Phipps knew that Sebastien knew that what Severin had worn on his head was a yarmulke, even if he’d had to look it up. Didn’t say that, but had said ‘Jew’ with such casual emphasis. Dismissing him as ‘other’, not quite one of us, old chap. The casual anti-Semitism of the English upper classes. Made his murder easier. Well, whatever let’s you sleep at night, Phipps thought.
He leaned over the brochure. Pretty blonde, cheeky grin, wild eyebrows. The photo was taken from some rag of a mag, part of the article pasted below. ‘From Lieder to Alan J. Lerner: it’s all in the ivories, says lovely Lottie.’
He looked up. “You sure she has the books?”
“Oh yes.” He turned a page. “Here’s the print out of one text exchange, from this morning. Just before he actually called her - while his wife was still there. And before you, uh, you know.”
He tapped the screen, and Phipps read the texts:
Severin: They still in the house?
Lottie: Nah. In the car.
Severin: Did you get the residents’ pass?
Lottie: Not yet.
Severin: #&*! L! You’ll get towed!
Lottie: Nah
Severin: Bring them in. I need to know where they are. I’ll pick ‘em up today.
Lottie: Teasing! I have them.
Severin: Look, I’ll call when the fam have gone. About 10 mins. Like to hear your voice.
Lottie: k
“You sure it’s the books they are texting about?”
“What else?” Sebastien shifted on his stool, frowned. These stools weren’t the most comfortable at the best of times. “Also, there was a call which he didn’t answer from an untraceable number shortly before the texts. Naturally we traced it.” He looked away, licked his lips. It was what in his poker playing days he’d have called ‘a tell’. For all his attempted nonchalance, the man was bricking it. “The call came from within MI5. We suspect that they are onto him. And so eventually onto us.”
Shit, Phipps thought. He picked up his soda and lime, sipped. “They must have seen these texts too. If they are onto him, why aren’t they kicking her door in?”
“We have a… a friend in 5. He’s surpressing her info. For now.”
“Won’t she run squealing when she hears about his death?”
“He’s suppressed that too. At least for now. May make News at Ten.”
“So we have -”
“Tonight. A few hours.”
“I see.” Phipps sipped again. “And why’s your friend doing this?”
Sebastien took off his glasses, rubbed his left eye which Phipps saw was indeed bruised purple. “Well, he’s, uh, he’s also in the books.”
There was something in the way he said it. Phipps put down his glass. “Am I in the books?”
“Of course.” Sebastien picked up his pint, drained another quarter off. He was nervous as shit. “It’s all in code though.”
Phipps damped down his anger. “Good code?”
“Took one of our best boys a week to create it.”
“So one of theirs will take at least that long to crack it? Fuck.” It was the first time in a long while he’d fancied a real drink. A week? He had contingencies. Bank accounts and bolt holes. His Cypriot land was in the Turkish enclave and extradition was tricky.
Sebastien was watching him. Reading him which wasn’t easy but for once he got it. “But as I say, we have tonight. Now. To make this go away. Go get them. Then give them to me.”
“Why don’t I get them and burn them?”
“No. He may have been an idiot, but Severin was a bloody good accountant. Since we’re rumbled, there are… assets we need to divvy up. To fund our… re-emergence. When we can rise like the Phoenix, eh?” He finished his pint. “There’ll be more work for you down the road, Mr…” He cut himself off again.
Phipps looked down again at the girl. “Her?”
“We don’t know how much she knows. It’s unlikely a pianist, if she’s read the books, could make sense of them. But besotted men do tend to blab, don’t they? Pillow talk? Can you use your judgement? We’d prefer not but we’d also prefer to be safe.”
“Ten grand.”
“What? Nonsense. She’s a bystander.”
“A bystander with the ability to bring you down. And I want half in advance.”
Sebastien’s narrow eyes narrowed further. “I’m afraid I’ve only brought you the remaining five for Severin. I’ll have to give you the rest next time.”
Phipps looked down. A second brochure – the Algarve - was on the seat between them. It bulged. He reached in, grabbed the envelope, tucked it into his right inside pocket. “Next time, but full rate. I also want two grand for the books, not one, now there’s been this fuss. Besides, I’m not a bailiff.”
“Very well.” Sebastien’s voice, his face, were sulky now. But he was fucked and Phipps knew he knew it. “It’s Flat 3, 45 Clonmarle Road, W11. Know it?”
“Why do you always ask me that? I’m not a fucking cabbie. I’ll find it.” He glanced at the picture again. “You sure she’ll be in?”
“She’s expecting Severin, isn’t she?”
His reply was testy. Phipps could care less. “Anyone else likely to be there?”
“No, but…” sulk switched to concern. “…but she does have an on-off boyfriend.” He pulled out his phone from his pocket, went online, tapped. “Here he is. Patrick Ogulu.” He held up a photo, handsome black dude. “Know him?”
“Should I?”
“He’s an actor. Successful. That Netflix series, ‘The Trail’? No? The movie about the Yardies, ‘Payblack’? ” When Phipps shook his head again, Sebastien continued, “Genevieve and I saw him last year in a Jacobean revival at the Donmar. He was - ”
“Don’t matter.” Phipps studied the black face. “If he’s there, do I - ?”
“Again, we’d rather you didn’t. I tell you, he’s well known. The press would make a huge fuss, tie it into Severin, since it’s his flat. Besides,” his lips peeled back over his less-than-perfect teeth, “he really is a rising British talent. Be such a shame.”
“Well, in that case…” He would deal with what he had to deal with and leave the Shadows to deal with the fall out. “Anything else?”
Sebastien slipped a piece of paper across. “The new number for you to call. The old might be… disconnected.”
Phipps took the paper, tucked it into his breast pocket. “Anything else?”
He’d asked because the man looked like he had something else on his mind. “I… don’t think so, no.” Sebastien licked his lips again, looked away. “Don’t want to keep you from your work.”
Phipps nodded, stood, stepped around the table. He stopped, laid his left hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Was gratified to feel the wince. He leaned down, spoke softly. “Think about this, friend. If you do rise like the fucking Phoenix, choose a number for the department, not a comic book name. You’re not at Eton anymore.”
“It was Bedales, actually.”
Phipps heard the mumble as he turned away. At the door, he remembered and looked back. But the black woman with the book in her pocket was gone. Perhaps Tinder had come through. He felt a little disappointed as he headed towards the NCP car park on Brewer Street. 655pm, and sultry warm. He didn’t know West London that well, being an Archway boy. And he never used GPS. But he had a tattered A-Z in the car. There’s was a good gym in Shepherds Bush, though he didn’t think he had time for a second workout today. Besides, his arm still fucking hurt. Two gigs in a day though, possible bystanders to deal with. Twenty grand plus.
Well, he thought, looks like I’ll be in Business Class to Mauritius after all.
Sebastien watched the door swing shut behind Mr Phipps, and thought, cunt. He hated to be disrespected by that oik. He’d had sergeants like him when he’d been in the army, with their scarcely veiled contempt. Just because he’d been born into better circumstances, hadn’t had to fight his way out of a slum. Spoke proper English.
He texted his wife, threw down his phone, thought more about Mr Phipps. What was more disturbing than the insolence was the greed - and the ingratitude. The Shadows had put more than one hundred thousand pounds into Mr Phipps pocket over the two years of their existence. Now the man was arguing every toss, rather than just accepting and obeying. From that aspect at least it was good that the Shadows were disbanding and so would not need to avail themselves of his services anytime soon. See how he liked short rations.
Or did he need even more than that?
Sebastien considered. In the hierarchy of risks, their assassin placed quite high. He knew quite a bit of the Shadows’ operation. He knew him, for god’s sake. And he’d shown again, just now, how he didn’t respect his employers. He was a killer, merely a mercenary after all, available to the highest bidder. Or to someone who would make his life impossible if he didn’t roll over and betray all he knew.
Someone like that bitch Bernard had uncovered at the Circus. Ellerby.
He thought of the other two candidates he’d interviewed for Phipps’s position. One of them, a chap called Simkin, had a good CV. Public school also, albeit a minor, London day one. Still, a little less comme les autres. When he’d been told they couldn’t use him, for now, he’d taken it well – and had assured Sebastien that, if he ever changed his mind, he’d drop everything to be available.
After tonight, he thought, I may just give him a call. He knew he’d rather give him the rest of the payment for the books, and this Lottie, than Mr Phipps… for Mr Phipps.
A man on his way to the toilets stepped aside to allow a woman out, and banged into him. The instant pain it brought! The instant fury. He was glad now, given these recent thoughts, that he hadn’t shown Mr Phipps Sonya’s photo, as he thought he would, hadn’t commissioned him for that job too. Though she was connected to all this, through Bernard, through this Lottie, his research had shown him she was who she professed to be – just another Russian tart on the make. So his revenge on her would be personal and he would pay for it himself.
Yet there was another reason he’d held off mentioning her to Mr Phipps. He’d decided a simple shooting wasn’t enough. He’d suffered, so she must too. He owed her that. He suspected that this Simkin would be as deft in kidnapping as he was in murder.
He opened his phone, scrolled to one of the shots he’d downloaded, of her outside the Portobello house. She truly was a beauty.
I’m going change that, he thought, just as the door opened and his wife walked in.
16
Monday, July 30th 2018. 845pm.
Lottie sat at the table, playing an imaginary piano.
She had an audition the next day, to take over second keyboards in the pit for a West End musical, now in its fourth year. But that wasn’t why she played. The MD knew her, they’d worked together before. It wasn’t exactly a formality but unless she blew it somehow, the producer would just go with the recommendation. If she’d thought it important she could have driven out to Bicester and picked up her Casio keyboard from her Mum’s. But that would have involved… well, her Mum and her problems. And, really, her daughter had enough problems of her own.
So she played to ease them. To distract herself. She often found silent music preferable. Never made a mistake, her rhythm impeccable, her transitions superb, her touch light but firm. In the silence, she could bring in other instruments too, other players. Because that was really the buzz, she’d never wanted to be a soloist, to sit at a grand in a hushed hall and dazzle. That was Peggy’s dream, never hers. She loved to be part of something - in jazz, funk, in the pit of a musical. So now she went through parts of her repertoire, her fingers gliding over the polished cherrywood, brilliantly blending with her colleagues or taking the solo improv in a fiendish escalation in some sweaty cellar bar. While the other great thing about playing silent and alone was that she could switch it up, slide from Bruckner to Bach to Lloyd Webber with no one questioning her, no one but her controlling anything.
Silent and alone, she thought, lifting her fingers, wiggling them to ease the stiffness. She was out of practice. Hadn’t felt like playing much lately. Didn’t now – but she needed the money.
And she needed something else.
The writing pad was beside her on the table. She’d begun the letter several times, balls of paper around showing her failures. She just couldn’t get the tone right.
She picked up her pen, held it above the page. The trouble started with the salutation. She recalled how she’d begun some of those other letters, the ones Mr Severin had returned to her. ‘Dear Fuckhead’. ‘Dear Wanker’. The fury of their beginnings had swept her along to their conclusions. But anger didn’t work here, nor sadness, nor lightness. Too casual had been … too casual.
She owed him more than that. She supposed a letter was a bit of cheat, but he’d blown her out the other day, when she’d have told him to his face. Better just say what I need to say, simply, she thought. She laid the nib to the paper again, and began to write.
Dear Patrick,
I was sorry to hear you in that state when you called Saturday night. Sorry you lost the gig, of course, but even sorrier to see how you dealt with it. You were pretty fucked up, so I know you didn’t mean half the things you said. Have you considered how the fuckedupness, and the firing are connected? It’s a different world now, too corporate for the mavericks and the mayhem artists you admire so much. They can’t get away with it anymore, and I’m afraid, neither can you.
But I don’t want to lecture you, baby. You’re twice as smart as me and you’ll figure it out, once your brain’s clear enough to do so. I hope that’s soon. I hope this… sobers you up. And I’m not being righteous here, you know I like to play as much as the next girl. We’ve had some fun, crazy times, haven’t we? I just didn’t like it when the games became life, instead of a break from it.
I’ve been thinking and thinking - and to be honest it hasn’t made things any clearer. I’m really not sure how much use thought is in these situations. There’s a part of me that wants to hang in and help. I still love you and it hurt to hear you, that angry, that certain you were right and every other fucker was wrong. But what really hurt was the… self pity beneath it all. The ‘poor me’ stuff. That wasn’t the Patrick I know. That was the drug, and whatever you’re using the drug to cover up. It’s not working. I saw that and then I realized – not with thought, with instinct really – that if I did hang in, I would do what I have been doing for a couple of years now, even since before LA: giving you sympathy, giving you forgiveness, giving you nothing that helps you, only helps you to carry on.
So I’m done. It’s hard to write that, especially as I know, unlike in other letters I’ve sent, and in ones I haven’t, that this time I truly am. Fully, finally. So sad to see that truth. So…
Lottie jerked her head back, just too late to stop the tear. It slipped from her eye, ran down her nose, landed. Landed on the word, honest, which bloomed. She sniffed, got out a Kleenex from her pocket, blew her nose, gently damped the tear on the paper. The word smeared more and she wrote it in again above, before taking a deep breath, and continuing.
But I need you to know this. This is not all about you, your problems, your behaviour. It’s not only my reaction to what’s gone on. This is about me. What I want, what I don’t.
We were great, baby, for quite the time, weren’t we? A show romance that lasted? Blimey, they should put up a plaque! Now though I need someone who needs me. Really does, not just to listen and applaud. There’s no one, btw, that’s not why this is happening. But there will be. I have to let myself be ready.
I’d say, let’s stay friends. People always say that, yet it never seems to work out. Anyway, I don’t think I’d be any better a friend than I was a lover. Maybe. Maybe some day. I mean, we’re in the same business right? Maybe we’ll work together again. See you on the Mamma Mia International Tour?
And now I’m getting silly. Always more comfortable with laughter than tears, weren
’t we? So I’ll leave it there. Don’t ring for a while, eh? I need the space.
Take care, love. You know I wish you nothing but the best,
Lots
She leaned away again, letting her tears fall onto her blouse. Then she wiped her nose and reached for her phone. She loved letters, the sending, the receiving. Handling the paper. But she wanted this done. She needed to move on now, tonight.
With her cramped handwriting, she’d got it all onto one page of A4. She pulled up ‘WhatsApp’, hit the camera icon, lined up the page till it filled the whole screen, clicked, Two more taps, and it was gone. They were done.
She checked. No more texts more from Joe which she thought a little odd. There’d been those morning ones, to bring the books in from Daphne’s boot. She’d only been teasing him, they hadn’t left the bedroom. Then when she’d come out of the shower and answered her phone, he’d been so insistent that he had to see her, sometime after eleven, he’d said
And she admitted it, she wanted to see him. He’d been so lovely when he’d finally chilled, let go. The love-making had been nice too, so different from Patrick which was always an adventure, or like he had some camera on him all the time. Joe had been simply… into her. Grateful too, sure. You could tell the bloke hadn’t been well laid in a while. But it was like he’d just stripped off all these layers he’d built up. He’d actually laughed afterwards, when he lay back. Twenty years had dropped away. He was married, of course. And she wasn’t really mistress material. Though she was in his flash flat for free and he had left fifteen hundred quid with her. Perhaps she was? Blimey!
Heh you, she texted him. Still coming?
She put down her phone. On the table before her, the imaginary keyboard lay. She began to play, not knowing what – and then found it was the song she’d played for Patrick in the show where they’d met: ‘My Fair Lady’. Freddie’s song. So she continued and murmured it as she played.
I have often walked
Down these streets before
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