Nobody Walks

by Mick Herron

  That wasn’t going to happen to JK Coe. His parking space was underneath his building, with his flat number posted to the wall above it, and the white lines marking its dimensions touched up every year. It had added more than a few K to the price of the flat but that was fine, because sensible or not, there were never going to be fewer cars in London, and when it came to selling up, he’d at least double the more-than-few K he’d shelled out, back when he was earning big bucks in banking. This thought, or something like it, went through his mind pretty much every time he parked his car. He’d got it down to a moment of mental shorthand. Car/space, he’d think. And the ghost of a smile would tickle his lips, as much a part of the process as locking the doors.

  There was a lift and an emergency staircase. He always intended to take the stairs, and always didn’t.

  Today, on his way up to the fifth, his mind was on the evening ahead. He liked being at home in the city, glass of wine in hand, looking out at the lights of London, tracing in their winkings and blinkings thousands of stories he’d never know. It made him feel like a poet, if not the kind who ever wrote a poem.

  But when the lift reached his floor, he stepped out into darkness. This was odd because the maintenance charge was steep, and any lapse in the facilities leapt on sharply by the residents’ committee, but Coe didn’t dwell on it because the dark of the hallway was instantly matched by an equal darkness inside his head. There was no warning. One moment he was in the dark, and the next in a deeper dark. The opportunity to comment was denied him.

  Time passed. When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t be sure where he was. The immediate sensations were localised—pain, cold and fear. The pain was a dull throbbing behind his right ear, from the blow that had rendered him unconscious. The cold was because he was naked. And the fear …

  The fear was because he was bound to a chair, his wrists lashed to its arms, his feet to its legs. A cloth plugged his mouth. Everything in sight—the floor, walls, curtains, the strange shapes that were presumably furniture—had been draped in black plastic. Binbags, whole rolls of them, taped together and plastered across everything. There was only one reason anybody would do such a thing. Coe felt the fear plummet through his body, invading his stomach, his bowels. It fogged his vision, and as a further realisation stuck him—that this was his own sitting room, rendered dungeon-like by black plastic sheeting—it grew wings, as if he were carrying inside him a giant bat, which was even now clawing its way free.

  Then Tom Bettany appeared, stepping through the doorway that led from Coe’s kitchen. He too was naked, apart from a pair of latex gloves. In his hands, Coe’s own electric carving knife.

  JK Coe fainted as his bowels let slip.

  More time passed. Probably only moments. His own stink had filled the room, and Bettany had plugged in the carving knife, making a small hole in the black plastic through which to thread the flex. He measured its length, then placed the knife on the floor. Coe spoke, or tried to. Mmmpff mmmpff mmmp. Bettany passed behind him and Coe felt the chair being shunted nearer the knife, to within its reach. Mmmpff. A liquid slap was his own shit hitting plastic.

  That was what the binbags were for. To leave no marks, to make no mess.

  Bettany had made himself a sterile environment.

  Mmmpff!

  The chair settled back on the floor.

  Coe pulled against the clothesline, which wouldn’t give. He hurled himself sideways instead, and the chair toppled, and he was down, head banging on the floor. Immediately he was hauled back upright, the chair made straight again.

  Bettany’s head was close to his.

  “Don’t.”

  Then Bettany stepped away and retrieved the carving knife, sliding the button on the handle with his thumb. How many times had Coe done that? Hardly any, truth be told. Maybe a dozen. Mostly the knife lived in its drawer, an unnecessary gadget bought because buying unnecessary gadgets made the western world go round. Its buzz was familiar, nevertheless. Like an electric toothbrush, but with more edge.

  And he was naked. Coe hadn’t been this close to a naked man, he didn’t know in how long. School gym? Never in his own flat, never at close quarters. Bettany was naked because things were going to get messy, and Coe had an uninvited image of Bettany’s clothes, neatly folded, on Coe’s own bed. Somewhere he could easily get dressed again, and walk away spotless. He swallowed, or tried to, but his mouth was dry and full of cloth.

  Mmmpff.

  Bettany turned the knife off and laid it on the floor. Nude, he looked stronger than when clothed. Coe did not want to be noticing this. Didn’t want to see the muscles moving easily underneath Bettany’s skin, his penis and testicles dangling unashamedly between his legs. Coe didn’t want to be near a naked man, full stop. A naked man with an electric knife, he wanted to be far away from.

  He tensed against his bonds once more. There was no give, no slack.

  No chance.

  Bettany disappeared into the kitchen but was back within moments, carrying the carver’s spare blades. Coe squeezed his eyes shut, but couldn’t help hearing the clatter as Bettany laid them on the floor. Somewhere in the kitchen, on a shelf, was a booklet explaining which blade suited which task. There were illustrations of joints of beef. How to cut against the bone. How to carve through knotty passages.

  There was a rustling, and Coe could feel the other man’s heat as he knelt and bent in close again.

  “Do you know what a professional would do?” Bettany’s voice was calm. “A professional would hurt you straight off the bat. Badly. To establish the perimeter. To let you know who he was, and what you were.”

  It was growing harder to keep his eyes closed. He wanted to open them, let morning light burst in, that was the worst dream ever. But was terrified, too, that that wouldn’t happen. That he’d still be here.

  “Call me an amateur, but I’m not going to do that, Coe. Which is as much of a break as you’re going to get. And if that turns out to be a mistake, all I can say is, I intend to clean up afterwards. Understand? Nod your head.”

  Coe nodded his head.

  “Okay. I’m going to ask questions. You’re going to answer them. Any hesitation, any hint you’re not telling the truth, all of it, and you know what happens.”

  There was a brief whine as Bettany snapped the electric knife on and off.

  “I’ll start with your toes, but don’t think that means you get ten shots. I’m not a precision carver, Coe.”

  He whimpered again.

  “But I have worked with meat.”

  Bettany pulled the cloth from Coe’s mouth.

  3.3

  “Tearney really sent you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why you?”

  “Because …”

  His mind blanked.

  The blade whirred.

  “Because I’m not Park.”

  “Say more.”

  “It’s not an op. Not official. Off the books.”

  “Just the two of you.”

  “… Yes.”

  “Why the hesitation?”

  “Nothing. No reason. Just the two of us, yes.”

  Bettany stood behind him, heat coming off his body.

  “And she told you to give me Marten Saar.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s the source, he imports it. Muskrat. Which your boy was smoking …”

  “And that’s the reason.”

  “The only reason.”

  “Because you thought that’s what I’m after. Payback.”

  “I knew you’d gone looking …”

  “For Saar?”

  “For anyone. For a source in the trade. Someone to …”

  “Kill.”

  Coe didn’t want to hear the word. Didn’t want it loose in his flat.

  The stink, his own, already hung in the air.

  Forever after—if there was a forever after—he’d always know how he’d reacted to danger, and the knowledge would alw
ays diminish him.

  “Was it a set-up?”

  “What?”

  “Were you trying to put me in play?”

  Bettany was prowling now. Coe could hear his feet on the cold black plastic.

  “We were trying to help you. Give you what you wanted.”

  “And you decided I wanted Saar.”

  “I told you—”

  “Or maybe you wanted Saar out of the picture.”

  “I’d never heard of him before this morning.”

  “But Tearney had. Maybe she thinks I’m her toy soldier all of a sudden.”

  And now he was back, all but resting his head on Coe’s shoulder.

  “Is that why you gave me his name? Because Tearney wants rid of him?”

  “I …”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bettany withdrew. Those slinky footfalls again. Eyes tight shut, Coe willed himself into any other evening but this.

  Home from work.

  Glass of wine.

  Lights of London.

  Not tied to a chair with a naked man threatening to mutilate him.

  But this was where he was, and this was what was happening. And it was Thomas Bettany doing it, a man whose file he’d studied. Could he have predicted Bettany would do this?

  Stupid question. He hadn’t.

  A buzz from the electric knife, and he yelped.

  “You’re drifting.”

  “Sorry! I’m sorry …”

  The buzz disappeared. But its electric pulse still wormed into his ear.

  “You said you don’t know. So maybe Tearney’s playing me.”

  “All I know is what she told me.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “That nobody wants you running rampage through London. Taking revenge wherever you find it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. She said if you took out Saar, got rid of him, that would be enough. You’d go away, back where you came from, and that would be that. Game over.”

  Mentally, he was making calculations. At what point would anyone notice he was in trouble? There were emergency protocols, panic numbers, a six-minute response. But you had to ring the panic number first.

  The lights in the hall were out. In an ideal world the maintenance staff would be on the job, heading for his floor in a team five strong. But in the everyday world Coe wanted to carry on inhabiting they’d be here next Tuesday at best, after daily harassment. One youth with a utility belt.

  “What about Driscoll?”

  “… What about him?”

  The sudden whine, the buzz.

  “No no no what’s the question? I’ll answer, just tell me the—”

  “Tearney told you to warn me off him?”

  “Yes.”

  “How? What did she say?”

  “She said he was—”

  Oh God, he thought, oh God, what did she say? That he was not in the picture, That he was—

  “—a person of interest, that’s all. Not one of us. He’s just someone who’s made a success of himself—”

  God, think, think. What had she said?

  “—that he’s been vetted for a gong. Both parties wooing him. And that’s all. That’s all.”

  “So he’s hands off.”

  “Yes. That’s what she said. That he’s out of bounds. He’s Do Not Disturb.”

  For a moment, the flat of the blade rested against Coe’s cheek.

  “If I decide Driscoll had anything to do with my son’s death, do you seriously think telling me he’s untouchable will have any effect?”

  Coe swallowed.

  “That was a question.”

  “… No.”

  “And here’s another one. Does Tearney believe that?”

  “… I don’t know.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  Another silence. All JK Coe could hear was the ticking of a clock, which was running fast, and not a clock at all but his own heart.

  There was a siren, somewhere, heading for a luckier emergency. But there was nobody coming for him.

  And his own stink hung in the air. He’d never be rid of that. He could live through this evening, junk the carpet, scrub the walls for a week. And still he’d smell his own shit every time he sat quietly in this room.

  Bettany said, “Off the books. Unofficial. A black-bag favour for a former comrade in arms. That’s the size of it, right?”

  “… Yes.”

  “If this turns out to be upside down …”

  Bettany was moving away now.

  “… If it turns out you’re using my son’s death, and by you I mean you or Tearney or anyone else within ten miles of the Park, to put me into play …”

  JK Coe waited.

  But there was no threat. There didn’t need to be a threat.

  Not after this.

  The distant siren faded. Through the windows the lights of London would be blinking on and winking off, tracing the thousand stories he’d never know the ending of, nor ever want to. Right now all he wanted was to disappear into a hole of his own making, somewhere dark and safe, with no room for anyone but himself.

  But the blade was back, its sudden electric whirr slicing his thoughts apart.

  Bettany held it against his bound left hand and Coe tensed, yelped, and saw fingers falling to the floor, one little two little three little piggies, and his hand became a hunk of misshapen gristle.

  I work in meat.

  But the buzz clicked off as something fell loose, and Bettany withdrew behind him once more.

  Afraid to speak, Coe flexed his fingers instead. The clothesline dropped away.

  Very carefully, very slowly, Coe did nothing. Didn’t rip himself free. Didn’t jump to his feet, screaming.

  Behind him a rustling, as if someone were getting dressed, ready to sneak into the night. The undoubted ending to so many of those other stories, winking and blinking away across London.

  A click reached his ears, like the sound of a door being closed.

  Coe waited but heard nothing else, other than what rose from the streets below, and his own breathing, and the too-fast ticking of his heart.

  “Bettany?”

  No reply.

  “Are you still there?”

  He’d seen this in a thousand movies, which always ended the same way. Best to stay still a while longer.

  It was a full ten minutes before he rose at last, and let the clothesline puddle at his feet.

  It was a good while longer before he stopped trembling.

  3.4

  Bettany dumped the high-vis tabard and clipboard in the first bin he came to. They were all he’d needed to gain access to Coe’s building. Problem with the electrics in the lobby, mate. Just come for a look-see. Half the time nobody cared what your reason was, they’d buzz you in just to get you off their intercom. And anyone wanting further credentials could see he was here to work—the jacket, the clipboard.

  The address had come courtesy of Bad Sam, who Bettany hoped never got to hear of this evening’s work.

  On Coe’s landing he’d disconnected the overhead lights then worked Coe’s lock with his brand-new toolkit, now dumped in the second bin he’d come to.

  After that it was a matter of preparing the environment, and waiting for Coe to show up.

  Bettany was on a bus now, upper deck. The streets were a dark carnival, people heading home, heading out, or settling in shop doorways with sheets of cardboard. He had slept rough a few times these past years. A life he’d fallen into without meaning it. When you cut all ties, you lost your choice of direction.

  But his old life was reaching out to him. Ingrid Tearney … She was a penthouse operative, in and out of Whitehall, back and forth to DC, while he’d been a joe then briefly a Dog, jobs where you got your hands dirty. So why her interest?

  Various answers suggested themselves. Things might, for instance, be as advertised, and to avoid having an ex-spook become a nuisance,
Tearney was giving him Marten Saar on a plate. It made a certain sense. If he’d continued rattling cages in clubland Bettany would have attracted attention, and spies—even former spies—made for headline news, which the Service didn’t like. And since the chances of him finding whoever’d actually sold Liam muskrat were non-existent, venting his anger on the big fish held definite appeal. So yes, it might be as simple as that.

  Of course, Tearney might have her own reasons for wanting rid of Saar, in which case getting Bettany to pull the trigger would be a big win. It would explain why she’d used small-fry Coe, and kept everything off the books. Greenlighting murder, even of a drug dealer, wouldn’t stand up to Cabinet scrutiny.

  But targeting Saar left a loose end flapping. Source of London’s muskrat or not, Marten Saar hadn’t been there when Liam fell to his death. And somebody had been. The missing lighter proved that.

  The bus, he registered, had been immobile for some time.

  Even as he had the thought it pulled out into traffic. But given he’d spent the last hour torturing a member of the intelligence service, he should probably be more alert. If the Dogs were looking—if Coe had rung the alarm—he’d be downstairs at the Park before the bus was at the terminus.

  Downstairs was where the hospitality suites were. Subtlety was never the Dogs’ strong point.

  But Coe had crapped himself, literally shit himself, in his own sitting room. He’d been drenched with fear, slippery as a fish, gleaming in what little light there was. He wasn’t going to sound the alarm. He’d go undercover instead, seal the memory off in a dark corner he’d try never to visit. Nobody would hear about it.

  Except Tearney, Bettany thought. Coe would tell Tearney, and blame her for it too. He was a virgin, and she’d thrown him to the wolf. Tearney had to have known Bettany would need to verify her message, and that he’d go overboard to do so. Stripping naked, plugging in the knife—if Coe had been a veteran Bettany would have had to hurt him, but because he wasn’t fear did all the work. Tearney had been around long enough to understand that. As of twenty minutes ago, Coe understood it too.