Иэн Рэнкин - Watchman

Janine had been mad as hell’s own fires with Jim Stevens for his absolute lack of subtlety. The irony was that she rather liked him — not just admiration for his journalist’s skills, but an actual like of the occasionally boorish personality that lay behind those skills. Yes, it was his plain and honest stupidity that had angered her, the way he had suddenly come to the conclusion that because he had had a bellyful of drink, she would suddenly be putty in his arms, leading to a warm bed and a late breakfast the following day. He had thought wrong, and she hoped that his neck and head hurt as much as she suspected they would. He had deserved everything he got, except perhaps her offer of money for a taxi when it transpired that he had spent every last penny on alcohol.

She was, however, seriously thinking of resigning her thankless commission. She had come here today only to show faith, so to speak, to work out her final days for him so that he could not turn around and accuse her of slacking. But she was glad that she had come, and felt sure that Jim would be interested to hear what she had to tell him. All she had to do now was find a telephone that still worked. In St. John’s Wood, she didn’t think that would be a problem.

Billy Monmouth leafed through a book on Brueghel, purchased on his way home for no good reason except the sudden and desperate need to spend money. He skipped the commentary and concentrated on the paintings themselves, solid representations of peasant life and the natural cycle, followed by those few but powerful images of death and hell and the whole works. Billy clutched his whiskey glass as though it were some kind of crutch, while the book, resting on his thighs and knees, seemed as heavy as sin.

From the seldom-used stereo came the sounds of the Rolling Stones. They were another of his secret vices, though he played their albums seldom and selectively. They were to him predictions of chaos as potent as any Cassandra’s. Hell, Billy knew, was not some far distant region. It was a millimeter away, and all one had to do was scratch at the surface with one’s fingernail to reveal it.

He thought of Sheila’s insistent phone call. She had to see him, it was as simple as that. He supposed that she would need comforting now that Miles was gone, but he did not relish the task. And so he would allow her to see him like this, bemired in self-pity, allowing himself to be led into the Dance of Death to the music of a 1960s guitar wail. He just didn’t care anymore.

There was a knock at the door. Why didn’t she use her key? The knock came again. Ah yes, she had sent back the key, hadn’t she? Well, he supposed he could just about manage to lift himself from his chair. He heaved the book onto the floor and heard the stereo switching itself off, the record finishing with a nice sense of timing. Should he choose something else? No, let silence be their coda.

As he opened the door, he felt it push against him, causing him to stagger back, so that he was already — physically as well as mentally — completely off balance when Miles Flint strode into the room. He seemed taller than Billy remembered, and behind him came a taller man still, a mercenary-looking character with thick black hair and the beginnings of a beard, who seemed to have been conjured out of his own thoughts.

‘Miles...’

‘You’d better sit down, Billy. You look a little weak. Been having a drink? Perhaps we might join you. Mr. Collins, see Mr. Monmouth here to his seat.’

It was Miles all right, but it was like no Miles Billy had ever encountered, not even the one who had slapped him on the face at the Vorticist exhibition. Miles’s eyes roamed the room, checking this aspect and that, avoiding Billy. There was something sharper and quicker about him, as though he had been working on half power before. He seemed larger, too, muscular, his eyes keen and ready for anything. Billy might have taken this for posturing, but knew instinctively, despite the haze of alcohol around him, that this was something real, something dangerous. He wanted to be very sober for this, whatever this might be, but instead found himself feeling woozier still. He needed cold water for his face and coffee for his bloodstream.

‘Miles...’

Miles nodded, seeming to read his thoughts.

‘Wait,’ he ordered his accomplice, who remained silent and impassive as a golem. ‘Take Mr. Monmouth to the bathroom and allow him to wash himself. I’ll make some coffee, Billy. Oh, and Mr. Collins?’

‘Yes, Mr. Flint?’

‘Don’t let him out of your sight.’

‘I surely won’t.’

Sweet mother , thought Billy, being led away, this man is Irish. Who the hell is he?

Miles watched the wretched Billy being led away, his face ashen as though the extermination trucks were parked around the corner of the lounge. So far so good. Miles felt rather pleased with himself, and noticed that Collins was entering into the spirit of the thing, too. They had scared the utter living shit out of an utter living shit. Now they could examine at their leisure Billy’s hollow shell.

He drank the first scalding cup of coffee without his lips once leaving its rim. Miles stood over him with the steaming jug, pouring more out when requested. The second cup Billy drank more slowly, almost gingerly, taking deep breaths between mouthfuls. Collins, standing behind him, mimed the sticking of fingers down his throat to Miles, indicating that Billy had made himself sick in the bathroom. The weak strands of Billy’s hair were still beaded with water, a few drops falling occasionally onto his pale, heavy face, where they sought the safe shadows of his throat.

‘OK?’ asked Miles.

‘A bit better, yes.’

Miles motioned for Collins to sit in the other armchair, and then made himself comfortable on the sofa.

‘I have a lot of questions, Billy, and I know that you know the answers. Before beginning, I should point out that Mr. Collins here is a member of the Provisional Irish Republican Army, and I’ve given him a promise that if I’m not satisfied with your answers, I’ll hand you over to him. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mr. Collins?’

The nod was slow, the eyes fixed on those of the trembling Billy. Miles decided to himself that he would have made a damned good interrogator. No, perhaps not: he was enjoying it too much.

‘Miles, what is this all about?’

Miles pulled a small cassette recorder from his pocket and switched it on, placing it on the low coffee table.

‘That’s not the kind of answer I need, Billy, that’s not a good start.’ Billy looked down into his lap in a show of obeisance. ‘Do you remember,’ continued Miles, ‘on one of our lunch dates, not so very long ago, how you introduced me to a... how did you put it?... an “old friend” of yours, someone you saw only at dinner parties?’

‘Yes,’ replied Billy, holding his coffee cup in both hands, quite sober now. ‘It was Andrew Gray.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Miles, nodding, ‘yes, that was the name, Andrew Gray. Do you happen to know, Billy, why Mr. Gray should have gone to Ireland looking for Mr. Collins here?’

If such a thing were possible, Billy actually grew paler. He looked over to Collins.

‘Time for explanations, Billy. Time to get it all off your chest.’

‘Miles, this is madness. Do you know the danger you’re in?’

Miles shrugged. Billy rested for a moment, seemed to make up his mind, then leaned forward in his chair.

‘You know me, Miles, I’ve always liked to know what’s going on in the world and in the firm particularly. I like to think of myself as the eyes and ears of the place. Well, that goes for past events as well as present. You know that your sidekick here murdered Philip Hayton?’