Down Cemetery Road (29 page)

‘Don’t know
what
?’ she repeated.

‘He doesn’t work here any more.’

She had been so sure he was dead that she almost laughed.

‘Is that
all
?’

‘. . . I don’t . . .’

‘Who’m I speaking to, anyway?’

‘My name’s Treadwell, Emma Tre–’

Sarah slammed the phone back on its hook.

In the lift again, heading back up to the room, she remembered a moment from ancient history, and a morning spent complaining to Wigwam about her boring life. No job. Housework. ‘You know what he said to me the other day? . . . I was handing him a cup of coffee, and he said
Thanks, em, Sarah
.’ No he hadn’t. He’d said ‘Thanks, Em – Sarah.’ Bastard. She reached the room in a mood to kill. And then that vanished too, and there was very nearly real panic this time as she pushed the door open on an empty bed in an empty –

‘Michael?
Michael!
’

‘What?’

He came out of the bathroom, a towel hanging limply over his shoulders.

Sarah pushed the door shut behind her, and leaned on it for support.

‘I thought you’d gone,’ he said.

Redundantly, she shook her head.

‘Anyway, we’ve been here too long. We should both be going.’ He went back into the bathroom, but left the door open. She could hear water running down the sink. She sat on the bed, and waited.

IV

The room was still on the same floor and had the same old calendar on the wall; the same window provided the same view of, probably, the same traffic snaking through the same lights. C had the same mane of silver grey hair, the same look of repressed fury, and the same tension headache was creeping up on Howard as he stood in the same place he had last time: just in front of the desk. That mark on the wall hadn’t been there before, though. Looked like a spider had been squashed about half-way up.

‘Let’s recap,’ said C.

Yes. Let’s.

‘You let Axel Crane, who was barking mad, go ballistic on an operation that called for finesse. He blew up a nice suburban house, scoring exactly fifty per cent in his attempt to eliminate the targets, Downey and Singleton. He also killed Singleton’s wife, and came this close to killing his young daughter, whom
Amos
Crane has since spirited away for use as bait to draw Downey out. Who meanwhile has killed Axel Crane, apparently to prevent him from murdering a local woman who got too nosy about Singleton’s daughter’s whereabouts. Said nosiness consisting in part of hiring a private detective, whom Axel
successfully
murdered. Did I miss anything important?’

Howard shook his head.

‘Good. Now, here’s the really interesting question. If only
one
part of that was to appear in the papers, which part would you like it to be?’

‘The bit about Downey killing Axel,’ Howard said.

C closed his eyes briefy. ‘Have you any idea how fucking rhetorical that was?’

This time, Howard didn’t reply.

From an office somewhere down the corridor a phone rang, which nobody answered. It was late afternoon, which in the Ministry for Urban Development counted as the wee small hours of the morning. Its name is MUD, Howard thought, inconsequentially. That gave them something in common, at any rate.

‘You’re supposed to be running a secret department, Howard. You don’t officially exist.’

Howard thought: Sure. Fine. But the problem with running a place that doesn’t exist is, you have to staff it with people who do. Which means creatures like the Crane brothers. Not much point in trying to get that across. ‘I’m aware of that.’

‘So why is Downey still on the loose? He’s been out of our hands since almost last Christmas. He’s been back in the country three weeks at least. Have you any idea how much damage he could do if he started talking? If anyone listened?’

‘Nobody would.’

‘You’d like to guarantee that, would you, Howard? You’d like to sign your fucking name to the promise?’

‘He’s a war criminal. We can prove it.’

‘Oh, brilliant. He’s also technically dead, Howard. We can prove that too.’ He shook his head. ‘We are at
war
, Howard. Along with our good allies across the water. Protecting the proud name of democracy, and all the rest of the bollocks. Do we really want the world to know that it’s our fault this time? Because some mad bugger with more ribbons on his uniform than brain cells in his head wanted live targets for the latest chemical toy? We won’t look quite so fucking noble all of a sudden, will we? You ever wonder what it’s like on the receiving end of sanctions, Howard? Or Scud fucking missiles, come to that? Because that’ll be the least of our bloody worries if Downey lives long enough to talk.’

‘If he was going to talk, he already would have. He’s been on the loose long enough.’

‘Didn’t have a woman with him, though, did he? Just him and Singleton, right? Combat conditions. It’s not like that now. And where’s Amos Crane, anyway?’

‘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 you 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.

Gerard said, ‘
What?
’ But Michael was already leaving the kitchen, Sarah tagging at his heels.