“And that was when the shit really hit the fan. Because the Aryan Twins still had you under surveillance when she turned up. And if she had been off their radar before, she was definitely on it now. And the Aryans—or the people who were running them—also began to slowly put two and two together, at a rapidly escalating rate.”
“And who were the people running them?”
“Have a wild guess.”
“AMI?” I said.
“Or one of its thousands of subsidiaries. Some highly deniable rogue dummy shell front of a corporation.”
“Shell front?” I said. “Is that a word?”
“It’s two words. But you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
“So Heinz and Heidi worked in opposition to you, as they started to realise what was really afoot.”
“They were in opposition to me.” I looked at her. “What about you?”
She shrugged. “I was just supposed to act as a spoiler. To get to the records before you did. To stop you piecing it all together.” She sighed. “Fat chance.”
“So you were working against me,” I said. “Like the Aryan Twins.”
“There was one significant difference. They were ready, willing and able to kill you. I was just trying to slow you down. And only long enough for Mr Hibiki to be in an ideal position. To get his ducks in a row. Odd expression. Can you imagine how hard that would actually be? With real ducks?”
“So he could make his killing.”
“Yes. But you let the cat out of the bag. Another odd turn of phrase. What sort of bastard would put a cat in a bag in the first place? What is it about us and animals?”
“But,” I said, “Mr Hibiki didn’t make his killing.”
“Not a killing. He had to act prematurely. And he had to merely settle for a serious injury, so to speak. Instead of a killing. In other words, instead of the billion or so he must have envisaged making, he only realised a few tens of millions, the poor soul.”
“The poor soul.”
“So now he’s a bit pissed off.”
“Pissed off at you?” I said. It seemed unreasonable.
Nevada shook her head. “Pissed off at you.”
“Oh well,” I said. “We can’t put the genie back in the bottle.”
We sipped our coffee. She said, “One other thing. I have a confession to make. I bugged your living room.”
“I knew you had.”
“You knew?”
“I knew it as soon as I realised someone was coming in here and feeding the cats.”
She laughed. “It’s true. I couldn’t resist. They’re such little honeys.”
“What did you feed them?”
“Lamb chops. Nice meaty ones. With all the fat and bone trimmed out.”
“Yes, they would have liked that. You did a pretty good job of concealing the evidence.”
She said, “Most of the evidence was eaten by cats. I can’t believe you’re not more upset that I planted a listening device in your house.”
“Did you get Mr Maori Tattoo Five O’Clock Shadow to help you install it?”
“No. Good lord, I would never do that to you. I installed it all by my own little self.”
“Then I don’t mind. What’s more, I was actually counting on it. You might remember me announcing in a loud voice that Heinz had arrived. With a gun. I’d just swept the room with a bug buster and I knew you were listening.”
“You knew someone was listening.”
“I knew it was you, just like I knew it was you feeding the cats. I was just praying you were listening somewhere nearby.”
“I rented a room in the Abbey. The rates there are extortionate, you know.”
“And you got here in time to save us. All of us.”
“Even Stinky,” she said.
“I forgive you. For bugging my house. And for saving Stinky’s life.”
She smiled a ghost of a smile. “It was a package deal. By the way—what happened to it? My listening device. I couldn’t help noticing it’s gone off the air.”
“I’m afraid I stomped on it.”
“How appropriate, for a bug. And where is what’s left of it?”
“I’ve lost track. The cats were using it as a toy. Batting it around the place.”
“Oh well, at least it’s still serving a useful function.”
“I’ve got something else I want to ask you.” I paused. “That I need to ask you.”
“Fire away.”
I refilled our cups. I sat down across from her. I looked at her and took a deep breath. “Despite their verifiably complete incompetence, do you really expect me to believe that our lovable local contractors just happened to drop a section of a boiler weighing several tons from a crane at exactly the moment Heinz happened to be standing under it?”
“I’m not asking you to believe anything.” Nevada sipped her coffee decorously. I sat there watching her in silence until finally she said, “If I was going to say something about the matter I’d say that obviously any such act would be conspiracy to murder and murder for hire and assorted other really naughty faux pas that no one should be involved in. And if anyone was involved in such activity they wouldn’t talk about it, would they?”
“I suppose not.”
She said, “Although they’d probably find themselves at least compelled to observe that for the sort of sums of money involved—theoretically involved—in bribing someone to commit such a dastardly act—it would be galling that in the end the fucking fuckers fucked it up.”
“Perhaps you remember my earlier remarks about gross incompetence.”
“Well, anyway, as I say, an entirely theoretical discussion.”
“Understood.”
She peered into her cup. It was almost empty. “Do you want another one?” I said.
“No, I have to be going.” She stood up and then paused. “When I was listening, when I was eavesdropping, I heard quite a lot of you and her. Together. The two of you. And I realised something. I think she really does care about you.” She stared at me. Her eyes seemed suddenly pale, like the sky. “I don’t want to stand in the way. Of the two of you. I think you can be happy with her.” She bent down and kissed me on the cheek. “Goodbye.”
Then she left.
* * *
Ree got in about an hour later. “Where are all your bags?” I said. “Your shopping?”
“I left them in the taxi.”
“With Clean Head?”
“Yes.” That seemed a little odd, I thought.
“Were there a lot of them?” I said. “The bags?”
“I didn’t just go shopping. I spent a lot of the morning talking to lawyers.”
“That sounds serious. What’s up?”
She sat down and looked me in the eye with the unreadable expression I’d seen over dozens of games of chess. “We will win,” she said. “In court, we’re going to win.”
“Of course,” I said.
“But AMI are going to put up a fight. We may have to find my grandfather’s grave and get a DNA sample, to prove I am who I am. And even if we do that, there’s going to be a legal shit storm like you’ve never seen. You’re a lot better off out of it.”
My stomach went cold. “What do you mean, ‘out of it’?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Chef, I just don’t have time for anyone in my life right now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have to devote myself to this legal battle. One hundred per cent. Twenty-four-seven. Day and night.” She put a hand on my face. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe later. When things settle down.” She kissed me on the cheek.
She was packed and gone within half an hour. Clean Head drove her to the airport. It only occurred to me later that she’d kissed me goodbye on the opposite cheek to Nevada.
Perfect symmetry.
They say things come in threes and later that day I got the letter from the ban
k.
* * *
“They can’t do that,” said Tinkler.
“Evidently they can.”
“But how can they possibly justify—”
“You know when you read about these computer errors and some lucky chump discovers that a vast fortune has inadvertently been transferred into his bank account? They’re saying that’s what happened to me.”
“So they just took all the money out of your account?”
“Returned it to its rightful owner, they said. Which would be Mr Hibiki.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Nevada said he was pissed off at me. I guess this is his way of demonstrating it.”
“But you can prove the money is yours,” said Tinkler.
“No I can’t.”
“Show them the press cuttings. Crate Digger Strikes Gold.”
“I did. And they laughed in my face.”
“That doesn’t seem possible.”
I said, “Did I mention we were talking about a bank here?”
He peered at me, face pale and eyes round. It was funny; he was more shocked than I was. “You mean, someone can just put money in your account and take it out?”
“That’s the way it works. In fact, it’s a pretty good summary of the capitalist system.”
“So they didn’t leave you with anything?”
“I’ve got what’s in my pocket.”
“This is outrageous,” said Tinkler. “What did they say to you?”
“They said they’re amazed I’m not being prosecuted for the money I’ve already spent. Money that wasn’t rightfully mine.”
“What did you say to that?”
“I said I wasn’t so amazed.”
Tinkler shook his head. “Can they really get away with this?”
“They already have. The super-rich giveth and the super-rich taketh away.”
Tinkler got up and went to the shelf on the far wall of his listening room and took a record down. It was the copy of Beat Beat Beat I’d bought for him with my first flush of wealth. It was a ten-inch album issued on German Decca for the Sonderauflage record club in 1965. It had been withdrawn after only two thousand copies were issued. Very rare.
“Here, take this,” he said. “You can sell it for a shitload of money.” He handed me the record.
I shook my head. I said, “Greater love hath no man than to offer to sell his rare German Rolling Stones ten-inch LP for his fellow man. But things aren’t quite that bad.” I handed it back to him.
He studied me dolefully. “Aren’t they?”
I said, “I’ve got my health, I’ve got my house, I’ve got my cats, I’ve got my friends.”
“I notice friends come fourth,” said Tinkler.
“You’re lucky you feature at all.”
36. OUT OF THE RAIN
The next morning I got up early. Dawn was a faint pink promise in the winter darkness. Fanny and Turk were happy to have me up and around, keeping cat hours almost. I remembered what I had said to Tinkler and I went through all my pockets. I had several handfuls of American currency that had travelled back with me from my visit. I put on my crate-diving shoes—I mean, my crate-digging shoes—and I went into Richmond.
I was waiting outside Marks and Spencer when it opened. The shop had a bureau de change on its upper level and there I converted the dollars into sterling. I now had just enough money to buy a one-week travel card, which I did.
I hopped on a bus and started searching. I travelled to Twickenham and worked my way back, hitting every charity shop, junk shop or antique shop that might be harbouring a box of records. The following day I did the same thing, starting in Wimbledon. The third day it was Chelsea. On the fourth, Shepherd’s Bush. On the fifth day, when I began my hunt in Chiswick, I found it.
It was a copy of Pet Sounds by the Beach Boys on the Capitol rainbow-rimmed label—an original mono pressing instead of the fake stereo. A British copy, but immaculate. That night I flipped it on the Internet and made enough money to buy food for me and the cats for the next two weeks.
And maybe even some grapes for Tinkler.
* * *
I was just cutting up some lamb chops for the cats—I’d decided to splash out—when there was a knock at the door. I wiped my hands and went to answer it.
It was pouring with rain outside.
Nevada was standing there in a white raincoat, wearing her white hat with a strawberry on it. She had a suitcase with her. She looked at me. “Can I come in?”
I stood back and she brushed past, transferring a fair amount of moisture from her raincoat onto me in the process. “Sorry about that,” she said. Her suitcase was on wheels and she wheeled it into the sitting room with a tiny rumbling sound that immediately drew the cats. “Oh, look who’s here,” she said. “Have you come to hear the suitcase? Have you? Come to hear the wheels on the suitcase? Does it sound silly? Does my suitcase sound silly?” She patted and stroked them. “Your coats are nice and warm and dry. You’re sensible girls, aren’t you? Inside on a day like this. Not like your Auntie Nevada. Her coat is soaking wet.”
“Here, let me take it,” I said.
“No, it’s fine.” She hung it up on one of the pegs in the hallway and took off her hat and stuck it on the peg beside her coat. It looked jaunty and disembodied there. We went into the kitchen and sat down. I didn’t know what to say.
“Do you want some coffee?”
“In a minute,” she said. She stared at her feet. “I’ve made wet footprints everywhere. I’ll clean them up in a minute.”
“Don’t worry.”
“I don’t quite know where to start.”
“Well, don’t look at me. My brain has exploded.”
“I’m not surprised.” She gave me a small, shy smile. “I heard what happened. What Mr Hibiki did to you.”
“Oh.”
“So I quit.”
“You did what?” I said.
“Quit that very day. And told him to fuck off.”
“Honestly?”
“Of course. If I’d known the Japanese for ‘fuck off’ I would have told him in Japanese. I mean, how dare he behave like that? That man is so petty.” She looked at me. Her makeup had smudged a little in the rain, giving her an enticing raccoon look. “So you’re broke now?”
“Just about. Stony broke. Yes.”
“Well, you can share my money,” she said. “Whatever I’ve got stashed away.”
“I hope it’s not stashed in any bank account Hibiki can get his hands on.”
“Not anymore,” she said, and put a fist to her mouth to stifle a yawn.
“Did you just fly in?”
“From Omura, yes.”
“You must be knackered.”
“I’m not too bad,” she said. “Cold and damp, though. Can I have a bath?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Lovely,” she said, rising from her chair. “Lovely warm bath. Maybe we can have some coffee afterwards.”
“You bet,” I said.
She went into the bathroom and started the bath running. I heard the water rumbling into the tub and Nevada humming. After a few minutes she opened the door and steam escaped and the cats zipped in to join her. The door closed again, trapping the steam and warmth and noise. It was an ideal opportunity to grind some coffee beans without upsetting anyone. I was about to do so when the telephone rang.
I picked up the receiver and heard music. A piano playing, jazz in cascading angular lines. Then a voice. “Hello, Chef?”
“Ree?”
“Yeah. How are you?”
“I’m okay… I’m fine.”
“Good.”
We both fell silent for a moment. The music continued, unfolding in endless fluency. Intricate but brisk, delicate but punchy. “That sounds great. Is it vinyl?”
She laughed. “It’s not a recording, it’s the real thing. Somebody playing the piano. Do you like it?”
“Yes. Where are you?”
�
��Hawaii. You’d love it here. Nice coffee.”
“Are you on holiday?”
“Sort of.”
I said, “How did the search go?”
“The search?” she said.
“For Easy Geary.”
“Oh, that’s over.” The piano kept playing, primitive and raw yet urbane and modern.
“You found the grave.”
“No,” she said. “We were never going to find the grave.”
“Why not?”
“To have a grave you have to have a dead body.”
I suddenly realised why the music sounded familiar. I did the arithmetic in my head. It was possible. It was just possible. But it didn’t feel just possible.
It felt inevitable.
“Are you still there?” she said.
“Yes.”
“He plays pretty good for a guy his age, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got to get over here,” she said.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A big thank you to Ben Aaronovitch, who encouraged me to write this book in the first place (and for insisting I put the cats in); to the invaluable Guy Adams who made the crucial introduction; to my editor, the wonderful Miranda Jewess for reading it and getting it; to Julian Friedmann for first seeing the potential; to Tom Witcomb for so skilfully crafting the deal; to Louise Bryce and Melis Dagoglu for tirelessly selling audio and foreign language rights; to Ann Karas for perusing—and enjoying—early drafts; to Peter Qvortrup for manufacturing and providing such magnificent audio kit; to the other Andrew—the London Jazz Collector—for being so damned helpful; to Tom Evans for technical and electronic wizardry above and beyond the call of duty; to Stephen Gallagher for loyalty, friendship and wisdom and to Ellen Gallagher, a chip off the old block if ever there was one; to Alan Ross for taking part in the story and for providing more records than I can count; to John Tygier for general hi-fi erudition and for loaning me his set of 300B thermionic valves when mine broke down. Greater love hath no man. And to all you crate diggers out there. Just remember, it might be in the next box…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Andrew Cartmel is a novelist and screenwriter. His work for television includes commissions for Midsomer Murders and Torchwood, and a legendary stint as script editor on Doctor Who. He has also written plays for the London Fringe, toured as a stand-up comedian, and is currently co-writing a series of comics with Ben Aaronovitch based on the bestselling Rivers of London books. He lives in London with too much vinyl and just enough cats.
Written in Dead Wax Page 35