Red Crystal (29 page)

‘It was about the demo on Saturday,’ Nick said easily. ‘We both got walloped. I’m trying to get the civil liberties people interested in my case, and I wondered if Max was taking the matter further …’

‘You got beaten up, did you?’ Bishop asked, looking at the slight graze on Nick’s cheek.

‘Fractured skull.’ Nick drew an imaginary line from the back of his collar upwards. ‘Right up the back.’ He laughed and took another swig of beer.

Bishop looked impressed. While the others were talking he said, ‘Tell you what. Max’ll probably be around later. Up the Portobello, in the Castle.’

Nick asked doubtfully, ‘Er – much later?’

‘Ten.’

Nick pursed his lips. ‘Well, to tell the truth, I’m dead beat. I’ll have to give it a miss. But give him the message, will you? And tell him I’ll catch him later. Okay?’

It was eight when Nick left the pub. It was raining again and there was a cold wind blowing. Pulling up the collar on his jacket, he walked briskly to keep warm. He bought some fish and chips on the corner, and ate them as he walked down Ladbroke Grove to the Portobello Road. The Castle was a small pub sandwiched into a terrace of shops at the northern end of the road, on the unfashionable side of the elevated motorway, and well away from the tourists and the antique markets.

There was no obvious place to wait. He chose a doorway with a deep recess, diagonally opposite the pub. His head was aching again.

At quarter to ten he recognized Bishop coming along the street and turning into the pub.

Ten came and went. No Wheatfield. Ten-fifteen. Ten-thirty. For some reason he was unbelievably cold. He shivered violently and stamped his feet in an effort to keep warm.

Only half an hour until closing time.

Then at ten-forty, suddenly, there he was.

There was no mistaking the long hair, the black donkey jacket he always wore, and, as he came into a patch of light, the narrow bruised face with the wire-rimmed glasses.

Nick felt a surge of triumph. Then calmed himself.
Don’t count on anything. Not yet
.

At chucking-out time Bishop and Wheatfield emerged together. They paused on the pavement, exchanged a few words, and left separately, Bishop heading north, Wheatfield south.

Nick gave Wheatfield thirty yards then followed, staying on the opposite side of the road.

Wheatfield walked under the Westway elevated motorway then, pausing to look over his shoulder, crossed the street and headed down Lancaster Road, parallel to the Westway. The glance had been cursory, checking for traffic. Wheatfield was not worried about being watched.

That made all the difference. Nick relaxed a little.

Wheatfield paused at the next junction and turned left into a small residential street, quiet except for the drone of the traffic on the elevated road.

Wheatfield paused outside the front door of a house and, reaching into his pocket, produced a key and let himself in. Half a minute later a light went on in a top second-floor window.

Number eleven. And the street was called St Mark’s Villas.

Nick allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Nailed Wheatfield all on his own. Wait until he told Conway.

But now it was decision time. He could stay for a while and see if anyone else went in. Or he could go home and return early in the morning in the hope of tailing Wheatfield to his friends – specifically to Black Beard. But he was feeling horribly tired again – the head seemed to make him permanently sleepy – and to make matters worse he seemed to be getting a cold. The sensible thing would be to go home.

He started back along the street, but hesitated on the corner.

Damn it, he couldn’t bear to let Wheatfield slip through his fingers again.

There was a telephone box in the next street. Out of order. He swore vehemently. Eventually he found a working box in Westbourne Grove.

Conway wasn’t at home. He tried the office. He wasn’t there either.

He returned to St Mark’s Villas and waited for over an hour.

When he tried Conway’s number again, he was in. He was not happy to be disturbed. ‘What the hell, Nick. It’s one in the bloody morning!’

Nick said, ‘You won’t be so cross with me in a moment, Conway. I have something for you. But it’s going to cost you, old lad.’

Victoria didn’t need to ask Giorgio how he felt: it was only too obvious. He had all the signs of a terrible hangover. She’d heard him stumble in at four that morning, the smell of drink on his breath. The meeting must have gone on a long time. She conjured up the scene in her mind: the political discussions, the bottle of brandy, the smoky room. Men together, sharing ideas, scornful of outsiders. She was envious.

Now it was eleven and she was driving south-east out of the city, towards the suburbs. Giorgio sat beside her, his head against the seat, his eyes closed. Victoria resolved not to say anything unless it was absolutely necessary.

When they reached Ivry she finally stopped and, dreading the moment, whispered, ‘We‘re here. Do you have directions?’

He groaned slightly and, pulling a screwed-up paper from his pocket, handed it to her. It was a street name and number in Ivry, but she had no idea where. She showed the paper to a passer-by who gave her directions and, after a couple of false turns, she found herself in a small backstreet. It was a poor area, near a main railway line. The houses, which fronted straight on to the street, were shabby and colourless. Half-way along there was a car repair works, but otherwise there were few signs of life.

The house numbers were difficult to read but finally she identified the address on the paper, and stopped outside. It was a house, shuttered and quiet. She turned off the engine. Giorgio opened an eye and frowned. He said, ‘Down the side.’

She started up again and, after reversing, began to manoeuvre the van forwards into the gap between the house and its neighbour.

‘No, backwards!’ Giorgio hissed impatiently.

Victoria gripped the wheel and stopped. She backed out, did a three-point turn, and slowly reversed the van down the alley to a courtyard at the end.

Giorgio said, ‘You go for a walk now, for one hour.’

She opened her mouth to object, but he added impatiently, ‘I should not have brought you at all. I was not meant to – you understand?’

As she walked away she made the effort to accept the snub. But it was difficult. They were only leaflets, after all. Why she couldn’t be trusted to see them being loaded was beyond her.

She sat on a wall and watched the trains thundering past on the main line. She thought the matter through again. Perhaps she was being ungenerous; perhaps Giorgio was only trying to protect her.

She returned in a more cheerful frame of mind to find Giorgio waiting by the van. As she approached he got in and they drove off in silence. ‘Everything all right?’ she asked.

He nodded matter-of-factly. ‘Yes. Okay.’ But she noticed that he was wide awake now, his eyes gleaming, his manner restless.

When they reached the main road Victoria couldn’t at first identify what was different about the van. Then she realized that it was slower, more sluggish. There must be a lot of leaflets. She said, ‘You managed to get everything in?’

He gave her a black look, but she went on, ‘The load’s very heavy. I can feel it.’ Suddenly she wasn’t in the mood to be put off. She demanded, ‘Tell me, what are the leaflets for? You never told me exactly.’

He was silent for a moment and she could feel his eyes on her. Eventually he said, ‘They are to be sent out, given away … To working people. To’ – he was searching for the English words – ‘to make them realize they are being exploited.’

‘I see. Can I have a look at one?’

‘No, not possible.’

‘Why not?’

‘They are in boxes, hidden away …’

He was looking at her differently now, appraising her. He slid his hand across the back of the seat and began to stroke her neck. ‘Don’t worry. It is just better that you do not see them.’

She kept silent, but she wasn’t happy and she let it show on her face.

Giorgio said pleasantly, ‘We will have a good lunch – do you like seafood?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then – later, perhaps dinner too. Would you like that?’

‘Will you be going to another meeting afterwards?’

He shook his head.

She softened a little. ‘What about getting back?’

‘The morning will be all right. If you leave early.’

‘And you?’

‘I will fly tomorrow afternoon. You can meet me at the airport.’

She pictured the evening: a long leisurely dinner, candles, no rush, no meetings. And then back to the hotel to make love. One perfect evening. An opportunity that might never come again.

Her resistance vanished. One had to grab these moments – why not? Everyone else did.

Suddenly gay she said cheerfully, ‘I promised to take you out for a meal in Paris, remember? Well, dinner will be
my
treat! We’ll go somewhere really good. Do you accept?’

He shrugged. ‘If you wish.’

She glanced across at him, but he had turned to stare out of the window and she could not see his face.

Nick dreamed that he was in the wreckage of a road accident, sitting in a car which had been crushed by a lorry. Something heavy was pressing on his head. Helpers were trying to cut him out. Faces bent over him, discussing his condition. ‘It’s no good,’ someone said. ‘He’s had it.’

Then his mother was leaning over him, saying, ‘I told you this would happen.’ It wasn’t a car that he’d crashed now, but his go-cart which he’d built out of plywood and old pram wheels, his pride and joy and the envy of all his schoolmates. There was only one good slope in the area, at an old tip, and he’d raced down it for a bet, and hit a ridge and crashed into a metal refrigerator. His mam had said, ‘I told you so, but you wouldn’t listen.’ Which was true enough, because he never did listen. And now his head was hurting like hell and the ambulance bell was ringing loudly in his ears.

It jangled on and on. He woke resentfully and reached out for the alarm clock. He opened his eyes and screwed up his face. The cracking headache wasn’t a dream, nor was the raging sore throat and stuffed up nose. He thought: Terrific.

Before he had second thoughts about getting up, he swung his legs to the floor and sat up. He may have felt worse in his life, but he couldn’t remember when.

Ten-thirty. He’d had three hours’ sleep. And now he must hurry. He’d promised to relieve Conway at eleven.

Finding a piece of stale bread in the kitchen, he covered it with jam and made his way out. He saw a cruising cab and, taking it as divine intervention, hailed it and sank gratefully back against the seat. Extravagant, but today he didn’t care a damn.

He left the cab in a road adjacent to St Mark’s Villas and wondered if he’d find Conway on station or not. By now Wheatfield – and therefore Conway – could be anywhere in the Greater London area, which made it difficult for Nick to relieve him – a point Nick had carefully glossed over, both on the phone the previous night, and at seven that morning, when Conway had stood in for him.

But when he turned into St Mark’s Villas Conway was still there, sitting in his car, looking fed up. ‘Not a dicky bird,’ he reported as Nick climbed in. ‘No one remotely like Wheatfield.’ He gave Nick a hard stare. ‘Now look, me old mate, this is lunatic. You can’t stake this place on your own. Why can’t I go back and persuade the boss to do it properly, eh?’

Nick shrugged. ‘If he agrees, great. But I doubt he will.’ A full-scale surveillance was costly in men and resources, and was mounted far less often than people imagined. Nick added, ‘Just don’t mention my name, that’s all. He’ll go bananas.’ He hunted through his pockets for a handkerchief and sneezed.

‘And I’m to say I got this address from a snout, am I?’

‘Well, don’t complain, for God’s sake,’ Nick retorted. ‘It’ll be a gold star for you, won’t it?’

‘I’m not
complaining
. I’m just trying to get it right.’ He eyed Nick harshly. ‘You look bloody terrible, did you know that?’

‘Piss off. And without the car, if you don’t mind.’

When Conway had gone, Nick slid across to the driver’s side and, sinking deeper into the seat, settled down to wait. A heavy sneeze shook him. An aspirin would have been a good idea, but it was too late now.

He closed his eyes and dozed off for a second. Waking, he sat upright with a guilty start and turned on the radio. He listened to the news, then retuned the station. There was a symphony on Radio 3. He tried to identify it. Brahms? No, more like Mahler. Yes … lovely.

It was nice and warm in the car. The sun streamed in through the windscreen. His head fell forward. He dozed.

Wonderful dreams. On a warm beach. The sound of people in the distance. The whole afternoon ahead of him. But no. There was something wrong. The dream was disturbed. There was some reason why he mustn’t sleep and he couldn’t remember what it was …

Waking with a jolt, he rubbed his eyes and peered at his watch. Hell! How long had he been asleep?

He really
must
make an effort.

He looked up.

Christ!

Wheatfield.

Crossing the road. Heading this way. Coming towards the car.

Quickly, Nick opened the driver’s door and, sticking his feet out, spread his body across the front seats and pushed his head under the dashboard. He made a show of hunting for some imaginary electrical trouble.

Count to ten.
Slowly
.

He looked up tentatively. No Wheatfield in front.

He swivelled round. There! Behind – and disappearing fast round the corner.

The car would be a nuisance. He abandoned it and followed on foot.

Wheatfield was moving more cautiously today. Like a cat. Glancing from side to side.
Much
more alert.

Nick felt a twinge of excitement.
Whatever you’re up to, Wheatfield, I’ll get you
.

Twenty minutes later Nick was trying hard not to feel disappointed. After visiting a chemist, Wheatfield had gone into a stationery shop in the Bishop’s Bridge Road and emerged with a small parcel.

Now he was in an old-fashioned hardware store. It was all horribly domestic. Nick looked through a newsagent’s rack in disgust.