A Dying Breed, page 13
Carver sat back down. He shuffled closer to Patrick and spoke in low whisper. ‘How the hell do you know about Berry?’
‘I saw you talking last night, at the party …’
‘Yeah, but how do you—never mind. No, it’s not Berry. I’m not going to tell you who it is, but after I’ve met him, once I know what’s going on, I’ll give you a call. I’ve got your mobile, give me your home number.’ Patrick dictated his home number and William punched it into his phone. ‘What if your girlfriend picks up. Does she know about me?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she knows you’re heading off to Afghanistan to get your bollocks shot off?’
‘I didn’t put it like that.’
‘She can’t be that keen if she’s all right with you buggering off to the most dangerous country in the world without a second thought.’ William didn’t give Patrick time to frame a reply. He put his hand on Patrick’s shoulder and used it to push himself upright. ‘Don’t worry; anything happens to you, I’ll look after her. What did you say her name was?’
William arrived half an hour early for his appointment at the Charing Cross hotel. It was dusk and the pigeons were quick-stepping across the cobblestones, picking at scraps of discarded food and trying to avoid the waves of office workers rushing for trains that would take them home to the suburbs. Carver held a copy of the Economist open in front of him but he wasn’t reading it. Instead, he watched the people and the traffic and the sky, which was turning a rich red high above Trafalgar Square. There was an annoying twitch around his left eyelid. He rubbed at it and tried to remember what its cause was: lack of sleep? Not enough vitamin C? A coach crawled slowly down the Strand before turning and parking illegally on a side road not far from where William stood. Chatham Special, it said on the front.
‘That’s a lie,’ William muttered. The coach doors opened with a pneumatic hiss and a small army of theatre-goers tumbled out. They formed an orderly line on the pavement. All were older than William, and all were dressed for a big night out: the men wore blazers with polished buttons; the women were dressed like Queen Elizabeth at various stages of her long career.
Dr Berry was late and William was aware that the smartly dressed redhead reading the Evening Standard by Boots hadn’t moved or, it seemed, turned a page of her paper in at least ten minutes. There was a watchful air to her that William didn’t like. He decided to take a walk around the block. By the time he got back the woman had gone but there was still no sign of Berry. He decided to check inside. He looked in the Strand lounge first; it was crowded and he heard several languages being spoken simultaneously. His eyes swept the room in search of a middle-aged civil servant with a beard. He found Berry in the next-door bar. It was quieter in here and his man was sitting with his back to the door staring up at an old print of Charing Cross station, circa 1900. William took the chair opposite, smiled and offered his hand, which Berry shook briefly but with a good grip. Berry’s other hand was lightly bandaged and held an empty glass. Something about the man’s mood and manner told William that this finished drink had not been his first.
‘Good evening.’
‘I thought you’d stood me up. I was about to head off home.’
‘I’m sorry, I thought we were meeting outside.’ William wouldn’t tell Berry about the woman in the suit; his contact seemed fragile enough already. ‘Can I get you another drink?’ He nodded at the empty glass.
‘Why not? Gin and tonic, lots of ice.’
William went to the bar and returned quickly with a double gin and tonic and a Coke for himself. Berry watched as he fumbled the receipt into his wallet.
‘Ah, yes. You can claim for that, I suppose. “Drinks with an informer.” Is that what you’ll write on the expenses slip?’
William smiled but otherwise ignored the question. Berry looked dreadful, much worse than at the party the previous night. His brown eyes were heavily bagged, his beard unkempt and his hair uncombed.
‘I suppose you do this sort of thing a lot, Mr Carver?’
‘This sort of thing?’
‘Meeting with people in anonymous hotels, hoping they will tell you things they shouldn’t?’
‘I do it quite a lot, yes. It seems to be part of the job. What happened to your hand?’
Berry looked down at the bandage. ‘Sawing logs. The wood was too young, too much sap. Damn saw nearly had me ruddy hand off. I should know better.’ He twisted the bandage and took a gulp of his drink. ‘Do you know, Mr Carver, I once wanted to be a journalist? I tried my hand at university and I rather liked it. My father talked me out of the idea in the end. He said that journalists were a grubby bunch who were paid not very much money to ask questions about things which were none of their business.’
Carver smiled. ‘That about sums it up. Wise man, your dad.’
‘Not really. A time-serving, middle-ranking civil servant, just like me. Just exactly like me. How about another drink?’
‘Sure. Same again?’ Carver still wasn’t sure what to make of this man.
‘Make it a double.’
William returned with a treble. He tucked the second receipt away next to the first while Berry watched. No point hiding it.
‘What shall we talk about, Dr Berry?’
‘Right, so I heard your report on the killing of Fazil Jabar.’ Berry rubbed at his beard.
‘Yes, you told me that, at the party.’
‘So I did. Well, your report was straightforward, perfectly good as far as it went, but I just wondered whether you were planning to do any more on Jabar?’
‘I don’t know. Do you think I should?’
‘Was everything that you know about Fazil Jabar in that report?’
‘Everything I knew then, not everything I know now.’
‘What do you know now?’
Carver set his drink down a little sharply. He took a quick glance around the bar before answering. ‘Forgive me, Dr Berry, but I’ve been shafted by spooks too recently and too thoroughly to just sit here and tell you everything I know with no quid pro quo and no guarantee that you aren’t playing me. You asked to meet me, remember? Not the other way round.’
The civil servant held up a placatory hand. ‘Quite right. Quite right. Let me start again. I have no intention of shafting you, as you put it. I’m trying to help. Your report on the killing of Fazil Jabar was very straightforward, but Jabar wasn’t straightforward; he was a complicated character, and significant. Do you have any idea how fortuitous it was that the Taliban decided to blow him to hell?’
‘Fortuitous? For who?’
‘For whom. Good question. For us, I suppose. For the UK. For British business.’
‘Go on.’
‘I work in a department of government that attempts to pursue British commercial interests overseas, using various levers.’
‘You’re a trade official.’
‘Yes, in a manner of speaking. I work at the points where our trading interests overlap with other departmental business. Where trade meets development, or defence, or diplomacy, or all those things. There has been a lot of talk recently about using every means at our disposal to help British industry. That’s what my department is for.’
‘Promoting UK plc,’ said William. Berry winced.
‘Exactly. Dreadful phrase, but yes.’ He took a sip of his drink and looked around the bar. ‘The day Fazil Jabar got himself blown up was a rather good day for UK plc. You see, one of the biggest prizes in Afghanistan at the moment is a licence to run a new telecommunications operation, a mobile network.’
‘Really? That’s hard to believe. The place is practically in the Stone Age.’
‘True. But it will skip the various ages between stone and whatever we are now very quickly. We estimate that the telecoms licence will be worth hundreds of millions, perhaps billions, within a decade. In India, Mr Carver, more people have mobile phones than toothbrushes.’
William nodded, encouraging his man on.
‘Fazil Jabar was a district chief. He was a reasonably successful politician, but he was more than that. He was also a lobbyist. The public face for a group of Afghan businesses who had come together to win the telecommunications contract. This wasn’t a secret but it wasn’t much reported either. Some of the people in this consortium weren’t altogether respectable, I fear, but Jabar made the whole thing look rather good, not least because his cousin happens to be the Afghan communications minister. I’m sure you know, Mr Carver, that in Kabul such coincidences can be remarkably important. With Jabar on board, they were well ahead of any other bidders. The Afghan government is due to make the decision in the next few weeks, and no one seriously expected Fazil Jabar’s group to fail.’
‘I’m with you.’
‘A competing bid, a UK-led bid, was running in a very creditable second place. Now, with Jabar gone, it seems we’re right out in front.’
‘Lucky us. So what are you suggesting, Doctor?’
Berry folded his arms. ‘I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Carver, and thus far I’m not telling you anything which you couldn’t have heard from several other people or even discovered for yourself, if you were reading the right trade journals. I only contacted you because, so far, no one seems to be looking at the bigger picture and I think that might be—remiss.’
‘I see.’ William paused. ‘So, say you were me, Dr Berry, and you wanted to learn a little more, join up some of these dots which you have been talking about. Where would you be looking?’
‘I can’t tell you how to do your job, Carver, but I would’ve thought that basic journalistic practice would point you in the direction of Companies House. A careful look at the company accounts for the UK bidders might be helpful. The lead firm is Aftel, a subsidiary of one of the big boys. Maybe there’s something interesting there?’ Berry glanced nervously around the bar again and then looked at his watch, which was attached rather loosely to the wrist above his bandaged hand. ‘I should go. We’ve talked long enough. Or rather, I’ve talked. My wife might wonder where I am.’ The civil servant picked up his briefcase and stood a little unsteadily. William got up to help, but Berry waved him away. ‘I’m fine. Good luck, goodbye.’
Carver finished his Coke, then ordered a large whisky and drank it down. If he stayed, he knew he would just keep drinking. He considered going back to his flat, but there was nothing for him there. He needed to think, and he did his best thinking on the move. The rush-hour crowd had thinned by the time he left the hotel. He took the stairs down into Charing Cross underground station and followed the signs for the Northern Line; opting for northbound, he walked to the end of the platform and when the next train drew in, he settled himself in the last seat in the last carriage, next to the locked driver’s cab. He placed his plastic bag of papers next to him and pulled out the notebook and biro. The journey to the end of the line took forty minutes. At High Barnet he got out, crossed the platform, and took the next train south, back the way he’d come.
11 The Watchers and the Watched
DATELINE: Kilburn High Road, London, NW6, July 1st
She could hear Mariscal wheezing his way up the last flight of stairs. The woman watched through the peephole as he caught his breath, leaning with one hand on the bannister, the other swinging like a dead weight. The fish-eye lens exaggerated the size of his head and made her smile. He took a few deep breaths, ruffled his hair, tucked in his shirt, and knocked twice. She opened straight away, taking him by surprise.
‘Oh, all right, love? How’re you?’
She stared at him. ‘No flowers, Rob? No bottle of wine?’
Rob glanced down at his hands, as if he might have brought something but had somehow forgotten he was holding it. ‘I thought I was coming over for a shag. I brought my penis,’ he grinned, half-apologetically. He walked past the woman into the flat. ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’ It was a decent size, for a bedsit. He’d seen worse. He’d lived in worse. The walls were whitewashed, clean and without decoration apart from a framed Dora Maar print hanging above the single bed. There was a kitchen at one end, an armchair, a wooden folding chair and an expensive-looking armoire with a pile of suitcases stacked on top.
‘Planning a big trip?’
‘No. It’s books. Lots of books.’
Rob nodded, acknowledging that he knew about books and could see that they might be stored in suitcases. He pulled a packet of fags from his front pocket.
‘You can’t smoke in here,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t smoke. My boyfriend will smell it.’
‘Oh, right. Can’t I just pop my head out there?’ He gestured at the window by the bed and she nodded. Rob knelt on the bed, pushed the sash window open and stuck his head through. He smoked two cigarettes in quick succession, flicking the ash on a bird-shit-stained shop awning below. While he smoked, she made two small coffees, each with a shot of brandy. She brought them over and handed him one. He took a slurp.
‘God, that’s strong. Tastes like rocket fuel.’
‘It’s Spanish.’
‘Ah. Muy bien.’
They drank in silence, sitting awkwardly, side-by-side, on the narrow bed, exchanging the odd glance. After a few minutes of this she finished her coffee in a quick gulp, took the half-finished cup from his hand and walked back to the kitchen.
‘Take off your clothes,’ she ordered from the other side of the room.
Rob did as she asked. He placed his shoes under the folding chair and draped his trousers over it, his Paisley Y-fronts hidden underneath. He kept his black shirt on, unbuttoned to the top of his gut, and climbed into bed. The sheets felt good, clean and cold. When she returned her hands were red from the hot washing-up water and her face was a little pale. She lifted her patterned dress over her head in one movement and draped it over the armchair. Underneath she wore a bright white, new-looking bra and knickers. Rob breathed in quietly. The woman slid under the duvet, pulling it up to her neck, and pushed Rob over to the side closest to the wall. He reached for the blind-pull but she moved one slim leg over his, rolled on top of him and pinned both arms above his head. ‘No blinds. I want to look at you.’
‘I look a lot better with the lights off.’
‘Tough.’ She freed his left hand and placed it on her shoulder; while he fumbled with her bra clip she unbuttoned his black shirt and dragged it from under him, tearing it very slightly. He sucked in his belly and held it for as long as he could. The blinds stayed up and the window stayed open. The street noise was louder than their fucking until the moment Rob came with an animal grunt.
Afterwards he moved his arm under and around her, dragging them tightly together, his face in her hair. She closed her eyes. She could smell sweat, work and old smoke. Rob lay very still. He would have liked to stay, but he couldn’t. He counted silently in his head to one hundred and then began slowly disentangling himself.
‘I’d better get going. Loads of meetings. And the cab’s a wait-and-return.’ He half dressed and then looked around. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’
‘Downstairs. It’s shared.’
‘You’re joking.’
She watched him consider dashing downstairs in his shirt and socks and then reject the idea. ‘Do you mind if I use that?’ He nodded at the kitchen. There was the sound of running water. Kneeling up on the bed, she watched as Rob Mariscal washed his prick with Fairy Liquid. When he returned, she was lying back down, wrapped tightly in the stained white sheet. He finished dressing, sitting on the end of the bed to tie his shoes. Then he stood, uncertain.
‘So, listen. Er, thanks, that was, you know? Really nice. How about next time we go for dinner? I saw a decent-looking pizza place downstairs.’
She smiled and nodded, certain that this dinner would never happen. ‘Sure. Why not? You should go. We’ll talk later.’
Rob smiled broadly; he’d been pardoned. He bent and kissed her on the forehead before walking towards the door. She gave him time to work his way down the stairs and then sat up and looked out on to the street. She could still taste him in her mouth – his sour, smoky breath. There he was, a lit fag already hanging from his lower lip, hoiking up his trousers with one hand while waving at his driver with the other. She wondered how it was possible to have feelings for Rob Mariscal.
The armchair was close to the wardrobe. She stepped on to it, found her balance and, stretching, pulled down the top suitcase then the two smaller ones beneath. She reached into the smallest case and retrieved the camera that had been taped inside, its lens wedged into a neat hole cut into the side. She pressed a button and waited while the machine coughed up its contents with a mechanical whirr. She looked at the tape. Sixty minutes. What a joke. The woman wondered where she might find cheaper tapes with a shorter duration.
Five past nine. The visitors’ entrance to Companies House was still locked. Patrick watched the receptionist wandering about inside and tried to hide his growing impatience.
Carver had finally returned Patrick’s increasingly desperate voicemail messages just before midnight. He’d called on the home number and spoken briefly to Rebecca before she handed the phone over.
‘All right Patrick, how you getting along?’
‘Fine,’ said Patrick, wrong-footed by Carver’s friendly tone. ‘Did you get my message about Kabul? We’re booked on the lunchtime flight, day after tomorrow, via Delhi; that was the first flight I could get us on.’
‘That’s fine.’ William had sounded pleased, ‘because we’ve both got things we need to do tomorrow. I spoke to my contact and there’s a little work I need from you. Research work.’
Patrick’s spirits lifted further. Research. Some proper journalism at last. ‘Great. That’s fantastic. What is it?’
‘Don’t get too excited and don’t ask stupid questions over the phone. Just clear your diary for tomorrow and meet me at half eight outside the British Museum.’
‘Half eight. I’ll be there.’
‘Good. See you then. Oh, and Patrick—bring a calculator.’
Rebecca watched Patrick replace the receiver. ‘So that was William Carver?’
‘I saw you talking last night, at the party …’
‘Yeah, but how do you—never mind. No, it’s not Berry. I’m not going to tell you who it is, but after I’ve met him, once I know what’s going on, I’ll give you a call. I’ve got your mobile, give me your home number.’ Patrick dictated his home number and William punched it into his phone. ‘What if your girlfriend picks up. Does she know about me?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she knows you’re heading off to Afghanistan to get your bollocks shot off?’
‘I didn’t put it like that.’
‘She can’t be that keen if she’s all right with you buggering off to the most dangerous country in the world without a second thought.’ William didn’t give Patrick time to frame a reply. He put his hand on Patrick’s shoulder and used it to push himself upright. ‘Don’t worry; anything happens to you, I’ll look after her. What did you say her name was?’
William arrived half an hour early for his appointment at the Charing Cross hotel. It was dusk and the pigeons were quick-stepping across the cobblestones, picking at scraps of discarded food and trying to avoid the waves of office workers rushing for trains that would take them home to the suburbs. Carver held a copy of the Economist open in front of him but he wasn’t reading it. Instead, he watched the people and the traffic and the sky, which was turning a rich red high above Trafalgar Square. There was an annoying twitch around his left eyelid. He rubbed at it and tried to remember what its cause was: lack of sleep? Not enough vitamin C? A coach crawled slowly down the Strand before turning and parking illegally on a side road not far from where William stood. Chatham Special, it said on the front.
‘That’s a lie,’ William muttered. The coach doors opened with a pneumatic hiss and a small army of theatre-goers tumbled out. They formed an orderly line on the pavement. All were older than William, and all were dressed for a big night out: the men wore blazers with polished buttons; the women were dressed like Queen Elizabeth at various stages of her long career.
Dr Berry was late and William was aware that the smartly dressed redhead reading the Evening Standard by Boots hadn’t moved or, it seemed, turned a page of her paper in at least ten minutes. There was a watchful air to her that William didn’t like. He decided to take a walk around the block. By the time he got back the woman had gone but there was still no sign of Berry. He decided to check inside. He looked in the Strand lounge first; it was crowded and he heard several languages being spoken simultaneously. His eyes swept the room in search of a middle-aged civil servant with a beard. He found Berry in the next-door bar. It was quieter in here and his man was sitting with his back to the door staring up at an old print of Charing Cross station, circa 1900. William took the chair opposite, smiled and offered his hand, which Berry shook briefly but with a good grip. Berry’s other hand was lightly bandaged and held an empty glass. Something about the man’s mood and manner told William that this finished drink had not been his first.
‘Good evening.’
‘I thought you’d stood me up. I was about to head off home.’
‘I’m sorry, I thought we were meeting outside.’ William wouldn’t tell Berry about the woman in the suit; his contact seemed fragile enough already. ‘Can I get you another drink?’ He nodded at the empty glass.
‘Why not? Gin and tonic, lots of ice.’
William went to the bar and returned quickly with a double gin and tonic and a Coke for himself. Berry watched as he fumbled the receipt into his wallet.
‘Ah, yes. You can claim for that, I suppose. “Drinks with an informer.” Is that what you’ll write on the expenses slip?’
William smiled but otherwise ignored the question. Berry looked dreadful, much worse than at the party the previous night. His brown eyes were heavily bagged, his beard unkempt and his hair uncombed.
‘I suppose you do this sort of thing a lot, Mr Carver?’
‘This sort of thing?’
‘Meeting with people in anonymous hotels, hoping they will tell you things they shouldn’t?’
‘I do it quite a lot, yes. It seems to be part of the job. What happened to your hand?’
Berry looked down at the bandage. ‘Sawing logs. The wood was too young, too much sap. Damn saw nearly had me ruddy hand off. I should know better.’ He twisted the bandage and took a gulp of his drink. ‘Do you know, Mr Carver, I once wanted to be a journalist? I tried my hand at university and I rather liked it. My father talked me out of the idea in the end. He said that journalists were a grubby bunch who were paid not very much money to ask questions about things which were none of their business.’
Carver smiled. ‘That about sums it up. Wise man, your dad.’
‘Not really. A time-serving, middle-ranking civil servant, just like me. Just exactly like me. How about another drink?’
‘Sure. Same again?’ Carver still wasn’t sure what to make of this man.
‘Make it a double.’
William returned with a treble. He tucked the second receipt away next to the first while Berry watched. No point hiding it.
‘What shall we talk about, Dr Berry?’
‘Right, so I heard your report on the killing of Fazil Jabar.’ Berry rubbed at his beard.
‘Yes, you told me that, at the party.’
‘So I did. Well, your report was straightforward, perfectly good as far as it went, but I just wondered whether you were planning to do any more on Jabar?’
‘I don’t know. Do you think I should?’
‘Was everything that you know about Fazil Jabar in that report?’
‘Everything I knew then, not everything I know now.’
‘What do you know now?’
Carver set his drink down a little sharply. He took a quick glance around the bar before answering. ‘Forgive me, Dr Berry, but I’ve been shafted by spooks too recently and too thoroughly to just sit here and tell you everything I know with no quid pro quo and no guarantee that you aren’t playing me. You asked to meet me, remember? Not the other way round.’
The civil servant held up a placatory hand. ‘Quite right. Quite right. Let me start again. I have no intention of shafting you, as you put it. I’m trying to help. Your report on the killing of Fazil Jabar was very straightforward, but Jabar wasn’t straightforward; he was a complicated character, and significant. Do you have any idea how fortuitous it was that the Taliban decided to blow him to hell?’
‘Fortuitous? For who?’
‘For whom. Good question. For us, I suppose. For the UK. For British business.’
‘Go on.’
‘I work in a department of government that attempts to pursue British commercial interests overseas, using various levers.’
‘You’re a trade official.’
‘Yes, in a manner of speaking. I work at the points where our trading interests overlap with other departmental business. Where trade meets development, or defence, or diplomacy, or all those things. There has been a lot of talk recently about using every means at our disposal to help British industry. That’s what my department is for.’
‘Promoting UK plc,’ said William. Berry winced.
‘Exactly. Dreadful phrase, but yes.’ He took a sip of his drink and looked around the bar. ‘The day Fazil Jabar got himself blown up was a rather good day for UK plc. You see, one of the biggest prizes in Afghanistan at the moment is a licence to run a new telecommunications operation, a mobile network.’
‘Really? That’s hard to believe. The place is practically in the Stone Age.’
‘True. But it will skip the various ages between stone and whatever we are now very quickly. We estimate that the telecoms licence will be worth hundreds of millions, perhaps billions, within a decade. In India, Mr Carver, more people have mobile phones than toothbrushes.’
William nodded, encouraging his man on.
‘Fazil Jabar was a district chief. He was a reasonably successful politician, but he was more than that. He was also a lobbyist. The public face for a group of Afghan businesses who had come together to win the telecommunications contract. This wasn’t a secret but it wasn’t much reported either. Some of the people in this consortium weren’t altogether respectable, I fear, but Jabar made the whole thing look rather good, not least because his cousin happens to be the Afghan communications minister. I’m sure you know, Mr Carver, that in Kabul such coincidences can be remarkably important. With Jabar on board, they were well ahead of any other bidders. The Afghan government is due to make the decision in the next few weeks, and no one seriously expected Fazil Jabar’s group to fail.’
‘I’m with you.’
‘A competing bid, a UK-led bid, was running in a very creditable second place. Now, with Jabar gone, it seems we’re right out in front.’
‘Lucky us. So what are you suggesting, Doctor?’
Berry folded his arms. ‘I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Carver, and thus far I’m not telling you anything which you couldn’t have heard from several other people or even discovered for yourself, if you were reading the right trade journals. I only contacted you because, so far, no one seems to be looking at the bigger picture and I think that might be—remiss.’
‘I see.’ William paused. ‘So, say you were me, Dr Berry, and you wanted to learn a little more, join up some of these dots which you have been talking about. Where would you be looking?’
‘I can’t tell you how to do your job, Carver, but I would’ve thought that basic journalistic practice would point you in the direction of Companies House. A careful look at the company accounts for the UK bidders might be helpful. The lead firm is Aftel, a subsidiary of one of the big boys. Maybe there’s something interesting there?’ Berry glanced nervously around the bar again and then looked at his watch, which was attached rather loosely to the wrist above his bandaged hand. ‘I should go. We’ve talked long enough. Or rather, I’ve talked. My wife might wonder where I am.’ The civil servant picked up his briefcase and stood a little unsteadily. William got up to help, but Berry waved him away. ‘I’m fine. Good luck, goodbye.’
Carver finished his Coke, then ordered a large whisky and drank it down. If he stayed, he knew he would just keep drinking. He considered going back to his flat, but there was nothing for him there. He needed to think, and he did his best thinking on the move. The rush-hour crowd had thinned by the time he left the hotel. He took the stairs down into Charing Cross underground station and followed the signs for the Northern Line; opting for northbound, he walked to the end of the platform and when the next train drew in, he settled himself in the last seat in the last carriage, next to the locked driver’s cab. He placed his plastic bag of papers next to him and pulled out the notebook and biro. The journey to the end of the line took forty minutes. At High Barnet he got out, crossed the platform, and took the next train south, back the way he’d come.
11 The Watchers and the Watched
DATELINE: Kilburn High Road, London, NW6, July 1st
She could hear Mariscal wheezing his way up the last flight of stairs. The woman watched through the peephole as he caught his breath, leaning with one hand on the bannister, the other swinging like a dead weight. The fish-eye lens exaggerated the size of his head and made her smile. He took a few deep breaths, ruffled his hair, tucked in his shirt, and knocked twice. She opened straight away, taking him by surprise.
‘Oh, all right, love? How’re you?’
She stared at him. ‘No flowers, Rob? No bottle of wine?’
Rob glanced down at his hands, as if he might have brought something but had somehow forgotten he was holding it. ‘I thought I was coming over for a shag. I brought my penis,’ he grinned, half-apologetically. He walked past the woman into the flat. ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’ It was a decent size, for a bedsit. He’d seen worse. He’d lived in worse. The walls were whitewashed, clean and without decoration apart from a framed Dora Maar print hanging above the single bed. There was a kitchen at one end, an armchair, a wooden folding chair and an expensive-looking armoire with a pile of suitcases stacked on top.
‘Planning a big trip?’
‘No. It’s books. Lots of books.’
Rob nodded, acknowledging that he knew about books and could see that they might be stored in suitcases. He pulled a packet of fags from his front pocket.
‘You can’t smoke in here,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t smoke. My boyfriend will smell it.’
‘Oh, right. Can’t I just pop my head out there?’ He gestured at the window by the bed and she nodded. Rob knelt on the bed, pushed the sash window open and stuck his head through. He smoked two cigarettes in quick succession, flicking the ash on a bird-shit-stained shop awning below. While he smoked, she made two small coffees, each with a shot of brandy. She brought them over and handed him one. He took a slurp.
‘God, that’s strong. Tastes like rocket fuel.’
‘It’s Spanish.’
‘Ah. Muy bien.’
They drank in silence, sitting awkwardly, side-by-side, on the narrow bed, exchanging the odd glance. After a few minutes of this she finished her coffee in a quick gulp, took the half-finished cup from his hand and walked back to the kitchen.
‘Take off your clothes,’ she ordered from the other side of the room.
Rob did as she asked. He placed his shoes under the folding chair and draped his trousers over it, his Paisley Y-fronts hidden underneath. He kept his black shirt on, unbuttoned to the top of his gut, and climbed into bed. The sheets felt good, clean and cold. When she returned her hands were red from the hot washing-up water and her face was a little pale. She lifted her patterned dress over her head in one movement and draped it over the armchair. Underneath she wore a bright white, new-looking bra and knickers. Rob breathed in quietly. The woman slid under the duvet, pulling it up to her neck, and pushed Rob over to the side closest to the wall. He reached for the blind-pull but she moved one slim leg over his, rolled on top of him and pinned both arms above his head. ‘No blinds. I want to look at you.’
‘I look a lot better with the lights off.’
‘Tough.’ She freed his left hand and placed it on her shoulder; while he fumbled with her bra clip she unbuttoned his black shirt and dragged it from under him, tearing it very slightly. He sucked in his belly and held it for as long as he could. The blinds stayed up and the window stayed open. The street noise was louder than their fucking until the moment Rob came with an animal grunt.
Afterwards he moved his arm under and around her, dragging them tightly together, his face in her hair. She closed her eyes. She could smell sweat, work and old smoke. Rob lay very still. He would have liked to stay, but he couldn’t. He counted silently in his head to one hundred and then began slowly disentangling himself.
‘I’d better get going. Loads of meetings. And the cab’s a wait-and-return.’ He half dressed and then looked around. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’
‘Downstairs. It’s shared.’
‘You’re joking.’
She watched him consider dashing downstairs in his shirt and socks and then reject the idea. ‘Do you mind if I use that?’ He nodded at the kitchen. There was the sound of running water. Kneeling up on the bed, she watched as Rob Mariscal washed his prick with Fairy Liquid. When he returned, she was lying back down, wrapped tightly in the stained white sheet. He finished dressing, sitting on the end of the bed to tie his shoes. Then he stood, uncertain.
‘So, listen. Er, thanks, that was, you know? Really nice. How about next time we go for dinner? I saw a decent-looking pizza place downstairs.’
She smiled and nodded, certain that this dinner would never happen. ‘Sure. Why not? You should go. We’ll talk later.’
Rob smiled broadly; he’d been pardoned. He bent and kissed her on the forehead before walking towards the door. She gave him time to work his way down the stairs and then sat up and looked out on to the street. She could still taste him in her mouth – his sour, smoky breath. There he was, a lit fag already hanging from his lower lip, hoiking up his trousers with one hand while waving at his driver with the other. She wondered how it was possible to have feelings for Rob Mariscal.
The armchair was close to the wardrobe. She stepped on to it, found her balance and, stretching, pulled down the top suitcase then the two smaller ones beneath. She reached into the smallest case and retrieved the camera that had been taped inside, its lens wedged into a neat hole cut into the side. She pressed a button and waited while the machine coughed up its contents with a mechanical whirr. She looked at the tape. Sixty minutes. What a joke. The woman wondered where she might find cheaper tapes with a shorter duration.
Five past nine. The visitors’ entrance to Companies House was still locked. Patrick watched the receptionist wandering about inside and tried to hide his growing impatience.
Carver had finally returned Patrick’s increasingly desperate voicemail messages just before midnight. He’d called on the home number and spoken briefly to Rebecca before she handed the phone over.
‘All right Patrick, how you getting along?’
‘Fine,’ said Patrick, wrong-footed by Carver’s friendly tone. ‘Did you get my message about Kabul? We’re booked on the lunchtime flight, day after tomorrow, via Delhi; that was the first flight I could get us on.’
‘That’s fine.’ William had sounded pleased, ‘because we’ve both got things we need to do tomorrow. I spoke to my contact and there’s a little work I need from you. Research work.’
Patrick’s spirits lifted further. Research. Some proper journalism at last. ‘Great. That’s fantastic. What is it?’
‘Don’t get too excited and don’t ask stupid questions over the phone. Just clear your diary for tomorrow and meet me at half eight outside the British Museum.’
‘Half eight. I’ll be there.’
‘Good. See you then. Oh, and Patrick—bring a calculator.’
Rebecca watched Patrick replace the receiver. ‘So that was William Carver?’
