Charles Cumming - The hidden man

‘I don’t know. More glamour. Not such a nice suit. He’s so…’ She reached for the word. ‘Groomed.’

‘Roth’s a businessman, just another free marketer.’ Ben put his cup down as the Labrador wandered out into the kitchen. ‘Ask him about the retail price index and he’ll talk to you for five hours. Try to find out whether he prefers trip-hop to speed garage and he’ll defer to his agent. Nightclubs, pharmaceuticals, junk bonds, makes no difference to guys like that. Libra is just another way of making money.’

Roth had made his way across the room to where Mark was standing, talking to the genial, chalk-haired American who had read from Keats at the service in Guildford. Handshakes. Mutual smiles. Alice noticed a slight air of deference come over Ben’s brother, his body language becoming more animated, a widening of the eyes.

‘You’ve never met him, have you?’

Ben said, ‘Who? Roth?’

‘Roth.’

‘Never. Only seen him on TV. BBC film about the club when it was expanding into the States. Otherwise just gossip columns, titbits in the papers.’

‘I saw him at a book launch once.’ Alice was speaking very quietly. ‘I think he’s the kind of guy who likes to be seen with beautiful women. You know the type. Lots of Versace and no conversation.’

Ben smiled as a secretary from Divisar, her eyes bruised from crying, introduced herself, said how sorry she was and walked back towards the hall. Moments later Mark was ushering Roth across the room towards them. Ben had been on the point of going outside for a cigarette and was frustrated once again to have to endure the wake’s miserable platitudes.

‘Sebastian Roth. I just wanted to pay my respects.’ Up close, Roth’s skin was smooth and implausibly tanned. He was shorter than most of the men in the room and had not yet looked at Alice. ‘Your father was somebody we’d been working very closely with. His experience was invaluable to us in Russia. It goes without saying that we’ll all miss him a great deal.’

‘Thank you.’

It was a conversation Ben had been having all day. What to say next? How to follow it up?

‘Did Mack not come with you?’ Mark asked, rescuing him.

‘My lawyer, Thomas Macklin,’ Roth explained. He was still ignoring Alice, perhaps deliberately, training his eyes solely on Ben. McCreery appeared beside them and pulled Mark away into a separate conversation. ‘He’s in Moscow at the moment. You’ve met, haven’t you?’

Ben nodded.

‘Mack also worked alongside your father, as you know. He wanted to be here, but it just wasn’t possible. Asked me to pass on his condolences. And I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to make it to the funeral in person. I’ve also been away for the past few days.’

‘It’s really OK.’

There was a prolonged silence. Alice eventually edged forward and Ben took the hint.

‘Oh, sorry.’ It was as if he had been locked off in a meditation. ‘Sebastian, this is my wife, Alice. Alice, this is Mark’s boss, Sebastian.’

What followed was a text book first encounter of instant chemistry, a series of split-second subconscious acts. Alice touched her necklace, her skirt, reached out to shake Roth’s hand and then ducked her eyes to the floor. Roth, attempting to hold her gaze, absorbed Alice’s physical beauty in an instant, registering it as a challenge. The least significant part of their exchange were the words they used to greet one another. Roth said, ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ and Alice replied, ‘You too.’

For the next few minutes, she allowed Roth to talk. Mark told me it was a wonderful service. Very sad, very moving. His voice was like a well-oiled machine, dipped in self-love. On reputation, Alice wanted him to find her attractive, and she waited for the secret glance, the shared indiscretion.

‘You must be exhausted,’ he said to Ben, who paused before replying with a candour that surprised both of them.

‘Actually I found the service pretty unaffecting,’ he said. ‘It’s been very difficult to get a clear perspective on things in the last few days. Jock spoke for about ten minutes, did the eulogy thing, but it was frustrating and incomplete, like he was holding back information about my father’s life just to protect state secrecy.’

Roth coughed nervously and said, ‘I see.’

‘And then the local priest stands up and tries to say a few words, but it’s just embarrassing. My father wasn’t a spiritual man, a Christian. The vicar had probably only met him a handful of times. He was just someone whose hand he might have shaken on Christmas Day.’

Alice put her arm around Ben and said: ‘You OK?’ but he was already pulling away. Something about Roth’s overdeveloped charm had annoyed him and he wanted to be outside.

‘Listen, Mr Roth…’

‘Sebastian, please,’ he said instantly.

‘I was just on my way outside to have a cigarette. Do you mind if I leave you two alone? It’s been difficult to get away.’

‘Of course not.’

‘It was really a pleasure to meet you. I’ll only be gone five minutes.’

If Roth was surprised by Ben’s attitude, Alice was more sanguine.

‘Sorry,’ she said, as Ben walked off into the kitchen. ‘He’s been like that since it happened. Off in his own world.’

‘I’m not surprised. This must be a very difficult time for him.’

‘Very.’

‘I’ve never lost a parent. You?’

‘No,’ Alice said.

‘The most awful feeling of emptiness, I should imagine. A complete void. Ben must be devastated.’

‘I think they both are.’ For the third time that day Alice found herself saying, ‘In a sense it’s worse for Mark because he’d built up a relationship with his father and now all that’s been taken away from him.’

‘Yes. And just as they were getting started.’ Roth was making what felt like a very concentrated effort to look Alice in the eye, as if someone had once told him that there was an advantage to be gained in making a woman feel like the only person in a room. ‘But I imagine Ben is in this awful limbo. He has no specific memories to draw on, just one all too brief encounter over dinner. It’s horrific. I wish there was more one could do.’

Alice needlessly straightened the collar of her shirt, but did not reply.

‘And what about you?’ he asked her. ‘I imagine it’s very hard being in your position. Not knowing what to do. Not knowing what to say to Ben. I often think these things are just as painful for the partner of someone who’s grieving.’

This was her first proper glimpse of Roth’s reputation, of the cad’s talent for empathy. Alice could see how it might work; his manner was not overtly flirtatious, but thoughtfulness and self-confidence were always attractive in a man.

‘Well, we haven’t really had much of a chance to talk,’ she told him. ‘Ben’s been so involved with the police, you know? They’ve interviewed him, gone through every last detail of what happened…’

‘And they’re no closer to a suspect?’

‘No closer. A couple in the street remembered seeing a man sitting in a Mercedes about half an hour before the shooting, but they didn’t get a number-plate. There weren’t any security cameras outside the apartment or in the foyer. The police have hairs for DNA, but they could be anyone’s. It’s a lottery.’

‘Yes. Locard’s Principle.’

‘Locard’s Principle?’

Roth looked pleased to have sparked her interest.

‘A technique of forensics,’ he explained. ‘Everything leaves a trace.’

Calmly, he reached out and took hold of the sleeve of Alice’s shirt. She let her arm fall loose, but did not dislike the presumption of being touched. ‘If I come into contact with your clothes — even for a fraction of a second — I leave a mark, a record of myself.’ Roth released her, briefly taking the weight of her arm as it dropped. ‘It’s the same with footprints, or tiny fragments of skin. You can read books about it.’