supposed to be dead?’
‘I’ve got ID.’
‘Whose?’
No answer. She went back to landscape gazing. Once, on a drive with Mark, they’d passed a buzzard sitting on a post. It had been much larger than they’d have expected. Unafraid, it had stared them down with an angel’s contempt for the earthbound, then returned to surveying its field. As they drove on, Sarah’s main feeling had been one of guilt. She did not know why this was so, and never would.
Another time, in Oxfordshire, they’d driven past a field of ostriches. Dozens of them: out of place, and wicked, and downright delightful.
‘His name was Fielding,’ Michael said.
‘Fielding.’
‘James Fielding.’
‘Sounds like a stockbroker.’
‘He was a wino. Living on the streets.’
‘And you bought his identity?’
‘He wasn’t using it any more.’
Once you had the social security number, everything came easy. Driving licence, credit cards . . . Even junk mail, if you had an address.
Michael kept driving. They didn’t pass any ostriches.
After some hours, they were in London. And then, before she felt truly ready for it, Michael was finding a parking space for the VW, and she was alone on a leafy street, walking through dappled shadows among houses that sang of summer, and light, and money.
Gerard’s Hampstead home had none of the rural insecurities of his Cotswold cottage: he might be faking it with the county set, but he had nothing to prove in the suburbs. His house was large, detached, and mostly hidden from view by a high and surgically perfect hedge, whose purpose was less to secure privacy than to underline that, in a street like this, conspicuous expenditure was unnecessary. If you’d made it here, you’d made it. Scrunching up the gravelled drive, she admired the potted bays flanking the big front door; the way that, though a car was parked nearby, no tyre tracks betrayed that it had been driven rather than built there. Probably each stone was numbered and allotted a position. Probably Gerard had full-time staff, organizing this.
All of which supposed it was Gerard’s home. But memories of conversations about Hampstead had steered Sarah to the appropriate phone book; she had little doubt she’d got it right. Especially when the car turned out a Porsche. Her only disappointment being, when she rang the bell, Inchon answered the door himself. She’d been hoping for something in livery, or at the very least a French maid.
‘Good lord,’ he said.
‘Not at work?’
‘It’s a holiday,�
�� he said automatically. Then, ‘Sarah? What on earth are you doing here?’
‘It’s a long story.’
Michael appeared behind her. He’d moved silently over the gravel; had possibly floated an inch or two above it.
Gerard glanced at him briefly; said, ‘I think you have the wrong house.’
‘He’s with me.’
‘Really?’
Confirming it would have put her at a disadvantage. She simply waited until he said, ‘You’d better come in.’
So they followed him through a wide, immaculate hall to a room at the back; a broad, sunny room with french windows, a baby grand, and large, comfy chairs. From outside came what Sarah thought was the chirping of crickets, but turned out to be a water sprinkler. Its reach didn’t quite make the windows, but the patio sparkled wetly, and rainbows danced off the spray with each pass. Summertime in England. She half expected a string quartet to kick off.
‘Drink?’
‘No thanks.’
He said, ‘Some people have been worried about you.’
‘Other people have been trying to kill me.’
‘There was some debate as to whether Mark was among their number.’ He sat down heavily. ‘There were traces of blood, apparently. On the carpet? But it turned out not to be yours.’
‘That wasn’t in the papers.’
‘I didn’t say it was. I made it my business to find out, Sarah.’
‘Really.’
‘Noblesse oblige? I did warn you, after all. I was worried you’d had it out with Mark, and he’d reacted badly.’
‘You warned me?’
‘You were rather drunk. Maybe you don’t remember.’
She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t drunk.’
‘I told you you’d be wishing you were bored again. That trouble was coming. A bit cryptic, but what could I say? That your husband was a crook? You’d have broken my legs.’
‘Batten down the hatches,’ Sarah said.
‘Do you know,’ Gerard mused, ‘he even tried rifling my palmtop? He wanted me to think that was you.’
‘Imagine. So you thought he’d killed me.’
‘I wasn’t that worried. I’d have backed you against him. You might as well sit down, you know. Is he always like that?’
Michael was by the door, head cocked for company. But his gaze never left Gerard.
‘Yes.’
He didn’t pursue it.
‘What was he doing?’ Sarah asked. Part of her didn’t want to know. The other part had to.
‘He was laundering money, Sarah. Not criminal money, sanctioned money. Emanating not a million miles from the Persian Gulf. He was channelling it through a series of offshore trusts he’d set up in Jersey, Liechtenstein and the Cayman Islands, and when it came out the other side, a tiny percentage stayed in an account with his number on it, and the rest, which was by now to all intents and purposes stateless money, was funding arms purchases. He’s going to claim he was duped, but he left a paper trail a boy scout could follow. And I always investigate before I take on investment advisers. Mark should have known that.’
‘So you turned him in.’
‘To the police? No, I didn’t. I don’t approve of what he did, but the thought of taking it to the police, do you know, I just couldn’t stomach that either? Too many Boys’ Own stories as a kid. Nobody likes a sneak.’
‘You told his boss though.’
‘A weasel called Mayberry. I tipped him the wink, yes. You might call that a duty. If somebody working for me went fast and loose through the regulations, it’d be nice if I got to hear about it.’ His mouth twitched. ‘Not that I’d need to be told. That man’s in charge? He couldn’t run a tap.’
So there it was. Mark wouldn’t be making a fuss about her disappearance, because he’d have been told not to, in very direct terms.
Now Gerard’s voice gentled somewhat. ‘I wish it hadn’t turned out like this. You must feel dreadful.’
Sympathy from Gerard was a new horror. She preferred him savage, chopping other people’s beliefs. ‘Not that dreadful. He was having an affair. Woman in the office. Did you know that? Or would that be sneaking?’
‘Are you sure you won’t sit down?’
She was tired suddenly. Tired of fencing, tired of company. Tired of Gerard already. ‘I didn’t come here for a rest.’
‘What for, then?’
She didn’t answer. She was registering a change in the area; some subtle difference she couldn’t put a finger to. Then realized it was the sprinkler, changing direction.
‘I’d be happy to help, but I don’t know what you need. Do you have money?’
‘She needs a gun.’
‘He talks,’ Gerard said, but didn’t look at Michael. ‘Is that right? You came here for a gun?’ He seemed amused.
‘I told you. People have tried to kill me.’
‘Which people?’
She couldn’t trust this man. Or didn’t that matter now? ‘You remember Rufus?’
‘That rather strange friend of –’
‘It was his blood. On the floor.’
Gerard raised an eyebrow.
‘You collect guns. You said so.’
‘But I never lend them to –’
‘Don’t try to be funny,’ Michael said suddenly.
Gerard ignored him. ‘Are you seriously telling me Rufus tried to kill you?’
‘The guns,’ Michael said, ‘are in that case over there.’
They both looked at him now.
‘Some of them,’ he added.
Sarah looked at the case he meant. She’d thought it some kind of dresser; an upright wooden coffin, that when you opened its doors would surprise you with willow pattern plates. But saw now that its doors were padlocked, which was a little uptight even for this neighbourhood. Unless Gerard knew something about crockery futures.
‘I can get in there if I have to,’ Michael said.
‘No you can’t.’ Gerard rose, and Michael stepped towards him. The heavier man froze.
‘Michael,’ she said.
He didn’t step back, but relaxed somewhat. Gerard brushed past, and found a key in the drawer of his desk. ‘Be my guest.’ He tossed it to fall short, but Michael’s hand snapped it from the air.
The padlock opened easily. Behind the door was a sheet of glass, bordered by a metal strip, in the top corner of which a small red light winked facetiously. Behind the glass, an array of, even to Sarah’s eyes, ancient-looking guns.
‘These should be in a museum,’ Michael said.
‘Of course they should. I’m a collector, not a psychopath. And working handguns, these days, are very much against the law.’ He looked at Sarah. ‘Interesting friends you have.’
‘This isn’t a game.’
‘That doesn’t mean there aren’t rules. Are you seriously planning on shooting people?’
‘Somebody tried to kill me.’
‘And wound up with their blood on your floor.’ He nodded at Michael, still studying the rows of weapons. ‘I suppose Superman had something to do with that.’
Michael, busy tracing a finger down the metal strip round the window, ignored him. As they watched, he drew his arm back suddenly, as if to slap a fist into the glass.
‘I hope he does that,’ Gerard said. ‘My money’s on the glass.’
Michael lowered his fist.
‘Wired into the alarm, too.’
‘They’re antiques,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s a waste of time.’ She should have known: why would Gerard – even Gerard – collect lethal weapons? These were simply expensive items of violent history.
‘So who was he then?’ Gerard asked. ‘This Rufus?’
‘If I was you,’ Michael told him, ‘I’d mind my own business.’
Gerard glanced at him with contempt. ‘I may be a physical coward,’ he said, ‘but I have no intention of grovelling before implied threats in my own home.’
‘He wasn’t threatening you,’ Sarah lied. ‘Gerard, I know y
ou don’t like me but –’
‘If I didn’t like you, you’d know about it. I’d have set the dogs on you the moment you arrived.’
‘Dogs?’ said Michael.
‘Figure of speech. Can I bring you a comic or something? A rubber ball?’
‘You want to keep those teeth?’
‘You should have him on a leash, Sarah.’
Why didn’t they just drop pants and compare? ‘Are you finished?’
Michael shrugged; Gerard nodded a short apology. Behind his back, Michael mouthed a word. Kitchen.
‘Do you think,’ she asked, ‘I could have a cup of tea?’
If the switch fazed him, he didn’t show it. ‘If you don’t mind bags. I’ve never mastered this leaf business.’
‘Gerard, it’s the twenty-first century. Nobody minds –’
He gave her his superior smile. If wrongfooting were an Olympic event, he’d be drowning in sponsorship money.
He led them to the kitchen, filled the kettle, switched it on. Michael picked a mug from the draining board, and filled it with water from the tap.
‘Help yourself,’ Gerard invited him.
Michael set the mug on the bench by the kettle, and stood there with his arms folded. Looking at him, Sarah remembered boys she’d known, in her teenage years. The ones who turned encounters with her parents into embarrassment-endurance ordeals; not actively offensive, just obstinately sullen, as if their presence were the only favour you’d ever get.
‘This isn’t just about Mark, is it?’ Gerard was saying.
‘Well, hardly –’
‘You were caught with drugs, weren’t you?’
‘They were planted.’
‘By, er, Rufus?’
‘Yes!’
‘Who then tried to kill you.’
‘Look, I know it sounds –’
‘It sounds absolutely bloody ridiculous, Sarah. Which is the only reason I’m prepared to hear you out. Because you’re intelligent enough to concoct a better story than that if you needed to.’
This was hearing her out?
The kettle began breathing steam. Gerard opened a cupboard and pulled teabags from a box. ‘Wanting a gun, though, that’s absurd. I’m hardly going to let you leave with one even if I had one you could use. A cup of tea, that’s different. You certainly look like you could use it.’ The kettle snapped off even as he spoke and, plucking it free of its lead, he poured hot water into the teapot. In the sudden blush of steam, neither realized what Michael was doing till he’d done it: picked the lead up, still jacked live into the socket, and dropped the end in his mug of water. A blue bang tugged at the hair on Sarah’s neck. Then the fridge hiccuped off, along with the overhead light.
