by Ian Rankin
‘Who are you going to telephone?’
‘Nick Christopher.’
‘Your friend at the base?’
‘Yes. Don’t ask why, not yet. Are any of these restaurants close to here?’
‘One’s fairly close.’ She was rising to the challenge. ‘It’s Italian. There’s a wall phone downstairs, just next to the kitchen and the toilets. All the tables are upstairs. Would that do?’
‘Perfect. All I’d need you to do is keep Sanders occupied while I’m downstairs.’
She smiled archly. ‘If I know Sanders, that shouldn’t be difficult.’
There was a knock on the door of the room, and Sanders’ head appeared. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Another job.’
‘Well, you should be sorry,’ Jilly said, sounding peeved. She rose from her chair. ‘Just for that, Sanders, lunch is on you.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anything to oblige.’
‘Good,’ said Jilly, taking his arm. ‘There’s this little Italian place off Regent Street …’
Hepton, marvelling, followed.
Jilly had judged things perfectly. Sanders was keen to get on in his career, and slightly in awe of his superiors. He also felt a little aggrieved at having been left out of the top-level meeting, and his attention was total as, seated at a corner table in the restaurant, Jilly began to tell him all about it. He wanted to know every detail, and she was only too willing to tell. Soon, with a few tantalising lies thrown in to make the mixture even more intriguing, she had him hooked, a child to her fairy tale. They had just finished the first course. Hepton had ordered a veal dish to follow, though he hated veal on principle.
‘That dish is very special, sir,’ the waiter had informed him, pointing it out on the menu. ‘You see, it says there it takes thirty minutes to cook.’
It did indeed warn of this, which was why Hepton had chosen it. He didn’t want to be on the telephone downstairs and have his food waiting for him upstairs, causing Sanders to realise that he was away from the table. He had to be sure of a gap between the first course and the main. So he had nodded, and Jilly had caught his reasoning.
‘That sounds good,’ she had said. ‘I think I’ll change my mind and have the veal instead of the chicken.’ The waiter had nodded, scribbling on his pad. Then Sanders had joined in.
‘Make that three veals,’ he’d said, and they had all smiled.
‘Excuse me a minute,’ Hepton said now, lifting his napkin from his lap and dropping it onto the table. Sanders nodded, but hardly paid any attention. Jilly had started another story about the meeting. Hepton rose to his feet and walked towards the back of the restaurant. An arrowed sign told him that the toilets were downstairs, and he descended the staircase slowly, his heart thumping furiously.
The wall phone was not in use. It was a modern chrome effort, with a blue receiver. It accepted most coins, and Hepton searched in his pocket. He came out with one pound and seventy pence. He checked his watch. It had just crept past one o’clock. Good: the rate wouldn’t be at its most expensive. He probably had enough. He picked up the receiver, dropped in the money and saw it register on the liquid crystal display, and dialled.
‘Hello?’ said a voice on the other end.
‘Yes,’ said Hepton, ‘I’d like to speak to Nicholas Christopher, please. He works in control.’
‘I’ll see if I can find him. Who’s calling?’
‘It’s his brother, Victor.’
‘Hold on.’ The phone went quiet.
Hepton bit his bottom lip, then changed his mind and bit his top lip instead. Someone was coming down the stairs. A fat man in shirt and tie: one of the diners from upstairs. He pushed open the door to the gents’ and, once inside, started whistling the background music from the restaurant’s hi-fi. Hepton turned his attention back to the amount of money he had left. The LCD was ticking down, but there was still plenty of time.
He hoped Nick Christopher would recognise the code. One night, they had gone off base to a local pub, where the landlord had informed them that there was a disco in the village hall. After a few beers, they had visited the disco, and Christopher had dragged them onto the dance floor to introduce themselves to two young women.
‘I’m Nick,’ he’d shouted over the music, ‘and this is Vic. Nick and Vic.’
In private, that nickname – Vic – had stuck to Hepton for a few weeks, producing a smile every time as it reminded them of that night and that disco.
The receiver suddenly came to life.
‘Brother Victor,’ said Nick Christopher knowingly. ‘I thought you were on holiday?’
‘I am. Can you talk?’
‘Yes.’
‘I mean, is there anyone with you?’
‘Well, I’m at my console.’
‘So there are people around you?’
‘Not many, but yes. Look, give me your number and I’ll call you back.’
‘Okay, but hurry.’ Hepton recited the telephone number and put down the receiver. A good portion of his money, unused, came clanking out, and he scooped it back into his pocket. The phone started to ring. ‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Okay, I can talk now.’ Christopher’s voice was not as hale and hearty as it had been in the control room.
‘What’s happening, Nick?’
‘I don’t know, Vic. It’s been pretty weird here since I last saw you. Fagin asked me if I had any idea where you were. He said he needed to contact you about something. And now … we’re moving out.’
‘What?’ Hepton’s face creased in puzzlement.
‘Moving out. The place is being closed down temporarily. Something to do with fitting a new system. I don’t know, something like that anyway. So everybody’s getting two weeks’ R and R.’
‘But what about Zephyr?’
‘She’ll be stationary. There’s going to be a skeleton staff to keep an eye on things. Fagin and a few others.’
‘What others?’ It was beginning to fall into place now.
‘I don’t know. But none of us. So, anyway, why did you call?’
Hepton had almost forgotten himself. ‘Oh,’ he said, reminded. ‘I’ve got a big favour to ask.’
‘Name it.’
‘I want you to send me a video tape of Buchan airbase. As recent as you can manage, so long as it’s after the Zephyr malfunction.’
‘You’ve got to be joking!’
‘I’m deadly serious.’
‘What the hell for? I could end up in jail for a stunt like that.’
‘Look, Nick, remember what I told you about Fagin and Paul and everything?’
‘Yes, I remember. But Paul’s dead now, isn’t he? They said you were the one who found him.’
‘I was. It wasn’t suicide, Nick. It just looked that way. If we’re going to find his killers, I need that tape. And if you could also send one of Buchan before Zephyr went haywire, that would help too. This is an emergency, Nick. I mean, life and death.’
‘Well, maybe, but … Christ, I can’t just—’
‘You’re shutting down, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘So it should be easy.’ Hepton thought fast. ‘Stuff’s being moved about, boxed up, what have you. Say a couple of video tapes go missing, it’s bound to happen.’
‘Okay, so I put them in my pocket – then what? Down to the local post office?’
Hepton hadn’t thought about that. He didn’t want to involve Sanders – or anyone else he didn’t feel able to trust. But if he wanted the tapes tonight … And he did want the tapes tonight.
‘Nick, do you still go to the Bull?’ The Bull was the public house closest to the base. It was a brisk evening walk, and a pleasant one in the summer months.
‘Not for a while.’
‘Could you drop in tonight? Just for a pint?’
‘And take the tapes with me?’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘I’m not sure I can get them that soon.’ Christopher paused. ‘Will you be at the Bull?�
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‘I’ll try.’
‘The thing is, there’s a lot of logging to be done before we shut down. I’m not sure Fagin will spare me enough time. We were working till ten last night. I was so tired afterwards, I just collapsed into bed.’
‘Look, Nick, try your best, will you?’
He seemed to give this serious thought. Hepton was under no illusions: Nick was a nice enough guy, but he was no hero. Look after number one, that had always been his creed. There was an all-too-audible sigh on the line. Then he spoke.
‘Okay, Martin,’ he said. ‘If you want cloak and dagger, you can have it. I’ll be in the Bull at seven.’
‘Thanks, Nick.’
‘You owe me one.’
‘I won’t forget. See you tonight.’
Hepton put down the receiver and turned towards the stairs. Sanders was standing there, three steps up, arms folded. He had obviously heard some of the conversation.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
There was no point lying. ‘Binbrook, Lincolnshire. To the Zephyr base. I have to meet someone there.’
‘Can I ask why?’
Hepton moved past him and started upstairs, Sanders following.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But it could mean a whole lot of brownie points for you.’
‘I still need to know why we’re going to Lincolnshire.’
Hepton stopped and turned to him. ‘Is there a video recorder in the safe house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, because we’re going to be watching some videos later on, after we come back.’
Sanders nodded. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me?’
Hepton fixed his eyes on those of the younger man. ‘Because you worked for Villiers,’ he said. ‘And because for all I know, you still do.’
Sanders shrugged. ‘You’re entitled to your opinion,’ he said. ‘But like it or not, I’m coming with you tonight. What about Jilly?’
‘I’d rather she didn’t go with us. No real reason.’
‘You think it could be dangerous?’
Hepton managed a wry smile. ‘These days,’ he said, ‘who can tell?’
Of course, Jilly was furious. She didn’t want to be left out, and the fact that Hepton wasn’t telling her much about the trip only served to kindle her curiosity further.
‘Damn you, Martin Hepton! You were always too secretive, that was what I hated about you!’
Her words bounced around inside his head all during the drive. In the end, she had calmed a little, thrown herself into a chair and picked up a newspaper, using it as a shield against him. No matter how pleasant the house in Marlborough Place was – and it was pleasant – it was still a prison, a place of detention. There were two guards to look after Jilly, but they didn’t only stop people entering the house; they stopped them leaving as well. And if Jilly was nothing else, she was a free spirit. Hepton could vouch for that.
Always too secretive. Damn you.
Yes, he’d been secretive. He had told her about his work, but not all about it. There always had to be something held back, something left unsaid. And he had never talked much about himself anyway, preferring to hear Jilly talk about her own life. It was so much more lively and vibrant, so much more interesting. So much more … open.
‘I’d still like to know,’ Sanders yelled. He was driving fast, with the car radio tuned in to the closing overs of a cricket match and the windows open to let some early-evening breeze into the stifling interior. The sun was coming lower in the sky. Soon, Hepton was thinking, soon it’ll start getting dark earlier … Except that in some places it already was getting dark earlier.
‘What?’ he said.
‘I’d still like to know,’ Sanders called, ‘what’s on these videos.’
‘Me too,’ Hepton murmured. ‘Me too.’
They were later arriving at the Bull than Hepton had intended: traffic jams all the way out of London, and major roadworks on the road north. Even Sanders’ most manic driving had been unable to make up all the time they’d lost. So it was nearly eight when they pulled into the pub’s gravel car park. There were a dozen or so other cars there. Hepton gave each one a searching inspection as Sanders passed them and stopped at the furthest point into the car park, then executed a three-point turn and drove slowly past the double line of vehicles once again. Hepton looked at him and saw that Sanders was inspecting the cars as meticulously as he himself had done. Satisfied that they were all empty, he pulled up close to the car park’s entrance, ready for a quick getaway.
‘Here goes,’ he said. ‘I’m dying for a pint.’
They walked into the bar by its car park entrance. There were couples at three tables, and a group of possibly underage teenagers huddled around another. A game of darts was taking place, and three men propped up the bar, as though the activity gave their life all meaning. The barman smiled at Hepton and Sanders as they approached.
‘Evening, gentlemen. What’s your poison?’
‘Two pints of Courage bitter,’ Sanders said. He turned to Hepton. ‘That okay with you?’
Hepton nodded dispiritedly. There was no sign of Nick Christopher in the spacious bar, and it was well past his designated time. Either he’d been and gone, or he wasn’t coming. Had Fagin got to him? And if so, what would happen next? Everyone in this bar could be implicated, could be working for Villiers and Harry. He tried not to stare, but it wasn’t easy.
Sanders was managing to look casual about the whole business. Just two men out for a drink. He raised the straight glass to his lips, gulping at the first couple of mouthfuls.
‘Not a bad pint,’ he said.
One of the three men nearby seemed to hear him, and turned his head.
‘You from London?’
Sanders smiled pleasantly. ‘Not originally. But I live there now.’
‘Thought you did,’ said the man, turning back to his friends. ‘Beer’s like piss down there,’ he informed them. ‘And the water, you can’t drink the water. Been through seven pairs of kidneys before it gets to you, been pissed out seven times before you drink it.’
His friends wrinkled their faces and chuckled. Sanders reddened. He was trying to keep up the facade, but Hepton could see he was having trouble. His eyes had acquired a fiery tinge to them, and his free hand rubbed at his armpit, just where the holstered gun nestled.
‘Cheers,’ Hepton said, trying to distract him, lifting his own glass to his lips.
Sanders twitched his head towards a table and carried his glass over to it. Hepton followed closely, placing his beer on one of the mats on the highly polished tabletop. The men at the bar were sharing a joke. He couldn’t help thinking they were discussing him, and he too reddened slightly at the cheeks.
‘Where’s your friend, then?’ Sanders asked, his voice sharp, kept low only through the greatest restraint.
‘I don’t know,’ Hepton said. ‘Maybe he couldn’t make it.’
Sanders shook his head. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘Go back to London?’ Hepton offered.
Sanders stared hard at him. ‘Where are these video tapes?’ he asked. ‘We’ll just have to go fetch them.’
It was Hepton’s turn to shake his head. ‘That isn’t possible.’
‘Why not?’
‘It would mean going into the lion’s den.’
‘Better that than sitting in this particular den.’ Sanders threw a baleful glance towards the bar.
‘I could try phoning him again, let him know we’re here.’
Sanders considered this. ‘Might be an idea,’ he said.
Hepton stood up. ‘Back in a second.’ He took a look around but could see no sign of a telephone. He went to the bar. The barman had the same fixed smile on his face.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Do you have a telephone?’
The barman shook his head theatrically. ‘Not as such, no. We don’t have a public telephone, but there’s one behind the bar.’ He reached down and lifted an aged Bakel
ite handset onto the counter. ‘Provided it’s a local call, that is.’
‘Oh yes,’ Hepton assured him. ‘It’s local. We were supposed to be meeting a friend here, but we got held up. He’s probably been and gone.’
‘Would that be Mr Christopher?’
Hepton stared in surprise at the man, who was fussing beneath the bar again. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ said the barman, as if this explained everything. ‘Mr Christopher said there’d just be the one of you. Victor, he said it would be.’
‘Yes, that’s me.’
‘Only,’ the barman continued, ‘he said he couldn’t stop, since things are so busy back at that spy place of his where he works. So he asked me to give you this.’
Hepton stared at the plain white plastic carrier bag. The two black video cases were visible inside.
‘Dirty films,’ said one of the locals. ‘That’s what we thought, isn’t it, Gerry?’
The barman’s smile broadened, and the three locals gave throaty laughs. Hepton joined them, elated.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Not dirty films. Just tapes of a friend’s wedding.’
‘Including the honeymoon?’ rasped the first man, causing more laughter.
Hepton had brought a ten-pound note from his pocket.
‘I think this calls for a round,’ he said. ‘Whatever these gentlemen are having, and one for yourself.’
The barman nodded, lifting the telephone back off the bar-top, and the three locals made appreciative noises, none of which sounded like ‘thank you’.
‘Nothing for yourself, sir?’ one of them asked Hepton as the pint glasses were being refilled.
Hepton shook his head. ‘We really should be going,’ he said.
They watched as he went back to his table and spoke a few words to the Londoner. Then both men left the bar without so much as a wave of the hand or a nod of the head, carrying the bag with them.
‘Forgot all about his change,’ the barman noted drily.
‘In that case,’ said the oldest of the locals, ‘keep the beer coming, Gerry.’
At one of the tables by the window, where a middle-aged couple were sitting, the wife suddenly produced a portable telephone from her handbag. The man took the phone and pressed a lot of digits, then waited. Eventually he said a few words, not much more than a sentence, and in a quiet voice. Then he gave the contraption back to his wife, who replaced it in her handbag. They finished their drinks and left the pub, the woman bowing her head slightly towards the bar as she left.