Robbie Cairns said quietly, ‘Doesn’t matter. What matters is that he has a dog.’
‘How did it go?’
She peeled off her rucksack and dropped it. ‘It was pitiful,’ Megs Behan said.
Surprise. ‘How come?’
‘It’s like we were part of the scenery, like we’d be missed if we weren’t there. Another year and the police’ll be giving us biscuits, and DSEi will be sending out a trolley with coffee, tea or hot chocolate. We don’t even embarrass them, let alone get up their noses.’
Puzzlement at a sort of heresy. ‘Not joining the doubters, are you, Megs?’
She gazed at her project manager. She saw his concern. Others in the open-plan area at Planet Protection had their eyes fastened on their screens, but would have been wondering whether sunstroke or her period had caused such a dramatic loss of faith. She was Megs Behan and her commitment was legendary. Others had left to have babies or get work that paid better, and some had gone because their lives had moved on and the dedication had frayed. Not Megs Behan. ‘It was a complete waste of time being there.’
His resolve stiffened. ‘Perhaps you aren’t yourself, Megs. We have to be seen there, we have to …’
‘But we’re not seen. That’s the problem. No photographers. The bloody downturn, and who cares what British factories manufacture as long as the money’s coming in? Weapons of war are fine as long as the cheques don’t bounce. I’ve focused on Harvey Gillot. He didn’t turn up. But, as regards the fair, our response is predictable and therefore goes unreported.’
‘Perhaps you’ve been stretching yourself a bit far.’ He turned away.
She swigged water from the dispenser. ‘What we need is some Shock and plenty of Awe, and we need to beard those people where it hurts them. So, I’ll be wanting a bit from petty cash. I’m going to Gillot’s home. I’ll—’
He spun back. ‘Nothing illegal, Megs.’
‘Outside his door. In his face. Where his family and neighbours see me.’
‘But with dignity.’
‘I’ll humiliate him. Everyone near to where he lives will know what his trade is – dealing in death, brokering what kills children, trafficking in the apparatus of genocide.’ She had no idea what his home was like, where the main gate was, how close other properties were. ‘I want to make him squirm. Press releases and standing docile behind a barrier don’t work any more. So, please, a float from the petty cash.’
There was then an extraordinary moment in the open-plan office. Applause rang out, and cheers. She stood taller.
The project manager said, ‘I like what I hear, Megs, and as usual you’re innovative … but don’t hazard the good name of this organisation. It’s not to be brought into disrepute. We need funds, and funds aren’t attracted by stunts. We’re dependent on areas of government – however much we dislike it – to help us pay our way, and we have beneficiaries who won’t tolerate association with anything vulgar.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ She was grinning, a cat with cream on its whiskers. ‘I’ll flush him out tomorrow and make his life hell.’
*
Looking up from a wad of receipts he was checking against a column of figures – expenditure and inflow – Lenny Grewcock pondered. For a moment his hands came together in front of his mouth and nose, but it was contemplation, not prayer. He knew the name of the target, but not why a community had condemned him. He thought of the young guy, Robbie Cairns, son of Jerry and grandson of the old blagger. How good was Robbie Cairns? As good as his reputation? In it for Lenny Grewcock – not the money, chicken-shit, he was taking from the deal – was the chance of a link to people in Hamburg, who had access to deals across Europe. It was important that he was seen as an efficient, reliable friend. He wondered whether he would hear of the successful result from a phone call and a coded message, from the evening paper or the TV. Already, while he checked the accounts of a club in a side alley off Jermyn Street in the West End, his mind had been ticking over advantages and opportunities that would come his way when the Hamburg end kicked in.
In a workshop, at a lathe that shaped chair legs, Jerry Cairns’s mind was only barely on the work. He knew the name, passed to him on a wisp of cigarette paper, of the target and reckoned that by now his Robbie would be tracking the man, tailing him and lining him up. He would learn of the hit from the television in his cell. He supposed, as he worked the lathe, that to have a son like Robbie – a celebrity at what he did – was the same as having a darts prodigy or a successful TV actor for a kid: a little of the glory spattered on to the father … as the money did, if the boy had done well. And to be under the protection of Lenny Grewcock was a matter of no little consequence. Jerry Cairns had no fondness for his younger son – didn’t tell anyone, never had, not even the boy’s mother, his wife, that he couldn’t abide the boy – his cold eyes. But when he came out of gaol, he’d need a cut of the money his son brought in. He worked on his quota of chair legs and waited to be escorted back to his cell where he could switch on his television and watch news bulletins.
*
He didn’t do it often, but Granddad Cairns savoured sitting at a corner table in the old-world pub by the plaque that said the Pilgrim Fathers had boarded the Mayflower there. His second pint was in front of him, about his limit: his bladder couldn’t take any more. He lived off the money that was slipped him by Robbie. Couldn’t have managed without the help he had from the boy because his life had involved too much gaol time and thieving wasn’t pensionable. He liked this pub, could drop in for an afternoon and be accepted because the lunch trade was gone and the evening trade hadn’t started up. He would hear of Robbie’s hit from Leanne: a fine girl, and she had time for him – she’d call by as soon as they came back from the coast to let him know. If it wasn’t Leanne it would be Vern: he would stand in the doorway, take his grandfather’s shoulders in his hands, incline his head down and whisper, then give him a bit of a squeeze. Robbie wouldn’t come, wouldn’t tell him. Granddad Cairns knew of nobody who liked his younger grandson. Knew plenty who were petrified of the little sod, and some who’d cross the road rather than have to walk past him. There was a poster up outside the Rotherhithe police station that showed the closed doors of the refrigerated bays of a mortuary: one was open with the feet of a body sticking up from a shroud and the caption was ‘Carrying a gun can lead you into the coolest places.’ If his grandson was there, he knew of nobody who’d shed a tear. But he liked the money, needed it. At home he would sit in his chair and wait for Leanne or Vern to come by. Each time the money was better.
The hut was in shadow, there was no movement in those at either side of it and the grass in front of the line was not worn down. All were well shuttered, some had padlocks on the doors and they backed on to a field – maybe the one where he had seen the hawk fly and kill. While Robbie stood back, Vern used a short crowbar to prise open a window. Then they lifted Leanne and eased her through. She was passed the tool and, less than a minute later, after a squeal of tearing wood, the main door sagged open. Using the crowbar inside minimised the visible damage. Now they went through a fast routine: two pairs of plastic gloves each, a shower cap, and the day’s third check that the mobiles were off. Robbie dumped on the floor the bin-liner that held the clothing, and the sack with the hardware, then slumped on to a bench at the back.
What to do?
Nothing.
They had closed the window shutters, and the door, and there was no light inside. Robbie had the bench, Vern stretched out on the floor where a rug covered the linoleum, and Leanne had a chair. She asked Robbie again if there was anything more he needed to see and he said again that he had seen what he needed to see. Puzzled, did he mean the dog? Certain, because he had seen the dog. As if it was his little joke, and they’d be told when he was good and ready, not before. Obvious to Robbie Cairns that the dog was the provider of opportunity, but he didn’t say how, why … He did say that when it was dark he would go out with Vern for fish and chips. T
hen he dozed.
They waited. It was the first time that any of them, gathered around the tables outside the café, could remember that they had not talked of an episode in the defence of the village and its betrayal. Not even Mladen had offered his description of a moment when the line had wavered and he had stabilised it. The one with the keenest memory was Tomislav, but his head was bent low and he offered nothing. Andrija had the same coffee in front of him as he had had an hour before; he had not a drunk a quarter of it. Petar chain-smoked and did not contribute. Simun was sitting away from them; he was permitted to be close but had no part in the stories of war. They waited to be told.
Josip had been there and was now gone. The original chain of contact, he had told them, was now shortened. From London, word of the hit and the death would be sent to Hamburg, and from there it would go to an apartment in Zagreb, to a man of power and influence against whom no charges had been laid in spite of the recent assassination of a prosecutor who had investigated him. Known in the capital city as the Falcon, he would call Josip and give a codeword to mark the completion of retribution. It was agreed that then, word received, the village would come together at the church, would walk in column to the cemetery and flowers would be laid on the graves. The principals would go then to Mladen’s house. The reward for the outlay of twenty thousand euros would be found in a half-dozen bottles of sparkling wine, Double Gold, from Ilok. None around the tables had thanked Josip for what he had organised and probably they would not when he brought the news for which they waited.
A car came by and slowed as it approached the café. It was driven by a girl with blonde hair; her complexion had been ruddied by the sun. It braked.
It had been a change of mind, off-the-cuff, which was unusual for Penny Laing. The light had dropped, the countryside had lost lustre and pastel shadows had overwhelmed what had been vivid. She had left Vukovar behind and taken a side road between strip fields of ripened corn. She had gone through Bogdanovci, seen signs ahead for Marinci but had gone to the right and been guided in the failing light by a church tower.
She had come to the village. She could not have said to what purpose – it was too late to see anything, or to wander and soak up atmosphere, or to find someone who would devote an evening to her gratification. The pull of the place had broken though common sense – she should have taken an early night in her room.
There was a crossroads where she stopped. To left, right and ahead, the roads were empty. The church she could see was incomplete and the walls were of concrete blocks that had not yet been rendered. Some homes had lights on behind thin curtaining. She was about to turn and go back to the Vukovar hotel when she saw a cluster of brighter light in front. She drove towards it.
At the edge of the village she saw a group of men sitting on a concrete veranda and braked. She was trained to wade into conversations of substance with strangers. Her job did not permit shyness, and a big question needed answering. She was watched by old eyes. She sensed indifference rather than hostility, but no trace of welcome.
She thought she interrupted. She asked the first question that had to be answered: please, did anyone here speak English? She was stared at. It was a distant dark corner of Europe, and there was little reason why any of these older men should have learned her language. Always a disaster to work through interpreters: investigators loathed working through the uninvolved third party. She smiled with what warmth she could muster and thought she had blundered. She should extricate herself, her first contact screwed. For a moment she regretted that Asif with the pregnant wife was not taking part of the load.
The voice was clear, young and came from the shadows. Tall, well-built, with a mop of uncombed hair, he emerged to answer her question. He said his name was Simun, that he had learned some English at senior school. His smile was friendly. She said what she wanted, didn’t mention Harvey Gillot: the story of the siege of the village. It was agreed. When she drove away it was not the boy, Simun, she remembered with greatest clarity, but the older men, careworn, with dulled eyes, as if experience had dealt harshly with them.
Harvey reached for the phone. He had glanced at his watch and done the equation: what time it was in Marbella. Didn’t think they’d be eating yet. The man there had been the first he had turned to after the death of Solly Lieberman. Harvey Gillot didn’t know whether his own father and mother were physically well, and his ignorance didn’t bother him, but when he’d heard that Solly Lieberman, boss, mentor and father figure, had died, he had gone down in a crumpled mess and wept. Could remember each moment of it.
He’d been at his apartment off the Marylebone Road, fancy, smart, minimalist and affordable because he earned good money from the patronage of Solly Lieberman. He was going out, had a date, half through the door and a telephone was ringing. In the trade nobody answered a phone. Everybody tasted a call through an answer-phone. The woman who did reception at the office was calling from her home, and pretty damn composed: Harvey, my dear, so sorry to call you with this. It’s about Mr Lieberman. Very bad news about him. From Russia, the embassy have come through to me. I think he’d listed me as next-of-kin. An accident. A fatal accident. I’m sure he’ll be in your prayers, Harvey, as he is in mine. Could you be in the office tomorrow? Thank you.
Solly Lieberman had boarded the plane in Sofia and flown east. Then he had travelled, helicopter and four-wheel drive, into the perma-frosted Russian tundra, with a guide and a hunter. His host was the designer of the new generation of 155mm howitzers. They had been on the search for a brown bear, a male, that had terrorised an exploration team of geologists prospecting for a possible platinum mine. They had been camping in bollocks-freezing cold, and on the fourth day they hadn’t found the bear – but it had found Solly Lieberman. He had been swathed in clothing on his way to a call of nature. The bear had been shot but not until it had got tooth and claw into frail old Solly Lieberman. It had been ten feet high, weighed nearby three-quarters of a ton, and had made a bad mess of the sixty-eight-year-old arms broker. Harvey had helped carry the coffin. He didn’t reckon much of Solly Lieberman filled it.
Now was his moment but he’d doubted he could tread in the American’s footprints.
He had been told: You’re privileged to be offered that chance. You owe it to Solly Lieberman, a great man and a great ally, to take in two hands what he offers you. Go for it, as our friend did when he was little more than a kid. He had driven the man from London to Heathrow and seen him on to a flight to Málaga, fifty kilometres from Marbella. He had paid, as the testament stipulated, a token sum for the business and known that the money went to a Jewish charity for the education of the sons of rabbis. Then he had sat in the old man’s chair and had started to follow the footprints.
Ten months later, a phone call from overseas. A familiar, accented voice. A remark about the autumn sunshine in Marbella in contrast to the fogs and mists of London, and an introduction. I don’t want it, Harvey. I want nothing to do with the Balkans. What you should do if you want it is to telephone this man in the defence ministry in … He had been given a number, had called it and a week later had been on a flight to Zagreb.
Now, he lifted the receiver, checked the number in his book and dialled. It was answered.
‘It’s Harvey.’
‘Good to speak. You are fine now?’
‘Everything is good. Sorry about earlier. Now, we were talking in terms of …’ Had been talking earlier in terms of assault rifles and the ammunition to go with them, bulk numbers of RPG-7 grenades with high-explosive or fragmentation warheads. He thought it best to be in total denial, more comforting.
Robbie watched. He had the car door open and through the shop’s window he saw the woman pour vinegar, scatter salt and wrap. Then Vern was reaching into his hip pocket for his wallet. He was aware, always had been. He could see Vern with the three portions of fish and chips, almost ready, and could see, too, the three kids – in the mirror – coming near to the car. He turned away from his brother, who
was waiting now for change. Kids like the ones on the Albion Estate and the Osprey Estate … The likes of himself, his sister and elder brother had not been, ever, a part of the gangs. Didn’t need to be. Vern, Leanne and Robbie had been born with authority and had the respect accorded to their name. Their father and grandfather had drilled it into them that authority and respect were not to be abused, that once lost they were hard to reel back. He was in the front passenger seat, his feet were on the pavement and the door was wide open. One of the kids veered off and went round the front of the car, hesitated, pushed up past the front wheel and extended his foot. For a second or so, he was balanced on one leg.
The kid said, ‘You’re blocking us. Close the fuckin’ door.’
The other two laughed. The raised foot rested against the open door.
‘Didn’t you hear me? Close the fuckin’ door.’
What Robbie Cairns had been thinking while he watched Vern collect the fish and chips hadn’t been important. He was now feeling the pressure of the door against his shin and spotted a knife. Kids who thought they ran a street corner – not Rotherhithe but a corner of what Leanne had said was called Weston on the Isle of Portland. A man came down the road, older than Robbie’s father and younger than his grandfather. He had a stout stick in his hand and the streetlamp caught him. He would have seen the kids. He crossed over to the other pavement as the pressure grew on Robbie’s shin. The knife blade was against the wing of the car and started to gouge. Throaty laughter, and Robbie saw the line in the paintwork that the blade scratched.
‘You going to fuckin’ move, wanker, or do I kick the fuckin’ door shut? Come on, shift.’
The blade came close. He saw Vern pocket the change and turn for the shop door. He had a plastic bag with their food in it.
The Dealer and the Dead Page 22