Peter Temple - In the Evil Day

‘Wonderful,’ said the man. ‘Good. We’re secure here, are we?’

‘What can be done has been done.’

‘Of course. That’s Latin, isn’t it? Totally rotten at Latin. I wonder if I can ask you to run a credit check? Someone new to the UK.’

Customs.

‘Name?’

‘Martin Powell.’ He spelled the surname. ‘Recent arrival, we would think. And we’d also like a general search, anything that turns up in the name. May I say that this could not be more urgent.’

‘You may. We’ll give it priority.’

‘Thank you. The numbers, you have them?’

In his segment of view, Anselm could see that the day was darkening.

‘We do.’

‘Immediate contact, please.’

They said goodbye.

…LONDON…

‘Let me be clear. I’m tired, I don’t want to be in this shithouse town.

We have the place, the cunt is there alone. Now one man is dead and two are in hospital with burns and the cunt is gone.’

‘Well, in essence.’

‘In essence? That means?’

‘Yes. Mr Price.’

‘So keep your fucken Limey talk for your old private school pals.

This’s a fuck-up of some size, not so?’

‘Yes. It is. But we had…’ ‘Who hired these people?’

‘We’ve used them before, Charlie, they’ve done…’ ‘You hired them?’

‘Well, ah, Dave…’ ‘Don’t be a prick. Don’t fucken shift the blame. Who’s the seller?

In fucken essence?’

‘We’re not sure right now. We’ll be…’ ‘That’s so fucken reassuring. You don’t even know who the cunt is.

We’re trying to kill some cunt, we don’t even know who he is.’

‘Haven’t had very long. This thing kind…’

‘ Very long? Very long? You want very long? Oh, well, sorry to rush you. Listen to me. You now have no fucking long. You have absolutely zero long. You are in negative long.’

‘We’re doing everything we can.’

‘I need to say to you, any more fucked up than this, you boys, you get skewered asshole to Adam’s apple. Cooked like fucken barbecue pigs. All night long, meat falls off the bone. Only the pigs, they kill the fucken pigs first.’

‘If I can say something, Mr Price…’ ‘Say. Just say.’

‘This is England, we can’t just…’

‘Wow, you fucken Limeys are somethin. Dunkirk, fucken retreat, 209 fucken disgrace, your finest hour.’

‘It’s the Battle of Britain actually.’

‘What?’

The Battle of Britain. That’s England’s finest hour.

‘That right? Excuse my fucken ignorance. Well, listen to me, goes for you both. Things don’t get better quick your fucken worst hour’s gonna happen real soon. Your fucken worst minute. Anyway. Now. Where the fuck are we?’

‘Mr Price, someone shot two men in a hotel in Earls Court the night before last. In the legs. The room was in the name Martin Powell. No sign of him. The men have told a story-met a man in a pub, he invited them to his room to have a drink, he turned…’ ‘Just the fucken ending.’

‘Mackie said people tried to kill him in a hotel, he told the woman that. Wishart. This Powell could be our man.’

‘You heard this when?’

‘An hour ago. We’ve got people on it.’

‘So pleased to hear that. The motorbike rider? It’s the one picked this Mackie up?’

‘Yeah. The address we got for the bike, it’s her old address. We sent someone, parcel to deliver, you know. Wrong address, this other woman, she gave the new address…’ ‘And your people went around there and shot themselves in the balls. Jesus, Martie, I cannot fucken believe…’ ‘They say they heard the phone ring inside. Hit the front door, he was already gone.’

‘Who’s carrying the can for this?’

‘No problem. They’re, ah, reliable. Good.’

‘Are you fucken mad? One man. One solitary fucken individual. On a plate. First, your reliable cunts decide to take him out in the most public place they can find, make this brilliant fucken decision, you don’t put them straight.’

‘Can I say, I didn’t…’

‘Fuck that up, then they set a building alight, own casualties minor. Just one dead, two in hospital having emergency skin grafts…’ ‘Private clinic, it’s…’

‘Shut the fuck up.’

‘Ah, there’s no chance of any ID, not the vehicle either. It should be…okay. Yes. Safe.’

‘Should be? Safe? Boy, who the hell trained you, you ask for your money back. Plus fucken interest. This Powell? When you gonna know?’

…HAMBURG…

‘I’ve got a Martin Powell on entry.’

Anselm looked up.

Inskip, languid in the doorway.

‘Yes?’

‘Heathrow. Four days ago. Central African Republic passport. Age 36, occupation sales representative. Flight from Johannesburg. Hand luggage only.’

He crossed the room and put a copy of the file note on the desk.

Anselm took the pad, got up and went to the filing cabinet, found the folder, the page. He wrote the key on the pad. ‘Run this,’ he said.

‘Immediately, Minister. In my pigeonhole today I found a cheque.’

‘Should keep you in black T-shirts for life. Or red.’

‘You noticed. It crossed my mind to spend some of it on a decent dinner. Hamburg haute cuisine. Might invite you.’

‘Very generous. Put most of it aside. When my anti-dining phase ends I’ll take you up.’

Anselm thought he saw something, hurt perhaps, in Inskip’s eyes.

‘Take me up, take me down, just as long as you take me.’

Inskip left.

Anselm found the Lafarge file. The number rang twice.

‘Lafarge International. How may I help you?’

‘Mr Carrick, please.’

‘Carrick.’ The clipped tone.

‘Weidermann and Kloster.’

‘Right, yes. Hello.’ Some anxiety in the voice.

‘Is this a good line?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘The person entered from Johannesburg at Heathrow four days ago. Central African Republic passport. Age thirty-six, occupation sales representative.’

‘Any background?’

‘Not yet.’

They said goodbye. Anselm went to Inskip’s station in the workroom.

‘In,’ said Inskip. ‘Amazing. How can we do this?’

‘They bought Israeli software.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning it’s got a rear entrance. Run Jackdaw.’

Shaking his head, Inskip clicked on an icon, a stylised bird with a D for Dohle superimposed on it. A box came up.

‘The name?’

‘The name,’ said Anselm.

Inskip typed in Martin Powell and clicked.

Three sets of letters and figures appeared.

Anselm said, ‘Select and click. And whatever you do, don’t print anything. Take notes. Go back to Jackdaw when you’re finished and erase.’

‘Sir.’

Anselm went across to Carla, stood behind her. She had code on two monitors. Her eyes were on the screens, her fingertips were stroking the keyboard, not pressing keys, thoughtful, just running down, making small clicking sounds. He looked at her hands for a while before he spoke.

‘Any luck?’

She swivelled slightly, put her head back, looked up at him. Her sleek hair touched his hip. ‘Herr Baader’s friends have not been very helpful. But now I think the bank’s encryption, it may be out of date. I have someone in Canada testing it. A secure person.’

‘Good.’ Without thinking, he touched her shoulder, pulled his hand away. She showed no sign of taking offence. He thought he saw the embryo of a smile on her lips.

At his desk, Anselm worked through the files, made notes for operators, dictated instructions for Beate. Alex was always at the edge of his thoughts. She came to mind too often, he thought about what she might be doing, what her day-to-day life was like. The apartment full of chairs. The ex-husband in America. Alex when she was waiting for him at the car, flushed face and neck: pink, sexual pink. She had prominent collarbones and a deep hollow between them.