‘Maybe I’m happy to do it anyway.’ Martinek looks suddenly offended by the idea of haggling over money.
‘Maybe you are. It’s just a game.’
‘Not to you two. Nor to me. Nor to Mr Roberts. Just a game? People who say that are either lying or they don’t know what they’re talking about.’
‘Do you ever play against computer programs, Mr Martinek?’ I ask on impulse.
‘No,’ he answers decisively. ‘Humans only.’
‘Afraid the computer would beat you?’
‘No. I’d beat a computer every time.’
‘But computers have made mincemeat of world champions.’
‘Only because those champions were stupid enough to agree to changes in the rules.’
‘What changes?’
He takes a plastic stone from a bag and lays it on the Go board. ‘There,’ he says with a smile.
‘What?’
‘Find me a computer that can do that and I’ll play it.’
‘Well, obviously they can’t—’
‘I want to look my opponent in the eye. I want to see whether there’s a tremor in his hand when he picks up a stone and lays it down. That’s part of the game. That’s one of the rules.’
‘You’ll be able to do all that if we set up a game with Joe for you,’ says Forrester. ‘Face to face. Eye to eye.’
‘Nowhere to hide,’ says Martinek, nodding grimly. ‘And nowhere to run beyond the edge of the board.’
There’s a brief silence. Then Forrester says, ‘Do we have a deal, Mr Martinek?’
And Martinek nods. ‘Give me Mr Roberts’ number. And my two hundred and fifty quid. Then we’ll do this.’
It’s dark by the time we reach Cheltenham. We drive in past the well-signposted, fenced-off, brightly lit complex of Government Communications Headquarters. I ask Forrester if he’s ever actually been inside. He says GCHQ was a smaller building on the other side of the city in his time, without specifying whether he visited it at any point.
I don’t press him for an answer. And I don’t ask him what he really thinks our chances are of getting to Joe through Martinek. I don’t want to know.
The Belmont Hotel is just north of the town centre, opposite a building site. There’s a car park round the back. Rooms are £60 a night. It’s the kind of no frills place I’m beginning to recognize. We book in.
If Martinek lures Joe into meeting him over the Go board, it won’t be until Friday afternoon, which leaves us tomorrow to get through as best we can. I point out to Forrester that I can’t string Mum and Evie along much longer with my story about waiting for Venstrom to supply me with a phone. He agrees and hands me one of his.
‘Give them this number. They can text and message you on it. But don’t use it yourself after these calls and don’t turn it on again in case any of their phones are bugged. That should hold the situation for a few days.’
A few days? That’s our permanently rolling horizon now.
I make the calls. Handily, I get Evie’s voicemail. But no such luck with Mum. She sounds relieved to hear from me and I soon find out why.
‘Your company’s contacted me, luv. A woman called Younger.’
‘Bernice Younger?’
‘That’s it. She said they’re … concerned about you. She asked if I’d heard from you. She didn’t seem to know you’d lost your phone. Aren’t you going into the office at the moment?’
‘Don’t worry, Mum. Bernice isn’t involved in this project I’m working on. It’s, um, commercially sensitive, so my boss and I agreed it would be best if I dealt with most aspects of it from outside the office.’
‘You make it sound a bit cloak and dagger, luv.’
‘No, no. It’s just a case of the left hand not knowing what the right hand’s doing. I’ll talk to Bernice and sort it out. Meanwhile, I do have a phone now. I’ll give you the number. Evie’s already got it.’
Have I pulled off the relaxed nothing-to-make-a-fuss-about act? As far as I can tell from Mum’s increasingly chatty tone, the answer’s yes. It’ll only hold for so long. But it’s the best I can do.
I feel completely drained after talking to Mum. I eat an ordered-in pizza, take a shower and fall asleep watching some reality show on the tiny wall-bracketed TV.
I get woken around midnight by sex taking place in the neighbouring room. It doesn’t last long. But, perfunctory or not, it’s human contact. And I’m running very short of that.
I think of going to see if Forrester’s still up. But in the end I don’t. I’m beginning to resent needing him. But I know what I most resent is the ugly turn my life’s taken this past week. If I talk to Forrester again tonight, I might start shouting at him. Or at myself. And that’ll get us nowhere.
Which is where, as I edge back the curtains and peer out at the rain-smeared night, I’m very much afraid we already are.
Thursday October 17
Forrester pays me an early call. It’s barely light, but he’s already been out exploring, apparently.
‘I’ve found a good spot for Martinek to meet Joe. Costa Coffee, top of the Promenade. You can drive past it and you can get round the back by car as well. There are doors front, side and back. And there are plenty of shops nearby where you can pause to watch what’s going on. Go take a look and see what you think. If Joe comes alone, fine. If not, we can get him into the Land Rover and away in less than a minute.’
‘What if he doesn’t want to come with us?’
‘He’ll want to come with us once I’ve explained everything to him. We’re his escape route.’
‘OK. Maybe. But …’ My brain’s still not woken up yet. ‘Won’t Hexter’s people, if they’re there …’
‘What are they going to do in the middle of a crowded coffee shop? If they’re there, which I’m backing Joe to ensure they aren’t. He likes a challenge. He’ll go for this.’
We’re going to meet Martinek this evening to hear what he’s heard from Joe. He suggested we just phone for an update, but naturally we opted for a face-to-face. I could see him chewing that over as he looked at us. You two have got something to hide was the thought written on his face. But he didn’t say it. The weirdo in the purple suit and the white cotton gloves is nobody’s fool.
I go and check out the Promenade branch of Costa Coffee after breakfast, as Forrester suggested. I move through the grey streets of Cheltenham town centre almost invisibly in my grungy clothes. A bruise is starting to come out over my nose, which I’ve camouflaged with make-up. I don’t think anyone will notice it. I don’t think anyone will notice me at all, in fact. It’s funny. I don’t really feel like myself any more. I feel like someone similar but not the same, an alternative version of Nicole Nevinson, edged out by life. It’s not a good Nicole to be.
The coffee shop looks like it may once have been a bank, with a curved frontage and fancy stonework. I can see what Forrester means. There’s a busy street at the front, plus a walkway round to a loading bay at the end of a service cul-de-sac that links to the next street across.
I go in and buy a cappuccino and a pastry. I sit down among the other customers and look around. The café’s roughly L-shaped. Tables at one end can’t be seen from the other. Only from the corner of the counter can you see all three doors. I can understand why Forrester thinks this is a good place for our purposes. But still there are so many things that could stop us in our tracks.
I go back to the Belmont and tell him what I think. ‘If you’ve got something up your sleeve, Duncan,’ I say, almost imploringly, ‘I’d really like to hear what it is.’
But he doesn’t give an inch. ‘Let’s just wait and see how Martinek gets on.’
‘Waiting and seeing is what’s killing me.’
‘Then I’ll take you for a drive.’
‘Where to?’
‘Morecote.’
‘Where?’
‘Hexter’s Cotswold residence. I’m guessing he won’t be home. So, why don’t we take a look?’
W
e drive south out of Cheltenham, past Stroud and into open, rolling farmland west of Tetbury. Sunlight breaks through the clouds and makes the autumn-tinted trees glow. The reality of our situation feels remote and unreal out here.
Morecote stands in a fold of the land, with a ridge-top belt of trees behind it. It’s roughly H-shaped, with a modern cross-section linking two mellower-stoned older structures. It looks like a heap of money has been spent on the place. The boundary wall’s solid, the grounds extensive.
We can see the layout of the property from the footpath we’ve followed up from the lane where we’ve left the car. But trees obscure parts of the view and we’re still quite a long way off.
Forrester takes a look through his binoculars, then hands them to me. ‘Can you see what’s written on that van?’ he asks.
I train the binoculars on the house and adjust the focus. I can see the main entrance. Out front is a parking area. There’s a low-slung car off to one side and, closer to the steps, a white van. The rear doors are open, though I can’t see anyone loading or unloading. The sunlight on the side of the van makes it difficult to read what’s written on it, but I can just about make out the words.
‘Wysis Catering,’ I report.
‘Hexter must be planning to do some entertaining,’ Forrester muses. ‘Interesting.’
‘Does he have a family?’
‘Not sure. There was a wife. Marjorie. Children? I can’t remember.’
‘I don’t suppose it matters.’
‘Everything matters. This is a busy time for Hexter. He won’t be entertaining for fun.’
‘Maybe it’s something his wife is organizing.’
‘Maybe. And maybe we should check later on what’s happening.’
I hand the binoculars back. Out here, in the fresh, clean air, with so much space around us, I suddenly feel we can talk more freely. ‘Venstrom have been on to my mother, Duncan,’ I say quietly. ‘I smoothed things over, but …’
‘You can’t smooth them over indefinitely.’
‘No. I can’t.’
‘Well, you won’t have to for much longer.’
‘That’s what you said before we went to meet Norrback.’
‘There’s a crunch coming. Sooner rather than later.’
‘Is that good news for me? Or bad?’
‘I can’t guarantee what the outcome will be. I can only guarantee what the outcome would’ve been if I’d left you in Vogler’s car with Roger Lam.’
‘Why have we come here, Duncan? What does Hexter’s house tell us?’
‘How our enemy lives.’
‘Well, by the look of it.’
‘That’s right.’ Forrester nods thoughtfully. ‘Let’s hope it’s softened him up, eh?’
We’re in Gloucester a good two hours before our rendezvous with Martinek. Forrester suggests we split up and meet at the Pelican. Maybe he’s tired of my company. Maybe he prefers solitude. Or maybe he just thinks we’ll be less conspicuous that way. ‘Remember not to draw any attention to yourself,’ he says as we part.
There’s another possibility, of course, which comes to me as I sit in the cathedral, trying to be heartened by the beauty of the sunlight shafting through the stained glass windows. He needs to be free of me to attend to something he hasn’t told me about. He’s holding out on me in some way.
But, if he is, there’s nothing I can do about it.
Which seems to apply to most things at the moment.
The Pelican. Once again. Same number of customers. In fact, mostly the same customers, I think. Including Lewis Martinek.
He’s wearing a different suit. Green instead of purple. He’d be quite attractive if it weren’t for his aura of weirdness. He’s playing Go again on his pocket board and his lips are moving as I approach, but I can’t hear what he’s saying, of course. Forrester isn’t here yet, though I’m not early for our appointment.
‘Miss Nicholson,’ he says as I sit down. ‘I was thinking about you.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I was thinking how lucky it is for you and Mr Foster that I value my privacy.’
‘Why is that lucky for us?’
‘Because it means I’ll respect yours. Whereas others might … start digging.’
‘Doesn’t digging just get you in a hole?’
‘Is that how you got in one?’
‘Have you heard from Joe?’ I ask levelly.
‘Where’s Mr Foster?’
‘He’ll be here soon.’
‘Good.’ He takes a sip of lager and looks down at the board.
‘Are you going to tell me if you’ve heard from Joe?’
‘I’ve been analysing his style. I reckon it must make him better than most at playing computers.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Ah, now you’re interested, aren’t you? Is that because you work in the computer games industry? It would explain why you quizzed me last time about playing against a computer.’
‘What I do for a living has—’
‘Absolutely nothing to do with me? Right. I agree. Where is Mr Foster, by the way?’
‘He’ll be here soon.’ I think I’ve already said that.
‘I want more money.’
‘What?’
‘More money. Local authority archivists don’t earn megabucks. And I have the distinct feeling our arrangement is about more than giving Mr Roberts the chance to beat me in a one-off game of Go. So, the price of my discreet cooperation has gone up. In fact, it’s doubled. To a thousand pounds. Half in advance and half afterwards, as before. So that means you owe me two hundred and fifty quid, payable … right now.’
‘We agreed terms yesterday.’ Where’s Forrester? Where the hell is he?
‘And we’re revising those terms today.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘Yes, I can. Mr Roberts has bitten, you see. We’re on. Three o’clock, tomorrow afternoon. Venue … up to you. I told him I’d text the location by noon tomorrow. OK?’
There’s nothing I can do. Martinek’s got me exactly where he wants me. And if Forrester was here he’d have us exactly where he wants us. I have no choice but to agree. I nod. ‘OK.’
Martinek holds out his hand. I open my shoulder-bag and turn away while I find the money envelope. I don’t want him to see how much I’m carrying. I take out five fifty-pound notes and pass them across the table to him. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Fifties. Interesting. Very interesting. You’re obviously not an advocate of the cashless economy, despite your occupation.’ He smiles at me. And a smile, on Lewis Martinek’s face, is a difficult thing to interpret. ‘So, where do I meet Mr Roberts?’
I leave Martinek sipping his lager and poring over his Go problem as soon as he’s confirmed he’ll ask Joe to meet him in our specially selected Cheltenham branch of Costa Coffee, though I have to endure several minutes’ condemnation of franchised coffee shops before we get that far. I’m worried about what might have happened to Forrester, as Martinek evidently senses. ‘I hope he hasn’t had some kind of accident’ is his parting shot as I hurry out.
I’ve already decided the best thing I can do is head back to where we left the Land Rover: a side street near the Records Office. What I’ll do if Forrester doesn’t show up there I try not to think about.
As it turns out, I don’t get that far. I go through an archway that leads to the cathedral green and suddenly hear my name being called from behind me. I glance round and there’s Forrester. He doesn’t even have the decency to look shamefaced.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ It must be obvious I’m angry.
‘I let you go in ahead of me while I made sure no one was tailing Martinek.’
‘And no one was?’
‘No. We’re still in the clear. What about Joe?’
‘He’s on for three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Martinek will text him where they’re to meet. But why did I have to deal with him alone, Duncan? Once you’d satisfied yourself there was no one on his tail, you sh
ould’ve joined us.’
‘It sounds like you managed well enough without me.’
‘What was this, then? A test?’
‘If it was, you passed.’
‘Did I? He’s doubled his price, you know. I had to pay him another two hundred and fifty quid.’
‘It can’t be helped.’
‘He’s suspicious of us.’
‘That can’t be helped either. Will he turn up and will he keep his mouth shut?’
‘Yes. I suppose.’
‘Then we’ve got what we want out of him, haven’t we? A chance to get Joe out of Hexter’s clutches.’ Yes, it’s a chance. Though what we’re going to do if we manage to pull that off …
Night is falling as we drive south out of Gloucester. That suits Forrester, who wants to take another look at Morecote. The idea that Hexter might be entertaining dinner guests has made him curious. I’m too tired to argue. It seems to me he’s making a lot of one caterer’s van in the middle of the day.
It’s seven fifteen and just about completely dark when we reach the pull-in where we parked this morning. Forrester has a torch, but he’s reluctant to use it, so there are several stumbles as we climb the footpath to the vantage point we found earlier. The countryside feels different by night. I can’t rid myself of the idea that someone’s watching us, though there’s no way anyone can be. We move cautiously and speak in whispers.
The lights are on in all the ground-floor rooms and several of the upstairs rooms as well. Through the binoculars I can make out the shapes of several cars parked in front of the house. The steps up to the front door are flanked by low-set lanterns.
I report what I can see to Forrester and he draws my attention to a glow of headlights between us and Morecote, marking the progress of another car in the direction of the house.
‘Hexter may come out to meet whoever’s in that car,’ he says. ‘Keep watching.’
I watch. The car slows, probably at the gate in from the road, then heads on at a lazy curve towards the front of the house. Maybe some sensor strip signals their arrival, because the front door of Morecote opens on cue and a figure walks out and descends the steps.
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