Peter Temple - In the Evil Day

‘Not if you can’t find him.’

‘Well, they say it’s such an interesting piece. We’d be sad not to republish it. But if we can’t, we can’t. If I can’t ask him, that’s that.’

‘Yeah, pretty much.’

Caroline sensed something. ‘I feel like a failure,’ she said. ‘I am a failure. Can I ask you for advice?’

‘Sure.’

‘If you were some dumb publishing assistant and you wanted to find out who Richard Monk was so that you could ask him, what would you do?’

There was a moment of nothing, just a hollow sound on the line.

‘I’d ask the person I was talking to.’

‘Who is Richard Monk, Mr Salinas?’

‘Hold on, I’ll get Bob’s secret ledgers.’

She held. The lonesome sound. This would all be worthless.

Nothing would come of this. He came back inside two minutes.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t retain your name?’

‘Carol Short. The Conviction Press. Sydney. The number is 61 2 7741 5601.’

Please God, don’t let him say, I’ll ring you back.

‘Doesn’t seem to be here. I’ll have to ring you back.’

Gone.

‘At any time,’ she said.

McClatchie wouldn’t have fucked this up.

‘Let me ring you back,’ she said. ‘There’s no need for you to pay for the call.’

‘No, wait. Here it is, this is it…the last issue… And Unquiet Lie …here we are. Money order, address in San Francisco. Not much. Still, he would’ve been doing it for the cause.’

‘There’s a name?’

‘John Anselm.’

…LONDON…

Would they report the stolen car to the police? They’d tried to kill him three times. Tonight was just a delayed execution. They were not ordinary citizens who reported things to the police.

Three times in this huge city they’d found him. How had they done that? Once by the mobile, perhaps, he had worked that out, there was no other way.

But after that?

He had hurt three of them. Possibly badly. Possibly kissed them off.

Air. He needed air. He found the button, his window descended.

Cold London winter air. Exhaust fumes. A wet smell, like the smell in a cupboard where damp clothes had been hung.

Go where?

He was on a main street now, lots of traffic, bright shops, crowded pavements, no idea where he was. He saw a parking space, pulled in behind a Volvo. Sat, trying to think, too much adrenaline in the system to think straight.

‘Lookin for me?’

Niemand jerked away, his right elbow coming up in defence.

‘Relax, relax, mon. Need to calm down, chill out. Smell the roses. What can I get you? I’m your mon.’

A black man stooping, standing back from the open window. Not big. Shaven head, goatee beard. Tight leather jacket. Three strands of golden chains.

‘I need a cellphone,’ said Niemand. ‘Quick.’

The man looked at the car, side to side, exaggerated movements of his head.

‘Got any ID, officer?’

‘Fuck you.’

The man looked at him, weighed him up.

‘Sixty quid,’ he said. ‘Bargain. Today’s special. Nokia, brand new. Okay for a week. Guaranteed. Well, say six days from today. Be safe not sorry, hey, mon?’

‘Okay.’

‘Wait.’

He was gone. Niemand looked around for something to identify the car’s owner. Nothing in the glovebox, on the tray. He felt behind his seat, in the footwell.

Something.

A nylon jacket? No, too heavy.

It was a BB, a belly-and-balls bulletproof waistband, hips to solar plexus, fastened at the side with Velcro, tied between the legs. Niemand had owned one. Never mind the chest shot, what worried soldiers was the gut shot, groin shot, balls shot off-those were the major worries.

There was a pocket across the back, sideways. It held a Kevlar knife, like a piece of thin bone, a fighting knife. Weighed no more than a comb and you could carry it through a metal detector.

Niemand put the corset into his bag.

The man was coming back, weaving down the busy pavement. He came close, showed the device.

‘State of the fuckin art, mon,’ he said. ‘The 6210. Internet. Voice diallin. Four hours talkin time to go.’

Niemand found a fifty and a ten. ‘Where’s the owner?’

‘On holiday. Won’t know till he comes back.’

They did the exchange.

‘Where is this?’ said Niemand.

‘This?’

‘Here. Where am I?’

The man shook his head. ‘Battersea, mon. Thought it might be sunny fuckin Hawaii, did ya?’

Niemand watched him go down the crowded pavement, slick as a fish through kelp. He took his bag and got out, left the car unlocked, keys in the ignition. He walked in the opposite direction to the phone seller. Cold drizzle, smells of cooking oil in the air. It took a long time to find a cab.

‘What is your desire?’

The driver was an Indian, a balding man with a moustache, a stern, worried face.

Jesus Christ, where to?

‘Victoria Station.’ It came to mind. What did it matter? At least he knew where Victoria Station was.

He leant back, felt his muscles let go, watched the world go by. Into a main road. Night traffic, heavy both ways. The driver said nothing.

They crossed a bridge. Presumably Battersea Bridge. He must have come this way on the back of Jess’s bike. On the other side of the bridge, the traffic was bad.

Who were these people trying to kill him? How did they find him?

He should give them the film in exchange for letting him leave the country. Ring the woman who’d betrayed him. No. That wasn’t the way it worked: they wanted the film and they wanted him dead. They knew he’d seen the film, he couldn’t be left walking around.

Jess. They would kill her too.

They would think she was in this with him. Why shouldn’t they think that? She’d picked him up on her bike. She’d taken him home. Of course, they’d think that.

‘Pull up anywhere you can,’ he said. ‘I’ll get out here.’

‘Well, this is not hardly worth my while, you said explicitly you wanted…’ Niemand found a twenty, showed it. ‘Just pull up,’ he said.

The driver didn’t look impressed, pulled to the kerb. Niemand didn’t say anything more, got out. It was the Kings Road, he recognised it, knew where he was. He leaned against a wall, got out the cellphone, found Jess’s number.

It rang. And rang. The little electronic sound.

It wasn’t going to be answered. He knew that.

He should have done this before. She had saved his life. Taken him onto her bike, into her house, organised his doctor.

And she had phoned him in time to save his life, save it for the second time.

There had been nothing in it for her. Nothing. She had simply done it for him. For another human being.

All I said was, Thanks very much. What kind of a person am I?

Ringing. Ringing.

The sound of being picked up. The button.

He closed his eyes for an instant. Thank God.

‘Yes?’

‘Jess?’

‘Who’s that?’ A woman.

It wasn’t Jess.

Jess was dead. He knew it.

‘A friend. Is she there?’

Silence. He thought the line had gone.

‘Con?’

Niemand let his breath go.

‘Yes.’ He said.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘They tried to kill me again.’

‘Where are you?’

He told her. He should have said thank you again and goodbye and sorry about your building, but he told her.

…HAMBURG…

The phone.

‘Mr Anselm?’

‘Yes.’

‘David Carrick from Lafarge in London. Does that mean anything?’

‘It does.’

The man had the kind of English voice Anselm disliked. Eton and the Guards. He’d come across a few of them. The pinstriped suits with a white stripe. Not blue, not red. White. When had he come across them?