Nobody Walks

by Mick Herron

  The light was aquarium green. He scooped the softball off the floor, lofted it at the waiting net. It spun on the rim for a second, then dropped back.

  Liam had worked here. How many times had he played with this ball, that net? Was he a good shot? Had practice made him expert?

  He shook his head. The reasons you had, the ones that kept you going, you didn’t need them at the forefront of your mind. They’d muddle your vision. As long as the job lasted, you had to keep them warm and hidden. Only then could you take them out, check they hadn’t spoiled in the darkness.

  Thoughts of Liam had to wait. They shouldn’t take up headroom now.

  He’d spent the early hours by the canal, walking the towpath, slumping on the occasional bench while frost formed on stones. There’d been others out there but nobody approached him, with fair motive or foul. That had been just as well.

  He wasn’t tired, that was the odd thing. It was as if all the daily weaknesses had melted away, returning him to the state he’d known in one of his previous lives. He was becoming Martin Boyd again. Who’d known how to get a job done.

  Ask the Brothers McGarry.

  Flea finished on the phone.

  “What time will Vincent get here?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “An hour?”

  An hour.

  “Let’s get some coffee,” he said.

  4.6

  It was more like eighty minutes. They spent the first thirty mostly in silence, until Bettany realised Flea was staring at him unwaveringly—rarely blinking. She might have been studying a new kind of frog.

  As much to break her spell as anything, he said, “What Liam told you. About what I used to do.”

  “He said you were a spy.”

  “It’s true. I worked for the Intelligence Services.”

  “But not any more.”

  “Not any more, no.”

  “And what happened to Liam—it didn’t have anything to do with that, did it?”

  Bettany didn’t reply.

  “You think it did?”

  He said, “What does Driscoll do?”

  “Vincent? You know what he does. He designs games.”

  “Is that all?”

  She shook her head, but not in answer to his question. More at the absurdity of it.

  “Don’t tell me. You think game writing’s his cover? What, you think he’s working on some, some, some kind of mind control thing? Or designing a super-duper virus that’ll—”

  “He works in cyber-systems, and that’s—”

  “—I don’t know, knock out enemy weapon systems? Who are our enemies these days, anyway?”

  “—always of interest to the Service.”

  “The Service,” she said.

  “The Intelligence Service.”

  “I know what you meant. It’s the way you said it. As if it was the Church or something. Church with a capital.”

  He said, “It was a job, that’s all. But one that cast a long shadow. I thought I’d left it behind, but it seems to have caught me up. Caught Liam up.”

  “You really think that, don’t you? That Liam’s dead because of what you used to be?”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “It isn’t a coincidence. Liam dying isn’t a coincidence. If you’d been a, a, a doctor, would his death have anything to do with that?”

  Instead of answering, Bettany stood. Reflections from the canal drew shimmery nothings across the ceiling. He walked towards the windows.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You were a friend to Liam,” he said. “Thank you for that.” She didn’t reply.

  “We need to be upstairs now.”

  Eventually, Vincent arrived.

  He came through the street-side door, and because no one else had used that door this morning had to open it with a key. This cast a puzzled air over his footsteps, which they heard reach the centre of the office before he called out.

  “Where is everyone?”

  He wasn’t used to raising his voice, Bettany could tell. It had probably been a while since he’d had cause to. When you were rich, people made the effort to listen.

  Flea called, “We’re up here, Vincent.”

  “Flea?”

  “Up here.”

  “Where is everyone?”

  But he was coming up the stairs.

  “Flea?”

  He was in the office before he realised they weren’t alone. “Mr. Bettany?”

  “You on your own?”

  “What are you doing here? Where’s everyone else?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “It’s all right, Vincent, it’s just—”

  “Quiet. Driscoll. Are you on your own?”

  “Boo’s just parking. Flea, what is this? Did you let him in? And—”

  “She didn’t let me in, Driscoll. I turned up.”

  The front door opened again and Boo Berryman came in. They heard his footsteps reach the centre of the hallway, then stop.

  “Better get him up here,” Bettany said.

  “Boo?” Vincent called. “We’re up here. With Mr. Bettany.”

  Boo was quiet on the stairs, and entered the office carefully, trying to take everything in at once. “You okay?” he asked.

  His question was for the others, but his eyes were on Bettany.

  “You might want to stand over there,” Bettany said, indicating the wall to his left.

  Boo Berryman said, “Is this a joke? You want me to get rid of him?”

  Bettany glanced window-wards, then pulled the Makarov from his pocket.

  “You said you wouldn’t—” began Flea.

  “Quiet. You two. Against the wall.”

  He meant Boo and the girl. Driscoll, he wanted to stay where he was, just this side of the desk.

  Boo said, “You piece of shit.”

  “Yeah yeah. Against the wall.”

  “I should take that off you and—”

  “Boo,” Driscoll said. “Let’s do as he says.”

  Driscoll seemed the calmest, thought Bettany. Well, that figured. He gave the impression of being sealed behind glass.

  See how long that lasts.

  Boo and Flea stood in front of the movie poster. Bettany kicked the door shut and pointed the gun at Driscoll, waggling it briefly towards the opposite wall.

  “You want me to move.”

  “That’s the general idea.”

  Driscoll did, leaving Bettany with a clear view through the window behind the desk.

  “What are you after, Mr Bettany?”

  “Answers.”

  “I can assure you, nobody here had anything to do with your son’s death.”

  “Have I asked any questions yet?”

  “… No.”

  “Then shut up.”

  Bettany glanced at Flea briefly and lowered the gun. Then looked at Boo.

  “Don’t get clever. Even if both knees worked, you’d not get near me.”

  Boo sneered.

  “So what are your questions, Mr. Bettany?” Driscoll asked.

  Bettany noted the mister. Grace under pressure, he thought.

  Then again, Driscoll might be taking the piss.

  He said, “Why aren’t you getting richer off your new game?” and was rewarded with a dumbfounded look.

  There, he thought. That got a response.

  The landlord wore a corduroy shirt and was called Greenleaf. Good name, thought Bishop. He looked like a strong gust would tear him off and blow him away.

  Bishop said, “You’ve got an upstairs flat, one a kid took a dive from?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “I’m sure. Anyone there at the moment?”

  “There’s a temporary occupant.”

  “He around?”

  Greenleaf sneered. “Says he’s the father. Says what’s left of the tenancy’s his by rights. I should have consulted my solicitor. He could be anyone, know what I’m saying?”

  “But he’s n
ot here now?”

  “Turned up with a beard, looking like he crawled from under a bridge.”

  “Tidied himself up, did he?”

  “Still smells a wrong ’un.”

  But either way, he wasn’t in.

  Greenleaf didn’t want to part with a key, but maybe Bishop like smelled a wrong ’un too, because it only took a hard stare to change his mind. He retreated with a grumbled litany of a type familiar to Bishop, one that would increase in bravery once doors were closed, and Bishop elsewhere. This didn’t faze Bishop. Indeed, its absence would cause him worry.

  He was quiet entering the flat, for all its vacancy. Always assume there’s a sleeping dog. There wasn’t, but he stuck his head into every room before marginally relaxing, and saw nothing bar junkie-bait—laptop, iPod, TV. Not what he was here for.

  Which was an indication Bettany would be back. Greenleaf reckoned he was roosting, but Bettany was a pro. All he needed was a plan—or failing that, an opportunity—and he’d put his vengeance into motion. After that, the last place he’d been was the last place he’d come back to. His son’s flat would gather dust until the rent ran out.

  So Bishop turned the place over, opening drawers, checking behind radiators. He found a baggie of muskrat, definitely the son’s—pros don’t get stoned, not on enemy territory. Bedroom and bathroom done, he returned to the kitchen. Nothing in the fridge, nothing in the oven—single men, living alone, the oven was often a good place to hide things. There, or under a pile of takeaway cartons. But everything was neat and clean, the dope the only hint of dissipation. A little touch of oblivion the kid wouldn’t be needing now.

  Bettany had been sleeping on the couch. A cushion bore the imprint of his head.

  But there was nothing to indicate that he was coming back, or nothing until Bishop finally took note of what was staring him in the face. Not hidden—that was the trick of it—but out in the open, on the kitchen table.

  You are kidding, he thought.

  But he wasn’t, or it wasn’t. This was it, the famous bag, a cloth one with a book cover on it, Brighton Rock. Soft, unstructured, it had collapsed around its contents, taking on the shape of the urn which Bishop lifted out now. Smaller than you’d expect, even to Bishop, who’d seen bodies crammed into pretty tiny places. He unscrewed the lid and dipped a finger in. Dust and grit and what looked like plaque, the stuff you spat into a basin when the dentist scraped your teeth.

  Bishop had to resist the impulse to lick his finger clean.

  He screwed the lid on and replaced the tin in the bag. Checked to make sure he’d left nothing out of place, then went downstairs.

  “You won’t be mentioning this to Mr. Bettany.”

  Some you had to bribe, and some you simply had to inform.

  Greenleaf said, “I checked the rent book. He’s only got till Wednesday.”

  If he’s lucky, thought Bishop.

  “I’ll hang onto the key for the moment,” he said. “If that’s all right with you.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Back at the car he made a few calls. Half an hour from now the area would be covered, every junction with its own pair of eyes, its own pair of hands.

  Bettany was coming back. Didn’t matter where he was right now, he’d have to come back for his son. No way would he leave him on the kitchen table. One minute after the rent was due, that goblin of a landlord would rinse the urn and put it on eBay.

  He cracked his knuckles. Funny, he thought. He was thinking of him as Bettany now. For years he’d been Martin Boyd, even though for seven of those years everyone knew he’d been no one of the sort, but now he had the name Bettany, and it fitted him like a glove.

  Just one of the things that would be peeled from him before long.

  A car arrived, four occupants, all familiar. Bishop pointed to the flat, then gave two fingers each to both ends of the road. A nod from the driver and off the car went. A white van followed it, its windowless back doors coated in muck. I WISH MY OLD LADY WAS AS DIRTY AS THIS someone had scrawled. You ever saw a clean white van, first thing you’d do was alert the police. It was obviously suspicious, officer. Someone had washed it.

  No knowing how long this would take, but there wasn’t a desperate hurry. Think of the Brothers McGarry—they had nothing but time, thanks to Bettany. There was three years of his own life he’d not be getting back too. That kind of thing taught you patience.

  4.7

  Through the window something distantly flashed—a faraway jet, a dab of moisture on an aerial, a shard of glass in a magpie’s beak. Anything or nothing. Some reflections produce themselves.

  “It’s not really a new game,” Driscoll said. “Just a new generation of the old one. But yes, you’re right, I’m not going to be making money off it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m giving it away.”

  For some reason it felt like just the two of them now. Bettany knew Boo Berryman was weighing him up, drawing mental diagrams showing arrows and tipping points and the loose trajectories of unintentional bullets, but he also knew that any move Boo Berryman made, he might as well send Flea Pointer in front waving a red flag. Boo thought he was match-fit, but he didn’t worry Bettany.

  He said, “Is that usual?”

  “Is that your second question?”

  “Call it a follow-up.”

  Driscoll gave the slightest of nods, as if this were a perfectly reasonable request in a perfectly reasonable conversation.

  “It happens. Lots of companies release free product.”

  “Usually because they plan to make money off it some other way. Which you don’t, apparently.”

  Driscoll retreated inside himself a little way, then came back. He removed his glasses. Without their tinted lenses, his face seemed paler.

  He said, “Okay, if it means so much to you. And because you’re holding a gun. I’m giving it away because it’s old news. Shades made money because it was a good idea. It appealed to the conspiracy theorist inside every gamer. They all think there’s something being kept from us, so giving them a game which played on this was bound to be a winner. So the second one was bound to be a winner too, because the same people were always going to buy it, even if they didn’t like it as much. Gamers are completists. But a third … I wrote Shades 3, Mr. Bettany, because I couldn’t find a way not to. Because I hate to leave a story unfinished. But I’m giving it away because it’ll never make money anyway. Its moment has passed.”

  “So what are your marketing people for? Window dressing?”

  Disconcertingly, Driscoll laughed.

  “I supposed they are, really. All of this …”

  He indicated the building they stood in.

  “It makes for a good show. And the team, they do their best. They’re very … involved. Except it turns out that playing games is easier than inventing them.”

  “But not for you.”

  Driscoll said, “I got lucky. Why did you want to know all that?”

  “Because I’ve asked before. And nobody answered.”

  “You must live life in a very straight line.”

  “I’m not the only one. I presume the reason nobody answered is you’re keeping it quiet for now. Why’s that?”

  “Another follow-up?”

  “Mmm-hm.”

  Driscoll said, “It’s not going to be popular with the shareholders.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Not that they can stop me. I own fifty-five per cent of the company. But I’m not sure it’s entirely secret. There’s been a bit of gossip.”

  He didn’t look Flea’s way saying this, but Bettany suspected that took effort.

  Driscoll said, “So what was your second question?”

  “What?”

  “You said you had two questions. What was the second?”

  “Oh, right,” said Bettany. “Second question. What happens when I do this?”

  Pointing the gun towards Driscoll, he pulled the trigger.
/>   Dame Ingrid was on walkabout.

  She’d circled the hub, Ops territory, and bearded Diana Taverner in her den—Taverner Second-Desked Ops, and could turn a 360 loop without ever taking her eyes off Dame Ingrid’s job. Dropping in unexpectedly, which Tearney did every third or fourth time the thought occurred to her (it was important to keep these events random), was a way of reminding Lady Di whose shadow she walked in. After that she’d been touring the hallways, buttonholing the odd virgin (“And what is it you do?”, the monarchical phrasing only partly satirical) and generally playing up to the image, when the mobile in her pocket whined like an incoming doodlebug.

  CALL ME the text read. Since when was she issued instructions?

  There was a slight fraying on her right cuff. Since then, maybe. Since cuffs started to fray.

  She took the lift further down, below the streets, below the daylight.

  More than half of London was underground. Another city shadowing the first. A lot of what happened in this secret city quite rightly took place out of sight of the sun, from little sins in the subways to the sometimes quite frightening events triggered in the vast network of corridors and rooms beneath Whitehall. And here under Regent’s Park, some floors below the one at which she alighted now, various events had occurred in recent years which it was occasionally her duty to deny had ever taken place. Not on English soil was her preferred phrase. Such things—the treatment of suspects, the over-rigorous pursuit of testimony—did not take place on English soil, as she had stated more than once to more than one committee. And this remained the legal truth of the matter, as the things in question were taking place some distance below that.

  No matter now. Instead, the level at which she emerged housed Strategy, sometimes called the Zoo, because strategy wonks were frequently nocturnal, often unsocialised, and usually in need of a shower. But for obvious reasons, they also had the most secure offices.

  “I need to make a call,” she informed the really quite attractive young man with a Security laminate who was posted by the lifts.

  “Of course, Dame Ingrid.”

  He led her along the corridor to an empty room which buzzed a little, a white-static fizz that acted like a mosquito net, though it sounded like a mosquito. It was an audible security blanket, indicating that the room was unbugged, unbuggable.