As the train pulled into Piccadilly Circus, he was almost tempted to jump out and hop on the number 19 there, and rejoin the sunshine. The chances of ending up on the same bus as Runion were remote and it was a risk he would have taken. If he could have been bothered. But he was feeling distinctly weary, and now that he was on the blasted thing, he decided he may as well stick it out (like a true Londoner). So when the doors opened he stayed where he was, feeling confident it was likely to be the Spaniards’ stop anyway (no such luck).
Not long after the doors had closed again and the train began pulling away from the station, he noticed a man sitting at the end of the row of seats opposite him. He couldn’t place him for a moment, and then realised it was the man from the club, the man Runion had asked him about. The large fellow in the grey suit and glasses who’d been reading The Times. At least that’s who it looked like, although you could never be perfectly sure in a city like London, swarming as it was with the flotsam and jetsam of the world. He sometimes felt that everyone probably had their double, somewhere, in a place like London.
The man was a little heftier than Bridges remembered, but he was similar in most other respects. He was wearing the same charcoal suit, severely lined and crushed at his back, as if he’d been sitting down all day without taking his jacket off and had been sweating into it. And there. Confirmation: the blue and grey checked socks with the brown shoes. It had to be the same man.
Although if he had to go on the face alone – the man on the train had small eyes set into a rather full face – Bridges couldn’t have been sure. It looked unfamiliar, but then he had no recollection of the face of the man in the club either, despite getting a good look at him. He had the same hair, though: a strange mixture of blond, grey and brown, sparse, but just enough to give one a strong impression of multi-colour. Or no colour. Because there was certainly a blandness about the man that almost compelled you to not remember him. It was difficult to describe: he sucked in attention with his presence, like a politician or an actor – but at the same time there was something about his looks, about the man himself, that was opaque and vague. Nevertheless, Bridges was as certain as he could be that this was the man they saw earlier.
There was, now he thought about it, something familiar about him as well, as though it were someone he knew – Runion had obviously felt the same way – but the harder he tried to place the face, the further away from the front of his brain the memory receded. Overwhelmed, perhaps, by the visual lifelessness.
Bridges must have been staring because the man suddenly returned his gaze. He was blinking a lot, too, and it was a gaze that not only said I know you’ve been staring at me, but also, I know who you are.
Bridges looked away again – quickly – but the unpleasant sensation of being stared at continued for the remainder of the trip.
51.
He held her close. A moment or two passed. And then: the applause, a little less than he deserved. And a lot less than thunderous.
What an abomination!
‘Jessica, my darling Jessica…’ he was saying to her as soon as the curtain hit the stage, raising dust.
‘Not now Michael. Not now.’ She was angry and already storming off.
Michael felt the stabbing pain of the falsely accused and tossed his plastic revolver into the dark. It thudded against the chaise longue.
‘Fuck you,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Double fuck you.’
It wasn’t MY fucking fault you made me forget my fucking lines.
He barely raised a smile as he walked past the stage manager, Geraldine. He knew she liked him and that she appreciated his regular flirting. There wouldn’t be any of that this afternoon though.
Not now, Geraldine. Not now.
An hour later, in a vast underground brassserie off Piccadilly Circus, Michael was sharing an Entrecôte au Beurre Persillé and a bottle or two of house pinot noir with the gallery owner Richard Runion, dressed today in a Persian-blue, velvet smoking jacket. Richard was a wanker but a fantastic drinking companion (not that Michael was drinking drinking, he had another performance in two hours). Richard saw the humour in everything and his endless stories were genuinely funny. And he liked his wine (as his Burgundy-stained, burgundy tie attested to).
‘… So after I’d said all this,’ Richard was saying, a grin waiting to burst forth on his gigantic red face as big as Jupiter. ‘… he just stood there, staring at me and then, all at once, blurted out in that Midlands accent of his: “No no no, oh my God, what I said was, she was havin’ a bath!”.’
And at that, Richard erupted in a barrage of rasping laughter and coughing.
Michael found it funny too although not, evidently, as funny as Richard. He chortled along though, and at the same time glanced over at the table next to them, hoping to catch the admiring glance of a theatre-goer (not that he hadn’t appeared in his fair share of films and television episodes) – hoping to spot one of those heartening looks of recognition that kept every actor doing what he did.
No such luck though. Just a wild-looking ginger and his more debonair, dark-haired friend, deep in animated conversation. Both in drab navy suits, one, or both of them reeking of mothballs. Probably accountants. Two men, by the looks of it, who rarely if ever darkened the doors of a theatre.
Turning back to his dinner companion, Michael reminded himself that at least Richard went to see a show occasionally. And as the song advised, if you couldn’t be with the one you love: “love the one you’re with”.
52.
Alastair was in the middle of telling Jon about his earlier adventures in the “Department” – he still wouldn’t reveal which one – and Jon was, while not remotely interested in the story itself, grateful for the ‘small talk’ (although no talk, from Alastair, was ever, in any sense, small). They’d been sitting in Brasserie Zédel for twenty minutes and Alastair had talked solidly for most of it. Jon spent half the time keeping an eye out for suspicious-looking characters loitering on the fringes or sitting at the tables, and in his current state of mind, everybody looked suspicious. While it was unlikely his adversaries would ‘take him out’ in the middle of a crowded restaurant, they could be there, watching him, ready to follow him into the greater world outside.
At the next table for example, there was a dubious-looking man dressed in black from head to toe (black t-shirt, black trousers, black jacket and shoes) and possibly wearing a small amount of make-up, who kept looking over at Jon every few minutes. Possibly he was gay, or maybe Jon reminded him of an actor, or of someone famous or someone he knew… Jon pretended he hadn’t noticed but made a mental note to make sure the guy didn’t follow him. And make sure he didn’t get anywhere near his food.
Apart from the man in black and his companion (a ruddy-faced statue of a man with an explosive laugh that might have given even Alastair a run for his money), there was no shortage of people to keep an eye on: there would have been two hundred people in the place. It was a big space, all marble and chrome and with the big colour contrasts in the floor and wall tiling typical of the art-deco style. Majestically high ceilings. Jon was grateful to be seated with his back to a large marble pillar, even if the illusion of safety was purely psychological. The hubbub of the crowd was bordering on deafening, and Alastair’s booming voice was almost drowned out (but not quite). Jon could see the irony in the fact that he’d been told to ‘lie low’ and ‘go to ground’ and here they were, literally underground, and surrounded by a bigger crowd than you’d usually find on the ‘surface’.
Finally, Alastair had come to the end of his story. Single-handedly he’d stared down the “Department” and won. Horatius at the bridge. And he’d managed to get out of the place alive.
‘You’re probably wondering what we’re doing here,’ said Alastair reading his mind, ‘… shoulder to shoulder with half of London. Well after your… to be perfectly honest with you… absolutely bloody idiotic foolishness yesterday, there wasn’t much point in keeping you hidden and, frankly
… it’s a damn sight better than a tube station. Let alone Piccadilly fucking Circus!’
‘We’re just about in Piccadilly Circus.’
‘I doubt very much, my dear boy, that these people we’re messing with eat offal. No-one under sixty eats tripe these days, take my word for it, not if you’re born west of Vienna. Unless it’s a dare. Or you’re from Suffolk.’
‘What about steak?’ said Jon after snatching a look at the next table’s meals.
‘Anyway, you’ve been wandering the streets of this great city now for thirty hours or so… Did you go to Hatchards, by the way?’
‘I did in fact―’
‘And loitering in tube stations, good God, I’d be amazed if someone hadn’t spotted you at some point.’
‘It’s a big city―’
‘So we have to assume they know you’re alive. Comprenday? These people have access to CCTV cameras, you do know that don’t you.’
‘They’ve infiltrated the constabulary?’
‘What do you think.’
Jon nodded. It wouldn’t, in fact, surprise him.
‘You probably think I’m barking mad,’ Alastair continued. ‘But there are things I know…’
Jon wasn’t sure if Alastair was lost in thought or had just spotted someone; he had an odd, distant and glazed look in his eyes all of a sudden. Jon turned around to see who he was looking at, but all he saw were just more people.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing, It wasn’t…’ And then, he was back. ‘Now tell me. What’s happened.’
So Jon told him. He’d already told him about the money appearing in his account two years ago, and about the strange incidents leading up to the fire, including the near accidents and the appearance of Emerald in his chambers and the business with Martin Nevers’ will. Now he described his encounters with Romy, and the girl in the green dress again and, of course, the shooting which well and truly confirmed his suspicions that someone was trying to kill him. Alastair maintained a steely gaze throughout the telling, not missing a word. When Jon had finished he kept staring for a few moments. Jon wasn’t sure what Alastair found the more shocking – the fact that he, Jon, was almost shot, or that Bertie was.
Eventually Alastair broke his gaze and surveyed the room. Thoroughly, as though he’d just thought of something. When he spoke, the volume of his speech had dropped significantly, so much in fact that Jon actually had trouble hearing him until he moved his chair closer – a sign that the situation was grave, if ever there was one.
‘I may have been a little hasty in assuming your pursuer was born west of Vienna. I may be wrong here… and I hope I am, dear God I hope I am… but…’
‘But what?’
‘Never mind. First things first.’
Alastair looked around the room again and then under the table, sat up, and then he pushed at something under his chair with his right hand. He then stared straight at Jon, shooting him a very unusual look. At the same time, Jon could feel something pressing against his left foot.
‘Don’t look now,’ Alastair said, ‘but when we leave, you are to take with you the attaché case which I’ve just pushed against your shoe. Can you feel it?’
‘I can feel it.’
‘In it you will find a few healthy-sized wads of banknotes which should see you through for a while at least.’
‘Alastair, I am…’ Jon began, touched by his neighbour’s kindness and intending to express his gratitude, before Alastair raised his hand in a traffic policeman’s ‘stop’ gesture.
‘I’ve also included a mobile phone with a pre-paid SIM. Don’t worry, I have plenty more. Don’t ask me where I got them. But if you ring me on it, you’re going to have to throw it in the river immediately afterwards, so make sure you’ve made any necessary further arrangements with me if you do. Why? Because whatever you do, you will keep me out of this… which is also for your benefit. I’m your fullback let’s say, and you…’
‘You most certainly are.’
‘… and you need me in one piece, so I don’t want my number in that phone.’
‘Of course. But I still don’t actually have your number, which is why I had to―’
‘Why you had to write to me, I know.’ Alastair sighed deeply. He thought for a long time before continuing. ‘You know the more I think about this, the more I think I’m going to have to give you Lucinda’s key.’
‘Who?’
‘A gorgeous little thing, I’m sure you’ll like her. I just hope she likes you.’
‘Who’s Lucinda?’
‘Lucinda is a house, my dear boy. What’s more Lucinda, the little tart, straddles the Prime Meridian. She has one inner thigh in the eastern hemisphere and one in the western.’
‘She’s… the house is in Greenwich?’
‘Peacehaven. In Sussex. All that sea air, it’ll do you good. You could almost say she’s on the sea. In fact she’ll be in the sea before too long I’m sure, with all this climate change going on. There’s even a boat in the backyard. Or there usually is, it’s being repaired.’
‘For when the ocean rises.’
‘No no. I had a mad idea I’d just sail away one day, into the sunset. Still might happen. Not at the moment though, and certainly not with this storm coming.’
‘I suppose not. Storm?’
‘Anyway. Lucinda. She’ll be a good safe house and you, my good man, you indubitably need a house that’s safe.’
‘That I do and Alastair, this is very kind but I could just go to my cottage in Wiltshire if I―’
‘You bloody well can not go to your cottage anywhere! I don’t care if it’s in the Kalahari Desert. Wasn’t that bloody butcher with the bazooka enough for you?!
Alastair paused, as if he needed a moment to mentally turn the volume down a couple of notches. When Jon looked down, he noticed that the ‘attaché case’ which Alastair had transferred to him earlier was in fact a zip-up, retro, BOAC shoulder bag.
‘Your cottage…’ Alastair said gently, a picture of Buddha-calm, ‘… is the first place they’ll look. They’re probably there now, quaffing your best vintages. Now the keys…’ and he dug deep into a trouser pocket, wriggled his hands around below the tablecloth and produced a scrunched-up table napkin which he placed, magician-like, on the table between them. ‘Take it, and let no-one see what it is. The walls have good eyesight.’
Jon put the napkin ball in his lap and extracted a single, small key, slipping it into his own trouser pocket. ‘What about the―’
‘Don’t… even use the word. Begins with an “a” and ends with “s” “s”, yes?’
‘Ass.’
‘If you like. But don’t be one. This is no time for schoolboy humour.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Now you’re going to have to memorize it… the “ass”, as you so maturely put it… but I’m not going to write it down. Too risky. I’m not even going to say it. Ditto. I will however spell it out for you…’
And he unscrewed the salt shaker and upended half its contents onto the table.
‘The advantage of using salt is that no-one else can read it. Not unless they’re within close range and leaning over the table. You have to get the light just right.’
Even though the address consisted of just a post code and house number, it took him a few minutes to spell it out in crude lettering, attracting some raised eyebrows from the waiters.
‘Now memorize it,’ he said when he’d finished. Jon committed the eight letters and digits to memory.
‘Done?’ Alastair asked, and then, with a swift sweep of his arm, the address disappeared. The salt scattered over the floor, with some of it landing in a woman’s shoe. To her obvious annoyance.
‘Don’t forget it, or you’ll be trying that key in every door in Peacehaven. Now I was going to say… contrary to what you may think, it’s lucky that you didn’t have a credit card last night…’
‘I would have killed for a bed.’
‘Been killed you mean.
It’s lucky because on no account should you sign anything. On no account should you provide them with any kind of electronic trail whatsoever. I cannot emphasize this enough.
Jon nodded.
‘Leave nothing in your handwriting.’
‘But Alastair. I’m going to have to access my bank account at some point, to pay you back for one thing―’
‘Forget about that for now. But listen to me. You mustn’t… must not… use any credit cards, Oyster cards, or any plastic whatsoever. You mustn’t use electronic banking, or any phone other than the untraceable ones I give you. You certainly mustn’t sign anything and it goes without saying you must never… ever… give your real name. In fact you should forget your real name, we’ll think of a new one for you. Show no-one your passport or drivers licence―’
‘I don’t have them anymore, remember? The fire?’
‘Perfect. Watch out for CCTV cameras, they’re everywhere these days, the best thing to do is wear a baseball cap with the shade low over the eyes. The cameras are usually placed at height. Other than on ATMs, which you must on no account go near. You can guard against drones in the same way.’
‘Drones?’
‘Drones and for that matter satellites. Don’t think for a minute that the detail of the imagery you see on Google Earth is the limit of what they get to see. Military satellites are unbelievable these days, they can read the label on your jacket. You need to be careful, too, of… forensic deposits.’
‘As in…?’
‘As in DNA. Just be aware, that’s the most you can do.’
‘Can I use the toilet?’
Alastair raised a cautioning finger in response. ‘Always flush. Now… and I hardly need to say this, but don’t even think about driving any car registered in your name because they’ll get you with ANPR every time. Automatic number plate recognition. The same goes for a rental car in your name. Not that you’ll be able to hire one as you’re not using your licence or signing anything. And I’d advise against driving a stolen car.’
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