Nobody Walks

by Mick Herron

  Bettany looked at him, still smiling. “Seriously?”

  “To me, I mean. I’m here to do you a favour.”

  The ex-spook raised an eyebrow.

  “This I’ve got to hear.”

  2.9

  This is what Tearney had told Coe earlier.

  “Bettany’s son worked for a person of interest.”

  Person of interest ran the whole rainbow, from potential asset to suspected terrorist.

  Coe said, “He’s on a watch list?”

  “No. But he’s been vetted for a gong. Services to British software industry, or something. I don’t recall the details.”

  The details, surmised Coe, were packed tightly in her head, and could be unfurled at a moment’s notice, like ticker tape, or a till receipt.

  “In addition to which he’s being actively wooed by both HMG and the Loyal Opposition. Vincent Driscoll might not have much in the way of politics, but he’s very much a British success story.”

  So nobody wants Bettany sticking his oar in, Coe thought.

  “Of course,” Tearney said, “there’s no earthly reason why Thomas Bettany should want to make life difficult for Driscoll. But he’s a loose cannon. And if, as you say, he’s decided his son’s death warrants investigation, and he starts poking around Liam’s life, well, he’s going to make himself unpopular.”

  “I’m not sure that’ll worry him.”

  Tearney gave him a look.

  “I hope you’re not finding this amusing.”

  “No.”

  “Good. Because what I’d like you to do, dear boy, is have a word with him.”

  Was there ever a more transparent ploy than dear boy? And yet he couldn’t say it didn’t work. Here he was, walking the pavement with the head of the Service, and she was coming over all grandmotherly.

  It made him want to genuflect.

  “Meet him somewhere public.”

  “What if he doesn’t—”

  “Oh, he will. Once a Dog, always a Dog. He’ll respond to a tug on the leash.”

  “And what do I tell him?”

  “That Vincent Driscoll’s out of bounds. Might as well have a Do Not Disturb notice round his neck.”

  She came to a sudden halt, and Coe marched a pace onward before noticing. He stopped and looked back.

  “But be subtle about it.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, as if mentally working out the sly way he’d go about planting this idea in Thomas Bettany’s head without Bettany being aware of it.

  Dame Ingrid reached into her bag, and Coe was cast back decades, waiting dutifully while his nan dug about for a small treat, a coin or bar of chocolate.

  What she came up with instead was an envelope. She handed it to him.

  “And in return for being a good boy, Bettany gets what he wants. No need for him to wear out shoe leather turning over every stone in N1. Liam Bettany was smoking muskrat when he died. It’s a new strain, which, luckily for us, means a restricted point of retail. The gentleman whose name’s in that envelope imports all the muskrat smoked in Greater London.”

  Coe felt the envelope gain weight as he caught her drift.

  He said, “Just so we’re clear …”

  “Yes?”

  “Bettany gets a white card on dealing with this guy?”

  Dame Ingrid said, “Oh, I think we can allow him a little latitude. And unless he’s forgotten everything we taught him, he’s not going to be caught afterwards, is he?”

  A little latitude, thought Coe, adding it to his bank of euphemisms.

  “But if he gets a bee in his bonnet about Driscoll, that’s a different story. He’ll be dealt with.”

  “Should I tell him that too?”

  “Oh, he’ll grasp the idea. And I’m sure you’ll keep me abreast of things.”

  He was being dismissed. But there was one more thing he wondered about.

  “Why has Bettany been taken off the Zombie List?”

  “Error? You know what records are like,” said Tearney. “But that suits us fine. We don’t need him setting off unnecessary alarm bells. He’ll want to keep a low profile too, come to think of it. London’s not exactly packed with his old friends.”

  And now she was holding her hand out expectantly.

  For a moment, Coe thought she wanted the envelope back. Evidence. Destroy after reading. But that wasn’t what she was after.

  She said, “My pastry?”

  Dumbly, he handed the bag over.

  “Thank you.”

  Tucking it under her arm, she headed off towards her kingdom, a short stout woman few would give a second glance.

  Despite the chill, Coe found he was sweating.

  Compared to Dame Ingrid, he thought, Bettany should be a breeze.

  And now here he was, following instructions. Meet him in a public place. Let him know who’s in charge.

  The public place bit had been straightforward enough. Convincing Bettany he was in charge might prove more challenging.

  Testing the waters, he said, “I’m from the Park.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Ingrid Tearney.”

  “She still First Desk?”

  “They’ll have to chisel it from her grip.”

  “And you’re her messenger boy.”

  So much for being in charge.

  Bettany said, “Thing is, I haven’t actually done anything, other than ask a few questions. Unless you think messing up a couple of bouncers calls for a slap on the wrist. But even if you did, know who I think wouldn’t?”

  Coe was already regretting using her name.

  “I can’t see it crossing Ingrid Tearney’s desk, let alone her mind. So what’s going on?”

  Coe said, “We’re sorry about your boy.”

  “Is that a confession?”

  He was already surrendering. “No no no no no. All I meant was, you have our commiserations.”

  “Why? It’s seven years since I left the Service.”

  “Still …”

  From here they had a view of the Mall, where something was happening now, a black limousine appearing, flanked by police motorbikes. As one, the tourists turned to check it out. It was like watching wind sweep through a field of corn. Mobiles whirred and cameras popped.

  Despite himself, Coe wondered who it was, and decided it was probably a prince. One of the older, useless ones nobody liked.

  When he turned back, Bettany was studying him.

  “You’re not Ops,” he said. “An agent wouldn’t have sat here, and wouldn’t have been ogling a cop while waiting for a hostile.”

  “You’re not a—”

  “An agent treats any unknown as a potential hostile. So you’re virgin, or as good as. And you’re what, thirty-five? Four?”

  Coe didn’t dignify that.

  “So you’re a desk jockey, but if you were a Park desk jockey that would make you Strategy or Policy or whatever they’re calling it now, and they don’t let those guys make appointments with strange men in public places. That’s the last thing they let them do.”

  Bettany paused. The car with its prince or whoever had vanished. The crowds had reconfigured, or maybe were different crowds. The pigeons were almost certainly the same ones, though.

  “So if you’re not Park you’re from over the river, which is where they keep the pointy heads, the ones who do the touchy-feely stuff, like work out who’s stressed, and how much time off they should get. Stop me if I’m hurting your feelings.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “So why do I get a phone call from an over-the-river virgin, summoning me to a heads-up? That’s what you called it, right? A heads-up.”

  Of the possible outcomes Coe had pondered, being laughed at hadn’t figured.

  “Finished?” he asked.

  Bettany wasn’t.

  “Know how many times I encountered Dame Ingrid, back in the day?”

  He made a circle with finger and thumb.

  “This isn’t because she has
fond memories of you.”

  “Yes, I got that. It’s because she’s worried I’ll step on the wrong toes. And I can guess whose. Not like I’ve been mixing with more than one millionaire lately.”

  Coe tried not to react. He sat, hands on knees, his gaze directed at a group of Japanese holidaymakers photographing each other against the backdrop of the fourth plinth.

  “So Vincent Driscoll’s an untouchable. That’s the message you’re delivering.”

  “Vincent Driscoll’s uninvolved. That’s all.”

  “And you don’t trust me to work that out for myself?”

  “We thought it might be simpler if we helped you cut to the chase.”

  Bettany shook his head.

  “You’re going to help,” he said. “Why doesn’t that fill me with confidence?”

  “Why, what’s your plan? You’re going to leave spatter marks everywhere anyone’s selling dope?”

  “I’m sensing aggression.”

  “If Dame Ingrid wants to help, it’s because she doesn’t want an ex-agent running rampage through London. Not even the bad parts. You plan to leave the country when you’re finished, right?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “It will be all round tidier.” Coe reached inside his coat. Bettany’s hand caught him by the elbow.

  Coe said, “Please. Be my guest.”

  Bettany’s hand eased into his pocket, and relieved him of the envelope he’d been about to produce.

  “You want me to précis?”

  “Is it in code?”

  “No.”

  “Then I expect I’ll manage.”

  He stood to go. As he did so the police officers clop-clopped by once more, the blonde one regarding them with that impassive curiosity police cultivate. Bettany responded in kind and once they’d passed turned to Coe again.

  “What’s your name?”

  Coe told him.

  Bettany nodded, and left.

  Alone on the steps Coe inhaled deeply, finding the air colder, as if he’d been sucking on a mint. He needs to know Vincent Driscoll’s out of bounds. Has a Do Not Disturb notice round his neck.

  But Coe wasn’t sure whether he’d warned Bettany off or tied a firework to his tail.

  PART THREE

  3.1

  Leaving the National, Bettany headed west, into the maze of Soho’s skinnier streets. Twice he changed direction abruptly, causing no giveaway ripple. This didn’t mean he wasn’t under surveillance—cameras brooded over every last alley of the capital—but the lack of hard bodies rendered it unlikely. If he warranted serious coverage, they’d not have sent a featherweight like Coe.

  Satisfied, he slipped out of the byways, and on a bus heading along High Holborn made some calls.

  Bad Sam Chapman had been Head Dog until leaving the Service under a cloud, a cloud the shape of the huge sum of money that went walkabout on his watch. These days he worked for an agency, tracing runaways and bad debts. The Chapman Bettany remembered must have had to make serious adjustments, among them getting used to being easier to find.

  He didn’t sound different. A tightly wrapped bundle of irritation back in the day, civilian life hadn’t cheered him up any.

  “I heard you’d dropped off the map,” he said, without sounding surprised Bettany had dropped back onto it.

  “Miss me?”

  “No.”

  “I need a favour.”

  “And I need a pension and a hair transplant.”

  “You always did,” Bettany said. “Griping about it now won’t help.”

  Chapman hung up.

  Bettany waited a minute then rang again.

  “I don’t do favours,” Chapman said, “and I don’t do memory lane.”

  “Liam died.”

  Chapman said, “Shit.”

  Then, after a moment’s shared silence, said, “What kind of favour?”

  A bull terrier was going apeshit near the railings, racing around under trees in which two, no, three crows were flapping about and cawing. The crows were messing with its head, taking it in turns to dip close before flapping upwards again and settling in branches while the dog tore circles, one tree to the next, barking like its heart would burst.

  Bettany had taken up station here, half a mile or so from Liam’s flat. He found it easier to think in the open air. Distractions like the dog stirred up thoughts as busily as it scattered leaves and dirt.

  The crows laughing. The dog near exploding with rage.

  Bettany’s phone rang.

  “Marten Saar,” Chapman said.

  This was the name in Coe’s envelope.

  Chapman said, “There’s a new strain of weed on the market, they call it—”

  “Muskrat.”

  “And Saar has a lock on it. Give it four months, six tops, it’ll be everywhere, but right now, buy any round these parts, you’re putting money in his pocket.”

  “And nobody’s shut him down?”

  “Shocking, isn’t it? You think he’s paying someone off?”

  “I was thinking more of the competition.”

  A crow screamed from the safety of a branch.

  “He’s Estonian. Showed up here in the ’90s, probably because of turf wars. Been a mid-level player since ’06, but this muskrat business has him on the upswing. Rumour says he’s in talks with the Russian mafia.”

  “ ‘Talks.’ ”

  “Yeah. They wear suits and everything. Second banana’s also from the old country, one Oskar Kask. The whisper is Kask’s the brains, but he moonlights nicely as a thug. He’s the reason the competition have held off. Nobody wants to cross Kask.”

  “Record?”

  “Kask was picked up after a Hackney wannabe called Baker died of a hole in the head last year. Released without charge. But …”

  His voice trailed off.

  “But he did it,” Bettany finished.

  “Well obviously he did it, but the CPS passed. Either he’s got a hell of a lawyer or …”

  Bettany filled in the blanks. Or Kask, or Saar, or both, had Plod connections.

  “Where are you now?” Bad Sam asked.

  Bettany’s reply adjusted his actual location by a mile.

  “You can probably see Saar’s house from there. I say house. Tower block. Lives up on the top floor like a king in his castle. And,” Bad Sam Chapman said, “you’ll have to get past his pitbulls.”

  “Actual? Or are you being picturesque?”

  “Picturesque.”

  The real-life dog was approaching a canine aneurysm.

  “What about that other address?”

  Sam read it out, while Bettany listened. Notes were for amateurs. Clues waiting to happen.

  Finishing, Chapman said, “I wasn’t kidding about Kask. He’s vicious.”

  “Noted.”

  “Be careful.”

  “On that subject …”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You were going to ask if I can get you a gun. The answer’s no.”

  “It was worth a try.”

  “You’ve been away a while. Things aren’t like they used to be. The stakes are higher. Those Russians I mentioned? Word is, they’re the Cousins’ Circle.”

  The Cousins’ Circle was high-calibre all right. The Amazon of the drug-trafficking world.

  “So what are you planning?”

  “Bit of light shopping.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Seriously, I’m not planning anything,” Bettany said. “Not until I’ve verified some stuff.”

  Putting his phone away, he left the park.

  The dog’s mad barking rattled in his ears for blocks.

  In a cycling-supplies shop off Old Street he found a long-sleeved high-vis tabard with silver shoulder-banding. At the till he was asked if he’d thought about upgrading his machine, and truthfully responded that he hadn’t. In a stationer’s he bought a clipboard, an A–Z and some parcel tape, then cleaned the next-door sup
ermarket out of thick black plastic binliners.

  His phone rang again as he was leaving.

  Flea Pointer.

  “I can’t believe you asked if he was gay.”

  He negotiated his way around a pair of young mothers, double-pramming the pavement.

  “He told you that?”

  “I was next door.”

  A clock above a jeweller’s told Bettany it was after two.

  “Are you finished now?”

  “Finished what?”

  “Asking questions.”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “Only I was a bit worried. The way Boo walked you out yesterday?”

  Boo. Bettany still couldn’t get his head round that.

  “Vincent’s just a softie. But Boo used to be some kind of fighter? Olympic standard, someone said. And he’s very loyal to Vincent.”

  “You like him, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Boo?”

  “Driscoll.”

  “Yes. No. I mean yes, I like him, but not like that …”

  “Is he gay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was Liam?”

  “No. I don’t know. What difference would it make?”

  “None.”

  She fell silent.

  “My turn to ask,” he said. “Are you finished now?”

  “You can be quite hateful, you know.”

  She ended the call.

  Next stop was a hardware store, where he bought a small toolkit and a length of clothesline.

  The days of the A–Z were numbered now people had Google maps on their phones, but phones left digital footprints while a paperback stayed dumb. Studying it, Bettany felt London’s geography returning to him. Unless it had never gone away but just been overlaid by other cities, whose shapes were fading now, the way architecture dims at twilight.

  He’d been aimed and pointed, which was nothing new. For years that’s what he’d been, what he’d done. It was since he’d been cut loose that everything fell apart.

  Some rules still held good, though.

  When given a free steer, verify. That was one.

  Also, When pushed, push back.

  Tucking the A–Z away, he headed for the tube.

  3.2

  There was no sense having a car in London. This was received wisdom, undermined only by the number of cars there were here, there, everywhere in London. JK Coe had identified the unspoken codicil, that there was no sense having a car in London unless you had a parking space. Then there was every sense having a car in London, even if you had to leave it in your parking space, to stop anyone else parking there.