‘Would you like some tea?’ asks Martinek. ‘I’ve just made a pot.’
‘No tea for us, sir,’ says Graves.
‘You live alone here, sir?’ It’s a different voice. DS Henderson, I assume.
‘I do. Sit down, please. Mind if I fetch my tea? I don’t want it to stew.’
Martinek comes into view along the passage. He doesn’t move his head as he glances towards me. And his expression barely twitches. But he seems to be telling me to stay where I am.
I hear him pouring his tea. Then he reappears and heads back towards the sitting room. I gently open the bedroom door and peer inside. It looks like this was his mother’s room. In fact, it looks like she’s just stepped out to post a letter. There are brushes and cosmetics still laid out on the dressing-table. And in the dressing-table mirror I can see a pink quilted dressing-gown hanging on the back of the door. I can see my tight, frightened face in the mirror as well.
‘I’m a little confused, gentlemen.’ Martinek doesn’t sound confused. Sceptical is what he actually sounds. ‘I met Joe for a game of Go. An innocent Oriental pastime. Surely that’s not a police matter.’
‘We have reason to believe Mr Roberts may have come to some harm,’ says Graves. ‘After you parted.’
‘Really?’
‘We can’t go into details of an ongoing investigation. I’m sure you understand.’
‘How exactly did you part, sir?’ asks Henderson.
‘Joe left … with an acquaintance … before we finished the game.’
‘Did you know this acquaintance?’
‘I’d met her a couple of times, yes. Her name’s Nicole Nevinson.’
My blood runs cold when I hear him name me. Christ. I get the feeling he isn’t going to hold anything back. Except, I have to believe, that he met me on the bus and brought me back here and I’m standing a few metres away from them, listening to their every word.
They ask how he knows me. And he delivers the whole story. Me and Duncan Forrester showing up at the Records Office and subsequently asking him to challenge Joe to a Go rematch. Then me showing up unexpectedly at Costa and interrupting the game and spiriting Joe away.
Except it isn’t the whole story. He doesn’t mention being paid by us. He doesn’t mention the names Hexter and Roger Lam cropping up in conversation between me and Joe. The way he tells it, all I had to do was say Forrester was on his way and Joe agreed to go with us.
I’m wondering why Martinek had to be quite as forthcoming as he’s been when Henderson pipes up: ‘The waitress at Costa said Mr Roberts didn’t look best pleased at having to leave with Miss Nevinson.’ Now I get it. Martinek realizes they’ve already been to Costa. He couldn’t risk trying to edit me out of the picture.
‘I wasn’t pleased either.’ He’s surprisingly smooth. ‘The game was developing quite interestingly.’
‘But it was just a pretext, right?’ cuts in Roger.
‘A pretext?’
‘Their plan was to lure Joe to a location where they could pounce.’
‘Pounce?’
‘We believe Nicole Nevinson and Duncan Forrester have kidnapped Mr Roberts,’ says Graves.
‘You do?’
‘And they used you to get to him.’
‘He went with them quite willingly, Inspector. I had no intimation anything sinister was afoot.’
‘We’re not suggesting you did.’
‘Any chance I could use your loo, sir?’ asks Henderson suddenly.
I freeze. What do I do now?
‘Certainly,’ says Martinek. ‘The bathroom is at the end of the passage on the left.’
‘Sorry about this, Mr Martinek,’ says Graves. ‘My sergeant seems to have a bladder about the size of a peanut.’
I hear Henderson lumbering in my direction, so I step into the bedroom and ease the door to.
A few seconds pass. I get the feeling Henderson’s taking a good look round on his way. Then he looks closer. The door I’m standing behind is pushed warily open. Henderson’s need for the loo’s obviously a ploy. He can easily see the bathroom’s on the other side of the passage because I didn’t close the door. I shrink back behind the quilted dressing-gown and pray he doesn’t come all the way in, though even as I do so I wonder whether he’ll see me in the dressing-table mirror anyway.
‘That’s the wrong door, Sergeant,’ comes Martinek’s voice.
‘Oh.’
‘The bathroom’s the door opposite.’
‘Ah. Right. Thanks.’
I let out a relieved breath and hear the bathroom door close behind Henderson. The loo flushes a suspiciously short time later and then he’s out again. But Martinek’s obviously keeping watch from the kitchen to make sure he doesn’t do any more prying. ‘Sure you don’t want any tea? I’m just topping up my cup, but I can squeeze another out of the pot.’
‘I’m fine, sir, thanks,’ says Henderson. He sounds ever so slightly guilty.
A few seconds later, he and Martinek are back in the sitting room. I move into the doorway so I can hear what’s being said.
‘Did Nevinson or Forrester give you any indication of where they’re staying, Mr Martinek?’ asks Graves.
‘None,’ Martinek replies.
‘Did Miss Nevinson mention me when she was talking to Joe at Costa?’ asks Roger.
‘No. I’d have said so if she had. Do you know her, then?’
‘We’ve met.’
‘Really? Have you met Forrester as well?’
‘I don’t think it’s helpful to get into that, Mr Martinek,’ says Graves. ‘Suffice to say we’re very concerned about Mr Roberts and we’d be grateful for anything you can tell us that may lead us to where they’re holding him.’
‘It’s only a few hours since he left Costa with them, Inspector. If you’re already so worried about him, I assume there must’ve been some kind of ransom demand?’
‘I can’t comment on that.’
‘Right. OK.’
‘What I need to emphasize is that if you hear from Miss Nevinson or Mr Forrester, or Mr Roberts come to that, you need to tell us straight away.’
‘Of course I will, Inspector. But why would they contact me?’
‘It’s just an outside chance.’
‘Well, you can rely on me.’
‘Thank you, sir. Now, at some stage we’ll need you to come into the station in Cheltenham and make a witness statement about all this. I trust that won’t be a problem?’
‘None at all.’
‘Right, then. Better make a note of Mr Martinek’s phone number and email address, Sergeant.’
They leave a few minutes later. I stay where I am until Martinek appears at the corner of the hallway. ‘They’ve just driven off, Nicole,’ he announces. ‘Want that tea now?’
I join him in the kitchen, where I find him hoiking my shoulder-bag out of a cupboard.
‘Can’t be too careful, can you?’ He smiles lopsidedly at me, then fills the kettle and sets it to boil.
‘Thank you, Lewis.’ I’m surprised by the effort it takes me to say that. I don’t really want to be indebted to Martinek. But I am. ‘For not giving me away, I mean.’
‘To that bunch? Why should I tell them the truth when they sit in my own home and lie through their teeth?’
‘We didn’t kidnap Joe. That was never our intention.’
‘Clearly not. I don’t like Mr Lam. I don’t like him one bit.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t like someone who tried to kill you, would you? I can understand that.’
The kettle comes to the boil. He tops up the teapot. ‘D’you think they suspect you’re sheltering me, Lewis?’ I ask.
‘No. Why should they? I’m a bit part player in this drama. The snooping sergeant with the supposedly weak bladder? Just nosing into other people’s affairs like he always does, I suspect. To be honest, I had the feeling they wanted to test how much I knew. And I also had the feeling it was important I appeared to k
now as little as possible.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘So, your … reticence … has served me well, hasn’t it?’ He hands me a cup of tea. I sit down at the table. ‘Biscuit?’
‘Why not?’
He puts a shortbread on a plate for me. ‘What are you going to do now?’
I shake my head. ‘No idea.’
‘You can stay here tonight. If you want. I could order in Chinese. I learnt Go from the father of the man who runs the takeaway I use. I’m one of their better customers.’
‘Thanks.’ There’s nothing else I can say. I need to stay somewhere. And this, apparently, is where it’s going to be.
Martinek sits down at the table opposite me. ‘Are Forrester and Joe Roberts in danger?’
‘Forrester is, certainly. Joe … is someone they have a use for.’
‘They meaning GCHQ?’
‘The Intelligence Service, yes.’
‘What’s this really about? Cryptography?’
‘Sort of.’
‘How did you get mixed up in it?’
‘Bad luck. Bad judgement.’
‘An unfortunate combination.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘I’m not going to get my money, am I?’
‘I promise you will. When this is all over. But just for now I need all the cash I’ve got.’
‘You conned me.’
‘I suppose we did.’
‘I bet you never thought you’d see me again after leaving Costa with Joe.’
I can’t find anything to say to that. I shake my head wearily and drink some tea.
‘All in all, I have a lot to feel aggrieved about.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He looks unimpressed.
‘That’s the best I can do for now.’
‘Really? I see.’ He says no more, but the expression on his face suggests this isn’t the last I’ve heard on the subject.
I eat the Chinese food Martinek orders. I drink the Chinese beer he serves. I listen to a lengthy account of his playing record at Go. The evening passes.
I don’t know what I’m going to do tomorrow or where I’m going to go. The emptiness of the immediate future looms over me as I lie in the bath, staring up at the ceiling through whorls of steam. I should probably be worried about Martinek, but there are too many bigger threats from other quarters for me to think about him.
He makes up the bed in his mother’s room for me and asks me most particularly not to disturb any of her belongings. He doesn’t say how long she’s been dead or why he hasn’t cleared the room. He has a capacity for not explaining himself that’s mirrored by a tolerance for other people – like me – not explaining themselves either.
I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about how desperate my situation is. I really am at the end of my tether.
And then the phone pings.
It’s the phone Forrester gave me in Cheltenham, before I went to Costa. The one I used to tell him he should come and collect me and Joe. Only when I hear its tone, muffled inside my shoulder-bag, hanging on the dressing-table chair, do I realize that, stupidly, I’ve left it on all this time.
I scramble out of bed and grab the phone out of the bag. Relief. It’s just a text message from the service provider, offering umpteen free texts if I top up before Monday. I delete the message.
Then I notice there’s one other message lodged in the system. I call it up. Package sent yesterday. That’s all. No name attached. The origin’s just a phone number. Time of message: today, 1611. Christ, that must have been almost exactly when the Transit van hit the Land Rover this afternoon. No wonder I didn’t hear it.
I look at the sender’s number. It starts 00358. An overseas code? France is 0033, the US 001. But 00358?
I think about turning the phone off for a second, then I realize there’s no way I’m going to ignore the message. There’s no Internet connection – Martinek must have one, but maybe he’s deactivated it overnight – so I ring the operator. 00358 is the international dialling code for Finland. Finland.
I ring the number. It’s a couple of hours later in Finland, of course, so it’s the middle of the night. I’m not surprised no one picks up. An answerphone kicks in. Not surprisingly, the message is in Finnish. But I catch a name. Alvar Norrback.
I get so flustered trying to think what to say after the tone that I end up being cut off. I ring again. This time I’m ready.
‘My name is Nicole Nevinson. I’m a friend of Duncan Forrester. Alan Travers, that is. He knows your brother. I’ve got your message, but I don’t understand it. I can’t ask Duncan. We’ve been separated and the situation’s become desperate. Please call this number six a.m. tomorrow UK time.’ I’m calculating that’ll be eight o’clock in Finland, so he should have got the message by then. ‘Please respond to this call.’
That’s all I can think of to say.
I turn the phone off and plug it in to re-charge. It’s close to midnight. The safest thing to do, I know, is to keep the phone off until shortly before six o’clock tomorrow morning.
Six hours. That’s all. Not long, really.
Why did Forrester give me this phone? This particular phone? Did he foresee I might need to get the message he was waiting for on it? Surely he couldn’t have. Could he?
Package sent yesterday.
What package? Sent where?
I get back into bed. The message means something. That much I know for certain.
Right now, to me, it means something like hope.
Saturday October 19
I sleep fitfully and wake up heavy-headed. I’ve dreamt I’m trying to hold a gate shut that’s being slowly forced open from the other side. I know it’s Scaddan doing the forcing. And that he means to kill me. When I start awake, it takes me several queasy seconds to remember where I am.
When I hear the clock in the sitting room strike five, I give up on sleep altogether. At half past, I turn the phone back on. There are no messages.
Six o’clock. Nothing. A quarter past. Still nothing.
It’s dark outside. I can hear rain against the window. It’s dark in here too. Waiting is darkness.
When the phone rings, I’ve actually fallen back to sleep. I grab it from the bedside cabinet and answer it.
‘Hello?’
‘Nicole Nevinson?’ The voice is gravelly, old, Scandinavian-accented.
‘Yes. Alvar Norrback?’
‘No. He told me you’d called. This is his brother.’
Tahvo. I’m speaking to Tahvo Norrback. He’s no longer in custody. ‘Where are you?’
‘I have a question for you.’
‘What?’
‘On my brother’s twenty-first birthday, our parents gave him … what?’
Oh God. The question Forrester was primed to answer. But he never primed me. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You should.’
‘Duncan didn’t tell me what it was. Only that he knew.’
‘Maybe he didn’t tell you because he doesn’t trust you. And if he doesn’t trust you, how can I?’
‘You must. Please. I’m alone. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Where’s Duncan, as you call him?’
‘They have him. They took him. Yesterday.’
‘But not you?’
‘I got away.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Please don’t hang up. I need your help.’
‘Tell me something only Duncan could have told you.’
Christ. I scour my brain. Their meeting in Rome. What were the details? ‘Rome. A Sunday in December, 1989. You played him the—’
‘Don’t speak of that.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Where did we talk? In Rome, that Sunday?’
‘Ah … Piazza Navona. You, er, drank mulled wine.’
‘Yes.’ He thinks for a moment before continuing. ‘I drank mulled wine.’
‘Do you believe me now?’
A lengthy silenc
e. Then: ‘Are you in London?’
‘No.’
‘Can you get to London?’
‘Sure.’ Can I? I will if I have to.
‘The package should have reached its destination by now. Only Duncan can collect it. Or you.’
‘What’s in the package?’
‘What I tried to deliver to him three days ago.’
The tape? How is that possible? ‘I don’t understand. Is there more than one copy?’
‘I made copies before I left Helsinki. I brought one with me. Another was sent later by my brother to an address Duncan gave him.’
‘What address?’
‘I can’t risk saying it on a phone. But you and Duncan know the place. You’ve been there. I understand arrangements for the package to be sent there were made by a former colleague of Duncan’s.’
A former colleague. That can only be … Colin Bright. A last favour before quitting the country? I suppose it must’ve been. But the address can’t be his flat. He’s not there. So …
Mavis Lane.
‘Do you know where I mean, Miss Nevinson?’
‘Yes. I think I do.’
‘Go there. Get the package. Then we will meet. Phone me on this number. But not from the phone you’re using now. A new one. Better still, landline. You understand?’
‘I understand. Where—’
He’s gone. Call ended.
I turn the phone decisively off. I remember what Forrester said to me. Everything electronic is our enemy. But not the only enemy. How am I going to get to London? How am I going to evade all those cameras?
I get dressed, struggling to think as I hurry into my clothes. Maybe if I leave now and get the earliest train possible, I can be in London before anyone starts monitoring downloaded CCTV images.
It’s Saturday. The post will probably arrive early. But, with luck, the package is already there, awaiting collection. Surely Alvar Norrback will have sent it by some express service. Yes. It must be there. I can almost hear Colin’s voice on the phone to Mrs Lane. ‘For Mr Travers or Miss Nevinson only, Mavis. No one else. No one else must even know you have it.’ It’s there. All I have to do …
I tidy the bed, then open the door carefully, hoping not to wake Martinek. I head along to the kitchen, planning to scribble a thank-you note to him before leaving.
One False Move Page 25
