He decided to retreat to the burger restaurant back on the corner, and formulate a strategy. He realised, now that he had successfully tracked his quarry to its lair, he had no plan.
77. 17° 46' 33" S 168° 17' 37" E
(Breakas Beach Resort, Port Vila)
At the same moment…
11.20pm Vanuatu Time (12:20 UTC)
Saturday, 26 October
He realised, as he looked in the mirror, there were only two things he lacked: a face that didn’t look like it had just emerged from a cage fight, and a sensible plan.
Ruart had just arrived at his Port Vila hotel – a typical resort, they were everywhere, although this one, nestled in a small cove, had a certain charm which included the soothing, never-ending sound of waves gently breaking on the fringing reef maybe a hundred metres out from his beachside bungalow – and he was examining his week-old bruise, which was taking an annoyingly long time to go away. Not a great look. Someone ought to have a ‘talk’ to those lads, but he knew very well he had more important things to be concerning himself with. He would’ve arranged for Sav to deal with them if Sav hadn’t vanished, God knows what happened to him. Sav may even have been part of the problem, for all he knew. Still, it was important to establish whether there was a link with Drayle and he’d filed a recommendation with the Préfecture (which meant, of course, that would be the last he’d hear of the matter).
The second thing he lacked – a sensible plan of action – was a more pressing issue and he’d be settling down to work shortly: he’d roll up his proverbial sleeves and get cracking, out there on his balcony, a glass in his hand, preferably containing something cold and vodka-based.
* * *
He’d barely had a chance to get to ‘work’ – he’d settled into his bungalow (laid out his toiletries next to the basin in the bathroom, and hung up his trousers and jacket), aligned the chair on his balcony with the small outside table, sat down facing the dark waters of the Coral Sea streaked with the thin white lines of the waves breaking over the reef, and enjoyed, at most, two sips of his “Island Passion” cocktail delivered by Room Service (vodka, something coconutty, something fruity) – when a call came in from Reception. A message had been left for him earlier, from Paris. Requesting that he contact them. Incroyable! He’d never known them to work so hard.
He rang them back and learnt that Delia in London had reported being approached by an East Asian woman who may have been in possession of the decagon. There was some suspicion that it might have been Ishiko and an alert had been put out but, as Delia’s description was a little wanting (“Chinese or Japanese appearance, short and slim with black hair”), they had next to no chance of finding her, especially if she was travelling under a false name (which she almost certainly was). Ruart suddenly felt overwhelmed by a world-weariness. Weighed down by ennui (another one for the Académie). He suddenly felt it was all too hard. What the hell was he doing in Vanuatu? With an “Island Paradise” in his hand? He took another sip. It was too sweet anyway.
Whichever way he turned, and whatever way he looked at things, it felt all wrong. And if that was using his unreliable gut instinct, as opposed to his predictably reliable powers of logical reasoning, then bad luck!
78. 17° 56' 24" S 168° 12' 28" E
(Coral Sea, about 25km SW of Port Vila)
9am Vanuatu Time (22:00 UTC)
Sunday, 27 October
As soon as he woke up, Roy knew that he was going to be having a bad day. He had a splitting headache and was experiencing a wooziness so intense it felt like the whole room was moving. The room itself was small and airless, and he didn’t recognise it. He didn’t even know what day it was.
And then, when he sat up and noticed the small round window, he realized the room was moving. He was on a boat.
Slowly, flashes of what had happened came back to him. After springing Lena in the middle of her dirty little tryst and going in to sort out that… pigman – who the hell was that? – the guy had gone feral (as if Roy had been the one cutting his grass), just lost his head like he was Charles fucking Manson or someone, and came at him like a mini-tornado of fists, his whopping great erection flopping everywhere. He’d done a bit of boxing in his time and made a fair job at defending himself until everything had gone inexplicably dark. Lights out.
His head sure hurt. The back of it, too. Lena’s work? He wouldn’t have been surprised, the little Russian whore. She’d pay for this.
He got up, gingerly, although he had to sit down again straight away. What had they given him, for Chrissakes? When he eventually made it to the cabin door, it was locked.
Things were not looking good.
* * *
It must have been about an hour later when two Vanuatuans came in, or Ni-Vans (locals, Melanesians born in Vanuatu). They weren’t tall but they were well-built and fit-looking. And they didn’t say a word, despite Roy’s questions.
‘What’s going on here? Is Lena here? Lena?’
They roughly grabbed his arms and led him out into a narrow passageway and up onto a deck bathed in sunshine. Which was when he discovered he was on a large rusty prawn trawler by the looks of it, or a (cheaply) converted one. Called the Blue Shefa. They were in the middle of the ocean, although he could clearly see what he thought was Efate, the island Port Vila was on, in the distance.
Two more Ni-Vans were waiting to ‘greet’ him on deck (although they too steadfastly remained silent). And then a man of Chinese appearance emerged – in a brown batik shirt and grey trousers, white shoes (tennis shoes) and a gold Rolex. This was no fisherman, Roy knew that much. He barked something, a name Roy didn’t pick up. A reply came from somewhere:
‘Coming Mr Song!’
Voices other than his own, at least. But what was going on here? When he articulated the question, no-one deigned to provide him with an answer.
And then a fifth Ni-Van appeared, carrying a large coil of nylon rope. This “Mr Song” nodded and the rope-carrier, along with the other two Ni-Vans came over. Four of them pushed him roughly down onto the deck while the rope-carrier began tying the rope around his legs. Roy lacked the strength to put up much of a fight, and there were five of them anyway. Not counting the Chink.
The rope man disappeared for a few moments and returned wheeling what could only be described as a yellow, small but heavy-looking building skip on trolley-wheels. Roy watched with growing apprehension as the guy began tying the other end of the rope to the skip. Why? He was hardly going anywhere, was he. Given where they were, in the middle of the ocean.
And then, to Roy’s horror, the same man, the rope man, walked over to the side of the boat and slid open a section of the gunwale, where you would normally board the boat if it was docked. But it wasn’t docked.
The rest happened quickly.
Another nod from Mr Song and two of the Ni-Vans pushed the skip through the gap in the gunwale. There was a loud splash as it plunged into the sea. There was a short interval where nothing happened. And then, all of sudden, the rope began rapidly unravelling. Roy, frozen with fear, knew very well what was about to happen. But it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be happening…
And as the coil melted away in a dizzying whirl of flicking rope, Mr Song finally spoke to him.
‘My advice to you, Mr Roy, is to get up and jump now. Otherwise you get hurt. And don’t hold your breath. There is no point.’
Roy desperately tried to undo the cord around his legs but there wasn’t enough time, not nearly enough.
Mercifully, in a way, the last things he felt were the inevitable, terrible tug on his legs and, an instant later, his head violently slamming into the deck, because after that, everything was night.
79. 17° 46' 33" S 168° 17' 40" E
(Breakas Beach Resort: hotel pool)
At the same moment…
10.05am Vanuatu Time (23:05 UTC)
Sunday, 27 October
Just over twenty kilometres to the north-east, across the restive waters of th
e Coral Sea, just past the gently rolling lines of white over the reef there, Ruart lay at the bottom of his hotel pool looking up at the surface, and beyond that, the sky. He was practising holding his breath underwater, and seeing how his ears held up – not well, they were hurting already, even at a depth of just three metres. He was told it was different when you were scuba-diving, your ears equalized, but he was yet to be convinced.
Not that there was going to be any time for scuba-diving.
He pushed back up to the surface and got out of the pool with as much athleticism as he could muster: he was well-aware of the presence of two attractive brunettes in nothing-there bikinis – he just happened to have noticed them when he arrived at the pool, and he’d picked up their sly glances before diving in. He flexed his triceps and sucked his stomach in as he fluently hopped out. But, even if he was the type (and he obviously wasn’t), there was no time for that sort of thing either. Because there’d been real progress at last.
Bob Walman had been traced to a nearby resort. Helpful staff there had informed him that Walman had ventured out on a diving tour that morning which was due back at lunchtime. Ruart would be paying him a visit. But that wasn’t all. He’d also learned, through the Préfecture’s ‘people’ in Port Vila (not the police) that Lena and Roy were staying at the Grand Hotel and Casino and that Lena and an Englishman by the name of Edward Lang had been spotted out at dinner last night in town.
These guys they were using in Vanuatu, they really earned their money! Put his Parisian colleagues to shame, and who would have thought it, here in this beautiful, lazy, tropical paradise?
It was funny how things were never what you expected.
80. 51° 30' 46" N 0° 8' 1" W
(Soho Restaurant)
The same time
12.05am British Summer Time (23:05 UTC)
Sunday, 27 October
Just after midnight – or was it? the clocks were supposed to be turned back tonight, or was it forwards? – and Jon was sitting in the restaurant on the corner of Peter Street, just up from 30A, his BOAC bag by his feet, and a glass of wine in front of him, his third. Still no further sightings of Isla, still no plan. Maybe the wines were not such a great idea but what the hell. He didn’t care anymore. It was all getting too hard. “Wanted for questioning”! Christ. Lord Lucan didn’t have these problems. “Inaction” hadn’t been in his vocabulary, obviously. Africa was sounding better by the minute.
Outside, a light rain was falling.
Outside, Isla was walking past the restaurant windows. Isla.
He prepared himself for a quick departure, and extracted some money to leave on the table, when Isla turned and entered the restaurant. She was still wearing the same jeans and dark cotton jacket, but she looked tired. Exhausted. He watched as she sat down on the other side of the room and ordered a drink. She hadn’t seen him yet.
What to do?
He reminded himself he’d already decided what he’d do if he saw her. Sure, she was with Irwin, and sure she’d possibly been following him, and sure she, by dint of Irwin, represented a real threat to Jon’s continued existence. On the other hand they were in a public place, he had to do something, and he had a curiously compelling instinct about her. And she was beautiful (always a bad reason, but there you are).
In for a penny, in for a pound.
So he slung his bag over his shoulder, scooped up his wine, and walked over to her.
Their eyes met before he got there. She just stared: there was no panic, and no aggression. She watched him agape, and looked as if someone she knew had just risen from the dead. Just as the Asian girl had done, in fact, earlier that day.
He didn’t ask for permission to join her – he just rested his drink on her table, pulled out the chair opposite and sat down, keeping an eye on the passing pedestrians outside.
‘Not expecting anyone I hope?’ he asked.
She said nothing. Just looked at him with a fierce intensity through big, expressive brown eyes. Her hair was less red in the poor lighting, but her eyes shone…
‘I know about Irwin,’ he continued calmly, returning her gaze. ‘And I intend to go to the police.’
‘That would be a mistake,’ she said. Not a trace of anxiety in her voice, which was soft, almost husky, guttural. And the accent, it sounded possibly French or Italian. Or German.
‘Who for?’
‘You.’
‘So is that a kind of… threat?’
She simply shook her head, not as a reply to his question, but a critical assessment of it.
‘Why are you following me?’ he asked.
A Mona Lisa smile, this time.
‘What’s happened to Romy?’
The smile disappeared. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I think you do.’
‘I don’t.’ Without raising her voice, she spat the words at him. As if she meant them. ‘I’m not involved with any of his…’ But she didn’t finish her sentence.
‘He’s, what, your boyfriend? Lover? You share him with Romy?’
‘You should forget about Irwin. Your bigger problem is a creep named Stephens.’
‘Stephen who.’
‘Stephens. Detective Nigel Stephens. He’s a cop, but a very bad one. And by bad, I don’t mean incompetent.’
‘I don’t know him.’
‘He knows you. And you do know him. You just haven’t been introduced yet.’
‘Stephens…’
‘Likes his grey suits.’
That rang a bell, but he couldn’t quite work out where the sound of the bell was coming from…
‘Is he connected in some way to Irwin?’
She nodded slowly. ‘As I’ve only just discovered myself.’
‘And how do you fit into this? Other than being Irwin’s―’
‘Money,’ she said. ‘And blood. Which is appropriate, because money and blood, they’re the only currencies these people trade in.’
Money and blood. More or less what Alastair had said.
‘And you say you’re not one of them?’
‘You can’t beat these people. You can only endure them.’
‘You can fight back.’
She snorted dismissively. Her drink arrived and she took a large swig. ‘I only just found out about Detective Stephens myself.’ And then another swig; the glass was all but empty. She opened her bag and pulled out a tenner. ‘I can’t be seen with you.’
‘Wait.’
She was getting up.
‘Isla.’ Iss-la.
By the look on her face, he assumed he managed to get the pronunciation right, or at least close enough to impress her. She hesitated.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘You know… you’re my only hope of… My only hope. And I know… I mean I can tell you’re…’ He knew he was sounding drunk, and maybe he was drunk. ‘Look, can we meet again? Please. Tomorrow, somewhere. Please?’
As she looked into his eyes, he detected a softening. Then she seemed to catch herself and she looked away again, deep in thought.
‘What’s tomorrow,’ she said finally. ‘Sunday. He’ll be out. We can meet here. At noon.’
* * *
Minutes later, and a mere twenty or thirty paces from the restaurant entrance, Jon stood in the shadows across from 30A Peter Street. After Isla had left, he made a move himself. And now, as he looked up, he could see her at the window. She was looking down in his direction. There was something about her, something almost… almost irresistible. Compelling. And there it was again, that word.
Compelling in the sense that he wanted to help her (because he knew she needed help), but was that for her sake or for his? And was that really what it was – a desire to help and be helped – or was it simply raw, bestial attraction? Was it as basic as that? And if it was the latter, if it was something animalistic and wild, might these impulses, counterintuitively, be stronger in us when we were most in danger? Perhaps we felt them more keenly when we were forced to fall back on our full range, our complete ar
senal of mammalian intuition? The in-for-a-penny-in-for-a-pound theory of natural inclinations?
And as he watched her looking down at him, he knew she could see him, and he wondered whether her coming to the window was a sign of some kind.
81. 51° 29' 27" N 0° 9' 27" W
(Bridges’ flat, Lower Sloane St, Chelsea)
The same time
12.05am British Summer Time (23:05 UTC)
Sunday, 27 October
When his front door buzzer sounded, Bridges had been asleep on his reading chair, with the floor lamp still on and the Arts section of Saturday’s Guardian covering his lap like a pensioner’s blanket. Not that he could call himself young anymore exactly, and regularly falling asleep while reading was, he had to admit, rather damning evidence indeed.
‘Who the bloody hell…?’ he muttered to himself, leaping up as a reflex more than anything else. Which did nothing for his bad back (exhibit B). Halfway to the intercom, it occurred to him that it was probably some misguided specimen of Chelsea teenager or a drunken yob (or both, these days), (and complaining about the latest generation: exhibit C), but he answered it anyway.
‘Yes hello?’
‘Lawrence Bridges?’
‘Who wants to know.’
It had to be said, he’d been on edge lately. Because of what Runion had told him at the Garrick, but also because he still hadn’t heard from the man. Admittedly he’d promised to call Runion later on the Thursday, after their lunch, but he’d needed some thinking time (and a break from Richard, who could be a trifle intense at times). Bridges had rung, eventually, on Friday evening, and then again during the day on Saturday but not a peep. And it wasn’t like Runion to fail to return a call at the best of times. Let alone the worst, which these were beginning to look like: for grey squirrels and art dealers both.
Dark Oceans Page 37