Peter Temple - In the Evil Day

A face. Inches away, beyond the glass, bulging hyperthyroid eyes stared at him, a woman in a knitted hat, dirt marks on her face, ash smears, darker marks. She tapped on the glass, a hand in a cotton gardening glove with its fingers cut off at the second joint.

Niemand looked away. The woman tapped again, angrily, then gave up. He watched her go. Her crammed plastic bag was splitting. Soon her possessions would begin to fall out, just more rubbish on the street.

He couldn’t deal with Kennex Imports. They wouldn’t send a fat and a slow the next time. He was well ahead, he had Shawn’s money. He should cut his losses, take a ferry to France, Holland, Belgium, anywhere, post the tape to a newspaper or a television station.

But he didn’t like being thought of as something they could simply squash, a capsule of blood, like a tick. They had tried to get the tape for nothing. Next to nothing. The price of hiring a fat and a slow.

What was the tape worth?

He found the newspaper’s telephone number in the middle of the paper, on the opinion page. They kept him on hold for a long time.

He had to listen to a news radio station. Then she came on.

‘Caroline Wishart,’ she said, a voice like the women on English television, the newsreaders who could talk without moving their lips.

He used his Glasgow accent again. ‘I’ve got something that will interest you,’ he said. ‘A film. Much more important than that article today.’

‘Really,’ she said, dry. ‘I get a lot of calls like this.’

‘A massacre in Africa.’

‘A lot of that goes on.’

‘Soldiers killing civilians.’

‘What, the Congo? Burundi?’

‘No. White soldiers. Americans.’

‘American soldiers killing civilians in Africa? Somalia?’

‘No. This is…it’s like an execution.’

‘You’ve got a film?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Just give me five minutes of your time.’

He heard her sigh. ‘You’ll have to come here. Not today, today’s impossible.’

‘Has to be today.’

‘Are you, ah, offering this film for sale?’

‘Twenty thousand pounds.’

Caroline Harris laughed. ‘I don’t think you’ve come to the right place.’

‘See it and decide,’ said Niemand.

She laughed again. ‘Are you a crank? No, don’t answer that. Let me see, ah…twelve noon.’

She gave him the address. ‘Tell reception you’ve got an appointment. Give me a name.’

‘Mackie,’ he said, seeing in his mind’s eye the little redheaded killer, the empty blue eyes, the big freckles. ‘Bob Mackie.’

…HAMBURG…

Anselm sat in the driver’s seat of the Mercedes and watched the ferry heading for the landing. It was a windy day, tiny whitecaps on the water, windsurfers out, three of them, insouciant, skidding over the cold lake on a broad reach.

‘Noisy,’ Tilders said. ‘May not work.’ He had a scope suspended from roof brackets trained on the boat. It was an English instrument made for military use with an image-stabilised lens, 80x magnification. A small LCD colour monitor sat on the console. He fiddled with the plug in his ear. Its cord ran to a black box on his lap.

They had nailed Serrano inside the hotel. He was alone, bodyguard no longer needed. In the lobby, a frail-looking old man crossed his path, stumbled and fell. For a moment, it looked as if Serrano was going to walk around him, then he bent down, put out a helping hand. The old man got up shakily, leaned on Serrano for a few seconds, thanked him profusely. Serrano continued on his way to the restaurant for breakfast.

Outside, in the car, they waited. Tilders was looking upwards, pensive. Then he closed his eyes, nodded.

‘Working,’ he said. ‘Orange juice, eggs Florentine.’

Serrano was now wearing a micro-transmitter.

‘Working,’ said Tilders.

In the BMW, watching the ferry, Anselm raised his right hand, the hand that worked fully, mimed. Tilders raised the volume.

Serrano, speaking German: …this ferry. What’s the problem?

Kael: Nothing’s safe any more.

Serrano: I can get seasick just looking at boats. In a harbour.

Kael: Tell me.

Serrano: Werner, I just heard from Hollis, they fucked the business up.

The transmission went fuzzy, fragmented for about five seconds, abrasive sounds.

Serrano: …contact him.

Kael: He fucking hopes. Why should he do that? This is the most hopeless… Serrano, a laugh: Well, Lourens is dead, that’s… Sound lost again, for seconds the rough abrasive sounds.

Kael: …Can you grasp that? If this prick’s got the papers and the film, whatever the fucking film is…How did Lourens die?

Serrano: In a fire. Chemical fire. Not even teeth left.

Kael: Well, that’s something. Shawn?

Serrano: Shot by blacks. So it appears. The business is strange. Werner, the question is what do we do now?

Kael: You ask me, you idiot? We’ll have to tell the Jews.

They’ll blame us.

Serrano: You’re the one who went to the Jews. You’re the one who did what they said. I thought we weren’t going near them again? I thought you took a holy vow?

Silence. Sounds, bumping sounds, the ferry hitting the chop as it passed another vessel.

Kael: You should wear a hat in Provence in summer.

Silence. A noise. Anselm thought it was Serrano clearing his throat.

Serrano: Well, fuck you. Maybe you need a smarter person. Have you got one?

Silence, the bumping sounds, a cough.

Kael: Don’t be so sensitive. Hollis? What does the cunt say?

Serrano: He’s shitting himself. He thought he was doing the right thing.

Kael: He should. He should shit himself. I’m going to kill him personally. Tell Richler.

Serrano: What?

Kael: What do you fucking think? Just tell him. They’re up to their balls in this. If the Ashken stuff is in the papers, well… The ferry was docking, they could hear the sounds of movement, the voices of passengers.

Kael: I walk from here. Thomas will take you.

‘Good bug,’ said Anselm. Tilders nodded.

Kael’s Mercedes, dark blue, was waiting about fifty metres from the landing, the driver standing at the rear passenger door. He was a big man in a dark suit, feet wide apart, hands at the buttons of his jacket. Tilders got him on the monitor. The shutter release was silent.

Serrano and Kael were the first passengers off the ferry. Anselm looked at the monitor. The two men were on it, Tilders was looking at the screen and taking pictures.

Silence until the men were at the car. Anselm saw Kael give Serrano something. Serrano: What’s this?

Kael: Ring the number and leave a time, five minutes before the ferry I’ve marked leaves.

Serrano: Extreme, this is extreme.

Serrano got into the Mercedes and was driven away. Kael walked off in the direction of his house. The last passenger off the ferry was a fat man in a suit carrying a briefcase. Anselm watched him come in their direction. When he was near you could see that he was a dispirited man, in him no satisfaction at the end of the working day, no expectation of ease to come. He walked past them with his head down.

‘Otto will go to Hofweg,’ said Tilders. ‘I don’t know if all this is worth it.’

‘They pay for a full record,’ said Anselm. ‘We don’t have to ask whether it’s worth it.’

…HAMBURG…

On the outer fringe of Barmbek, once a working-class suburb, O’Malley was waiting for him, beer on the counter.