Smoke and Whispers

by Mick Herron

  Not for me, like. For me girlfriend.

  That Geordie lilt, with its genuine warmth.

  But had he known it was Sarah in the shop?

  It would be foolish to assume he hadn’t. Isn’t that what Zoë would tell her? It would be exceedingly unwise to imagine that everything was okay.

  But more than that, there was something in what he’d said.

  Give her a call. Send her my regards, yeah?

  Yes: if a cat could talk with a mouse between its paws, that’s the kind of thing it would say.

  You’ve got a friend? Give her a call.

  It would then lick its lips.

  Send her my regards. Yeah?

  And there it was: the something hidden in his words.

  Sarah sat on the bed and closed her eyes. Screwed them tightly at first, in the effort of memory, then loosened up as the images flowed.

  There was a game she’d played as a child: Kim’s Game. She had a vague notion its name came from Kipling. Eyes shut, she played it now; imagined a tray hovering in front of her and then, one by one, placed these objects neatly upon it.

  Keys. A watch. A lipstick. Zoë’s hairbrush. A wallet. Things that were in the wallet – a clump of till receipts and credit card slips. The credit cards themselves, of course, and some coins and notes . . . Some other things. But she couldn’t bring them to mind.

  She opened her eyes. The room remained as it had been; same dull pattern marching up and down its walls; same dusty lamp in the corner. There was no tray hovering in front of her. But when she closed her eyes again, it came back:

  Keys, a watch, a lipstick, a hairbrush, a wallet, till receipts, credit card slips, credit cards, coins, notes. A pen. That was one of the other things, but there was more, too – the jewellery. A silver chain she couldn’t remember Zoë wearing, but had no difficulty picturing her doing so, and a ring, a plain gold band, which was probably her wedding ring but which she now wore on a different finger.

  What else?

  The clothing, the jacket, the belt. But this wasn’t about what Zoë had been wearing; it was about what she’d been carrying.

  What else?

  Keys, watch, lipstick, hairbrush, wallet, till receipts, credit card slips, credit cards, coins, notes, pen, chain, ring – she thought that was all. She was sure of it.

  In her mind, she went through them again: laid these objects out on the tray she’d conjured up, which left no more room upon it. The tray was as full as the slab the body had lain upon.

  So she sat up, opened her eyes, and turned on the bedside lamp. Immediately the room took on a different configuration. Shadows rearranged themselves. Fresh ones sprang to life.

  Sarah reached for her mobile, and pressed a familiar sequence of buttons; waited while the numbers negotiated with the ether, and made bells ring.

  Rang once, twice, three times. And then the recorded voice kicked in:

  You’ve reached Zoë Boehm. Leave a message.

  She couldn’t stay. The room had grown smaller; the whole hotel had, as if bowing to the inevitability of its coming closure. If she remained, she’d be trapped inside an ever-shrinking space; a box she was forced to share with Alan Talmadge.

  When she replayed his words, they came out the same:

  Why don’t you call her? Give her my regards.

  Which meant what? That he knew Zoë was dead? Or knew she was alive?

  Or maybe he was just telling her that he knew that the body pulled from the water was missing a mobile phone. And that Zoë never went anywhere without her mobile.

  Sarah grabbed her purse, opened the door and paused on the threshold. The corridor was empty. The only sound came from downstairs; a coughing, chugging noise it took her a while to identify as a vacuum cleaner. The other night she’d wondered if the mirrors were arranged so you could sit at reception and spy on every floor. But that couldn’t be possible, could it? Not outside a creepy film.

  She wished Gerard hadn’t checked out. His viewpoint might have been useful right now. This is nonsense. You’re in a large hotel in a big city. Alan Talmadge? If he ever existed, he doesn’t now.

  But too many details were conspiring to suggest that he did. And Gerard wasn’t here.

  Though only Barry had seen him check out, of course.

  It was just another detail, but it led down a corridor as empty as this one. What if Gerard had never checked out at all? What if Barry had lied about that too? Gerard might still be around; strapped up in one of the utility cupboards, or – ‘No,’ she said aloud. No. That was seriously outside the realm of possibility.

  Except that, now the thought had formed, there was no dismissing it.

  Closing the door behind her, she moved towards the staircase just as the asthmatic vacuuming choked into silence. The air continued humming for a beat, as if it missed the company. Sarah paused again, then caught herself in the mirror on the landing, and moved in a hurry. One flight. Another landing. Another flight.

  Reception was unattended, but any moment, he’d be back. Pop his head out from the office: Did you speak to your friend yet? Zoë, right?

  His accent breaking like a wave on a faraway beach . . .

  Sarah got as far as the front door before she heard the voice behind her – ‘Ms Tucker?’

  – but it was the woman. The one whose name she’d never got hold of.

  ‘Will you be here for supper?’

  ‘I – no. I mean yes.’

  ‘That’s a yes, right?’

  ‘That’s a yes.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Is, ah – I thought Barry was on duty?’

  ‘He’s taking a break. Another break.’

  ‘He’s ‘Oh.’

  ‘He’s already been out this afternoon. But I owe him a favour.’

  Words accompanied by a hint of smirk.

  Sarah left. The skies had darkened further; already, it felt like evening. And Barry could be yards away, watching from round a corner. He’d known she’d been in the shop: she’d convinced herself of that now. He’d known she’d been there from the moment she’d walked up to the reception desk, carrying the brown bag with its scent of tangerines.

  But the only watching man she could see was the Big Issue seller at his post by the parking meters.

  It made no difference. Alan Talmadge was a watcher, a hider. If he didn’t want to be seen, she wouldn’t see him.

  The Big Issue man gave her a wave. But she didn’t have time, she didn’t have time. She began hurrying towards the railway station.

  A crowd, she had decided. She needed to be near a crowd. At the Central Station, there would be a crowd. She’d feel safer there. And that would give her the chance to work out what to say when she rang DS King. She had to be able to explain it so he’d understand: the things she hadn’t told him about Zoë – about Zoë’s jacket – about the man who’d taken it from her. About why she was frightened now.

  The other one, Fairfax, she didn’t want to speak to. The best she could expect from him would be another outburst. Why was she wasting his time?

  The sky grumbled, and she walked faster.

  But before she’d got as far as the Lit & Phil, she found herself reaching for her mobile, and then reaching again, checking one pocket after the other, in confirmation of what she already knew: that she’d left her phone in the hotel. She should go back. But that would be like the fly returning to the spider’s web because – . . . But she couldn’t think of anything a fly might leave behind. Which didn’t change the situation. Barry – Talmadge – might be following her even now, and if he wasn’t, it would be stupid to give him the chance. She didn’t have King’s number, but she knew where the damn police station was.

  With the thought came another rumble from above, and this time it wasn’t kidding. The skies grew darker still. And then brightened suddenly, as if they’d been ripped apart to reveal the light behind.

  The first spats hit the pavement like footballs, bouncing.

  Along
with her mobile phone, she’d abandoned her new umbrella. She had no idea where.

  ‘That’ll be the rain starting up,’ someone behind her said, as if it were always the same rain, and generally began about now. It fell hard, from long practice, and among a crowd of others Sarah rushed for the station portico. Within seconds, the rain was lashing the road, turning traffic amphibious. An overhead gutter became a tap, directing a thick stream on to the pavement.

  A wheeled suitcase overturned on the nearby zebra crossing. Its owner struggled to right it in the downpour, while waiting cars were carpet-bombed by rain.

  ‘It can’t last.’

  ‘It’ll never last.’

  Voices off.

  She’d have called this idle chatter, were it not for the effort needed to make it. At high volume, to be heard above the rain, a consensus formed: this will never last. But the skies didn’t brighten, and the rain didn’t stop.

  Sarah stood among a crowd of strangers, in this large porch, and felt afraid.

  People were anonymous in the rain. Hoods came up; umbrellas unfolded; disguises were unpacked and artfully donned. Barry had gone AWOL just as she’d left the hotel, and could be anywhere. Could be one of those soaked rats trying to crush themselves against the wall over there, as if the slim ledge above might shelter them. Could be one of those sinners still striding the pavements; faces obscured by the melting newspapers they used for hats.

  And the rain fell like a curtain. This area Sarah had fetched up in, a place for taxis to pull into, was like the secret space behind a waterfall, but more crowded. People streamed in and out of the station, catching trains or just released from them; heading for the Metro or one of the concourse bars, to wait the weather out with a cup of coffee. She thought about joining them, but wouldn’t be able to sit still. And couldn’t face the Metro, with its escalators and subterranean platforms. But knew she wanted to be on the move.

  Barry was not among these close-at-hand strangers. But he could be close, veiled by rain. Could be in the newsagent’s over the road, watching through a steamed-up window.

  Her hand curled into a fist. Her nails dug into her palm.

  A bus was arriving at a stop over the road. Without consciously deciding to do so, Sarah moved; sprinted from her shelter and across the zebra, earning an angry squonk from a car, but making it over in one piece; making it to the bus stop too, just in time.

  ‘In a hurry, pet?’ the driver asked as Sarah fumbled for her fare.

  Sarah said something. She wasn’t sure what.

  ‘Sooner get there in one piece, myself. There’s another bus just after.’

  As she sat, she saw it pulling up behind: another yellow double-decker, monstrous in the rain. Its screen-wiper slashing to and fro like a blade. A man was jumping aboard. He had his collar turned up, and his head averted.

  Wet city traffic was a fractious thing. Tyres slapped the tarmac, and horns blared disgust. Raindrops smacked like bullets off car roofs. Outside, pedestrians waded from one doorway to the next. And then, with a jerk, the bus arrived at an unclogged channel and forged ahead, carrying Sarah into unknown country: a land of wet streets and fogged-up shop windows.

  The bus behind splashed along in their wake.

  She became aware of conversation around her: strangers exchanging bulletins on how their day was going. Owa’ wet was the general verdict.

  All of these people, and were any of them who they appeared to be?

  Sarah’s palm ached.

  Barry was the barman at the Bolbec Hotel: he doubled as receptionist, and goodness knows what else. She didn’t even know his surname. He was from ‘Wallaby Springs’. But he wasn’t from Wallaby Springs, and he hadn’t been anything at the Bolbec Hotel for more than two weeks. All those tricks of his trade – the tea-towel over the shoulder; the counter-wiping while he talked – sang Look at me. I’m a barman. But in the soap shop, his accent had been northern.

  Details that bounced around her head again, faster than the first time.

  Barry was Alan Talmadge. And he knew she knew.

  You want to talk to Zoë? Why don’t you give her a ring?

  The bus pulled up: people got on, people got off. The air cleared when the doors opened, but fogged again immediately they closed. The bus behind also stopped to disgorge passengers. Through the runny windows she could make out furry shapes, the blooming of umbrellas. There was nobody following her. It was not possible for anyone to be following her. Least of all was it possible for that person to be Alan Talmadge. But still she looked, in case a shape took form, and boarded this bus.

  If he does, I’ll know him, she thought. If it’s Barry. He might be able to shift his shape – might be different things to different people – but he couldn’t be different things to the same person, could he? Geordie Barry was also Barry from Oz. She’d not have known him otherwise.

  And he was not, she told herself, he was not he was not he was not on this bus.

  Stop. Calm down. Take deep breaths.

  The voice in her head was not her own.

  It was Zoë’s. For just one moment, she thought it was Zoë on the bus, but it was only Zoë in her head: Calm down. Take deep breaths. She didn’t remember Zoë ever saying those things, but it was possible. They’d shared tense moments.

  Tears stung her, and her vision fogged like the bus’s windows.

  She wished she’d spoken to Russ today.

  She wished she had her phone.

  Through the window to her right the land fell away, perhaps down to the river. Sarah could make out what might be the roofs of allotment huts, but it was raining too hard to be sure. And then the gap was filled by a row of terraced housing, with each and every door and window covered by metal sheeting.

  At the end of this row was a Metro sign.

  The bus stopped a hundred yards further on. Sarah slipped out the middle door, where the weather hit her like a dustbin lid, and hurried back down the road. The second bus splashed her as it passed.

  But the sign was for an off-licence, not the Metro.

  She turned in time to see the second bus disappearing. There was no telling if anyone had emerged from it. A man – collar up; indistinct in the rain and the gathering dark – waited to cross the road, twenty yards away. A couple of lads were gaining ground, but split round her like water on a rock. Their voices blurred in passing, as if she’d spun the dial on a radio. She looked for a street sign, but couldn’t see one.

  Rain continued to fall.

  12

  It had been a while since smoking was legal in pubs, but here was a temple to its memory: the walls still nicotine-tinged; the tin sheet screwed into the door advising Senior Service Satisfy.

  Sarah dripped in the doorway. Everyone in the room had turned to look at her, or that’s what it felt like.

  A sofa ran round the wall, hemmed in place by tables and wooden stools, most of them occupied. It seemed early for a bar to be full, but if the alternative was being outside, she could see the argument. There was drink being taken, and enough noise to go round. Some of it poured from a wall-mounted TV, tuned to sports coverage.

  A gas fire banged out heat so hard, Sarah could almost see it warp. The air was heavy with damp from drying clothes. It was like attending a wet-dog conference.

  She headed for the bar. She was the only woman there, she thought, then realized that no, there was another; an old woman on a stool at the counter, the shape and approximate colour of a postbox.

  The barman asked, ‘What can I get you?’

  Sarah had no idea. Didn’t seem like a good moment to say so, though.

  She’d come through that door because it was the first she’d found which looked like it would open when pushed. There were no shops, or none that were functioning. Even that off-licence had been locked. If another bus had come she’d have been on it in a flash, but none appeared. The pub offered shelter, at least.

  ‘Just a water. Thanks. Mineral water. If you have it.’

  H
e stared, and she wondered if she’d mortally offended him. Then his face broke into a smear she took for a grin.

  ‘You’ve not had enough of that yet?’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. Make it a whisky.’

  ‘Bells?’

  She nodded. Whatever.

  In a western, there’d have been a general release of tension with that.

  The nearest stool was free, so she sat. There was nowhere to drape her coat. She wondered if it was ruined. What a stupid thing to do: buy an umbrella then immediately lose it. But not the worst thing that had happened today. Elbow on the bar, she rested her head on her hand. That man who’d hopped off the bus behind her. That couldn’t have been Talmadge, could it? She couldn’t be positive. She was starting to think of Talmadge as a phantom; able to move at will through obstacles. Mostly unseen. Only ever glimpsed. When she wrenched her mind back to his other identity, Barry the barman, she was unable to summon up his features. It was as if her new knowledge of him had obscured his previous self.

  Her drink was placed in front of her, and she raised her head. ‘Thanks.’ She almost knocked the glass over, reaching for her purse.

  ‘When you’re ready, pet.’

  She flushed. But before she could retrieve her money, someone spoke. ‘Ah’ll buy the lady’s drink.’

  A clatter of coins accompanied this.

  Sarah said, ‘No. Really.’

  ‘It’s done, love.’

  The barman scooped the payment up, and it was indeed done.

  ‘See?’

  Looking at her gallant, Sarah saw a fiftyish-looking man with a well-lined face and greying curls that fizzed into sideburns. He wore damp denims over a T-shirt that did nothing to hide his paunch. If you had to itemize a stranger you didn’t want buying you a drink, this one ticked all the boxes.

  She placed three pound coins in front of him. ‘Thank you. But there’s no need. I’ll pay for my own drinks.’

  ‘Now that’s not polite. Turning down an honest gift.’