by Tobias Hill
Anneli’s face at the winter ball, her misery lit up in the dark. Nathan’s expression at the shore. John in the room of unopened gifts, calling after her.
A horn sounds, long and angry, bringing her back. She finds that she is shivering. The Westminster air is cold against her face and arms. She puts the car into gear, her hands blunt and mechanical, and moves.
Her mobile begins to ring as she steps inside the Revenue. She knows it will be Carl before she answers. Ever since their conversation in the elevator she has been avoiding him, and events have made it easy to do so, since the Revenue has been a controlled experiment in disaster all week, its computers no longer to be trusted, its inspectors fully occupied by the complications of work and their own lives, and most of them, besides, not naturally disposed to running errands between competitors. But it is different now. Now she almost wants to see him.
‘Anna,’ he says, his mouth full of audible food. ‘Don’t hang up.’
‘I’m not going to.’
‘Good. You heard, then. Where are you? Business lunch again, is it? You might have sent me a postcard.’
I’m right here.’ She cradles the phone, case and coat in one hand, the other outstretched to stop the nearest elevator doors as they begin to close. She steps into the crowded space, two subordinates making way for her in the confined space.
‘The prodigal returns. You know, I was beginning to think you might have left us.’ There is a wet sound of swallowing. ‘Can you find your own way up, or should I talk you through it?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Temper temper.’
‘So it’s true. Twentieth,’ she adds to the inspector beside her. She can feel him listening as he selects her floor, straight-faced, and she turns away towards the wall.
‘Something’s true, that’s for sure.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Wait and see.’
The floors chime by. She doesn’t hang up. The workers around her thin out until no one is left but her. At the far end of the line there is no sound, as if Carl has stopped eating, stopped breathing, almost, though she is aware of him still being there, the simmer of his impatience.
‘Alone yet?’ he says, finally.
‘Yes.’
The swallowing begins again. ‘That’s what it’s like,’ Carl says between mouthfuls. ‘Up here – you get a bit of space to yourself. Nice, isn’t it? You should get promoted some time. Give it a try.’
‘Spare me the career advice. You were wrong about him,’ she says, as the doors open. She steps out into an empty corridor. There is a smell to it, of new carpets and old furnishings – oak and brass, transported from one Revenue building to the next, like relics – that reminds her of the last time she was here. Years ago, the day she was summoned before the Board.
‘I’m never wrong. Turn left, the door’s open. When?’
‘You said he couldn’t go under if he tried.’
‘Did I?’ His voice coming to her twice, a call and its echo. ‘I did, didn’t I? But I didn’t know him then.’
‘You don’t know him now.’
‘And I didn’t mean six feet under.’
She sees him as he sees her. He is sitting on his desk, facing the doorway, mobile in one hand, spork in the other, a tin tray of noodles balanced precariously on his knees. He is not a large man, and the breadth of the desk and the clasp of his knees diminish him. He is wearing a dull, expensive suit that makes him seem older than he is. He is framed by the room and the window behind him. Like an icon, Anna thinks, or a caricature. The Revenue Mandarin: artless, heartless, all-devouring.
There is nothing else on the desk except a single sheet of paper. Beyond the window London is spread out southwards under a sky full of rain. Carl puts the phone down carelessly, points the spork precisely towards the door. ‘Close that. Do you want anything?’
She shuts the door. Though the office is very large there is only one chair, behind the desk on which Carl sits. Anna goes to it, lays her coat across it, puts down her case, Carl turning to follow her.
And I didn’t mean six feet under.
‘You look like you could do with some coffee. I hope you’re sleeping alright.’
‘I don’t want coffee.’
‘You should. It’s better up here. You’d be surprised.’
‘Is he dead?’ she says dully.
‘You tell me.’
He isn’t smiling. He is not, in fact, laughing at her. His oice – the coarseness of it – no longer quite goes with the way he looks. It is as if the wind has changed while he has een talking, and he has been stuck with the same old sneer, ne redundant chip on the shoulder.
It is not something she has noticed before, but then she has seen him less often, these last months. Up close his face is drawn, as if he is determined not to look tired. He looks older in the flesh, it is not just the suit doing it to him. Most of all he looks as if he belongs here. Briefly she is glad for him, and then she pities him, and is glad only for herself.
He puts down the tin tray, picks up the sheet of paper, holds it out. ‘Here. Go on, it won’t bite.’
‘What is it?’
‘They found it over at SoftMark.’
She takes the sheet. It is almost blank. Along one edge a copy machine has blackened the paper with a negative blur of light. Beyond that margin lie six short handwritten lines.
She goes cold, her heart falling inside her. ‘They said there was no note.’
‘It’s not that. That’s not what it is,’ Carl says, and then, after a moment, ‘Well. I don’t know if that’s what it is.’
She sits down by him on the desk. Side by side, as they used to wait on the bench in the square each morning. After all the time she spent investigating John she is surprised to realise she has never seen his handwriting. It is different to the elegant copperplate on the invitation to the winter ball. This script is so small it is almost unreadable. Crabbed, as if afraid to take up more paper than it has to.
How different we become under the hammer. How malleable we are. Hard to tell what will become of us, hard to explain what we each eat and sleep under. My life has become a weight. I have done things I never expected. Now I find that somewhere in them I have gone wrong. I wish I had
She reads it through twice, the first time instantaneously and blindly, so that she has to go back and start again.
‘It doesn’t look like he finished it,’ Carl says, obviously, but as if it is a question.
‘No.’
‘It could mean anything.’
‘Yes, it could.’
‘It doesn’t say he’s going to do anything. Alright?’
She puts the page down on her lap. Smooths it out. The dream comes back to her, if it was a dream. The apparition under the trees. She is on the verge of tears, and she closes her eyes, stopping herself.
‘Anna?’
‘I’m okay, I’m fine. Give me a minute.’
‘Right.’ Gruffly he busies himself beside her. There is the sound of a drawer opening and shutting. When she looks up he has produced tissues, a small packet of them primly wrapped in plastic, their fabric decorated, ludicrously, with the faces of celebrities and politicians. ‘Here. I used to keep these for interviews. Don’t worry, they came free with something. Amazing how many clients cry over money, isn’t it?’
‘Thanks.’ She unfolds a tissue. The face on it is familiar, though she is slow to recognise the features. It is John’s guest, the ex-Minister of Defence in the rooms of glass. She is grateful it isn’t John himself.
It must be something to do with numbers, do you think? Numbers and company don’t mix.
She presses her eyes into the softness. When she is done she balls the remains. There is an oversized chrome bin on the far side of the desk, and she throws the wad and misses. Beside her Carl snorts with familiar derision.
‘Keep the day job.’
‘I am,’ she says. ‘I’m here, aren’t I? You want me to find him, don’t y
ou?’
He cleans his teeth with his tongue, thoughtfully, extracting the last of his meal. ‘More or less, yeah. I want you to bring him back.’
‘Why?’
He nods with satisfaction. ‘That isn’t a no.’
‘It doesn’t mean yes.’
‘It should,’ he says. ‘Alright,’ and opening one hand he begins to enumerate reasons on the blunt tips of his fingers.
‘One, he’s been gone four days. He was supposed to be away on business, but he isn’t. You might have thought a wife would call the police, but no. This wife didn’t call anyone, she didn’t see anyone. She let him go. If you ask me, I’d say that means she knows something.’
‘Maybe she’s ashamed. Maybe she thinks he’s left her. Left everything,’ she says, not really believing it herself, not quite knowing why she says it – because the way Carl thinks is so crudely accurate – and he laughs.
‘Don’t be stupid. Money men are like prostitutes. They always say they’re going to give it up. They never do.’
‘And you’d know.’
‘Don’t judge me,’ he says, his voice altering fractionally, the wrong side of cordial. ‘And I won’t judge you. Anyway, it doesn’t matter why he’s gone. What matters is we get him back. Four days makes him an officially missing person, which, when the missing person is him, means the police are involved. Unfortunately they’re having problems. The Laws have let them in now, but they still won’t talk to them in words of more than one syllable, and SoftMark are worse – they never give information to anyone if they think they can get away with it. So we’ve been asked to assist. We’re the last government body which had –’ he licks his lips, as if in thought’ – personal contact with Mister Law. You’re the last representative of the government to have done so. That means you’ll be helping the police in their investigations. There’s a Detective Inspector Mints you need to talk to. He’ll keep us informed, you’ll do the same. Got it? Then – this is the second thing – there’s the government inquiry. There are important people who want to talk to Mister Law. They’re having trouble understanding the shit he’s left behind. They don’t know a lot about codes and viruses, and they’re hoping he can explain things to them. So you’ll be acting for the Government, just like you always have.’
‘What about you?’ she says, and when Carl smiles it sets her teeth on edge. She had almost forgotten how easy he is to dislike, and how little he seems to care.
‘Me? I’m just passing on instructions from above. But since you ask, I’ve spent the last week calculating the time I’ve lost because of him. Time as money, I’m talking about. Eleven years, one hundred and thirty-seven days, seven hours. That’s a long time. That’s a life sentence. So I want to talk to him too. Me, the Detective Inspector and Her Venerable Majesty’s Government. But I’m first.’
She puts down the note beside him on the desk, carefully, stands up, picks up her coat. Carl gazing up at her, curious, expectant. ‘So?’
‘I’m finished with him.’
‘No,’ he says, ‘you’re not.’
‘I’m not doing it for you. Send someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘Anyone. Goater.’
‘Goater!’ He barks laughter. ‘I wouldn’t send that bastard to find the arse-end on a dog. No. Your objection is duly noted, but we all want him. We’re relying on you. You’re the best we’ve got, Anna, you do know that, don’t you? You are going to find him.’
It is only later that she admits, and only to herself, that he is right. It doesn’t matter who has asked her to find him; it is almost incidental that anyone has asked her at all. But it will be for the Revenue that she does it now, because it is they who have asked. And because she is still a part of the Revenue. The Revenue is still part of her.
But he is wrong, too. All these years, she thinks, and Carl doesn’t know her well enough to understand it. Her head in her hands at the study desk, the sound of sirens in the dark outside, so ordinary as to be almost imperceptible. Or at least, he thinks, it is not what he said. Perhaps he thought it didn’t need to be mentioned; that she could want to find John for erself.
For two days she does nothing. She knows where to begin, but she has no desire to go to Erith Reach again. She finds she does not want to see Anneli, and the thought of Nathan fills her with a loathing of herself, as if she is somehow to blame for what has happened. It is how he will think, she is sure of it. She remembers how it is at that age, when there is less rightness and wrongness to things, only sameness and difference. She thinks, how different it must be for him.
An inertia takes hold of her, and she lets it come. It is easy to do nothing, in fact, because for several days there is nothing. No orders or information, the media only endlessly repeating what they have (old news and older photographs) with a kind of grave relief, as if, after all, they are glad that Mister Law is gone. His absence leaving the world less exciting, but safer and more equal. The police do not contact her. There is no call from the Detective Inspector, nor from Carl, as if he is content to have sent her on her way. And then the rumours begin.
He is seen in Kristiansund, at an amateur performance of Schubert. He sits in a cheap seat with an obstructed view. Coat on, collar up, though it is a church hall, and unfortunately cold inside, so that he is not alone in these precautions. Afterwards he does not applaud but leaves in silence, watched – a local journalist has already been called – walking slowly, like a man carrying something. As if he is carrying the music away. As if it could be spilled.
He is recognised on an improbably diverse selection of wet fora under elaborately meaningful pseudonyms, lurking at the borders of conversations about three-dimensional games the Japanese syllabaries, the portraits of Zorn, the orchids of Bhutan. In York Factory, Manitoba, he is the man at the door of a rented room who receives an order (rice and ribs) from courier of the Middle Earth Chinese Delivery. On Anticosti he is the visitor who plays cards – for good, hard cash – with three workers of the Anticosti Lumber Company, and wins though he has a tic as he takes his dues, a flinch, as if he has been hit.
For three nights he is the only guest at a waterfront hotel in Benjamin Constant, Brazil, where he speaks to no one except the maid who cleans his drab room. (Thank you so much, he says, or so she says. Muito obrigado, once, and nothing else.) Like a cup, she says, knowingly; or so the news translations say she says. He was like a cup dropped once. Not broken, but weakened. He is a figure photographed indistinctly in a square in Pointe Noire. Sitting bowed, as if gravity has become too much for him, eyes closed in the fierce October sunshine. He is a body trawled from the mouth of the Sumida river. White as the flesh of a fish, unencumbered of all identity.
Monday, New Vine Street. Detective Inspector Mints brings her weak tea in a cardboard cup and sits down next to her, as if she might require sympathy. He has a small, unhappy face, prominent at the forehead, receding towards the chin, mouth pursed in a permanent expression of disapproval or disappointment.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ he says, so that for a second, as she drinks, Anna thinks he means the tea. He puts a heavy file down on the table and opens it, as if it is not something he honestly expects to enjoy. ‘We’re back on paper records this month. It’s supposed to be safer, what with everything, but we’re all a bit out of practice at it. It’s not helping, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s alright,’ Anna says, putting down her tea. ‘I’m sure it’s fine. There’s certainly a lot of it,’ she adds, pulling the file towards her, since the policeman seems reluctant to say or do anything more; and he blushes.
‘It shouldn’t have happened like this. It would have been different if we’d got to the family earlier. The longer he’s gone, the harder it is.’
‘You’ve done this before?’ She opens the file at random. The uppermost sheet of paper is an inventory of shipping and aircraft registered both under John’s own name and on his behalf by representatives of SoftMark. The list reaches the bottom of the page an
d, as she turns it and the next, keeps on going. Someone has been crossing off the items one by one with a red pen. They haven’t got very far, and the pen is running out.
‘That’s why they had me take the case. I’ve been lucky with missing persons,’ he says with modest matter-of-factness. ‘I’ve always got them back, even the deceased. But it’s not the same. It’s different with someone like Mister Law,’ his voice changing, nostalgic, defensive, dropping. ‘It’s a lot harder.’
She turns the pages carefully. Shipping, contacts, real estate. ‘I would have thought it’d be easier, in some ways. Everybody knowing he’s missing. Everybody knowing him.’ Beside her the policeman sighs.
‘No, they just think they know him, that’s all. They haven’t met him, have they? No one’s actually met him. They just see a few old society pictures, and they think they know him. It doesn’t help. It’s only been five days, and we’ve had over fifteen thousand sightings. And that’s just here. It’s not helpful. All we’re doing now is adding them to the list. And that’s not even the problem.’
Pictures. Nathan a grinning infant, not much larger than the pigeons that surround him. Anneli at the wheel of the famous yacht, John leaning behind her in sunglasses. His arms around her, the light in her hair as she smiles. All at sea.
‘So what is the problem?’
Mints picks up her tea, glances at it, puts it down reluctantly. ‘Well, money,’ he says.
‘He can afford to hide.’
‘There is that, it’s true, but I meant it differently. It’s what I always did, you see. Missing people need money. It’s expensive, more expensive than most of them expect. Keeping moving, keeping fed, somewhere to sleep every night. So I waited, and in the end, if they were still alive, they always used a card. You would have thought they’d have realised, but they hardly ever did. Sometimes they want to be found, of course. Sometimes they’re addicted to it.’
‘Maybe he’ll make the same mistake, then.’ An acetate binder, John’s passport inside, pressed open to his photograph. ‘Maybe he wants to be found.’
‘Yes, well, whatever he’s paying with it won’t be his cards.’ He nods towards the file. ‘They’re all here. He left them all behind.’