The doorbell went, and there was Walter North, smiling broadly. She smiled back. He was quite nice, albeit a trifle overweight. He seemed momentarily reluctant to enter the apartment, but then she realised he wasn’t alone. An elderly woman was just appearing at the top of the stairs.
Walter shook his head. ‘She’s a marvel - insists on taking the stairs at her age.’
Linda showed them into the apartment, fussing over the old woman, then led them from room to room. Everyone said the same things, whether they meant them or not: It’s lovely! So spacious! I love the design! Look at the size of the bath! And this pair, the mummy’s boy and the sprightly old woman, weren’t any different. Linda hadn’t worked out who the apartment might be for yet - a retirement place for her, a bachelor pad for him (she’d checked for a wedding ring) - and they’d been too busy clucking about the delights of the property to divulge much about themselves. However, now was as good a time as ever, because the old woman had moved into one of the bedrooms and Walter North was examining the electronic display on the front of the cooker. It was always better to divide and conquer.
Linda came up behind him. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, is it for yourself or your mother?’
‘She’s not my mother.’
‘Oh, sorry, I thought …’
‘She’s my lover.’ Linda blanched. Walter winked. ‘Only rakin’,’ he said.
Linda forced a smile. She didn’t think it was funny at all.
‘We’re partners. Business partners,’ he went on.
‘Oh, I see.’
He was looking at her a little more closely now. ‘Do I know you?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m sorry - you just look like someone.’
‘People say that to me all the time. But I’m just little ol’ me.’
He was sure he did. Then he thought that he knew so few women that she had to be one of the women he’d thumbed through on Let’s Be Mates, and she was quite pretty, so if he’d emailed her his details, the chances were that she’d rejected him. Of course she hadn’t recognised him, because his photo had been ancient and his name had been different, and anyway, good-looking women tended not to remember bad-looking men. But he’d be damned if he was going to give her a percentage on this one. Nice place but, he thought, not quite what he was looking for. More expensive places, like this, took longer to sell, and apartments weren’t showing the same increase in prices the way traditional houses were. Bertha had wanted to take a look.
He turned his attention to the microwave. It was state of the art.
Linda moved into the bedroom. Bertha was checking under the beds. (It was furnished to a ‘showroom standard’. They all were. People no longer seemed to keep their old furniture. They threw it out.) She straightened with some difficulty.
‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘I think my son could be very happy here.’
Linda glanced back to the kitchen. Walter was pressing buttons. ‘Your son?’
‘Mmm. Shall we?’ Bertha indicated the sliding door which opened out from the bedroom onto the veranda.
‘Of course.’ Linda unlocked it. She was trying to decide whether it was kind of cute, a grown man being embarrassed to be seen house-hunting with his mum, or deeply, deeply sad.
‘Oh, would you look at that,’ said Bertha, her hands excitedly clutching the rail. ‘That’s exactly where they found that headless corpse.’
Linda fought valiantly to retain her smile.
55
Muttering
Billy said, ‘Well, can we meet somewhere where at least I won’t be recognised?’
Marsh said, ‘What about down at the Accountancy Club? They won’t recognise you in there once they hear what you’ve been up to.’
‘That’s not funny. And there is no Accountancy Club.’
‘Tell me where you’ll be comfortable, Billy. We aim to please.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe if we just go for a drive.’
‘That’s okay by me. Do you want me to pick you up?’
Billy hesitated. ‘What sort of a car do you have?’
Marsh laughed. ‘So you can pass it on to Pink and he’ll have me topped the minute I pull up?’
‘No! God. I’m into my wheels.’
Marsh sighed. ‘That figures. It’s a Jag.’
‘Nice one. What’s it got under the bonnet?’
‘A f***ing engine, what do you expect?’
‘I mean—’
‘I know what you mean. Be outside your office in fifteen minutes.’
‘I can’t just—’
‘Trust me, you can.’
Marsh was about to go when Billy rasped an urgent, ‘Don’t pump the horn!’
He told the others he was taking an early lunch, and such was his devotion to the job that it didn’t surprise them that he took some of his files with him, to work on as he ate. Pink’s files.
Jimmy Mallow was double-parked thirty yards down. He flashed his lights. Billy climbed in, surprised that this time the cop was by himself.
‘Nice wheels,’ said Billy.
Marsh grunted. He drove down through the city centre. Billy sat with his elbow on the window, his head resting on his hand and turned sideways, so that no one could see his face properly. Marsh drove along the Sydenham by-pass, through Holywood, then turned up into the Craigantlet Hills. It was a bright, sunny June morning and the view from the lay-by across Down was breathtaking.
‘One day, son, all this will be yours.’
Billy looked at him, like he was mental. ‘What?’
‘Must have been like that, don’t you think, when the old knights came over and saw this view. Didn’t have to bother with a bloody estate agent then, did you?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘I hear Pink’s got his fingers in an estate agent’s.’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Not what I heard.’
Billy sighed. ‘His sister is married to an estate agent.’
‘Yeah. He’s opened a couple of new offices recently.’
‘Belfast’s booming.’
‘He’s laundering money.’
‘Well, you’re clearly better informed than me, which makes this a waste of time.’
‘Don’t get snotty with me, Billy.’
Billy nodded. There was a huge vista before him, yet he felt desperately claustrophobic. He wanted to open the door and run, tumble down the fields, scramble over hedges, disperse grazing cattle. But he sat, closer to the Pine Fresh tree hanging from the mirror than he was to nature.
‘So what do you have for me, Billy?’
Billy patted the files. ‘I have his accounts. The ones I work on.’
‘And is there anything in there I don’t already know about?’
Billy stared at them for several seconds, then slowly shook his head.
‘So what’s the point?’
‘Just so as you can - you know, build a picture of—’
Marsh suddenly slapped the wheel, setting off the horn, and Billy jumped. ‘I don’t want a f***ing picture. I’ve hundreds of pictures! I want something I can use!’
‘But you said—’
‘I told you to bring me stuff or I’d take your telly, that’s what I f***ing said!’
‘Okay! All right!’ Billy fingered his tie. ‘He - look, he was drunk. I don’t know if it means anything, but he said something about an Office Twelve?’
‘Office Twelve?’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘What’s Office Twelve?’
‘I’ve no idea. But he said it in a way that, I don’t know, sounded important.’
‘In what way?’
‘I don’t know. He just sort of said it. I’d given him some bad news about his tax return, something he couldn’t avoid paying, and I was a bit wary because I’ve seen him explode over less, but he just took it on the chin and muttered something about “Office Twelve can sort it”.’
‘He muttered it?’
‘Yes, h
e muttered it.’
‘You said before, he said it. But now he muttered it.’
‘Well, he muttered it. I don’t see what the difference is.’
‘There’s a difference. Saying it is definite, muttering it is a throwaway. See, Billy, if you have ten thousand hours of wiretaps, you have to be able to tell the difference between the definites and the throwaways, because you can’t pursue everything. You have to pick and choose.’
‘So muttering’s no good?’
‘If it really is a mutter. If you can make it out on the tape, then it’s not a mutter, it’s a said thing that sounds like a mutter. Do you follow?’ Billy just stared at him. ‘If it’s a said thing, you can pursue it, it’s evidence, but if it’s a mutter and you think he said it, but he could well have said something that just sounds like it, well that’s no use at all. So, your Office Twelve - was that a mutter, or did he say it?’
‘I’m pretty sure he said Office Twelve.’
‘Pretty sure, or certain?’
‘Certain. I suppose.’
‘Don’t suppose, Billy. You’re talking man hours here.’
‘I’m certain then. Office Twelve.’
‘Good. See - that wasn’t hard, was it?’
‘No.’
‘So how come we didn’t hear it?’
‘Hear what?’
‘Office Twelve. We have the whole Supporters Club wired, yet we didn’t hear it.’
‘The storeroom. He says there’s no bug in there.’
Marsh nodded. ‘Okay, Billy. Well done.’
Billy smiled; he even flushed a little. It was like being in school, and the bully wants to be your friend.
Marsh’s phone rang. He listened then said, ‘No, I should do it. Give me the address.’
He patted his jacket, searching for a pen. He looked about for something to write on, then clicked his fingers and pointed at Pink’s files, sitting on Billy’s lap. Billy slid one across. Jimmy Mallow quickly scrawled down an address in Bangor, five miles down the road. He cut the line, then repeated the address several times before passing the file back to Billy.
‘You can walk back from here,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Walk. Jesus, man, don’t look at me like that. Are you made of cheese or something? Ulster Hospital’s about a mile along the road, and it’s all downhill. There’s a million taxis, and it’s not exactly Bandit Country.’
‘But why?’ Billy ventured. A few moments ago he’d have given anything to be let off the hook, but now that he was off it, he didn’t really fancy a walk in the country.
‘Because I’m going to tell a woman her son’s dead, and I’m not sure what support a crooked accountant can exactly offer her right now, okay?’
Billy gathered up his files. He opened the door. ‘I’m not crooked,’ he said flatly, then climbed out.
‘That’s right, Billy,’ Marsh said after him. ‘You’re more like Pink. Just slightly bent.’
He laughed, then performed a three-point turn on the narrow road, and roared off towards Bangor. Billy, clutching Pink’s files to his chest, started walking in the opposite direction.
56
On the Move
Walter stayed up late into the night, studying lists of property, and even when he went to bed he couldn’t sleep. His head was buzzing. This was going to be brilliant - Walter North, property magnate. And Bertha had been great - good advice, but never interfering, never insisting on her own way, constantly saying that the final decision was his.
When he arrived, yawning, at work the next morning, Walter was surprised to find Steve, from Office 12, standing by Mark’s desk, sharing a joke with him. But their laughter faded quickly as Walter approached.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘how’s it going?’
‘Great,’ said Mark.
‘Fine,’ said Steve.
Walter nodded from one to the other. They nodded too. Mark’s eyes flitted up to Steve, and then they both smirked.
Steve said, ‘Well, see you later,’ and turned away.
Mark wagged a finger after him. ‘Not if I see you first!’ and they cracked up again.
Walter concentrated on his in-tray until he heard the door to Office 12 close, then he glanced up. Mark stood by the window, staring out. ‘Not if I see you first,’ he mimicked.
Mark ignored him.
‘So what’s that all about?
Mark shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
‘Didn’t think you were pals.’
‘Well, there you go.’ Mark turned from the window. He sat behind his desk, but made no effort to turn his computer on. ‘How did the house hunting go?’ he asked.
‘Getting there. What about your interview? Was it the blue-rinse squad?’
‘Yes and no. Anyway, I’m in. They’ve asked me to work with one of their councillors.’
‘Excellent.’
Mark reached forward and switched on his computer. Without looking up he said, ‘Pink Harrison.’
If he’d been eating his usual gravy ring, Walter would have choked on it. Fact was, his diet had started on Monday and he was three days into it without a wobble.
‘I hope you told them where they could stick Pink Harrison.’
‘Actually, he’s a nice bloke, and he has lots of good, forward-thinking ideas about how to save the Party.’
‘What, like shooting the leadership?’
‘You’re not funny. He’s changed.’
‘Ah, Mark, catch a grip.’
Mark shrugged.
‘Mark. Seriously. You’re winding me up.’
No response.
‘Pink Harrison. He’s a born-again Democrat?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘And you buy that?’
‘Everyone can change. Look at you, Donald Trump.’
‘That’s different.’
‘How is it different?’
‘Well, I never killed anyone.’
‘And neither did Pink.’
Walter raised his eyebrows.
‘Anyway,’ said Mark, ‘that’s in the past. D’you think if everyone who was ever involved was excluded from politics, that we’d be where we are now?’
‘And where exactly are we now, Mark?’
‘Ask me next year, when we come to power.’
‘We? You and Pink?’
‘The Party. He’s only a small cog in a big machine.’
‘Pink Harrison was never a small cog in anything.’
‘Why do you have to be down on everything? I’m trying to make a difference. So is Pink. So is the Party. A bit of support wouldn’t go amiss.’
Walter shrugged. Mark stared at his screen.
Walter offered him a Polo. Mark nodded. Walter got up and crossed to his colleague’s desk. As Mark took one, Walter said, ‘It’s good you got in. I’m just not sure about Pink.’
‘Thanks. And that’s fair enough. Time will tell.’
Walter sat on the edge of the desk. ‘So what’s up with your man, Steven?’
‘Steven? Oh yeah - Steve. Well, I told you he offered me a job.’
‘I think he’s offered everyone that job - just hasn’t found the right sucker.’
‘I’m thinking about accepting it.’
Walter laughed. ‘No, seriously.’
‘I am serious.’
‘Well, why the hell would you want to do that? You know he’s going to be arrested one of these days. You can’t mess with things the way he does and not get into trouble. Anyway, I thought you were into helping the country, not causing chaos.’
‘Yes, but it’s organised chaos.’
‘Organised chaos? What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Chaos from which our side benefits.’
‘Our side? Which side is that?’
‘The Party. You cause enough havoc, people are going to vote for change.’
‘People voted for change and got Hitler.’
‘Well, at least the trains ran on time.’ He held his ste
rn look for a moment, then suddenly smiled. ‘Chill, would you? It’s a hike in wages, and I can do with it. He just bullshits a lot. You didn’t fall for all that crap, did you? He was just winding you up.’
‘Oh, so it’s not like Black Ops or something.’
‘Of course not. This day and age, out in the open like that? Christ, man, it’s not the eighties any more. He does the same shit we do, just gets paid more, so I’ll be having some of that. You should have taken your chance while you had it. Do you want me to put in a word?’
Walter shook his head. ‘Nah.’
‘Oh aye - forgot. You’re the property tycoon now. Well, at least when I get into power, and you want to build some huge housing estate, you’ll know who to bribe, eh? And I’m not talking a couple of gravy rings, either.’
‘I’m off gravy rings,’ said Walter.
‘Right. Like that’ll last.’ Mark laughed.
Walter laughed. But not inside. He didn’t like the fact that Mark was moving. And he didn’t trust Steve, believed he was up to no good in Office 12. But most of all he resented the fact that Mark didn’t believe he was serious about his diet. Because this time he was determined. He was turning his life around.
As he crossed back to his desk, Walter suddenly realised that he hadn’t thought about Margaret all day. Good. He was getting over her. Although he had to admit that thinking about the fact that he hadn’t thought about her, did technically constitute thinking about her - so perhaps he wasn’t out of the woods yet. And from further down the office came the smell of a gravy ring, and his stomach rumbled. Walter pulled himself in tight against his desk, put three Polos in his mouth and steeled himself for a day of fighting incredible temptation. Jesus Himself had survived forty days and forty nights of temptation, although probably there weren’t any gravy rings in those days.
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