Иэн Рэнкин - Watchman

Miles understood.

‘So,’ the old boy continued, not looking so old now, his eyes as hard as diamonds, ‘I would be... perturbed if anything were to come to light, especially without my knowing about it. You’ve read the newspapers lately, you know that Fleet Street has more than a few daggers drawn against us. We need to be... what’s the phrase again? Ah, yes, we need to be a “clean machine.” An American friend of mine is very keen on that phrase.’

‘At the same time,’ Partridge interrupted, his voice low with sincerity, ‘if I should happen to be promoted to director—’

‘As seems likely,’ explained the director.

‘—then I should not want to find my self faced with a first duty of investigating my own service. Nor should I like to think that I were being spied upon by my own officers. There has been too much of that in the past by the — what do the press term them? — the Young Turks. Too much of it, Miles, and too much of it of late. The service is secure, Miles. Believe that. The service is secure.’

What could he say? Could he tell them that, no, the service was not secure, all because of a smile that might not have been directed at him? Their faces bespoke the sublime, like monks who know no sin. In their most upper echelon of the firm, ignorance was indeed bliss. Cynegetics had been set up to keep the place nice and tidy, as though for an inspection. Push all the dust under the carpets. Miles realized that, quite simply, these men did not want to know, and if they did not want to know, then to all intents and purposes there was nothing to know. No knowledge could exist unless they accepted it.

‘I see,’ he said, lifting his cup. ‘Is that all?’

‘Well,’ said Partridge, ‘I for one would like to know just what your suspicions were.’

‘Yes, good point,’ said the director.

Miles sipped his tea. He paused for a moment, then swallowed.

‘Whatever it was,’ he said, ‘it’s history now.’

They seemed pleased with this, like schoolboys whose gofer was not going to report a roasting at their hands.

‘I am enjoying this tea,’ said the director brightly. ‘It’s rare to find a good cup of tea these days, even in London.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Partridge, smiling at Miles.

The fracas in the lobby seemed to have ended. Someone had come forward and claimed the case as his. Miles caught a glimpse of a young woman as she walked past the reception desk. He wondered where he had seen her before. Then he remembered. Only two weeks ago, in the cocktail bar, with Latchkey grinning toward him. Here she was, delivered into his hands in one of the firm’s ‘safe’ hotels. Coincidence? Miles thought not. He was beginning to believe in kismet.

When the occasional customer, all social conscience and guilt reflex, asked Felicity why she did what she did, when she had — in their tired old phrasing — ‘so much going for her,’ she usually just shrugged, and they would let it rest. Of late, however, she had given the question some thought. The money was good, of course, and often she would be involved in little more than escort work. Her clients were businessmen, desperate for success, and a pretty, intelligent companion for the evening was, to them, a sign of that success. She tried not to think about the other nights, the tough ones, when she took on the lechers and the heavyweight drinkers. She cried after those engagements, and bathed, soaking them out of her system. It was hard work, too hard sometimes.

The hotel management never troubled her. If they became suspicious, well, her appearance and her accent were usually enough to see them off, and there were other ways, too, of course. She did it for the money. She was saving up to open her own boutique, or — last month’s notion — a bookshop. She had changed her mind so often. But she had a good bank manager, who advised her on possible investments and never asked about taxes and such. She was just waiting for the day when he, too, would become a customer. There was a sordid glimmer to his smile. But one day she would put all this behind her and become a celebrity. Her shop, whatever it was, would be the place to be seen. Her photograph would appear in the magazines, and she might even be seen on TV... Seen by all her old clients, who would recognize her. And then one of them would sell the story of her past life to a newspaper, out of spite. Sheer spite...

‘Hello, miss.’

And she had saved her money so well, and had fought off the competition. (God, some of those girls were tough.) She had not given in to the many pimps who had tried to threaten her. She was not stupid. She would not have succeeded if she were. Her mother had taught her all she had needed to know about survival. All those dark, cold nights of fireside horror stories about how life could suck you as dry as a beached bone. All those lessons...

‘Excuse me.’

‘Yes?’ She looked up from her reverie into the smiling eyes of a small, middle-aged man.

‘We’ve met before,’ he said. ‘At least I think we have. Yes, I’m sure of it. Though I’m a bit early for our appointment.’

‘Appointment?’

‘Yes, we met two weeks ago. In the Doric. Just off the Strand. You asked me if I had a light, and then we met again in the cocktail bar. I said we could arrange to meet there again in a year’s time.’

Felicity laughed.

‘I remember now,’ she said. ‘You ran away from me. I have to tell you that men don’t often do that. I was a bit startled.’

‘Well, that evening, I was a bit unsettled myself.’

‘Won’t you join me?’

She was seated at a small table in the reception area. Miles had watched her for a minute or two, Partridge and the old boy having left for the office. As he sat down, Felicity thought to herself, he’s actually quite tall. Why did I think he was short?

‘You remember that night?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes. You seemed to be just about the only unattached person in the place, apart from me. Birds of a feather, I thought, but I was wrong, it seems.’

‘That was why you approached me twice?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was steady, but Miles detected something. It had been a while ago now, and she had allowed herself the luxury of forgetting all the details. But something about that evening had just come back to her, and she was trying to think about it at the same time as she spoke to him. He decided to attack.

‘Who put you up to it?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ The blood began to color her already flushed cheeks. She was pretty, there was no doubting that. Even Partridge had given her more than cursory attention before leaving.

‘I asked who put you up to it. The whole thing was a setup, wasn’t it? I can see it in your face, Miss...?’

‘Felicity,’ she whispered.

‘Look, Felicity, it was a long time ago, wasn’t it? But you do remember? It’s hardly going to hurt you now to tell me who it was, is it? Who put you up to it, Felicity?’

‘I...’ She was just a little frightened now, and Miles did not want to frighten her.

‘Do you know what it was all about?’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you, it was a joke arranged by some friends of mine. I was waiting there for them, you see, and I think they put you up to it, so that they could have a laugh when they finally did come along and find us together. Is that it, Felicity?’

‘Well, he never said exactly...’ She stopped, but had already said too much. It would be easy now to prize the rest from her, now that she had taken the first, irretrievable step.

‘Yes?’ he prompted.

‘But you told me when you left that you were on your way home.’

‘I was lying.’ The smile never left Miles’s face. ‘I was onto you, you see. So I went off elsewhere.’