Peter Temple - In the Evil Day

‘Something like that. Dimly recall, mark you. Dimly. It was a longish piece. Quite well done.’

He closed his eyes. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Got it. Behind Enemy Lines .’

‘Yes?’

‘California, I think. Published in some little place in California. Behind Enemy Lines . I liked the name.’

‘No chance of you having the clipping?’

He shook his head. ‘My dear, long gone, I’ve moved on. The thing didn’t live beyond four or five issues, they never did. I subscribed to everything in those days. Remotely promising, I sent off my money. They probably owe me twenty quid. Do you get a penny back when these rags collapse with ten issues owing on your subscription? My arse. Try the library here. Hopeless though it is.’

The library had never held Behind Enemy Lines . But a librarian clicked keys at speed, interested frown. He found the complete Behind Enemy Lines for sale, a rarity, seven issues, good condition, twenty pounds, from an address in Portsmouth. Southpaw Books. Email, telephone, fax.

She went outside and rang. A man with a bad cold answered. She said fifty pounds if he would go through Behind Enemy Lines and fax all items involving American involvement in Africa.

‘Go through them?’ he said. ‘Darling, basically, we sell the stuff. That’s the business.’

‘Sixty quid,’ she said. ‘How’s that? And you keep the magazines. Inside an hour.’

‘Time’s money,’ he said. ‘I’m a slow reader.’

‘A hundred. The contents pages too. I’m stopping there.’

‘Credit card transaction, is this?

‘What else?’

‘What’s your fax number?’

…HAMBURG…

O’Malley rang.

‘I’m sitting here just down your very pleasant little road. Where the boats are. A word, perhaps?’

Anselm went out, didn’t bother with a coat. It was much colder than when he had come to work. The sky was an army blanket, dirty grey, a shade lighter than O’Malley’s BMW, which, in turn, was a lighter grey than O’Malley’s suit.

‘Flitting to and fro, you should open an office here,’ said Anselm. It was warm in the car and there was the smell of leather and newness. ‘Think of the fares you’d save.’

O’Malley shook his head. ‘What would save some real money, mate, is buying your business. But I’m not flitting, I’m having a little stay, a sojourn. Did I not say that? No? Before the courts tomorrow, trying to get the attention of some naughty Poles. They have products we wish to render immobile. In a warehouse down by the river. Your beer, your ballbearings, your smoked hams, your binoculars, your pickled cucumbers, beetroot, artichokes. Even your Polish condoms, a container-load. In packs of fifty, the weekend packs they’re called.’

‘For football teams, surely?’

‘Aimed at the single male. These people are not called Poles for nothing. The brand is Ne Plus Ultra .’

Anselm put his head against the headrest. ‘The old-fashioned Polish condom makers. I didn’t know there were any left. Knew their Latin, history of the Peninsular Wars. Craftspeople in rubber.’

‘Latex. Moving on, another task.’

A police car was coming towards them, slowly, no hurry, a shift to get through. Both occupants, men, gave them the lingering eye.

‘Ceaselessly vigilant in the interests of the rich,’ said O’Malley. ‘Whereas out in the gloomy industrial hinterland, the lower orders have to beg and beseech the Politzei to come to their assistance.’

‘I didn’t realise you were familiar with the conditions of the German working class.’

‘A lifelong interest. Like Engels in England.’ He looked at Anselm’s shirt. ‘Winter’s setting in. I could probably find an old coat to send you.’

‘I’d be grateful. Winterhilfe usually toss a few warm garments my way. But not exactly Zegna.’

O’Malley was getting a slim notecase off the back seat. ‘Mine wouldn’t be Zegna. It would be hand sewn by my little man. Crouch is his name.’ He opened the leather box, flipped through papers. ‘Doesn’t have the ring of Zegna, Crouch. Ermenegilda Crouch. No. This matter concerns something called Falcontor. Remember?’

Falcontor. Richler on the tape:

I’ll say one word. Falcontor. Don’t say anything.

O’Malley found an A4 envelope. ‘From Serrano’s case, at the station. Your excellent if expensive work. We can’t make much sense of this stuff. The cross-trained bloodhounds you employ may have more luck.’

‘I thought you said Serrano was still in the paper era?’

‘He is. But the places he parks the ill-gotten stuff may not be.’

‘What do you want?’

O’Malley scratched an eyebrow. ‘Well, you know. Anything. The main interest is assets. But anything. Don’t spook anyone, that’s paramount. And speed. And the name Bruynzeel. Keep an eye out for that.’

‘Flemish, I presume?’

‘I would too. Sounds like a nasty symptom the nanny should report.’

A couple appeared on the jetty, began to take off the cover of a boat.

‘I was like that once,’ said O’Malley. ‘Weather was no impediment. Serrano, the hotel, can you keep that running?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good on you. How many ways do I love a crisp affirmative? Concludes the business. Oh, and notice I’ve got a new number. The old one was boring me.’

Anselm put his hand on the door latch. ‘You won’t forget the coat?’

‘No,’ said O’Malley. ‘Consider it in the mail. And this coincidence will amuse you. An email in my box from Angelica. The American bore. It’s over. Taken his Egyptian artefacts, gone. She’s holding on to the apartment in the Marais pending the legal nastiness. Sadly, the chef ’s been terminated.’

‘I’m sure you can arrange food parcels. When you say speed?’

O’Malley looked at him. ‘Yes. We’d be grateful. Things that are solid can melt into air.’

‘I wouldn’t be too hopeful.’

‘In me, the hopeful genes. In all the O’Malleys. Globally. The O’Malley diaspora of optimistic genes.’

‘Probably inherit the earth,’ said Anselm. ‘O’Malleys and cockroaches. Still, the evolutionary day has only just begun. Give us a few hours.’

‘Hours, certainly. Not even units of time in the evolutionary day.’

Anselm felt the pressure fight the car door as he pushed it closed. It was even colder now. It felt like snow, the air still, the feeling of something pendant. Waiting for its time. But it was much too early in the year. Its time was nearer Christmas, when it would fall at night, the magic flakes hushing the discordant city.

In the blue gloom, Carla was at her workstation, text on her right-hand screen, green code on the black screens to her left. She saw Anselm coming and swivelled, her useless leg thrust out. He showed her the case folder.

‘Some time?’ he said. ‘It’s a priority.’

She nodded. He gave it to her. She read the cover sheet, opened it and looked at the pages inside, flipped them. Two columns to the page. Letters, numbers, names handwritten in ink.

‘This has meaning?’

‘Not to the client. Serrano, remember Serrano? These are his notes. The client is interested in something called Falcontor. Also the name Bruynzeel.’

He wrote them on her pad. ‘Something might occur to you. I promised a preliminary report soon.’

She put the file down and laced her fingers, turned the palms outward. He heard her knuckles crack, a sound that always disturbed him, for no reason that he knew.

He went back to his office and the paperwork. Jonas was a happy agent. He had paid the bill, plus the $25,000 bonus. Pizza baron Charlie Campo and his runaway wife Lisa were reunited at last. In romantic Barcelona. All forgiven-a terrible, impulsive mistake. Sherry and tapas in a little bar off the Ramblas. Soft light, the bottles on the shelves glowing blood and oranges and rust. Glances. Touches.