Westwind

by Ian Rankin

  ‘We are. That is, we were.’ Hepton’s thoughts were quicksilver now. This was a man he’d been told to avoid, told by Paul Vincent, who was now dead. He couldn’t afford to let Villiers know anything, and already the man knew too much … ‘We broke up. We haven’t seen one another in months.’ Hepton sounded bitter, and made his face look the same. They had to be made to think that he wouldn’t be contacting Jilly.

  ‘Ah.’ Villiers went back to studying the typed sheet of paper. Hepton noticed that there was a buff-coloured file on the desk, down the edge of which was written a name: Dreyfuss, Major M. The paper had undoubtedly come from the file. Villiers seemed to know who Hepton was, and didn’t seem overcurious about Jilly. Therefore he already knew as much as he needed to know. Had he gleaned the information from the typed sheet? Hepton doubted it. No, there was another reason why Villiers knew about him.

  Villiers looked up suddenly and caught Hepton staring at him. He smiled, as if to say: I know what you’re thinking. Then he read through the sheet again, and Hepton relaxed. Villiers couldn’t know he knew.

  ‘So how will we contact you, Mr Hepton, should we get through to Major Dreyfuss?’

  ‘As soon as I know where I’m going to be, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Yes.’ Villiers sounded sceptical. ‘That would probably be best.’ He seemed preoccupied.

  ‘Is there anything wrong?’

  ‘Wrong?’ Villiers looked up.

  ‘I mean, wrong with Major Dreyfuss. Any reason why I shouldn’t be allowed to speak to him.’

  Villiers smiled. ‘Oh no, nothing like that. Nothing like that at all. But procedures, you know …’

  ‘Red tape?’

  ‘Exactly. A bore, but it’s what we’re paid for.’ He smiled again, and Sanders laughed quietly.

  ‘Is there someone from our embassy with Major Dreyfuss?’

  Villiers’ smile vanished. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, I would have thought it usual to have someone there beside him. To make sure everything’s all right.’

  ‘There’s someone with him,’ Villiers said in a cool voice. ‘Don’t worry on that score, Mr Hepton. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’

  ‘Of course.’ Hepton stood up.

  Villiers reached out a dry, cold hand for Hepton to shake.

  ‘Just tell us when you get settled in somewhere, and then when we get through to Major Dreyfuss, well, we’ll take it from there. All right?’

  Not really. Hepton felt that he had failed badly. But at least the mood in this office had alerted him to the fact that something was going on out in the States. Perhaps Dreyfuss was in danger from the rednecks who had nicknamed him ‘Jonah’ after the crash. Perhaps, though, there was another kind of danger altogether. On the other hand, he had walked into the lion’s den, and here he was walking out again. He decided to classify this fact a minor victory.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, following Sanders out of the door.

  As soon as Hepton had gone, Villiers took a fountain pen from his pocket and scribbled down a brief summary of the meeting. Then he amended the information about Hepton and Miss Watson on the typed sheet of paper, initialled the summary and slipped it into the Dreyfuss file. From the top drawer of his desk, he took out another folder. This one was unlabelled, and into it he slipped the single typed sheet to which he had been referring throughout the meeting. This was the file on Martin Hepton.

  He locked his drawer and picked up one of the two telephones on his desk, punching in three digits.

  ‘Sanders is seeing someone to the front door,’ he said in a monotone. ‘Have them followed. But keep it low-key. A one-man job, if you can.’ He listened for a moment. ‘No, no forms to fill in on this one. I want it kept strictly off the books.’ He listened again, his cheekbones showing red with suppressed anger. ‘Yes, I know,’ he hissed. ‘I’ll assume full responsibility, just bloody well do it!’ Then he slammed down the receiver and stared at it, thinking hard. Hepton wanted to speak to Major Dreyfuss. If he did so in Villiers’ presence, then Villiers would find out all he needed about what both men knew. So why keep two old acquaintances apart? He picked up the other receiver.

  ‘Sarah?’ he said. ‘Put through a call to Washington, will you? I want to speak to Johnnie Gilchrist.’

  17

  The city was swarming, and there was no shade to be found. Hepton tried to keep to the backstreets, the narrower passages that neither sun nor tourists could penetrate. The tourists were predominantly European and Japanese. The Americans were staying closer to home this summer. He went into a café for a cold drink, but found the heat indoors unbearable, so came away thirsty. The man who had been a dozen paces behind him walking in was still a dozen paces behind him when he walked out. Hepton smiled.

  Where was he heading? In all honesty, he did not know. He stepped into a few shops, browsed, then came out again empty-handed. He crossed the expanse of Green Park with the man still behind him, and in Piccadilly he visited two large stores, taking lifts up, stairs down and back-door exits where possible.

  He didn’t know where he was headed, but he knew where he was avoiding going: the offices of the London Herald. Could he face Jilly? What would she say? Would she help him? He tried to rehearse various lines as he walked the streets. They all sounded false. They all were false. What was more important, however, was that he should shake this tail before he tried to contact her. Otherwise he would be drawing her into the nasty little web, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

  Lunchtime approached, and he felt hungry again. Breakfast at Heathrow seemed an eternity ago. He touched the roll of banknotes in his pocket and decided to treat himself to something at Fortnum’s. But the queue for the Fountain restaurant was disheartening, so he left again. Besides, his clothes were looking decidedly shabby and slept in: definitely not the stuff of a Fortnum’s luncheon. One of the floorwalkers had kept a beady eye on him all the way around the ground floor.

  He had been expecting a tail, of course. Now that Villiers had found him, he would want to keep tabs on him. But who was Villiers? He appeared to be some not-very-minor official at the Foreign Office. What was all or any of this to him? Hepton didn’t know. But he did know one thing. Like a dog offered a bone, it was time for him to shake his tail.

  At Piccadilly Circus there was a large record shop – new since his last visit to London and exactly what he was looking for. He entered the noise and the confusion of aisles. At the main door he had spotted a uniformed security guard, and had passed the alarm system with its warning to potential shoplifters. The place was well protected. He walked up and down the aisles, squeezing past this and that browser. He paused by a display of compact discs and saw, from the corner of his eye, the tail browsing a few aisles further along. He smiled and picked up a disc enclosed in a protective clear plastic sheath. On the back of the packaging was a price label and a barcode. Through the barcode ran a strip of silver. Pleased, he examined the disc again. Barbed Wire Kisses by The Jesus and Mary Chain. Yes, this would do.

  He walked casually back along the aisle, towards where the tail was now enthusiastically reading the sleeve notes to an offering by The Dead Milkmen. As he was about to pass the man, he paused and put a hand on his shoulder. The tail flinched, but kept his eyes on the record. Hepton kept his hand where it was and brought his face close to the man’s ear.

  ‘I’m starving,’ he said. ‘I think I’m going to go to lunch now. Okay?’ Then he moved quickly away towards the main doors. The man hesitated, then put the record back into its rack and followed.

  Hepton was already on the pavement and hailing a taxi. Damn: the tail would have to hurry. He’d have to find a taxi too, in order to follow Hepton’s taxi. As he was about to push open the heavy glass door, a sudden high-pitched whine came from behind him. The security guard was upon him immediately, hands on his shoulders, turning him around. The tail protested, but the guard’s hands were patting his jacket, and one of them slipped into the left pocket, br
inging out a compact disc.

  The tail glared through the glass at Hepton, who was bending to get into his taxi. Hepton waved at him and grinned. Then the door slammed shut and the taxi moved off into the line of traffic.

  ‘Where to, guv?’ the driver asked.

  ‘First, a clothes shop,’ ordered Hepton. ‘Nothing too flashy. And somewhere between here and the Isle of Dogs.’

  He reckoned he would need a shirt, jacket and casual trousers. He reasoned that he would be less conspicuous dressed smartly, and also that he needed a change of clothes in any event, otherwise his description could be circulated too easily. It was tempting to relax a little, to forget that somewhere out there Harry was waiting, ready to kill him if she must. He would use his credit card to buy the clothes: even if Villiers had access to his credit card record, it would take a little time for the transaction to come to light. Villiers knew he was in London. The least Hepton could do was make it difficult for the man to circulate a description of him. That necessitated a change of clothes. A change of hair colouring would be an idea, too. And, while he was at it, why not a change of height and weight and sex?

  Despite the terrors of the past twenty-four hours – or perhaps because of them – Hepton threw back his head and laughed. The cab driver glanced into his rear-view mirror.

  ‘Glad somebody’s happy,’ he said. ‘Journalist, are you?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘We get a lot of journalists come into town at twelve o’clock for a drink, then have to get a taxi back half an hour later so they can start work again. Mad, those journalists are. You know the ones I mean, down at that new place in the Isle, where the Herald’s printed.’

  ‘Oh yes, the Herald,’ said Hepton casually. ‘That’s where I’m headed to, as it happens.’

  ‘Thought you were,’ the driver called, chuckling. ‘I’ve got a nose for that sort of thing, you see. A real nose. But first off, let’s see about getting you that clobber, eh?’

  Part III

  Ian Mather, Observer Magazine, 19 April 1987

  18

  The Isle of Dogs was everything Hepton had been expecting. It was, in fact, a building site, a hotchpotch of half-completed monoliths and half-demolished houses. The headquarters of the Herald, however, if not what he had hoped to find (he had fond memories of The Front Page and Citizen Kane) was certainly what he had thought he might find. The metal and glass cube that was home to the newspaper was protected by a high security fence. A barrier lay across the road at the entrance to the site, and two security men watched from their little prefabricated building there, while video cameras scanned the perimeter.

  ‘Checkpoint Charlie, they call it,’ said Hepton’s taxi driver, accepting the fifteen pounds’ fare and a small tip. ‘Cheers then.’ And with that he wheeled the taxi around and away.

  Hepton stared again at the construction before him, trying to find some hint of a soul. There was none. He walked towards the barrier. One of the security guards donned a cap and came to meet him.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘I’m here to see one of the journalists, a Miss Jilly Watson.’

  ‘Watson, did you say?’ The guard was already turning back towards his office. ‘Follow me, sir. Expecting you, is she?’

  ‘No, not really. I’m a friend of hers.’

  ‘I see, sir.’

  The other guard lazily watched several screens, each one showing a corner of the compound. There was a mug of dark brown tea in front of him, proclaiming its owner to be the World’s Best Dad. Another bank of screens showed the interior of the large building behind them, where the workers moved like ants. The first guard looked through a sheaf of A4 printed paper on his desk.

  ‘Watson, J. Extension three-five-five,’ he said to himself. He punched several numbers into his telephone receiver, and, looking up, saw that Hepton was watching the screens. ‘Good, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hepton responded. It seemed everyone was a spy these days. And everyone had a camera trained on them.

  The guard’s call had been connected. ‘Hello, it’s the gate here. Got someone to see Miss Watson.’ He listened to a voice speaking at the other end, then put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘What’s the name, sir?’

  This was the moment Hepton had dreaded. ‘Martin Hepton,’ he said.

  ‘Martin Hepton,’ the guard repeated into the mouthpiece. There was a pause while he listened again, then he motioned with the telephone towards Hepton. ‘Wants a word, Mr Hepton,’ he said.

  Hepton took the receiver cautiously. ‘Hello?’ he said.

  ‘Martin? Is that you?’ Jilly Watson’s voice sounded vibrant.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ But it wasn’t a sniping question; rather, it was filled with honest and welcome surprise. Hepton lightened: she was pleased that he had come.

  ‘I wanted to see you,’ he said.

  ‘Great! But they won’t let you in here. You need passes and all that kind of stuff. We’re not allowed visitors; a bit like a prison.’ She laughed. ‘If nobody gets in, nobody can steal our scoops, that’s what they reckon. What time is it?’ She checked her watch. ‘One thirty already! Christ, I haven’t eaten yet, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, that’s settled then. You can take me to lunch. There isn’t much around here, but there’s a wine bar not too far. Do you have a car?’

  ‘No, I came by taxi.’

  ‘Well, wait at the gate and I’ll bring my car round. Okay?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Martin …?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s good to hear your voice.’

  Click. The connection went dead.

  ‘Coming down, is she, sir?’ asked the first guard. Hepton nodded. ‘Nobody’s allowed in, you see,’ the guard went on. ‘Security.’

  ‘Bloody daft if you ask me,’ rejoined the second guard, cupping his hands around his mug. The first guard now took off his cap and sat down.

  ‘Ours not to reason why,’ he said.

  Hepton nodded agreement, but he wasn’t about to complete the couplet.

  The guard operated the barrier from inside the gatehouse, while Hepton slid into the reassuringly familiar seat of Jilly’s red MG sports car. She leaned across to peck him on the cheek, then waved towards the gatehouse and revved the car out onto the main road.

  ‘You look great!’ Hepton shouted above the wind and the sound of the engine.

  ‘So do you,’ Jilly replied. ‘You never used to dress like that.’

  Hepton examined his newly purchased clothes. ‘I’m on holiday.’

  ‘In London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you thought you’d surprise me. How lovely.’ The smile left her face. ‘I did mean to get in touch, Martin. I didn’t want to lose you as a friend. But …’

  ‘Forget it.’ He tried to steel himself; this wasn’t the time to become emotional. ‘So how’s the job?’

  ‘Oh, fine.’ But her voice had taken on a false edge.

  ‘Really?’ he prompted.

  ‘Well, no … not really. In fact, it’s awful. I seem to get all the shitty jobs to do, all the really boring things. I think the editor likes the idea of me, he just doesn’t like me. If that makes any sense.’

  Hepton nodded. ‘It makes sense.’ He could no longer contain his next question, his first real question. ‘Have you heard anything from Mike Dreyfuss?’

  ‘No, nothing, I sent some flowers to the hospital in Sacramento, but I don’t know if they arrived. Did you know they’d taken him to Sacramento? They tried to keep it a secret, but our sister paper in the States found out.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Mickey.’

  ‘Yes. I’m trying to get in touch with him.’

  ‘With Mickey? But why?’

  So he told her.

  They sat at a corner table in the wine bar. The waitress had cleared away their plates and brought them coffee. There was an inch of wine left
in the bottom of the bottle, and Hepton poured it into Jilly’s glass. She had sat quietly and attentively all through lunch, while he had continued his story. Now and then she would ask a question, in order to clarify some point, but other than that she was silent. Hepton remembered the day she had ordered him to teach her about satellites. She had been the same then.

  Occasionally she jotted a few notes into a clean page of her Filofax, and when Hepton had finished talking, she drew a thick line beneath what she had written so far, then numbered the individual points.

  ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Do you think I’m going mad, or is something happening out there?’

  She gave her answer some thought. ‘I don’t think you’re mad, no. But at the moment you don’t really know what’s going on, you don’t have any proof that anything’s going on, and you’ll have a hard job convincing anyone that anything’s going on. Despite which, I believe you. But then I’m a reporter, we’ll believe anything.’ She saw that Hepton was looking dispirited and squeezed his hand. ‘You’re safe now, Martin. You’ve got me to look after you.’ He smiled at this, but knew she could see he was tired; more than that, he was drained. He needed rest and sleep and to forget about the past few days for a little while.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll put lunch on expenses, then give the office a ring.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To tell them I’m not coming in this afternoon. I’m going to be working on something, and you’re going to be resting.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘My flat’s not far from here. You can stay there while I go into town.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Hepton did feel drowsy, but then he’d had the larger share of the wine. He could feel the effort in each word he spoke aloud.

  ‘I’m going to see what I can find out about this George Villiers character, among other things.’

  ‘Jilly … ’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re sure it’s okay for me to go to your place? I mean …’