by D. B. Thorne
‘There’s not a lot I can do about that eye, either,’ she said, her face just inches from Solomon’s. It had felt strange to begin with, to have such proximity with another person, but her manner was so unaffected, so reassuringly professional, that very quickly he had forgotten his shame. ‘I think we’re beyond contact lenses on that one.’
‘I figured,’ said Solomon.
‘I’d recommend an eye patch,’ said Marija. ‘Like a pirate’s. They’re cheap, and they also look pretty hench.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ Solomon said.
‘Keep growing your hair, too,’ she said. ‘Cover your ear.’
‘What ear?’
‘Well,’ said Marija, stepping back, ‘there is that. The good news is that you’re not losing it. Your hair, I mean. Not yet, at any rate.’
With Tiff in hospital, he didn’t have anyone to cut his hair anyway. It wasn’t like he was going to visit a barber’s.
‘Okay,’ said Marija. ‘That’s enough for today. You want to take a look?’
Not really, thought Solomon, but said instead, ‘Sure.’ He stood up and headed for his bathroom. He didn’t know why he’d kept the mirror, it had been there when he moved in but it wasn’t like he used it. He could have sold it. For sale, mirror, vgc. As new. Unused. He jerked the cord for the light quickly, as if it was electrified, and turned to look at himself.
It wasn’t bad. It really wasn’t that bad, he thought. The skin looked kind of okay, from a distance anyway. Still creased, wrinkled, but the shininess had gone, that disconcerting artificiality. His ghastly half-boiled eye was still there, peering out, wraith-like, and his mouth just looked … weird. Like he’d had a stroke, only worse. He held three fingers up, horizontally, to hide his eye. It wasn’t too bad. It was … Not okay. Not normal. But it wasn’t horrifying. At least, he didn’t think it was horrifying.
He looked at himself for as long as he was able, then walked back to the living room. Marija looked up from where she was kneeling, packing her make-up back into her flight case, and smiled. ‘So?’
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Better?’
‘Better,’ he said. ‘Definitely.’
‘I’ll write down what I used,’ she said. ‘You can order it online. Practise with it, until you feel comfortable. It’s a pain in the backside, but nothing thirty per cent of us women don’t do every morning.’
Solomon smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he said again.
‘Don’t mention it. And keep my card. If you need anything, advice on foundation or just some moral support, give me a call.’ She closed the flight case and looked at her watch. ‘Oh Lord,’ she said. ‘I have to run. Don’t forget to moisturize once you’ve taken it off.’
‘I won’t,’ Solomon said, following her to the door.
She opened it, turned to him and said, ‘Goodbye,’ then kissed him on his cheek, which wasn’t something he’d felt for a long, long time.
fifteen
SOLOMON’S APARTMENT WAS IN WAPPING AND WORTH, THE last time he checked, around a million. All one bedroom of it. Actually it was probably worth a little more, he thought, remembering the estate agent pointing out just how tall the windows were, and how luxurious the bathroom was, and just how desirable warehouse living remained, particularly when the apartment in question was a proper London-stock-brick Victorian warehouse with a view of the Thames. He’d bought it four years ago when it had been worth half what it was today, when he’d just turned twenty. Even then it had been a lot of money, and if anybody made the assumption that writing questions for TV and radio shows paid well, they’d be wrong. It paid lousy.
Most of Solomon’s money came from a different source. He didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about exactly where it came from, although years ago he’d agreed with his brother that it could not come from trafficking either people or drugs. That was a rule. Guns, too, they were off limits. And prostitution, obviously. But what he did know was that Luke brought in a lot of money, more and more every month. And wherever it came from, it was Solomon’s job to hide it. Get rid of it, magic it away, and only let it reappear when it was washed clean, cleaner than clean, ninety degrees of intensive offshore spin-cycle clean. And just as Solomon didn’t ask Luke where the money came from, Luke never asked Solomon where the money went to. In any case, he wouldn’t have understood. Most people wouldn’t. Because what Solomon did with all the money, even he found fairly complicated.
The advantage that Solomon had, and the reason Luke had asked for his help in the first place, was of course his extraordinary brain. He never forgot anything; in fact he seemed to be physiologically incapable of forgetting anything. All the contacts and the cut-outs and the shell companies and the account numbers, all the hundreds and thousands and millions that he sent around the world, they were all stored in his head, appearing when he thought of them as something akin to a giant abstract painting, an elegant, intertwined masterpiece of fabulous colours, intricate lines and exquisite patterns. Nothing was written down, and never had been. Which meant that there was no paper trail, which in turn meant that however good a forensic accountant was, they’d have nothing to follow. Luke often called Solomon his criminal mastermind. It was a title that Solomon had never felt at all comfortable with, principally because it was too near the truth. In fact in its most literal sense, he had to concede, it was entirely accurate.
But. And it was a big but, a crucial but. But, he never had to actually meet anybody. He sat at the centre of the web, and other people did the legwork. Carried the briefcases. Handed over the paper bags filled with notes. Opened accounts, wired money, withdrew it. Got their hands dirty. To Solomon it had always been a theoretical game, an intellectual challenge, nothing more. No more precarious than playing the stock market. Just numbers, when it came down to it. If he could remember the numbers, remember them and keep track of them, and he could, then it would all be fine. Provided he didn’t have to interact with the actual people, get involved in the unfathomable chaos of real life, with all its uncertainties and vagaries, it would be fine. It would be just dandy.
Which was why, right now, Solomon was feeling anything but fine and dandy. He was feeling terrified. Because suddenly, it wasn’t only about the numbers any more.
‘I can’t.’
‘Solly, listen, you have to. I can’t do it. I can’t go. It’s too risky.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Okay, Solly, okay. Okay, listen. It’s fine.’
‘Is it?’
‘No. No, Solly, no. Of course it isn’t, else I wouldn’t be asking. But if you close your eyes and listen to me, stop talking, then at least you’ll be able to fucking understand. Yes?’
Solomon had the phone pressed to his good ear and had paced a circle around his living room, how many times since Luke had called? Fourteen, fourteen full circles plus around seventy-eight degrees, 5,118 degrees in total. A lot of pacing. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Okay. Now listen. This isn’t going to be easy, but it needs to be done. Understand? So even if I’m not there. Even if, Solly, yes? Even if I’m not there, it needs to happen.’
Solomon squeezed his phone so hard his fingers ached. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Well,’ his brother said, ‘okay then.’
*
Luke thought of it as the Bank of Mullan, mostly because thinking of it as a physical place of granite and marble and polished wood made it feel more real. More real than how Solomon had attempted to describe it, which wasn’t a place at all, more a series of companies and entities and faraway accounts, out of reach of Customs and Excise and extradition treaties and tax laws and all the other threats out there who would, if they could, take his hard-earned – or stolen – money away from him. So he thought of it as a real bank, where all his real money was kept, safe and secure. And if Solomon, and only Solomon, knew where it was and how it all actually worked, then that was A-O-fucking-K as far as Luke was concerned.
Because Solomon knew everything.
What Luke did know was that this bank was full of money that his smurfs brought them, all the little people who acted as cut-outs, depositing many, many small amounts of money, so small that the authorities didn’t notice but the Bank of Mullan got richer and richer, its vaults full of money that only Solomon could count.
His brother worked best behind the scenes, invisibly, thinking and planning and making their money magically disappear into the Bank of Mullan. But now Luke was asking him to step into the real world, Luke’s world. And this was not good. Because only Solomon knew how to get into the Bank of Mullan, and people might try to make him tell them how to get into it too.
‘You said it wasn’t going to be easy,’ said Solomon, his uncertainty plain to hear, even over the dubious mobile signal.
‘No,’ said Luke, ‘it might not be. But you need to hear why.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes. I can’t come into town. Can’t do it. If they nick me, there won’t be bail. I’ll be inside for months. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ said Solomon. ‘I get that. So?’
‘So. This guy, his name is Arnold. Thomas Arnold. You heard of him?’
‘No.’
‘No, well I have. Thing is, though, I didn’t know I was dealing with him. First I’m talking to a lad from Stepney, next moment this Arnold’s on the scene. I wouldn’t have gone near him, Solly. No way.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘The problem is, he’s not the kind of person we deal with. Big into women, he traffics them around the country. It’s where the money is right now.’
‘Luke,’ said Solomon. ‘No, Luke.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Luke. ‘It’s not what I do, you know that.’
‘What did you do for him?’
‘Nothing like that,’ said Luke. ‘I got him some cars. Turns out he’s got a lock on the ports, the cars go out, the people come in. The women.’
‘So?’ said Solomon. ‘Just walk away. Write it off.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Yes you can.’
‘No, Solly, I can’t.’ Luke took a deep breath. ‘There’s a meeting arranged. We need to be at it.’
‘We?’
‘Let me finish, Solly, Jesus. We can’t not go. He owes us money. How’s it going to look if we just don’t turn up?’
‘Who cares? We don’t need the money.’
‘It’s not a question of money, Solly. There’s a meeting. We pick up the money, shake hands, it’s finished. It needs to be done properly. It’s about—’
‘Don’t say respect,’ said Solomon.
‘It is,’ said Luke. ‘That’s exactly what it’s about. It’s how things work. If we don’t turn up, we’ll lose a whole ton of cash, and he’ll take it as disrespect, and do we really need any more grief in our lives right now? Because grief is what we’ll get, and serious amounts of it.’
Luke waited for Solomon to process all of that, waited some time. As he waited, he thought about the man he was asking his brother to meet. Thomas Arnold, the kind of criminal who gave criminals a bad name. Or, put it another way, an unpleasant sociopath. Somebody to cross the street to avoid. And never, ever get into business with.
‘How much money are we talking about?’ said Solomon.
‘I got them the cars. We agreed on eighty grand. That’s what we need to pick up.’
‘Eighty thousand?’
‘He’ll probably tell you the cars were no good, there was a problem, the bribes went up, the container ship sank, whatever. That’s normal. You just hold out, insist on the amount we agreed.’
‘And what if I can’t get him to pay?’
‘You have to,’ said Luke. ‘Otherwise we look weak, and they’ll use us. Try to own us. And we don’t want that. Stick to your guns. We agreed eighty thousand. We agreed it. Yes?’
‘No.’ Luke listened to his brother breathing, agitated. ‘I don’t think I can do this, Luke. You need to send somebody else.’
‘There isn’t anybody else,’ said Luke. ‘It’s you and me. You know that.’
‘I don’t think I can do this,’ Solomon said again.
‘You can,’ said Luke. ‘Listen, the meeting’s at one of his places. Nothing’s going to happen. Trust me.’
‘Oh Luke, come on. Please. This isn’t what I do. This isn’t me.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ said Luke. ‘Listen, I’m sorry, okay?’ It wasn’t okay, Luke knew that, but what choice did he have? ‘Just go in, get the money, then walk away. We don’t want to be in his debt, and we don’t want to be in his pocket. Get what we need, then walk away. Yes?’
Luke listened to Solomon’s silence on the other end. Eventually Solomon said, ‘I’ve got to go. Another call.’
‘Listen, don’t worry about it,’ said Luke. ‘It’ll be fine.’
The last thing Solomon said before hanging up was ‘Right,’ but Luke couldn’t help but think that he sounded far from convinced. Very, very far indeed.
Solomon put down what he had always called, he didn’t know why, the Bat Phone, and picked up his ordinary mobile.
‘Yes?’
‘We’ve had a look at your brother’s mobile records,’ Fox said. ‘He called you on the same night that Robert White was murdered.’
Solomon closed his eyes tight and tried to get himself balanced, focused. Fox would be talking about Luke’s everyday phone. They both had two mobiles, one contract, the other pay-as-you-go. Contract for the normal, the everyday. Pay-as-you-go for business. Fox had pulled the records for Luke’s contract phone, the one he’d called Solomon with that night. It was fine.
‘So?’
‘So, it suggests that you might be an accomplice. You’ve heard of assisting the commission of a crime?’
‘Inspector Fox,’ said Solomon, ‘don’t waste my time. Our sister is in hospital. My brother called me. It’s reasonable, in fact it’s entirely to be expected, that he’d want to talk. What do you take me for?’ He was still rattled by what his brother had asked him to do, and realized that he was coming across as overly aggressive, channelling his brother. Too late now.
‘I’m starting to have ideas about you too,’ said Fox.
‘Would you care to elaborate on that?’
‘What do you know about your brother’s … how can I put it? Business concerns?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ Fox did disbelief well.
‘Nothing at all.’
‘I see. So tell me, what was it your brother wanted to talk about? When he called?’
Solomon took a deep breath, attempted to rein himself in, but knew he was past that point. ‘He wanted to talk about why, when our sister is in hospital, clearly the victim of an assault, the police are groping around, giving the impression that they’d struggle to find their own behinds using both hands and a map,’ he said. ‘And I’m paraphrasing.’
‘Mr Mullan, at the moment, I’m only sure that one crime has been committed, and that is the murder of Robert White. I need to speak to your brother, to rule him out of the inquiry.’
‘Or implicate him into it,’ said Solomon.
‘You’re not going to cooperate, are you?’ said Fox.
Solomon wondered how the investigation into his sister’s attack had turned so suddenly into a witch hunt of his family. ‘Find out what happened to my sister,’ he said.
‘Help me find your brother, and I’ll have more time to investigate your sister,’ said Fox.
‘Are you trying to do a deal?’ said Solomon. ‘That sounds unethical.’
‘Just trying to do my job, as efficiently as possible,’ said Fox. ‘Which strikes me as entirely ethical.’ She paused, said, ‘Well, you’ve got my number. Think about it,’ and hung up, leaving Solomon standing in the middle of his living room, wondering just how the meticulously planned order and regularity of his life had fallen apart so dramatically, and so frighteningly quickly.
sixteen
WHEN SHE
CAME AROUND SHE HAD NO IDEA HOW MANY HOURS, nothing made sense. Nothing. She knew who she was, remembered that, or at least had some vague memory. She knew she was supposed to be booking flights for somewhere, organizing hotels, and she knew, this she absolutely knew, that Ian was going to lose it in the worst way if he found out that she hadn’t done it yet, because money mattered to him, mattered a whole heap, and the earlier you made the bookings, the cheaper it was.
But the details, like what day or month it was or why she’d been found where she’d been found, that, that she had no idea how to explain. Her name was Jasmine and she had tattoos, a lot of them, though Ian liked them covered up, so she wore long skirts or trousers at work because, well, because her thighs had ink, and a whole lot of it. So yeah, she knew her name. But what she didn’t know, and what she’d kept repeating to the policeman who’d kept asking her, was how she’d come to be discovered by a priest who had at first, apparently, believed she was an angel, a painted angel, fallen all the way down from heaven. And this, this Jasmine knew instinctively, couldn’t be true, because she was certainly no angel. She wasn’t certain about much, but this, this she was sure on.
‘You look like you need a break,’ the policeman said. His name was Gary. He seemed nice and he wasn’t in uniform, which meant he was a detective, or at least she thought that was what it meant. She had weird pyjamas on and they were scratchy, really scratchy, which wasn’t about to do her eczema a ton of good, though apparently she’d been lying on a stone something-or-other for the last two days, so, hey. You know. Whatever.
‘It’s weird,’ Jasmine said. ‘If I’ve been asleep for so long, how come I’m tired?’ Her voice sounded like it came from a deep well, somewhere below her. Or above her. Or from somewhere.
‘You were drugged,’ the policeman, no, Gary, said. ‘It takes it out of you, believe it or not.’
Jasmine did believe it, nodding at Gary and yawning. ‘I could do with a nap.’
‘Yes,’ said Gary. Gary seemed nice. ‘I’ll go. Is it all right if I come back?’