Bowman made a phone call. His voice was even, but it carried a cold edge. ‘He came to the house.’
The answering voice was looking for a similar, calm tone, though failing to find it. ‘No, he shouldn’t have done that.’
‘He came to the house to collect.’
‘Did you pay him?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll have the money refunded to you.’
‘Why wasn’t he paid?’
‘After he’d… completed… he left town for a couple of days. It’s usual. We didn’t know where he was. He thought we did.’ The voice had a faint burr to it: maybe Irish, maybe American.
‘Make it clear to him that he doesn’t come to the house.’
‘Of course.’
‘Make it clear.’ A pause; then Bowman said, ‘I hear there’s a trader on Harefield.’
‘Small time.’
‘They always start small.’
‘You want it fixed?’
‘Keep an eye on him.’
‘We can fix it for you.’
‘That’s good to know. No, just keep an eye on him. As long as it’s low activity, low yield.’
‘Any time you say.’
‘I know.’
‘And I’m sorry he came to the house. He shouldn’t have come to the house.’
‘Tell him. And listen, keep the money.’
‘Keep it?’
‘For the time being. In case this other guy… In case we need to move on him.’
The thunder was like sheet metal, tearing.
Bowman poured himself a Scotch, cupping a handful of ice into the glass, and sighed. He went to the window to watch the storm as it hit.
28
Thunder-rain moved down the Strip in solid squalls, bright in the street lights or shot through with red-and-blue neon where it sluiced the shopfronts. The storm was overhead, thunder slamming rooftops and ringing in cornerstones.
The television in Gideon Woolf’s room fizzed and popped. He never turned it off, night or day. Just now it was showing what looked like a news broadcast: houses and vehicles burning, men in tri-colour DCU combat fatigues running in a fast crouch from cover to cover, holding a line on each side of a dusty street. Bodies lay out in the open. He picked up the remote control and zapped through a few stations. Men in jungle-greens were running in a fast crouch from cover to cover as incoming ripped into the tree-line. Either this was a movie and the first scenes had been real, or the other way round. He zapped a few more and got back to the men in DCUs. Or men a lot like them.
Gideon was dressing to go out. He favoured an ankle-length black leather coat he’d found in a charity shop: that went over a cotton roll-neck and combat pants together with calf-high lace-up boots. He felt the part. Last, he pulled on the single glove, left hand, that was street code for I’m carrying.
He went to the window and peered out at the downpour, at branch lightning glittering against a plum-coloured sky. He liked the look of it. He had no particular intent; this wasn’t a mission; but this was the kind of weather that often took Silent Wolf to the streets. Gideon carried an image of the man in his mind, the skirt of his coat turned back by the wind, leaning into the slant of the rain as he walked the canyons and gulches of the city.
Who would be out in such weather? Only wrongdoers and their Nemesis. Only those who had nothing to lose.
He was saying those lines to himself and smiling: they were lines from the Silent Wolf game. As he watched, a broken-backed column of lightning hissed and crackled, arcing up through the rain. The smell of scorch in the sky was the smell of scorch in his room.
He pushed a sheathed, broad-bladed knife into the top of his right boot and opened the door. He had nothing particular in mind, no one to seek out; the knife was in case; it was who knows?
He dimmed the lights and locked the door as he left. The TV flickered in the half-light: men flanking an APC, coming under fire, fanning out to find cover.
The body count rose: dead men or actors playing dead, who could tell?
He was down on the Strip when he saw her, a woman hurrying home, shoulders hunched against the storm, dark hair hanging in wet tails over the collar of her coat. She was a civilian, that much was clear, because even the toughest pimps had let their girls take to the doorways, the cafés, the bars, to look for work.
Mostly, innocents stayed off the Strip as evening fell, but for those in a hurry it was a short-cut; you walked quickly past the dens and dives to the main road, then took the path through the churchyard that would bring you out four blocks away. In weather like this, it was tempting to save five minutes or more.
He saw her, and he saw the two followers, blurred by the downfall, their dark hoodies grey like the light, their faces cowled, though Gideon could see that one man’s hair had a bad blond dye. Gideon knew she would risk the churchyard, even though a woman had been killed there last year, because taking that path was the reason for using the Strip: it was all part of the same short-cut. And he knew that the followers knew that. The woman had looped the strap of her shoulder-bag across her body, and that frail gesture – that pointless precaution – moved him strangely.
The followers had been tracking her from the far side of the street. Now, as she came off the Strip and headed for the church, they crossed over and closed the gap, walking twenty, maybe thirty feet back.
Gideon kept pace, but they didn’t see him, a dim shape in hanging rails of rain.
29
The weather looked wilder from the twenty-first floor. The man Stella had identified as Angel Face, the man she’d been chasing when she fell over Barry or Gary, was sitting close to the window of a Block A apartment and thinking it was a little like being out at sea: rain, wind, a flowing sky, no sight of land. He was in the room with three other men who were passing a hefty spliff back and forth with a slow grace. It was an interview of sorts.
One of the three was doing most of the talking. His name was Jonah, a squat man with heavy dreadlocks and a workout torso that was freighted with bling: heavy bracelets, rings to every finger, a gold torque necklace; when he raised his hand to lift the spliff to his lips, his biceps popped and the room glittered.
Angel Face had given the name he most often used: Ricardo Jones. He’d used it for so long that no one knew him by any other, though sometimes he would invent another for a one-off job and people he wouldn’t be going back to: people he ripped off. His real name was on prison and police computers, so he never used that. It was a simple enough alias: his given name was Richard and Ricardo was a nickname. Even friends had forgotten his real surname.
He said, ‘I’m a match-maker, okay? I’m just here to let you know. Here to offer my services. They said you were the man to see.’
‘Who said?’
‘People I asked.’
‘Match-maker…’ Jonah smiled. ‘Maybe you can find me a nice wife.’
Ricardo smiled back. ‘So, I’m in II69 B, you know that.’ He gave a mobile number. ‘I’m, like, everything: white goods, electrical, small items’ – casting a glance at Jonah’s laden arms and fingers – ‘cars, you know.’
A match-maker puts buyers and sellers together; he scams stolen goods; he shifts high-risk items. He’s not a fence; they tend to be specialists. A match-maker will deal anything to anyone. He’ll have a talent for finding the right people on each side of the buy/sell divide and he’ll be a great organizer. Match-makers are tidy-minded people.
Jonah said, ‘What are we talking here?’
Ricardo shrugged as if money talk was the least of it. ‘I take ten per cent off the top.’
Jonah laughed. ‘I take ten per cent off the top of your fucking head, man.’
Ricardo held Jonah’s hard-man stare. ‘You’re paying twenty on a job-by-job basis, and you have to set things up before anything comes your way. A car man for cars, white-goods man for white goods. I do everything. Reliable contacts, fast work, quick return. Why am I only ten per cent? Because I expect to get all
of your business. I make ten, you save ten.’ He paused. ‘Except money. Money costs.’
‘I already got someone for money.’
‘Yeah? Well, like I said, money’s expensive. With money, you lose money. Am I right?’
Jonah stayed silent, because Ricardo was right. Money was high risk, and not just for the handlers. He said, ‘This guy isn’t like you. He only does money.’ He could have added: And the last person who tried to edge his business wound up with plastic lungs. He didn’t say it because he was interested in Ricardo’s blanket ten per cent.
‘So he only does money –?’
‘Special, you know? Exclusive. He expects loyalty.’
‘He expects thirty-five per cent, am I right?’ Ricardo was quick to scan Jonah’s expression; reading people’s faces was a necessary skill. ‘No, he expects fifty.’
‘I dealt with this guy a year or more. No problems.’
‘Except you’re taking heavy losses.’ Ricardo pretended to consider the matter. ‘With money, I take twenty-five; just between you and me.’
Rain battered the glass. Jonah reached round to scratch his neck, and his bracelets clattered.
‘Next coupla weeks,’ he said, ‘some class gear coming in. I’ll let you know in advance. Not money, though. I can’t let you handle money.’
But Ricardo knew he would; it was there in the man’s face.
30
They were going to take her before she reached the church-yard. The man with the blond dye crossed the road and quickened his pace to get beyond her. It was standard: Gideon had seen it before. The lead guy would gain a few yards – ten, maybe twenty – recross the road in a long diagonal, then slow his pace so she caught up with him. The other follower would have been gaining on her. It would be quick. As the man in front turned, the man following would be close enough to hold her. They would take the bag, and they would put her down, hard, to give them lots of time. A sap, perhaps, or a knife, it didn’t matter how badly they hurt her, so long as they could get clear.
Once he’d crossed the road, Blondie didn’t look back; he knew that the other follower was moving up on her. Gideon glanced around. There were cars on the Strip, their lights on, their wipers working hard, but no one walking; the rain was wind-driven, the sky dark and low. He paced the second man, matching him stride for stride, looking for an opportunity and all the time chuckling to himself.
Wrongdoers and their Nemesis.
They passed a shebeen and ‘Steadfast Cars’ and started along the side of a blind wall that had once fronted a car lot. Gideon came up behind the follower and put him in an arm-lock, fast and hard, wrenching the arm high so the man doubled up to compensate for the stress put on his shoulder joint. The rain doused his cry. Gideon rushed the man at the wall, up on his toes and moving at speed, as if he expected to break through. It was head-on, like a battering-ram; Gideon felt the impact in his wrists. He released his grip and the follower hit the pavement, limbs loose like something partly dismantled.
It took a few seconds. Gideon only had to quicken his pace a little to catch up with the woman as she, in turn, caught up with Blondie. When he turned, she wasn’t sure, for a moment, what was wrong; the rain blurred her vision; then she saw the knife and stepped back and said, ‘No!’, as if that might make a difference.
Gideon moved forward, and Blondie saw him for the first time. He looked round for the other man and saw no one. He shouted but got no answer. Gideon wagged a finger at him as if to say, He’s gone; it’s you and me. Blondie lifted the knife to eye level, but backed off and to the side. The woman saw the gap and ran past him, going towards the churchyard, and, in the same moment, Blondie moved in the opposite direction. Gideon had expected it. He swung his leg, taking the man just below the knees and bringing him down with a clatter, then he stepped in and stamped down on the man’s head: a double blow because the boot made contact on one side a moment before the pavement on the other.
A little flush of blood appeared and was swilled by the rain, then another, longer, streak of red feathered off towards the gutter. Blondie got up and turned away, like one man giving another the cold shoulder. He walked a pace or two and sat down, his back to the wall. His feet moved, sporadically, like a man working a treadle, then he lifted himself on to a knee and stayed like that a while before making it to his feet. He took two steps, three, then sat down again, almost wearily, his legs out in front of him, his hands in his lap.
After a moment his head nodded down on to his chest.
She was standing in the church porch and that took him by surprise.
She said, ‘I’m sorry.’
He had taken the direction she took only because he didn’t want to walk back towards the first guy; the Strip was thinly populated, but someone would find him pretty soon – would find both of them.
She said, ‘Has he gone?’, not realizing there had been two.
‘Gone, yes. Why are you sorry?’
‘I ran away. I was frightened. And I was frightened to come back.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘To make sure you were all right.’ She took her hand out of her raincoat pocket and showed him a mobile phone. ‘I should have called the police. I forgot. I wasn’t thinking.’ She shivered. ‘He had a knife.’
He nodded, thinking fast. Can’t leave alone; can’t leave her here to call the cops and tell the tale; can’t wait with her. For a moment, he considered that the easiest thing to do would be to kill her. He took her arm, moving her out of the porch.
‘Come on.’
She stood her ground. ‘The police –’
‘No, look… it’s just more trouble – more trouble for you. It goes to court, he gets a good lawyer, he tells a good story, whatever happens he knows your name and where you live.’ She looked at him, worried now, and pulled back a little.
‘We should call them.’
They stood in the rain, his hand on her arm, her face turned to his, water running off the tips of her hair.
He said, ‘Trust me.’
He walked her to a tube station and bought a ticket so that he could wait on the platform until her train came. She had a narrow, pretty face, good cheekbones, her eyes green, her lips rising in a slight curve.
She said, ‘You don’t have to.’
‘No, it’s fine. I want to.’ Was this what Silent Wolf would do? ‘You’ve had a bad experience.’ He was making up the lines as he went along.
‘Do you live here?’ He made up a street name. She added, ‘I don’t live here, I work here.’ Then, as if he’d asked, ‘I’m a dental nurse. Park Clinic.’
He was looking down the track, willing the train to come. He felt edgy standing there like one of a couple. ‘What’s it like?’
She laughed. ‘All right, if you don’t mind watching people in pain.’
‘I don’t mind.’
She looked at him as if expecting more, then laughed again, acknowledging the joke and the deadpan way he delivered it.
When the train came, he handed her aboard, then stayed on the platform to watch it draw away. She stood by the doors and looked back. She raised her hand and he raised his in reply.
She had thanked him a dozen times. She had told him that her name was Aimée. She hadn’t told him that she was married.
31
Men in combat fatigues were running up a wooded slope, a chain-stitch of mortar-fire dogging them. Delaney heard the blasts a fraction of a second after he saw the explosions. It was a fine day, and a blue sky bore the puffy white tracks of shellfire. He felt good. He was riding in a UN jeep, heading for the smoke and the sound of gunfire.
Or he was hunkered down behind a shell-scarred wall at a crossroads with twenty, thirty, fifty civilians, second-guessing the right time to cross. Second-guessing the sniper. When they came out of cover and ran, himself in the thick of it, he felt the jolt of adrenalin like a backhander to the gut.
He was with a line of combat troops as they walked the scarred and smoking r
emnant of a village. He was speeding in Crossfire Alley. He was in the market place five minutes after the mortar-cluster hit.
The dream scenes shifted, but he could always smell the smoke.
The storm had struck and left, making the streets cool for a while, cool and clean. Now it was rumbling somewhere off towards the south, threatening to roll back in. Stella found him stretched out on the sofa with a pre-dawn whisky. She sat down and lifted his feet into her lap.
He said, ‘Did I wake you?’
‘Not you. Your absence. It’s unlike you to have a disturbed night.’
‘Dreams woke me.’
‘Bad dreams…?’
‘Eventful dreams.’
She didn’t ask him for more and he didn’t offer it. Didn’t tell her that this wasn’t the first time, recently, that sleep had returned him to a war zone; didn’t tell her how strongly that mixture of fear and exhilaration came back to him; didn’t tell her that, last week, he’d had a meeting with Martin Turner, the editor who had first sent him to Africa, to Palestine, to Kosovo.
Turner had swilled the ice in his glass and smiled. ‘I never had you down as a features man, John. What is it just now?’
‘The Rich List.’
Turner laughed. ‘You must be thrilled.’ Then: ‘You want to go back?’
‘No,’ Delaney said, ‘not really.’
‘Front-line stuff. Cutting edge. There’s always a war zone somewhere.’
‘I don’t think so; never go back, isn’t that what they say?’
‘Then why are we having this drink?’
‘Old times’ sake.’
‘Yes,’ Turner said. ‘Exactly.’
‘He kills them, and he writes on them, to let us know…’
‘Let us know what?’ Delaney asked.
‘The reason, I suppose. The reason why they had to die. She fucks for money: Dirty Girl. He ran the wrong way: Filthy Coward. What I’m trying to do,’ she said, ‘is think less about the victims than about him.’
‘Think what?’
‘Whether his victims were random sinners or specific targets.’
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