by Ian Rankin
‘It’s all right, Martin. There’s no other man around just at the moment. Christ, I wish I had time for one.’ She paused, then tapped the Filofax. ‘I want to take a look at this. God knows, it’ll make a nice change for me to do some sleuthing again. Who can say, there may even be a story in it.’
Hepton was asleep on his feet by the time they reached Jilly’s apartment block by the river. He had been expecting, if anything, an old converted warehouse, but in fact the block was of recent design.
‘Mock warehouse,’ Jilly explained.
There was a security system at the main entrance, and each flat had its own little video screen so that callers could be identified before being let in. That might come in handy, Hepton thought to himself.
The flat itself wasn’t huge, though Jilly stated that by London standards it was more spacious than most. The living area was open-plan, with a bedroom and bathroom off it. There was a narrow veranda – not for the nervous – outside the French doors that took up the far wall. And yes, there were views of the Thames, though fairly unsavoury ones. The river itself was a mottled grey colour, and across the water there were gasometers, a stretch of wasteland and not much else.
‘You can see for miles,’ Jilly said. ‘Make yourself at home. I’ll try not to be too long, though parking can be hell itself in town.’
‘Where exactly are you going?’
She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Journalists never reveal their sources, especially before they’ve visited them. It’s bad luck.’ She bent down to give him a peck on the cheek, then closed the door behind her and was gone.
Hepton was surprised. He really didn’t feel anything more than friendship towards her now. When she’d been far away and inaccessible, he had longed for her, but now that they were together again, there wasn’t the same spark. Perhaps Jilly had been right to come to London. Their affair would have fizzled out in any case, wouldn’t it? Better to make a clean break. He lay along the sofa and closed his eyes, not intending to sleep. He just wanted to rest …
He awoke to the sound of a purring telephone. He hadn’t been asleep long, and felt light-headed, disoriented. He reached for the receiver and picked it up.
‘Hello?’ he said.
There was a silence on the other end, a crackling of wires, and perhaps, in the background, someone’s fluttering breath.
‘Hello?’ he said again. Still nothing. Then a short laugh.
‘You’ve been a very bad boy, Martin.’
Hepton felt his fingers tighten around the receiver.
‘Hello, Harry,’ he said. The light-headedness left him. He was wide awake now. ‘How was Leeds?’
There was that laugh again, laughter lacking humour but filled instead with cruelty. ‘Leeds was a clever idea, Martin. I couldn’t think why you’d be going there. Then I realised you’d found my little device.’
‘How did you track me down?’ Not that he was really interested, but he needed time to think.
‘I spoke to your employer. He told me how depressed you’d been when your girlfriend moved to London. I thought it was worth a try.’
Hepton’s mind was working now. There was no point mentioning to her that he knew about Villiers. It would be a cheap point to score, like throwing an ace onto a low card. No, he’d keep his ace for the moment. But he needed to knock her off balance. She was sounding a little too confident, and this, married to her thoughts of revenge – he could hear how bitter she was about Leeds – made her doubly dangerous.
‘You should have killed me back at the nursing home,’ he said. ‘Don’t think you’re going to get a second chance.’
‘What are you going to do? Run for it?’
‘No, I’m going to wait right here.’ For Paul, he was thinking. ‘And when I see you, I’m going to kill you.’
The laughter this time had a hysterical edge to it. Good: his words were having their effect.
‘That’s fine, Martin,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll see you soon then. I’m calling from just outside your building.’
And with that the telephone went dead. Hepton paused, put the receiver down and got to work.
19
Three short knocks followed by one long.
‘Come in, Parfit.’
Parfit entered Johnnie Gilchrist’s office. Gilchrist was pouring himself a drink.
‘Want one?’ he asked.
‘Why not?’ said Parfit. ‘I’ll have a small brandy, thanks.’
Gilchrist poured half an inch of Martell into a crystal glass and handed it to Parfit.
‘Cheers,’ he said. They chinked glasses.
Gilchrist took a mouthful of his own whisky, then smiled, shaking his head.
‘I have to hand it to you, Parfit. Getting hold of a private jet like that. I won’t ask what favour the owner owed you.’ He paused, inviting Parfit to tell him anyway, but Parfit merely savoured his drink. ‘How is the patient?’
‘He’s fine,’ said Parfit. ‘I don’t think he was overly pleased about being brought in from the airport in a crate, but he’ll get over it.’
Gilchrist smiled again, then sat down, gesturing for Parfit to do the same.
‘How was the City of Trees?’
Parfit looked quizzical.
‘That’s what they call Sacramento,’ Gilchrist explained, pleased that Parfit hadn’t known. ‘Home of the Pony Express.’
‘More relevant, it’s also the home of McClellan Air Force Base, which is where they landed Dreyfuss once they’d decided he shouldn’t stick around Edwards. To answer your question, the City of Trees was … interesting.’
‘So your gambit paid off?’
‘What gambit, Johnnie?’
Gilchrist rubbed a finger around the rim of his glass. ‘Leaving your man there so damned long on his own. You wanted to see what they’d try to get out of him, didn’t you?’
‘That’s your interpretation. I was hoping for … a reaction.’
‘I take it you got one?’
‘Oh yes. You know a man called Frank Stewart?’
‘The Frank Stewart? National Security Agency?’
‘Yes, that’s the one.’
‘What about him?’
‘He was there.’
‘Good God. I wonder why?’
‘I got the feeling it wasn’t so much to do with Dreyfuss as it was to do with General Ben Esterhazy.’
‘So Esterhazy was there too?’
‘Yes, you were right about that. What’s more, he was looking fairly rattled.’
‘Oh? Any particular reason?’
‘Several, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Parfit finished his drink and took the empty glass back to the drinks cabinet. He left it there and walked to the window, from where he watched the remnants of another demo as they chanted something incoherent, their fingers pointing towards where he was standing. He gave them a wave, which seemed to anger them further. ‘Esterhazy’s up to no good, Johnnie. I can’t say yet quite what, but I’m getting closer.’ He returned to his seat.
‘Don’t tell me about it, Parfit. It would only make me an accessory. Just tell me what you need.’
‘Two things. Two names, to be precise. One is Cameron Devereux. He was a member of the ground control crew on Argos. I’d like to talk to him, face to face if possible.’
‘And the other?’
‘Is someone called Martin Hepton. He works on one of our own tracking stations back in England, somewhere in Lincolnshire.’
Gilchrist considered this. ‘Must be Binbrook then. What of it?’
‘Dreyfuss knows him vaguely, and wants to ask him about something.’
‘Martin Hepton, you say?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘I had a message from George Villiers in London. He phoned while I was asleep.’ Gilchrist picked up some sheets of paper from the tray on the corner of his desk, finding the one he needed. ‘Yes, here it is. It seems Hepton paid Villiers a visit, wanted to know how to reach Major Dreyfuss.’
Parfit sa
t back in his chair. ‘Now that is interesting.’
‘More than mere coincidence, you think?’
‘So Hepton’s in London?’
‘It would seem so. Right, I’ll get on to this Devereux character. Shouldn’t take long.’
Parfit was already standing, ready to leave. ‘Thanks, Johnnie.’
‘Parfit?’
‘Yes?’
‘How big is this thing? Should I be starting to make noises in the direction of our masters?’
‘I’d leave it for now,’ said Parfit confidently. ‘It might all blow over.’
Not that he believed it would. He just didn’t want more people than absolutely necessary knowing he was on to something. It was all down to trust in the end, and Parfit didn’t trust anyone. Not even Johnnie Gilchrist, not entirely.
20
Dreyfuss had been given a room containing a foldaway bed and not much else.
‘Not so different from the crate,’ he had commented on arrival. Not that he had minded the crate too much. He didn’t want anyone knowing he was in Washington with the climate the way it was right now.
Parfit explained that most of the embassy staff were sleeping on the premises these days, so beds and furnishings were scarce. However, he did return a couple of hours later with a portable television, a radio and some books.
‘If anyone asks where they came from,’ he said, ‘say they were here when you arrived.’
Dreyfuss nodded at this. He didn’t want to know where these items had come from, and he didn’t care where they had come from; he was just glad that he had them now, and not someone else. His room, such as it was, must have been a storeroom. At least he could think of no other use for a space measuring twelve feet by ten and tucked away in the furthest, highest corner of the building. There wasn’t even a window, but there was a small skylight, desperately in need of a clean.
‘I’d have been better off back at Sacramento General,’ he commented.
‘I really do doubt that,’ said Parfit.
There was a knock at the door, and it was pushed open by a feisty individual wearing half-moon glasses. He was breathing hard, obviously unused to climbing the stairs to this attic level.
‘Ah, Parfit,’ he said.
Parfit introduced the two men.
‘Major Michael Dreyfuss, this is Johnnie Gilchrist, a colleague of mine.’
‘How do you do?’ said Gilchrist, shaking Dreyfuss’ hand. Then he noticed the portable TV. ‘Nice-looking model. I’ve one just like it in my own room.’
Dreyfuss tried to avoid Parfit’s eyes.
‘So,’ Parfit said, ‘what brings you so far out of your lair, Johnnie?’
‘I’ll tell you. I’ve been trying to make contact with this man Devereux.’ Dreyfuss and Parfit both looked interested, and there was nothing Gilchrist liked more than an attentive audience. ‘Devil of a job I had, too.’ He turned to Dreyfuss. ‘These days, Major, the international situation being what it is, a diplomat’s life is not easy. Not that it ever was.’ He looked around the room. ‘Don’t believe I’ve been this far north in the building before. But I do recall some story – before my time – of some of the secretaries squeezing out of that skylight to sunbathe nude on the roof. One of them’s supposed to have gotten herself stuck, and—’
‘What about Devereux, Johnnie?’ interrupted Parfit.
Gilchrist hated to have his stories ruined. His eyes blazed away at Parfit for several seconds, then he said simply: ‘He’s gone.’
‘Gone? You mean disappeared?’
‘Not in so many words. Apparently he was a bit shell-shocked when the shuttle crashed. So now he’s on extended leave.’
‘Do we know where?’
‘You won’t believe it, Parfit, but it seems he’s gone to London.’
‘London?’
Now Parfit and Dreyfuss exchanged glances.
‘I’m not sure,’ Parfit said, ‘whether that’s to our advantage or not. What do you think, Johnnie?’
‘Well, we can have him traced and picked up easily enough.’
‘Yes, but can he give us the information we need by telephone? I was rather hoping to speak to him in person. Any explanation he can give might be a bit technical, mightn’t it?’
‘Why don’t we get someone who knows about satellites to talk to him for us?’ Dreyfuss asked.
‘Someone like Martin Hepton,’ said Parfit.
‘Hepton?’ Dreyfuss sounded uncertain.
‘He’d be perfect. For one thing, he knows about satellites, and for another, he’s in London.’ Parfit turned to Gilchrist. ‘Get your man Villiers to find out where Hepton’s staying. We need to speak to him.’
‘I’ve just had a word with Villiers, actually,’ said Gilchrist. ‘He said Hepton had mentioned the name of a friend in London. Jill Watson. Villiers didn’t reckon Hepton was headed there, but there’s always a chance …’
Parfit noticed the numb look on Dreyfuss’ face. ‘What’s wrong, Major?’
‘I don’t want Jilly getting mixed up in this,’ Dreyfuss hissed. ‘Anything but that. Keep her out of it, Parfit.’ He grabbed at Parfit’s wrist and held it tight. ‘Keep her out of it!’
21
Hepton went to the door and studied the tiny surveillance screen. It showed the main door of the block, and, at the touch of a button, the interior hallway as well. There was nobody about. It was five o’clock. People would still be at work. More importantly, there was no sign of Harry.
He went back to his exploration of the flat. He found a chef’s knife in the kitchen drawer and slipped it into his pocket. In another drawer he found a large box of matches. He shook it to convince himself of its contents, then slipped it into his pocket too. From the living room’s waste-paper bin he took a copy of the previous day’s Herald, then, so armed, returned to the front door of the flat and opened it.
He looked left and right along the corridor. All clear. Then he stared up towards where the smoke detector sat, a neat little unit flush-mounted into the ceiling. He had noticed it upon arriving. He always noticed ceilings.
That, Martin, he said to himself, is what comes of an adolescence spent staring upwards.
The rolled-up newspaper took a little encouragement, the first three matches failing to catch. He tore a few strips down the sides, then tried again. These strips caught and ignited the rest of the paper. The ceiling was high, and he stood on tiptoe beneath the smoke alarm, holding the newspaper as close to it as he could.
It took forever. His arm ached, and he wondered what he would say if someone happened to emerge from one of the other five apartments along the corridor. But no one did. The paper started to smoulder, the smoke rose, and finally the detector began to whine, setting off alarm bells all around the building.
Elated, Hepton darted back into the flat, stubbed out the flaming newspaper in the sink and poured some water on it. He went back to the video screen at the front door and saw that people were already emerging from their apartments, milling in the main hallway downstairs. He went out onto the veranda and waited. There was a stiff breeze and he breathed hard, staying calm. The Thames was smelling like a sick old pet, but he didn’t mind that. He leaned out over the balcony and peered down onto the veranda of the flat beneath, then pulled himself back. There was no need to be rash. He could take the stairs to ground level, the same as the other inhabitants. He already had the evidence of his own eyes and his continuing life to the fact that Harry did not like a crowd. She enjoyed doing her slaying in private.
Suddenly he heard what he had been waiting for: approaching sirens. He rushed back inside and out into the corridor. A couple of people, looking as though they had been disturbed in the act of coitus, were standing by the lift, their clothes disarranged. The man was frantically pressing at the button beside the doors.
‘I shouldn’t think you’ll get much joy,’ Hepton informed him. ‘These things shut off when there’s an alarm. It’s much safer to use the stairs.’
‘Is there a fire?’ the man asked.
‘Yes, upstairs,’ said Hepton. ‘We’d better hurry.’
The three of them set off downstairs together. At the third landing, they joined a slightly larger group.
‘Is there a fire?’ someone asked.
‘Yes,’ the man with Hepton said, mimicking him. ‘It’s upstairs.’
Between the third and second landings, Hepton, to the rear of the small party, saw that someone was pushing their way back up through the descending group. There was always someone, someone who’d forgotten a treasured memento or the pet cat. He was about to remonstrate when he realised it was Harry. She was pushing hard now, her anger showing. And in her eyes he saw a kind of madness. There could be no doubting: she was out to kill him, witnesses or no.
Then she glanced upwards and, separated from him by only a handful of bodies now, saw Hepton. Her eyebrows rose in victory, and she dug a hand into the pocket of the checked jacket she was wearing. But the hand stuck there as somebody tried to squeeze past her downstairs.
‘You should go back, love,’ someone warned her. ‘Save yourself. Never mind what’s up there.’
Hepton turned on his heel and started up the carpeted steps two at a time, pushing hard as though his knees were mechanical pistons. The banisters were new. Dark polished wood with brass supports. His arms pulled hard on them, heaving his body upwards. He didn’t pause at the third floor – he needed territory he could recognise. Instead he left the stairs at the fourth floor and ran back to Jilly’s flat. Once inside, he closed the door quietly, then locked it. He realised that his right hand was gripping the kitchen knife. The video screen showed him the main lobby on the ground floor. People were beginning to move outside, some of them explaining to a fireman where the blaze was situated. Hepton could no longer hear the sirens and supposed they had been turned off. Well, he couldn’t give them a fire … but fire was useful in other ways.
He walked quickly to the kitchen and filled the largest pot he could find with water from the hot tap. Then he manoeuvred it onto a ring of the gas cooker and turned the flame on full blast. It was Dark Ages stuff, but potentially effective. He pondered the contents of the food cupboard. The only pepper, though, seemed to be in the form of peppercorns. Useless. He cursed Jilly’s yuppie lifestyle. Where were the tools? The saws, electric drills? The screwdrivers and spanners? What use was the broken edge of an empty champagne bottle against a killer toting a gun?