Peter Temple - In the Evil Day

Enough.

Shawn.

Waiting to cross Fernsicht, he thought about the man called Shawn murdered in Johannesburg. Kael and Serrano had some connection with him. And Lafarge in London were looking for a man called Martin Powell, whose real name was probably Constantine Niemand, and who was probably on the scene when Shawn died. Niemand, an ex-soldier who killed Shawn’s killers.

Anselm thought that he was at the intersection of these things and he had no understanding of them. There was a film involved, Kael had talked about a film.

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, at least that’s neat. Shawn?

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

His street was calm and wet, the traffic noise muted here, most of the leaves down now, the tree limbs silver in the light from streetlamps and front porches, their shadows on the ground like dark roadmaps of densely settled places.

The laundry had been delivered, neat packages on the porch. In the house, the answering machine’s red beacon called to him as he passed the study. He poured a drink first, whisky and mineral water, not too strong. He was trying not to have three or four neat whiskies when he came home. It was a fight. He craved the quick hits.

He put on the heating and took the clean, ironed sheets upstairs and made the bed. Then he went down and made another drink, took it to the study, switched on the desk light, sat down in the leather armchair and pressed the machine’s Play button.

John, Lucas. I’ve had a call from a woman, a journalist. She’s been trying to find you. Says it’s very urgent. Life and death. Her words. Persuasive woman. Something you wrote in, hold on…it’s called Behind Enemy Lines. One of your left-wing rags, no doubt. Her name’s Caroline Wishart. W-I-S-H-A-R-T.I told her I’d pass on her number. It’s a direct line, London… Anselm found a pen, played the message again and wrote down the number.

Life and death. A figure of speech.

Behind Enemy Lines ? It meant nothing. Probably after 1989, that was where the major fault line seemed to run. There seemed to be bigger gaps after 1989. How could the brain be so arbitrary? He drank whisky and said the name over and over. Nothing.

Ring Caroline Wishart? About something he’d written. He hadn’t written anything since Beirut.

Who would say the words ‘life and death’? Journalists. Journalists would say them. Say or not say. They would say or not say anything. It was a trade of omission, implication, suggestion, allusion, half-lies, other fractions of lies. The challenge was to find a way to get people to tell you things. It was just technique-that was what he had said to himself then, in that life.

Lying even to himself.

The sound of water in the drainpipe outside. When the rain was steady, the house’s drainpipes made special sounds, irregular, surging sounds. The gutters seemed to hold the water, then let it go. Silence, then a rush. You could count the time between flushes if you said and between each count. Three, sometimes four seconds. He had first noticed this when they came to Hamburg for his grandfather’s funeral. Lying in the bedroom upstairs, in his father’s childhood bedroom, in his father’s childhood bed, Lucas asleep across the room-Lucas went to sleep instantly, anywhere-he had fallen asleep counting the pauses. How old? Ten or twelve.

The house had its own life, its own ways. When he came from Beirut, it was mute. He heard nothing, no sounds, a silent house. Then, gradually, it seemed to relax, accept him. One by one, sounds appeared. The house began to groan and creak, it moaned quietly in the wind. There were sounds of friction in the roof, strange rubbing sounds. Pipes began to choke and hammer, the heating whispered, the stair-treads released squeaks in descending or ascending order seconds after his passage.

Caroline Wishart.

He dialled W amp;K. Wolfgang answered.

‘Anselm. Herr Inskip, bitte.’

‘Inskip.’

‘Anselm.’

‘I thought you’d gone home.’

‘I’ve done that. Now I’m bored. Run a Caroline Wishart, will you? A journalist. London. Nothing fancy.’

He spelled the name, waited. He heard keys clicking, the humming of the blue room. He finished the whisky. Only the second drink of the night. Remarkable.

‘She’s a hot new talent,’ said Inskip. ‘An expose person. Exclusive. Minister Buggered Me Says Rentboy. Pictures.’

‘Is that a complaint?’ said Anselm. ‘I thought rentboys understood what the job entailed.’

‘He could be referring to the Minister’s stamina. It could be a compliment.’

‘Yes. Thank you and goodnight.’

Anselm fetched another whisky. He vacillated and then he dialled W amp;K again, Inskip.

‘Put this through for me, would you?’

He would be giving her his number if he dialled direct. He put down the phone. It rang within seconds.

‘Caroline Wishart.’

‘John Anselm.’

He heard her sigh.

‘Mr Anselm, I’m so pleased you’ve called. I’d almost given up hope.’

It was an upper-class voice.

‘It’s about what?’

‘You wrote a piece for Behind Enemy Lines in 1993. Called “And Unquiet Lie the Civil Dead”? Under the name Richard Monk.’

Anselm didn’t say anything. The title meant nothing to him. Nor did the name Richard Monk.

‘I’m trying to follow up on something in it about a rumour that a village in Angola was wiped out.’

Blank.

‘What makes you think I’m Richard Monk?’

‘The person the publisher paid for the article was John Anselm. A cheque was sent to him to an address in San Francisco.’

San Francisco?

‘What address?’

She told him.

Kaskis’ apartment.

‘Who told you that?’

‘The publisher’s friend told someone who told me. Robert Blumenthal’s friend.’

He saw a man with hair like a dark, curly frame around his face, bright brown eyes. The look of an intellectual lumberjack. He remembered a voice, low, husky, quick speech.

That was all he remembered.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Anselm. ‘I had an accident in 1993 and my memory’s bad. I can’t recall the piece. Not at all.’

She was silent. She doesn’t believe me, he thought. Well, a person who seeks out rentboys who say they were fucked by a British Cabinet Minister, she’d probably be of a sceptical bent.

‘Mr Anselm, it’s terribly important,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t being melodramatic when I said to your brother it was a life and death matter.’

He didn’t say anything.

She made a small sound. Not a cough, a sound of embarrassment. ‘I’d really like to say more,’ she said, ‘but I’m…I’m not comfortable speaking on the phone. You’ll understand, I think.’

Anselm thought he heard something in her voice. Truth, you sometimes knew it when you heard it. Truth and fear and lies, they had their pitches and cadences and hesitancies.

‘It’s a long shot,’ she said. ‘I’m a bit desperate. Very. I’ve probably bothered you for nothing. Wasted your time.’

Anselm looked at his drink. Bob Blumenthal? How did he know him, know his face so well? What short film was that? Did he like or hate the Bob Blumenthal whose face he could see.

‘I’ll call you again,’ he said. ‘Give me some time.’

‘Tonight?’

‘I don’t know. Possibly.’

‘Please. I’d be…it’s…well, it’s not a story I’m chasing, it’s something more. Anyway, I’ve said that. So…’ ‘Yes. Goodbye.’