Christopher Jones - The Jackal's Share

A pause. “When do I get to ask you something?” He held her eye, and she sighed. “Go on.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Everything. Not enough.”

“What did he say?”

“It’s not important what he said.”

“It’s all important. What did he say?”

“I don’t know… Excuses? Justifications? I couldn’t stand to look at him.”

“He didn’t mention any plans? Any meetings?”

“Nothing. Just that he had to pay the money back and was selling everything. I think he wanted my sympathy for that.” She sounded more astonished than disgusted.

Webster nodded and walked across the hall toward Qazai’s study, turning as he reached it at the sound of Ava’s voice.

“He keeps it locked.”

Webster tried the handle.

“Who has a key?”

“He does.”

“What about the housekeeper?”

“Not to this room. He keeps it with him. We were never allowed in here. He used to tell us when we were children that everything in his study was electrified.”

Webster stood back a pace, set himself and kicked at the door just below the handle, startling the muted house with a shock of noise. He balanced himself, and kicked again, harder, finding satisfaction in the sudden burst of energy. At the third kick, the wood around the lock began to splinter and shear; at the fourth it gave way, and the door swung powerlessly open. Ava, her face empty, didn’t say a word throughout. As they went in, the security guard came bounding into the hall with heavy steps, his face professionally alert.

“I’m still fine,” said Ava, “please go,” and left him looking thrown.

There were papers on the desk, neatly arranged in piles: sale documents, hard copies of Tabriz e-mails, general correspondence. Nothing of interest. A cordless phone stood on its own small table to the right of Qazai’s chair: Webster picked it up and made a note of the last numbers dialed, all of them UK, the most recent a cell phone. He called Oliver.

“I’ve got a number for you. It’s urgent.”

“Morning, Ben. How are you?”

“I mean it, Dean. This is important.”

“Ben, where do I put it? Is it more important than all the other important things you’d like me to do?”

“Dean. I’m sorry. But I need it right now. Who it belongs to. That’s all. Take you five minutes.”

“Ten.” Dean’s voice was resigned.

“Thank you. Call me.”

“Does anyone like you at the moment?” said Ava.

Webster looked up and managed a grim smile. “My father,” he said, and immediately regretted his lack of tact. “Sorry.” Ava just looked away.

The desk was delicate and had two shallow drawers. He tried one, then the other, found both locked, and after inspecting the keyhole for a moment reached for a brass letter opener that lay beside some unopened letters and slid it into the thin gap at the top of the drawer, near the lock.

Ava was frowning at him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to see how strong this lock is,” said Webster, standing up and levering the drawer away from the desk, at first with constant force and then jerking it as hard as he could, crouching down and gripping the letter opener in his fist.

“Don’t they teach you how to do this sort of thing?” said Ava, as the wood holding the bolt of the lock gave way with a snap. Inside were two cardboard folders, each full of Tabriz correspondence that meant nothing. Webster tried the next and it gave way more easily. Lying on top of a neat jumble of pens and stationery was a large envelope of coarse brown paper.

There was no address, no stamp—only the name “D. Qazai” printed in thick black marker pen on the front. He lifted the flap, which had been sealed and already opened, and from inside drew two photographs the size of holiday snaps. At first they appeared to be in black and white, but there was some color in the stark chiaroscuro of the flash-lit scene, some dusky red about the temple, matted in the hair, running down the cheek; a flick of brighter red on the plain bright white of the shirt. It was Senechal, lying curled up on his side like a child, clearly dead.

Webster closed his eyes. A burst of fear ran through him. The image matched so perfectly his memory of that same body prone in the desert that he could only believe that he had killed the man after all, and that soon afterward someone had photographed the evidence. He forced himself to look again. The blood was scarlet, fresh, still liquid, and at its source so red it was nearly black; the body was lying on tarmac, not sand, and in the top right-hand corner of the picture there was something like a car tire. He took the next photograph. Senechal stared at the camera in close-up, one eye open, the other a dark hole in his face where he had been shot.

Acid rose in Webster’s throat; he fought the urge to be sick. One fear took the place of the other, and as he closed his eyes he saw Rad standing over the body, getting down on his haunches and holding the camera close to the ground so that he could capture the horror whole, like a butcher saving the blood.

“What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” said Webster, putting the photographs back inside the envelope and reacting too slowly as it was snatched away from him. He watched Ava’s face and saw it pinch with disgust, then dread.

“What… was this them?”

Webster nodded.

“Why?”

“At a guess?” said Webster, taking the pictures from her and putting them back in the drawer. “Because he wanted some of their money. He was blackmailing your father.”

“How did they know?”

“Perhaps he told them.”

Ava looked at him, closed her eyes and shuddered.

“Or they were eavesdropping…” Webster broke off as his phone rang; it was Oliver. He listened for a moment. “OK. When was it registered?” He listened some more. “Thanks. I’ll see you later.” He hung up and looked at Ava. “The last number he dialed from this phone was a pay-as-you-go cell phone. It was registered on Sunday to a name and address that don’t exist. In London.”

She looked at him, not understanding.

“They’re here. And he’s still talking to them.”

Both were silent for a while. Ava leaned back against a bookcase and stared through the window at the brick wall opposite, her expression lost.

“Should we call the police?”

“With what?” said Webster. “It’s a picture of a dead man. We don’t know where it happened. Where the body is.”

“We need to tell someone.”

Webster shook his head. “No. This can’t come out before the money has been transferred.” He paused, watching her reaction. “He doesn’t have a family. He doesn’t have friends.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

For a minute neither said anything.

“What if my father doesn’t show up?” she said at last.

“I’ll find him. And you stall.”

“I CAN’T SIT IN THERE,”said Ava. “There are too many of them.”

She stepped back, and Webster looked around the door. At the grand black table, arranged along one side with their backs to the mismatched towers of the City standing stark in the midday sun, sat five men, all in suits, each with a notepad set purposefully in front of him. Webster wondered whether they had sat on that side to keep their faces in shadow or to allow their visitors to enjoy the view.

“You’re right,” he said. “That’s far too many lawyers. Come on.”

He led the way down a wood-lined corridor and through a glass door into the lobby of Tabriz, marbled and bright.

“Do you want some water?”

Ava shook her head and sat down in one of the armchairs. She had changed, into a suit, put on makeup, and was on the surface composed, but in her eyes—unfocused, intense but unseeing—lay signs of the discord within. Even now she appeared not to hear Webster, and he had to ask her again before she looked up at him, smiled a quick, tight smile and said no, thank you, she was fine.