by Mick Herron
Inchon Enterprises was in the communications line. In that Radio 4 profile, Gerard had summed up his corporate philosophy: Money talks. That’s what communication’s all about.
But now he said, ‘Oh, if I’m in a field, the future’s the next field along, isn’t it?’
‘You’re looking to diversify?’
‘Diversity? Can’t bloody avoid it, old son.’ She couldn’t tell whether he’d misheard deliberately or not. ‘I have to fill out forms, explaining how many ethnic minorities, women, wrinklies and differently abled people I employ. Well, I don’t fill out the forms myself. An old deaf woman does that. But my impression was you had the same laws up here now.’
Jack, plate in hand, was behind her. ‘Does this a lot, does he?’
Sarah said, ‘In my experience, yes, he enjoys being obnoxious.’
‘I suppose it sorts the wheat from the chaff.’
‘I suppose it ‘Meaning?’
Jack managed a sip of wine without spilling his food. ‘Come chucking-out time, nine-tenths of this lot’ll think he’s just another loud-mouthed pillock who believes the crap he’s spouting.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘They’ll have a point.’
‘But the others’ll remember he’s a self-made multimillionaire.’
‘And that’ll give them pause?’
‘What do you think?’
She thought she didn’t much like being treated as if Gerard Inchon were her specialist subject. ‘So you tell me. Why does he do it then?’
‘To scare away the idiots,’ Jack said. ‘He doesn’t strike me as a man with much time for idiots.’
That was probably a good assessment, though didn’t allow for the fun Gerard derived from it. Besides, Sarah had the impression Gerard was in low gear. His attention seemed constantly on the prowl: he was forever looking her way, or maybe just in her direction.
John M. Wright had arrived on her other flank. His meal, she couldn’t help noticing, consisted entirely of sausages and rice.
She felt guilty for the way she’d treated him before, so now said, ‘Jack tells me you’re looking for new premises.’
‘Premises?’
‘The real estate kind. For your . . .’ She had to shake off the word laboratory, which sounded too mad-scientist. Though it wasn’t her fault he had loony facial hair. ‘Research premises.’
‘I’ve had better,’ he said.
‘Where was that?’
‘It was a while ago now.’
‘But presumably still in the same place,’ she couldn’t help saying.
Jack said, ‘You were in Surrey before you came here, weren’t you, John?’
‘Yes.’ He speared half a sausage into his mouth, but didn’t allow that to prevent him saying, ‘Mr Gannon has been a friend to my work.’
That would be Jack, she registered. ‘Asthma would be a good thing to cure.’
‘Children,’ he said, his mouth full.
‘For them, especially.’ She could feel herself being sucked into one of those dinner party conversations, where you’re compelled to have views on subjects you’d rarely considered before.
‘It’s to them you have to look, Ms Tucker,’ he said. She was surprised he’d taken hold of her name. ‘If you want to cure asthma, you have to look to the children. That’s where the condition is at its most vulnerable.’
What a bizarre way of putting it. But he was the expert. She said, ‘I assume cleaning the air would help too.’
‘We all have to live in the world as it is.’
Low gear or not, Gerard was still making waves. Someone had just asked if he was interested in property.
‘Well, of course I bloody am. I’m a businessman, not a Buddhist.’
Sarah wouldn’t have put it past him to make sure there was a Buddhist nearby before launching that line.
Jack excused himself: he’d seen someone he needed to talk to. For a frightening moment, she thought that would leave her with John M. Wright, but he was sidling off too, to fix his empty plate. Before she could get down to emptying her own, Gerard was waving her over.
‘Old friend,’ he said to the assembled crew. ‘Always nice to have one around when you’re surrounded by savages. Present company, etcetera.’
‘Gerard likes to test people’s patience,’ she found herself explaining.
‘Aye, we’d got that far.’
‘It’s funny, like,’ another man offered. ‘If you’re mad and rich, you’re eccentric. But if you’re a worky-ticket and rich, you’re still a worky-ticket.’
Gerard scented blood. ‘I knew I should have bought that phrase book.’
Of the seven men listening, four laughed; two, Sarah thought, genuinely. She remembered what Jack had said, about sorting wheat from chaff. Sheep from lambs might be a better way of putting it.
‘Ah sometimes think Hadrian built that bloody wall wrong side of the Tyne.’
‘Absolutely,’ Gerard agreed. ‘Peterborough would have been nearer the mark.’ He paused. ‘Well, just south of Peterborough.’
One of the older men – one of those whose laugh Sarah had pegged as genuine – said, ‘Tell us, to pass this audition of yours, are we supposed to agree with you or disagree?’
And now Gerard laughed: a big honking laugh which circled the room twice before he shut it off. ‘Audition. Priceless. Let’s have some more drinks.’
There must be a line, Sarah thought – Gerard had probably mapped it a time or two – beyond which you bought more drinks or got a slap in the mouth.
Whatever instructions Barry had been given, he’d taken to heart; was already circulating with a pair of bottles with optics removed. This was the pacifier, not the drinks themselves. The pacifier was Barry: white shirt, black trousers, tea-towel over a shoulder; a reminder that this was a civilized occasion. Of course, a few more drinks, and a different set of rules would arrive. But that line wouldn’t need mapping. The rise in temperature would do the trick.
As Barry refilled, Gerard went on: ‘I’m always keen on meeting movers and shakers. There’s a lot going on in your city.’
This wasn’t for general consumption. The business of refuelling had fragmented the group, and Gerard was addressing the older man, though Sarah revised her adjective as she took a closer look. He was white-haired, sure, but his hair had stolen a march on the rest of him: his face was unlined, apart from the usual creases at mouth and eyes; and those eyes themselves were bright as a blackbird’s. He didn’t, Sarah noticed, proffer his glass for a refill.
‘Movers and shakers?’ he said. ‘I take it we’re past the roughing-up stage.’
And Gerard smiled a wolverine smile, and drew the man away to a quieter corner.
More drinks were poured; conversation flowed. Sarah Tucker found herself the centre of attention, which happened when you were the only woman present. It wasn’t unpleasant, and the men were well behaved – perhaps because she was Gerard’s particular guest; a personal friend, not a name on a list. Did they imagine Gerard would wreak awful revenge if her honour was besmirched? Or perhaps they simply didn’t find her attractive. Fine by her.
As you get older, time speeds up. While you’re drinking, much the same happens.
She remembered kissing Gerard on the cheek, which was almost a first; she remembered collecting a bottle of water from the bar. She didn’t remember heading up to her room. But next she knew she was on her back in the darkness, alcohol fizzing in the corners of her mind. A while since she’d drunk so much. Most evenings a glass of wine or two with Russ; rarely a second cork pulled – if you could call them corks, mostly plastic now, and even Aussie wines using screwtops . . . Could there really be a place called Wallaby Springs? Jack didn’t think so either. Jack’s family stored people’s junk for a living, but ‘junk’ was just another way of saying ‘secrets’, so no wonder they’d found themselves wealthy, like Gerard. Was he fatter than he used to be or just plain all-round bigger? And what were the chances, finding him in the hotel Zoë had st
ayed in before she died? Oh Zoë . . .
Maybe she wasn’t dead. That was a possibility Sarah could hang on to until the morning, at any rate.
At some point, hanging on, she let go. Her last thought was one she’d had earlier that evening.
If time was the means by which the universe prevented everything from happening at once, coincidence was the excuse it used when things occasionally did.
But as an excuse, it quickly wore thin.
4
She woke with a start from a dream in which she’d piloted a bus over a cliff, still groggy enough to hope her passengers had woken too. There was a loud hissing somewhere, though luckily this turned out to be the radiator and not a snake under the bed. It wasn’t light – what crawled past the blind was a grimy grey; a slight reminder of daylight – but the winking TV clock said 6.59, and flipped on to 7.00 as she watched. And as soon as she moved, she recalled she’d been drinking. This wasn’t a hard, hammering reminder. It was more of a suggestion of pain to come, like a grief recalled, or one about to happen.
She’d had the sense to acquire water before hitting the bed; not quite enough to have drunk more than a swallow or two. Arranging herself into a sitting position, she poured a glassful now and drank it gratefully, ignoring the memories that threatened to intrude. Payback was the worst part of any hangover – reality’s payback, when the evening’s wit and glamour were revealed as alcohol’s illusions. All over this strange city, she thought, grown men were waking up thinking what was that woman like? But this, too, was part of the payback: the mind magnifying self-inflicted embarrassments, and pretending anyone else cared.
There’d been a call from Russ logged on her mobile when she got back to her room. Her phone had been on silent; she hadn’t heard it ring. And it had been too late to call him then and was too early now. She sent a quick text instead, using short but sincere words, then dragged herself into the shower where she washed away last night.
There wasn’t water enough, though, to drown the hours ahead.
‘Ms Tucker?’
‘Yes?’
‘The inspector’s on the phone. He’ll be free in a moment. Would you come with me, please?’
‘You’re . . .?’
‘King. Detective Sergeant King.’
DS King was wide in the shoulders, but his jacket looked a comfortable fit: not off-the-peg then, she thought irrelevantly. He was West Indian, and wore his hair clipped to a soft buzz, with a tidy moustache-and-goatee set completing the look. A gold stud winked in one ear. Strangely, he was wearing trainers; a worn beaten pair which in no way matched his suit.
He noticed her noticing. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said. ‘I won’t bore you with it.’ He was holding the door open. ‘This way?’
It had just gone quarter past nine. She’d been on time for the appointment, but had been asked to wait anyway: here in the police station lobby, which had a shiny tiled floor and some heavily used noticeboards. Is there an addict in your life? one poster asked, with small print that went on to explain how to find the answer. Another warned about alcohol abuse; a pretty raw subject where Sarah was concerned. But as her hangover’s symptoms receded, she recognized them for what they were: her body’s way of distracting her mind’s attention from what lay ahead. Did your best friend drown last week? That wasn’t a poster, just a noise in her head, but it was loud and getting louder. Is Zoë dead? She hadn’t minded being kept waiting for the answer.
But now she was being dragged towards it, by a combination of time ticking past and a policeman in trainers. Down a corridor with scuff-marked walls they went, then up a flight of stairs, through whose smeary landing windows a dismal light swam. The inspector – his name was Fairfax – was kept in an office on the next floor up. His accent was not as broad as his sergeant’s. He was putting the phone down as they came though his door.
‘Ms Tucker?’
‘That’s right.’
When they’d spoken the other day she’d formed a picture of what he looked like, but had clean forgotten it now, so couldn’t compare the reality. Which was pretty ordinary: tall, with thin, rather elongated features. The hint of a developing paunch spoiled this effect. Like his sergeant he wore a dark suit over a white shirt; Fairfax’s, though, most definitely came off a peg. ‘Please. Take a seat,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
Afterwards, she couldn’t remember a single thing about his office. At the time, all she noticed was the whiteboard behind him, which hadn’t been wiped effectively: the ghosts of erased messages hovered tantalizingly below its surface. It was like being whispered to by a billboard.
‘I understand you were a friend of Zoë Boehm’s.’
‘Were?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You said “were”. That’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it? Not our friendship, I mean. Just what tense it’s in.’
From behind her, DS King said, ‘We don’t mean to jump the gun.’ That ‘we’ was taking collective responsibility a little far, she thought. ‘We do, though, have a dead woman. For your sake, we hope it’s not Ms Boehm. But it’s somebody.’
‘Yes. I didn’t mean . . .‘
What she didn’t mean trailed away; joined the erased deductions on the whiteboard.
Fairfax said, ‘The woman had a wallet in her pocket. It contained various bits and pieces – credit cards, some business cards. All belonging to one Zoë Boehm.’
‘But that’s not enough, is it?’
‘No. Not for a firm identification.’
‘What else do you have?’
He had leaned his elbow on his desk after sitting, and brought his palms together in prayer. Now he drew them apart, as if releasing something invisible. ‘That’s it, really. Your friend, she – she’s a little hard to pin down.' Your friend, she – Sarah nodded.
‘Her teeth seem in good order. The dead woman’s teeth, I mean. Or so the pathologist said, but we can’t find that Ms Boehm’s registered with a dentist anywhere. Would that come as a surprise to you?’
‘Little that Zoë does or doesn’t do would surprise me,’ Sarah said honestly. ‘She’s too sensible not to have a dentist. But she’s just – just paranoid enough to make sure nobody could trace her records.’
‘She’s a private detective.’
‘Yes.’
‘She had reason to be paranoid?’
He was having trouble with his tenses again, but she was past picking him up on it. ‘I’m sure she’s made enemies.’
‘Why might she be in Newcastle?’
‘Working. That’s what I assume.’
‘And you were aware that she was here?’
She nodded. ‘There was a postcard. She sent me a postcard.’
‘Saying?’
Sarah furrowed her brow, but was pretty sure she remembered the words. ‘“I’m staying in this mausoleum of a place.” The picture was of the Millennium Bridge. “I swear at night you can hear the mice making plans.”’
DS King said, ‘Making plans?’
‘I don’t think she meant anything by it. It was just a kind of joke.’
‘And you’re sure the postcard was from her?’ Fairfax asked.
‘It hadn’t occurred to me it wasn’t. It looked like her writing.’
Now Fairfax said, ‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘More than a year ago.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought you were close.’
‘That’s as close as she lets people get.’ She hated this: having to explain Zoë to a stranger. Their friendship was their business. ‘She’d call. It’s not as if we live in the same neighbourhood.’
‘When was the last time you heard from her?’ King asked.
‘That would be the postcard,’ she said, without turning round.
‘And the last time she called?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘But when she did, what did you talk about?’
She said, ‘Nothing to suggest
she might head to a different city to jump in a river.’
Neither man replied to that.
‘That’s what you’re assuming, isn’t it? That she’s a suicide.’
Fairfax said, ‘We’re not assuming anything yet. Not until we get a firm ID.’
‘Well then,’ Sarah said. ‘Perhaps we’d better get on with that part.’
Making her way from hotel to police station – a straightforward journey, if one that took her through what felt like three different cities, so various were the aspects it presented – Sarah hadn’t been able to rid herself of the feeling of being watched: a sense not so much of eyes burning into her back as one of logged movement, as if she were leaving a trail. But then, she was in a city. Back home, her days were largely spent alone in her study; her too-frequent trips to the kitchen mitigated by a two-mile hike after lunch, during most of which she’d see nobody, unless Russ accompanied her. Human contact came at a remove: e-mail, fax, phone. So the sense of being crowded took getting used to, and didn’t mean that the observation was any more than the casual once-over every citizen suffered: from passers-by, from reflecting surfaces, from the cameras fixed at junctions, which swivelled at pre-determined intervals. And they reminded her, just for a moment, of the ostriches – Mr O and Nicole – whose heads would likewise track her when she passed their pen. They were just as detached, just as unblinking. And what they did with the information was just as unknowable.
It was a cold day, and the buildings looked moist to the touch, as if the river’s breath had soaked into their stone. Sarah had first been in Newcastle years ago, and had been struck then by its anonymity. She’d expected – well, she didn’t know what she’d expected, but something more than she’d found, which was exhaustion wrought in concrete and scaffolding; a palpable sense of relegation that was mitigated, but just barely, by the in-the-teeth-of-it humour of the locals, like the Maggie was here scrawled on the whitewashed window of a bankrupt business. At that time, a huge tract of the centre had recently been torn down, and a shopping precinct driven like a stake through the heart of the city. Wandering into it, Sarah had been struck by its lack of natural light, and the cheap glitz its shops afforded. It brought to mind a vision of a five-year-old in her mum’s high heels and moth-chewed feather boa.