I keep on running.
I pick up a taxi in Grosvenor Place and fifteen minutes later I’m back at the Europa Hotel. I encounter the landlady in the hall. She surprises me by announcing Forrester’s already booked us out and gone.
I wander bemusedly back out on to the street. And Forrester pulls up beside me in the Land Rover.
‘Get in,’ he says. He looks even grimmer-faced than normal.
I obey and he drives away. ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘Your bag’s in the back,’ he replies, conspicuously failing to answer my question. ‘I packed your things as neatly as I could.’
‘Why didn’t you wait for me to get back before booking out?’
‘Needs must. There was a chance you’d be followed. But I don’t think you were. Of course, if you hadn’t taken off on your own in the first place …’
‘I went to Colin Bright in search of information.’
‘Get any that made the risk worthwhile, did you?’ His tone suggests he doubts it. And I suppose he’s right. But he doesn’t hammer the point home. Even when he’s furious, he’s able to keep a lid on it.
‘They’re holding Norrback on a trumped-up money laundering charge.’
‘I’d already guessed it would be something like that. Hexter must have put Norrback’s name on a watch list, despite not being certain Tahvo had anything on him or was in touch with me. You can’t argue with the man’s thoroughness. He must have the tape now. If he hasn’t already destroyed it. He’ll probably let Tahvo go in a few days, if only to avoid a tiff with the Finns. But there’ll be nothing Tahvo can do for us then. What happened to your nose, by the way?’
The swelling hasn’t escaped his eagle eye. I tell him about Scaddan. And Bright’s decision to head for the hills. Also my encounter with Bernice. Only the news about Scaddan seems to surprise him. For Bright he expresses merely weary sympathy.
We’re in Acton now, heading west. Out of London. I suppose. ‘If you’d been more open with me, Duncan, I wouldn’t have gone to Colin.’
‘You do realize how high the stakes are that we’re playing for, don’t you, Nicole?’
‘Of course I do,’ I snap back.
‘No point biting my head off.’
‘Is there someone else’s I can bite off?’
He concedes the point. ‘I guess not.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Cheltenham. Ultimately.’
‘You’ve got nothing on Hexter now he’s got the tape. And with Colin on the way out of the picture, you’ve no way of knowing what Hexter’s planning. That’s how I see it, Duncan.’
He nods. ‘You see it right.’
‘So what can we hope to accomplish in Cheltenham?’
‘I can’t leave Joe in Hexter’s clutches. If Hexter’s hired Marianne Vogler to do some dirty work for him, it’s because his intentions go well beyond what the Service have in mind. I can only imagine what that might mean for Joe. Nothing good, that’s for sure. Which only makes me more certain we have to try this.’
‘Try what?’
‘Joe loves Go. And he loves a challenge. I’m betting Hexter has him under fairly light supervision. He’s cooperating because he has to. But he’s not being held prisoner. It just wouldn’t make any sense for him to run away from his minders. Though he’s quick-witted enough to give them the slip if he really wants to.’
‘But as things stand he doesn’t want to.’
‘We have to change that.’
‘How? We can’t contact him.’
‘We can’t phone him without exposing ourselves to GCHQ tracking, which will be state of the art. That’s true.’
‘So how can we communicate with him? If that’s what you’re suggesting.’
‘The Falmouth club went up to a regional Go tournament in Bath earlier this year. Joe won all his games bar one. That single defeat really rankled with him. He wasn’t quite sure why it had happened. He felt he’d been somehow psyched out of victory. Cheated, if you like. He told me more than once he was itching for revenge. And he didn’t want to have to wait until next year’s tournament to get it. What if his opponent offered him a re-match – in Cheltenham?’
‘You think he’d jump at it?’
‘I do. And if we knew where and when it was happening …’
‘But how could we?’
‘I don’t know who Joe’s opponent was. But Jeremy Inkpen would, I’m sure. He organized the trip and Go’s a small world.’ Forrester nods to the phone on the dashboard shelf. ‘Give him a call on that. I’ve put his number in. He’ll be in the shop by now. See if you can sweet-talk him into telling us who it was Joe lost to and where we can find him.’
‘What reason can I give for wanting to contact this guy?’
‘Think of something. Remember, Jeremy knows nothing, so you can basically make up anything you like.’
I pick up the phone and key the number. It rings. Several times. Then Jeremy Inkpen answers. I recognize his voice at once.
‘Falmouth Photographic.’
‘Ah, Jeremy, it’s Nicole Nevinson here.’
‘Nicole? This is a very pleasant surprise, I must say. I was told you’d left town.’
‘I have.’
‘Back to London, is it?’
‘I’m afraid so. I enjoyed my few days in Falmouth, I really did.’
‘You were a breath of fresh air.’
‘It’s kind of you to say so.’
‘Rumour has it Joe Roberts has gone to work for your company. Is that true?’
‘We’re certainly having discussions with him.’
‘Well, I suppose he must do what’s best for his future. There’s money in computing, after all. Far more than there is in photography, as I know to my cost. But the Go club won’t be the same without Joe.’
‘We’re very impressed by his capabilities.’
‘As you should be.’
Forrester makes a circling motion with his left hand, which I assume means he thinks I should cut to the chase. I ignore him. As far as I can. ‘We want to set Joe a little test I think you may be able to help with.’
‘Really?’
‘I gather you all went up to Bath earlier this year for a regional Go tournament.’
‘Well, quite a few of—’
‘And Joe won all his games but one.’
‘Yes, that’s right. The one was quite a surprise, actually. But his opponent was a tricky customer.’
‘D’you remember his name?’
‘Lewis Martinek. Fairly notorious, actually. Go attracts more than its fair share of eccentrics. But Martinek is what you might call an eccentric’s eccentric.’
‘Do you happen to know how to contact him?’
‘Not offhand.’
‘Could you find out?’
‘Well, I could phone my opposite number in Bath and ask him. I’m not sure if Martinek’s actually a member of their club, but … is this urgent?’
‘It is, rather. I’d be so grateful.’
‘Mmm. Well, Nicole, since it’s for you … I’ll see what I can do.’
‘I don’t want to rush you. But …’
‘I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Trust me.’
‘I do, Jeremy. Thanks so very much. ’Bye for now, then.’ I end the call.
‘Turn the phone off,’ says Forrester. We’re stationary at a red light. I’ve lost track of where we are. Ealing, maybe. Not the centre, though. Forrester’s taking a winding route. As usual.
‘But he’s calling me back.’
‘Check in ten minutes. If he’s called, call him. We have to be more careful than ever now.’
I do as instructed. We drive on in silence. Ten minutes later, I check. No call. Another ten minutes later, there’s been a call. I ring Falmouth Photographic.
‘Ah, Nicole,’ Jeremy answers brightly.
‘Any news?’
‘Yes. I’ll text you Martinek’s email address.’
‘Thanks. Do you hav
e a phone number for him?’
‘Not a personal one. My friend in Bath only has a work number for Martinek. The County Records Office in Gloucester. I’ll text you that as well.’
‘OK. Thanks again.’
‘It’s a pleasure. I’m pleased to have been able to help.’
‘How did Martinek manage to beat Joe, Jeremy?’ I ask on an impulse. ‘I mean, what was his secret?’
‘As I recall, he just wouldn’t stop talking.’
‘Is that allowed?’
‘Oh, he wasn’t talking to Joe. He was talking to himself. Muttering under his breath, all the time, like some kind of incantation. It was difficult not to try and make out what he was saying. I think that was Joe’s mistake. He allowed himself to be distracted. Which stopped him concentrating on the game. He should wear earplugs next time.’
‘Maybe I’ll suggest that.’
‘Good idea. Say hello to him for me, will you?’
‘I will. Though actually, on that subject, I wonder if you could, well, keep all this under your hat. The test we have in mind won’t work properly if Joe gets advance warning.’
‘He’ll hear nothing from me. And I won’t mention it to anyone else if you’d rather I didn’t.’
‘I’d be grateful if we could keep it between us.’
‘Consider it our little secret.’
‘That’s good of you, Jeremy. I do hope we can meet again at some point.’
‘Me too.’
‘’Bye, then.’
I end the call, grimacing with guilt for leading the poor guy on, and tell Forrester what Jeremy said. By the time I’ve finished, the phone’s pinged to signal the arrival of the text he promised. I check the information’s there, then switch the phone off.
‘County Records Office, Gloucester,’ says Forrester after a thoughtful few moments of silence. ‘I think we’ll pay Mr Martinek a visit this afternoon.’
‘What if he won’t cooperate? What if a chance of revenge is the last thing he wants to give Joe? He might like being one up on him.’
‘We’ll talk him round.’
‘And what if Hexter’s anticipated some such move as this? Like he did with Norrback.’
‘We keep probing. Eventually, we’ll find a chink in his armour.’
I say nothing. I wonder if Forrester really believes what he’s just said. Maybe he thinks what I think. That sooner rather than later we’re going to run out of options.
And then …
Gloucester. Mid-afternoon. The city’s quiet, wrapped up in itself. The County Records Office is a single-storey red-brick building at the end of a back street. The reception area’s presided over by a friendly middle-aged woman. Beyond her, through an open door, I can see a search-room with people poring over old books and stacks of paper. The atmosphere is hushed and fusty.
We ask to see Lewis Martinek and have to admit it’s not on Records Office business, but it is rather urgent. The receptionist makes a phone call.
‘Lewis? There are two people here to see you … Mr Foster and Miss Nicholson … No. They said you don’t know them … Urgent, apparently … Could you? … That—’ It sounds like he’s cut the call short.
He’s not long in appearing. A tall, lanky, dark-haired guy, wearing, to my surprise, a three-piece suit with a purple hue to it. He’s also wearing thin white cotton gloves, which I assume are related to document-handling. Maybe that explains his slightly stooped posture as well. His eyes dart about suspiciously before the receptionist points us out to him.
‘What’s this concerning?’ he asks quietly, as if he has cause to be wary of unexpected visitors on non-archival business. His voice has a strange, feathery note to it.
‘Joe Roberts,’ says Forrester bluntly.
‘What about him?’
‘Interested in a rematch?’
Martinek smiles lopsidedly. ‘Who are you? His agents? Turned pro, has he?’
‘Could we talk about this outside?’
‘Why not?’ Martinek glances at the receptionist. ‘Won’t be long, Margaret. Go business.’
We troop out to the courtyard, where Martinek immediately lights up a cigarette. He makes no move to remove the cotton gloves and surveys us dubiously. ‘Where are you from?’ he asks. ‘I don’t recognize either of you.’
‘We’re friends of Joe,’ I reply with a smile.
‘Were you at the Bath tournament?’
‘No.’
‘Thought not.’ He mutters something I can’t catch. Numbers, I think. A date?
I frown. ‘Sorry?’
He shakes his head. ‘No need to be.’
‘The way you beat Joe was very impressive,’ says Forrester.
‘How would you know? You weren’t there.’
‘He told us.’
‘Right. So, Mr Roberts was impressed, was he? Good. Should’ve been.’
‘You enjoy playing Go?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Enjoy? No. No more than I enjoy smoking this cigarette. But I can’t give up. Too late. The teeth are in me.’
‘But you relish the challenge of it?’
‘Is that what we’ve got here? A challenge?’ There’s some more muttering. Numbers. I’m pretty sure of that.
‘Would you like to prove beating Joe wasn’t a fluke?’ asks Forrester.
Martinek looks at him narrowly and slowly exhales some smoke. ‘Fluke? Another word for a flounder, right? Who floundered in that sports hall in Bath April fourteen? Not me.’
‘Beating him twice would nail it down, wouldn’t it?’
‘I’m not going to Cornwall. I don’t like travelling long distances.’
‘We’re not asking you to.’
‘I might have expenses, even so.’
‘We could cover them.’
Martinek frowns, then smiles suddenly. ‘Whose idea is this? Yours or Mr Roberts’?’
‘It’s slightly … complicated.’
‘Go is complicated. The labyrinth without the thread.’
‘What we have in—’
‘Can’t talk any more for now,’ Martinek cuts in. ‘Got a workhouse register to dig out. If you’re serious, meet me in the Pelican, five thirty.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘There’s only one Pelican.’
And that, as far as Martinek is concerned, is all he needs to say. He flicks his cigarette away towards the cycle-shed and walks back through the door into the Records Office.
We head into the city centre and go into a coffee shop. I ask the barista while I’m ordering if he knows where the Pelican is. I feel fleetingly normal when he smiles engagingly at me as he answers. But normal’s other people now. I’m losing touch with the condition.
‘It’s not far,’ I report to Forrester. ‘Just the other side of the cathedral.’
‘Good.’ Forester sips his coffee. ‘I think Martinek will bite, don’t you?’
‘I think he’s mad enough to do virtually anything. We can’t rely on him.’
‘We’re not going to. We just need to get Joe to agree to meet him. Time and place. That’ll be enough.’
I nod. But I don’t know, really. Getting the tape from Norrback was a plan. This is … something much less. There’s a hint of desperation to it I don’t want to acknowledge. And neither, I suspect, does Forrester.
The Pelican’s a mellow, quiet pub. Martinek’s already there when we arrive, stationed at a table remote from the bar, with a lager at his elbow and a pocket Go board just like Joe’s open in front of him. The white cotton gloves have gone, only to reveal plasters round the tips of most of his fingers.
‘Sharpening up?’ Forrester asks as we sit down beside him.
‘Reminding myself,’ he answers with a smile. ‘Of how I did him last time.’
‘And how was that?’ I ask, engaging him smile for smile.
‘Mr Roberts has fighting spirit. He has the instincts of a winner. He lets those instincts guide him. But he’s not a mathematician. I am. That’s why I always keep score.
’
‘Somebody told me you distracted him.’
‘He distracted himself.’
‘We missed your victory, Mr Martinek,’ says Forrester, like someone genuinely fascinated by the tactics of the game. ‘We’d be very interested to see you and Joe play again.’
‘Interested enough to come all this way to see me?’
‘Joe’s in the area. So are we. We’d like to surprise him with an offer from you of a rematch. How about it?’
‘When?’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘Friday afternoon.’
‘All right.’
‘Where?’
‘Cheltenham. We’ll fix a venue once you’ve contacted him. We can give you his phone number. But there’s a condition.’
‘I have conditions.’
‘Hear ours first. You don’t mention us to Joe. You say someone told you he’d been seen in Cheltenham. You got his number from Jeremy Inkpen in Falmouth. You’ve heard Joe’s suggested your victory over him was a fluke. You’re willing to give him the chance to prove that. Is he interested?’
‘Are you two trying to mess with his head or mine?’
‘What are your terms, Mr Martinek?’
Martinek takes a swallow of lager while he ponders the question. Then he says, ‘Five hundred quid. Up front.’
‘That’s a lot. For a game of Go.’
‘Maybe. But I get the feeling this isn’t just a game of Go.’ Martinek starts muttering then. It’s definitely numbers. But I can’t quite catch what they are. ‘Keeping you out of it. Putting my reputation on the line. All that costs.’
‘Tell you what,’ says Forrester. ‘We’ll pay you two hundred and fifty now. The balance afterwards.’
‘Whether he turns up or not? Whether he wins or loses?’
‘Yes. Whether or not.’
‘So, you must have a lot more than five hundred quid riding on this.’
‘This isn’t about money,’ I put in.
‘Didn’t say it was,’ Martinek snaps back. ‘I said more than money.’ He eyes me curiously. ‘You got something going with Mr Roberts, have you?’
‘I have the feeling you’re a man who values his privacy, Mr Martinek,’ Forrester says, defusing the moment.
‘What if I am?’
‘We value ours too. This is a confidential arrangement as far as we’re concerned. No one will ever hear from us that you were paid to approach Joe.’
One False Move Page 21