Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

“Yes, I’m glad you did.” Suddenly, it seemed too much of an effort to make excuses. “In fact, I’ve changed my mind. Yes, go up to...” — for a moment I could not remember the amount — “that much extra,” I said, lamely.

“Shall I? You think it’s a good idea, then?” Her eagerness was touching, but my mind was elsewhere.

“Yes, very good. Well done.”

“Thanks. I can’t wait for tonight. Shall I call you afterwards? It shouldn’t be too late.”

“No, don’t bother. I may be out. I’ll hear all about it when you get back tomorrow.” The last thing I needed that evening was any distraction. Particularly from Anna. She must have noticed my lack of enthusiasm.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes, fine! I’m... with a client.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t realise.”

“I don’t want to seem abrupt, but I’d better not keep him waiting.”

“No, of course not. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you.”

“That’s all right. I’m glad you did. It was a good idea. But I’m going to have to go, now. Good luck for tonight. I’ll see you at the airport tomorrow morning.”

She had said goodbye and I had hung up. Belatedly, I had realised I should have checked what time she was going to telephone Marty. But it was perhaps as well I had not. I was not sure how casual I could have sounded, and I did not want her to remember the enquiry later. I had poured myself a coffee and waited for Zeppo.

It had been late afternoon when he arrived. He came to the back door, as I had instructed. “Have you got everything?” I asked.

“Yeah. But you didn’t give me enough money. I had to put in some of my own too. So you owe me fifty quid.”

“Fifty?” I had given him a hundred. I had no idea how much that sort of thing cost, but that had seemed more than enough. He had also insisted on being given a post-dated cheque, which he would hold against the Cocteau sketch. Ours was not a relationship based on trust. “Have you got receipts?”

He gave an exaggerated sigh and handed me several slips of paper. “Oh ye of little faith. The dustsheets alone cost nearly fifty. And if you’re thinking of putting those through the books, I wouldn’t. You don’t really want anyone asking what an art gallery needs with DIY and gardening equipment, do you?”

“Of course not.” I had asked for the receipts automatically, but Zeppo was right. I tore them up and dropped them into a bin. “Where is everything?”

“In the car out back. Shall I bring it in now?”

“No, not yet. Wait until I close the gallery.”

He hesitated. “Are you still sure about this?”

“Of course I am. I hope this isn’t cold feet I can detect, is it?”

“No. I’m only asking.”

“Good. I don’t want you letting me down at an embarrassing moment.”

“I won’t. I’ve already told you I won’t.” His tone was aggressive. But I thought there was also some uncertainty there, and while I enjoyed seeing cracks in his self-assurance, I did not want it to collapse altogether.

“In that case we’ll say no more about it,” I said. And neither of us did.

Now he sat silently in the office as I held the receiver to my ear, waiting for Marty to answer. When he finally did, it seemed so sudden that it startled me.

“Hello?”

“Marty? This is Donald. Donald Ramsey.” My voice sounded rushed. But that was not such a bad thing.

“Hi. What can I do for you?”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes, why?”

The first hurdle, at least, was over. I ignored his question. “Has Anna called?”

“Not today. I spoke to her yesterday. Why, what’s the matter?”

I looked across at Zeppo. “I think you’d better come over here right away.”

“Why, what’s wrong?” I could hear the sudden urgency in his voice.

“Now don’t panic, Marty. I’m sure everything’s all right, but the Dutch police have contacted me—”

“The police! What’s happened?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but it seems as though there’s been some kind of shooting incident.”

“Oh God. Is Anna okay?”

“I don’t know, the police wouldn’t tell me. They just said that a number of people had been injured, and that some had been arrested as well, on drugs charges—”

“Drug charges? For Christ’s sake, what’s going on?”

“I can’t tell you any more than that, Marty. The police were very vague. They only said a number of people were involved, and that Anna was one of them. It all seems very confused, I don’t think they’re even clear themselves.”

“They must know if she’s all right! Has she been hurt, or arrested, or, or what?

“Marty, I don’t know! That’s all they told me. I think...” I hesitated. “I think they’re having problems identifying some people. Some of them were killed, and—”

“Oh no. Oh Jesus.”

“Marty, we don’t know Anna was one of them! She could be fine. This could all be a misunderstanding!”

“Who did you speak to? Give me his number.”

“The line’s constantly busy, I’ve been trying. Listen, I think it’s best if you come over here as soon as you can. Pack a few clothes and bring your passport. I’ll find out when the next flight is to Amsterdam, and book seats on it. We’ll be able to find out much more if we’re actually there.” I was relying on shock to stop him thinking clearly, make him let me take the lead. “Take the tube, not a taxi. It’ll be quicker. The front door will be locked, so come to the one at the back. And until we know more, I wouldn’t mention this to anyone. Just get over here as soon as you can.”

The telephone clicked as he hung up. I put the receiver down on the desk without breaking the connection. If anyone tried to call him now the line would be engaged. I motioned to Zeppo to be quiet until we had left the office. If Marty happened to pick up the telephone again, I did not want him to hear us talking.

“He’s on his way,” I said.

“What if he takes a taxi anyway? Or tells someone?”

“I don’t think he will. He’s in no fit state to think for himself at the moment. He’s far more likely to do as I told him.”

“But what if he doesn’t?”

“If he tells anyone, we’ll have to postpone it, obviously. I’ll just have to pretend that I’ve been the victim of a particularly sick hoax.”

“And what if he gets a taxi instead of the tube? Are we still going to go through with it then?”

I sighed. Zeppo had swung between moods of supreme confidence and uncertainty all afternoon. I was beginning to tire of it. “Can you really see a London taxi driver remembering one insignificant fare out of hundreds? And the date and time as well? I can’t. I’m only being cautious. I really don’t think it matters.”

I looked at my watch. “Now, he’ll be here in less than an hour. I suggest we go downstairs and get everything ready.”

Marty made the journey in slightly more than forty-five minutes. The buzz of the doorbell seemed incredibly loud when it came. Zeppo and I looked at each other. Neither of us spoke. Then he nodded, and I went to answer it.

I paused in front of the door. I took a deep breath to steady myself, and opened it. Marty was standing outside, suitcase in hand.

“Have you heard anything?” he asked. His face was white and stricken.

“No, I still can’t get through.” I moved to one side to let him in, then closed the door and went past him. He followed me inside. “Did you come by taxi or tube?”

“Tube. So you don’t know anything else at all?”

“Nothing. Have you brought your passport?”

“Yes. What did they say, exactly?”

We were in the short corridor that led to the storeroom. He was close behind me. “You haven’t told anyone, have you?”