by Mick Herron
He said, “Bachelor’s made contact.”
“You’re sure?”
“I tagged his collar. We know exactly where he is. And Manors’s phone is in the same room. A café on Monmouth Street.”
“Good.”
She’d never been lavish with her praise, exactly, but the monosyllable sounded niggardly to his ears nevertheless.
“And how did Entwhistle do?”
Entwhistle, who’d introduced himself to Bachelor as Edward, was ex-army and now one of the Dogs, the Service’s internal police. A lot of recruitment was done from the armed forces. It was possible they enjoyed the prospect of coming the heavy with those known to the army as “the funny buggers.”
“About how you’d expect,” Richard told her. This didn’t appear to be detailed enough, so he added, “He put the wind up Bachelor all right. But I could have done that myself.”
“Of course you could.”
“It’s not like it would have been an uphill—”
“Richard, you’re not without your talents, evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. But you’re not hard-man material. I’m not saying you don’t have the bulk. It’s more that you lack the . . . gravitas.”
“Ma’am.”
“Entwhistle played his part, you played yours. I’m grateful for the assistance. I hope it didn’t drag you away from anything important?”
Ha bloody ha.
“Then thank you.”
She turned to go.
“Ma’am?”
“What is it?”
“Something you should know. Bachelor recognised me. My name, anyway. Entwhistle said too much, so Bachelor knows who I am.”
She half turned back. “Yes, Richard. We wanted him to know who you are. Why do you think you were chosen for the job? Now, do carry on.”
And then she really was away, out of the lobby and heading for the restricted areas, where Richard Pynne had once wandered freely but which were now closed to him, and thus looked like any other gated paradise.
After a minute or so, he made his way back to the press liaison room.
They’d left the café when an influx of tourists threatened their privacy, onto the street’s morning sunshine, then round a corner and into a wine bar. It wasn’t open for business, but Benny shouted a greeting to a man polishing the woodwork of the curved counter, and pointed to one of the booths against the far wall.
“Quiet business meet, Yol.”
This seemed to be okay with Yol, or perhaps just so commonplace it wasn’t worth taking issue with.
They settled themselves on a banquette.
“What kind of name is Yol?” John wanted to know, but Benny just stared at him, so he didn’t pursue it.
Daisy appeared to be used to such encounters, or at any rate unfazed by them. She had hair that was probably normal really, but was currently feathered with strands of purple, or it might be indigo. Startling, either way. She looked a quarter John’s age, and yet was old enough to have a career, which was also startling. It was a wonder his eyebrows weren’t constantly raised these days: a perpetual state of mild shock. Hair apart, she looked the way all young people looked now, which was a lot healthier than young people had looked back when he was one. Maybe they had better role models. That or better drugs.
“You’re a journalist, aren’t you?” he asked her.
She seemed pleased he’d heard of her, though he hadn’t really. It was just that he was starting to twig: Benny had got hold of some information. His usual recourse would have been to sell it back to whoever he’d stolen it from, but that evidently wasn’t the profitable option here.
Daisy looked at Benny. “Fetch us some coffees, would you?”
“They’re not serving yet.”
“Or you could step over the road.”
He cottoned on. “Be five minutes.”
When he’d left, John said, “I didn’t think people were called Daisy any more.”
“It’s making a comeback. Are you really a spy?”
“I’m a civil servant.”
“That’s a spy answer. Why did you come looking for Benny?”
“It’s my job. Making sure he’s all right.”
“Why would he need someone doing that?”
“Injured in the line of duty,” John said.
“His limp.”
He nodded. “What kind of journalist are you?”
“How many kinds are there?”
“They’re mostly columnists these days, aren’t they?”
She said, “I’m the proper kind.”
“For an actual newspaper? Or just one of those websites?”
“You’re not a fan of the modern world?”
“It’s not a fan of me.”
“Can’t think why.” She gave him an appraising look: too appraising, really. He wasn’t sure whether this was down to her being a journalist, or just being so bloody young. She said, “But no, I work for an actual newspaper.”
She named it. It was indeed big, in the sense of being a household name.
“And what’s your interest in Benny?” he said.
“He has a story.”
John said, “Yes, well. Everyone’s got one of those.”
“But Benny’s is big.”
“So why haven’t you published it?”
“There are details to be ironed out.”
“Such as?”
“Well, Benny wants more money than my editor wants to give him. And my editor wants proof that it’s actually true.”
“Inconvenient things like that. What’s the story?”
Daisy said, “Ah, you nearly had me there. I nearly gave it away.”
“I thought when you people were working on a story with a witness like our Benny, you locked yourselves away in a motel or something. Lived on takeaways. Made sure nobody could poach your talent.”
“I saw that film once. It was quite old, wasn’t it?”
“Nobody’s got the budget any more, have they?”
“Maybe sometimes. For a big enough story.”
“And this isn’t?”
“It is if it’s true. But Benny has form. He approached us once before.”
“‘Us?’”
“The paper. Not me. It was before my time.”
“And what was Benny selling then?”
“He didn’t get around to saying. He had a story, he said. It involved spooks. That would be you lot.”
John bowed his acknowledgement. Spooks would be his lot. Or that’s what it might look to an outsider, anyway. As far as spooks were concerned, he was just a milkman. “So the story never got printed.”
“The story never got printed.”
And that would have been about how the Service recruited Benny for a black-books op, he thought. He must have worried he’d be left out in the cold, which was something that happened to spies, and sought an alternative form of payment just in case. Or else to encourage the Park to dig deeper. He didn’t lack confidence, Benny Manors, that was for sure. A more circumspect character might have wondered how the Park would react to the squeeze being applied. But it had worked out for him in the end. And now here he was again, with another story to sell, only this time he seemed to really want to do it.
He said, “And now he’s back.”
“I was an intern at the time, but I was shadowing the journalist on the story. Dave Bateman?” She waited, but John offered no response. “Anyway, he’s one of the best in the business, Dave. And he thought there was something there.”
“Even though it never arrived.”
“So when Benny turned up again, claiming he had another story, I thought, I want a piece of that.”
“And Dave wasn’t interested?”
“He’s moved on.”
Whet
her this was to a different paper or a different way of life entirely wasn’t clear. John decided it didn’t matter.
“So now you’re talking to Benny. And your editor isn’t sure.”
Daisy said, “My editor doesn’t trust Benny. Not after last time.”
“And you do?”
“I think he’s got a story.” She put her elbow on the table, leaned her chin on her palm. “Your being here kind of proves that.”
“In what way?”
“In a spy-ey way. You’re here to tell me he’s making it up, aren’t you? That the evidence is faked.”
“I don’t even know what his story is, much less whether his evidence is shonky.”
“So why were you looking for him?”
“Good question.” He saw Benny entering with a takeaway cup in his hand. “He’s being looked for, though. I can tell you that much. What’s the story?”
She waggled a finger. “Uh-uh.”
“But something big.”
“Massive.”
“Except your editor isn’t buying it. In every sense.”
Benny arrived and put the coffee in front of Daisy. “A latte. Just the way you like it.”
“I take it black.”
“Oh. Looks like it’s mine, then.” Retrieving the cup, he looked at John. “So. He’s been explaining how unhappy MI5 is about you publishing my story. I told you the spooks would be coming out of the woodwork.”
“You did,” agreed Daisy. “On the other hand, this one doesn’t have a clue what you’re selling.”
They both studied John. He felt like an art exhibit.
“In fact, I’m not convinced he’s a spy. He doesn’t look like one.”
“The best don’t,” John suggested, though even he wasn’t convinced himself.
“So you might have put him up to it.”
Benny said, “Be reasonable. If I wanted someone who looked like a spy, I’d have picked someone else. Someone with a bit charisma.”
I am still here, thought John. He said, “Look,” and turned to Benny. “Like I said, there are people looking for you. Spooks, yes, but they’re not on Park time, they’ve gone freelance. And whatever you’ve done, whatever you’ve got, my guess is they want to stop you. So your best bet is to come with me. You’d be safer at the Park.”
Benny threw back his head and laughed.
“I mean it. I’ve spoken to First Desk there.”
“First Desk?” asked Daisy.
“That’s what they call the chief.”
“Sounds like you got that from a book.”
Benny was still laughing, adding theatre by producing a tissue and wiping his eyes.
“You’ve made your point,” Daisy told him.
“I wasn’t expecting that,” Benny said. “I told you they’d try to stop us. And this is what they’re up to. They’re hoping I’ll just trot along to the Park at John here’s heels. Like a bloody puppy!”
He laughed some more: an over-long solo.
“So let me get this straight,” John said, once Benny had more or less finished. “You”—meaning Daisy—“think he’s using me to set you up. And you”—this being Benny—“think the Park’s using me to set you up.”
“And how does that make you feel?” Daisy wondered.
He shrugged. “At this stage, I’m pretty used to being used. But I have to tell you, I haven’t a clue what it’s all about.”
“Hey, Yol,” said Benny. “What time do you start serving?”
“Couple of hours.”
“How about you make me a present of a bottle for now, then. And I’ll make you a present of some money?”
“Not the way it works, Benny,” Yol told him, but even as he was saying it he was reaching under the counter for a bottle of what John could only assume was Benny’s regular tipple: a bottle of Greensand Ridge gin, it turned out. He’d evidently moved on from Brown Ale.
“And three glasses,” said Daisy.
Daisy said, “My problem is, my editor’s problem, you’ve got photos, you’ve got audio—you’ve got sound and vision, basically—but these things can be faked.”
“Not by me.”
“I’m not saying by you. I’m saying you’re the one selling. And last time you came to us with a story, well. Story never happened, did it?”
The bottle was on its last legs, but the bar had opened for business now. So far, all this meant was the door had been propped open and the summer’s afternoon had peeped in. It evidently hadn’t liked what it had seen. Maybe the summer’s evening would be more in the mood, and stop for a cocktail. Meanwhile it was just the three of them and Yol, who’d finished his polishing and was idling behind the bar. Yol, lolling. The words made a nice little circle in John’s mind, and he admired their pirouette for a while before returning to the business at hand.
He still had no idea what story Benny was trying to sell, other than—as Benny had said more than twice—it was huge. Massive. Needed to be told.
“So why not slap it on the web?”
Benny rubbed finger and thumb together. “The old do-re-mi. Can’t make money out of the internet.”
“Nobody says ‘do-re-mi.’ And Amazon seems to manage.”
Benny ignored him. “I’m not a citizen journalist.”
“Thank God,” said Daisy.
She had drunk less than the two men, possibly because she regarded this as working. Come to think of it, John was working too. Sort of.
He said, “Where did the stuff come from, anyway? The photos and what not?”
Benny just looked at him.
“Pick them up on the job, did you?” John turned to Daisy. “Benny used to be a burglar. Did he tell you that?”
“No,” Daisy said. “He did not.”
“Mended my ways, didn’t I?” Benny asked.
“Can’t scale the walls the way he once did, mind,” John said. He slapped the banquette, having aimed for his own leg. He tried again. “Old war wound.”
“In the service of my country.”
Daisy said, “It’s an honour, really. Just sitting in the same booth.”
“I need a cigarette.”
“And I need a . . .” John countered. He waved a hand in the vague direction of the toilets. “Pee.”
He sat in a cubicle and called Di Taverner. There was unexpectedly good reception. But then maybe a lot of business calls were made from wine bar toilets: he wouldn’t know.
“You’re in a bar,” she told him. “Surprise surprise.”
“I’m in a bar because Benny’s here,” he said. “I’ve made contact.”
“And what exactly is our Benny peddling that’s causing such a fuss?”
“Yes, well, I’m still working on that.”
She sighed emphatically enough that he could feel as well as hear it. “Do you remember what we said about second chances? Do you recall that part of our conversation?”
“It’s in hand.”
“Judging by the echo, it’s not the only thing in hand. Next time you give me an update, be holding more than your dick, John. It makes you look needy.”
Back at the booth, Benny’s cigarette had speeded up his metabolism, or slowed it down: whichever was required to make him a notch drunker than he’d been. It seemed a good moment to divide the rest of the bottle and suggest a second. There was an out-there chance he’d be able to claim it on expenses, John thought, a flash of optimism that crashed and burned when he discovered the price. Accounts would assume he’d bought a car. When he returned to the table, Benny was saying, “So your editor’ll just step on it, that what you’re saying? Because there are other papers out there. Other editors.”
“And they’ll all know we passed on it, Benny. And they’ll all know why.”
“None of it’s faked.”
“So you keep saying. And what we’ve seen and heard looks good. But until you tell us how you came to have hold of it, we’re not prepared to accept it as kosher. So please, Benny, if you want this story heard—and believe me, I do—then fill in the gaps, and we’ll take it from there.”
“You don’t sound drunk,” John complained.
“That’s because I’ve not been drinking. I mean, seriously, John. It’s barely lunchtime.”
He could have sworn he’d filled her glass at least once. The possibility that she’d been pouring it on the floor filled him with expensive horror.
Daisy stood. “I’m going for some fresh air. And also, you know. Pop in to the office and that sort of thing. Why not think it over, Benny? Maybe John can help. Flesh out the details, and I’ll run it past the paper one more time. But we’re getting short of options, okay?”
Then she was gone.
Benny reached for the bottle.
“I should probably have got her to pay for that,” said John. “Expenses.”
Benny rolled his eyes. “Always a little behind the curve, eh, John?”
He shrugged.
They continued to drink.
And then it was late afternoon, and they weren’t in the wine bar any more, but a nearby pub. There’d been some misunderstanding with Yol, John couldn’t recall the details. It might have involved payment. Benny’s limp didn’t get in the way of a stand-up row, nor impede him when a swift departure was required. Practice, John supposed. All of this, he was more spectator than participant. Didn’t stop Yol catching him on the back of the head with a wet tea towel on his way out.
Anyway.
For reasons of economy they’d switched from gin to beer, which increased the traffic to and from the gents. Conversation had loosened up too, ranging from the quality of the bar snacks on offer to Benny fondly recalling their first meeting, when he’d punched John in the face.
“What was it you said?”
“Leg like an overcooked noodle,” John remembered. “Not that it’s slowed you down much.”
“I still do holiday jobs, yeah.”
“. . . Like a student?”
“Keep up, mate. Do I look like a fucking student?” He didn’t. “When the homeowners are on holiday, that’s when I do a job. Less call for the speedy getaway.”