Peter Temple - In the Evil Day

Anselm pulled a face. He could have got twenty, more. He disconnected and rang Tilders. ‘There’s something we have to do.’

‘Yes,’ said Tilders. ‘What?’

‘What kind of case did Zander buy?’

‘Aluminium photographer’s case.’

Anselm was silent for so long that Tilders thought the line had died. ‘John?’

‘Tell Otto to buy one. The same. Exactly.’

It took a call to the locksmith and four more calls, twenty minutes on the phone.

…HAMBURG…

The SCHNELLZUG slid into the huge vaulted station, punctual to the second by the Hauptbahnhof ’s great clock. Zander, the bodyguard, appeared first, blocked the doorway of his sleek carriage and didn’t give a damn, looked around, took his time. He was slight for someone in his line of work, blond and elegant in a dark suit, jacket unbuttoned. When he was satisfied, he moved to his left and Serrano stepped onto the platform. He too was in a dark suit but there was nothing elegant about him. He was short and podgy, a sheen on his face, hair that looked lacquered, and a roll of fat over his collar. A laptop computer case was slung over his shoulder.

Next off was a middle-aged businessman, a man with a pinched and unhappy face who raised his head and sniffed the stale station air. After him came an elderly woman, an embalmed face, every detail of her attire perfect, then a family of four, the parents first. Once Gastarbeiter from Anatolia, Anselm thought, now wealthy. Their teenage boy and girl followed, citizens of nowhere and everywhere. The pair were listening to music on headphones, moving their heads like sufferers from some exotic ailment.

A woman was in the doorway. She was 30, perhaps, in black, pants, sensible heels, dark hair scraped back, charcoal lipstick. Her face was severe, sharp planes, not unattractive.

‘The woman,’ said Tilders. He had a mobile to his face, a long, earnest philosopher’s face, a face made for pondering.

Anselm half turned, sipped some Apfelkorn from the small bottle, swilled it around his mouth, felt the soft burn of the alcohol. He was on his second one. He was scared of a panic attack and drink seemed to help keep them away. He drank too much anyway, didn’t care except in the pre-dawn hours, the badlands of the night. The woman was carrying an aluminium case in her left hand, carrying it easily.

‘From the East,’ said Tilders.

‘Sure it’s just three?’

‘Don’t blame me,’ said Tilders. ‘This is not our kind of work. Is it on?’

Anselm drained the tiny bottle. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Blame’s all mine.’

Tilders spoke into his mobile. They followed the woman and Serrano and his bodyguard down the platform towards the escalator that led to the concourse. The woman kept a steady distance behind the men, people between them. On the crowded escalator, Zander looked back once, just a casual glance. Serrano had his head down, a man not interested in his surroundings, standing in the lee of his hired shield.

When they reached the concourse, Zander paused, looked around again, then went right, towards the Kirchenallee exit. The woman didn’t hesitate when she reached the concourse, turned right too, walking briskly.

The concourse was crowded, workers and shoppers, travellers, youths on skates, buskers, beggars, petty criminals, pimps, whores, hustlers.

Zander and Serrano were almost at the exit. Zander looked around again. The woman had been blocked by a group of schoolchildren on an excursion. She was ten metres behind them.

‘Getting late,’ said Anselm. This wasn’t going to work, he was sure of it.

‘ Scheisse ,’ said Tilders.

From nowhere came the gypsy boy, moving through the crowd at a half-run, twisting around people, a wiry child in a drab anorak, tousled black hair, ran straight into the woman, bumped her in the ribcage with his shoulder, hard, bumped her again as she went back. She fell down, hit the ground heavily, but held onto the case.

Without hesitation, the boy stomped on her hand with a heavy Doc Martens boot, thick-soled. She screamed in pain, opened her hand. He grabbed the aluminium case with his left hand but she hooked an arm around his left leg.

The boy kicked her in the neck, stooped and punched her in the mouth, between the breasts, one, two, his right hand, a fist like a small bag of marbles. The woman fell back, no heart for hanging on. He was off, running for the exit.

No one did anything. People didn’t want to get involved in these things. They happened all the time and it was dangerous to tackle the thieves. Even young children sometimes produced knives, slashed wildly. Recently, a man had been stabbed in the groin, twice, died in the ambulance. A father of three.

But Zander was suddenly there, running smoothly, going around people like a fish. The boy’s start wasn’t big enough, the woman had been too close to Zander, it had taken too long to get the case away from her.

‘ Scheisse ,’ said Tilders again.

Then someone in the crowd seemed to stumble, bumping a longhaired man into Zander’s path. The man went to one knee. Zander tried to avoid him but he couldn’t. His left leg made contact with the man. He lost his balance, fell sideways, bounced off the ground, came to his feet like a marionette pulled up by strings.

It was too late. The boy was gone, the crowd closed behind him. Zander paused, uncertain, looked back. Serrano had joined the woman, outrage and desperation on his face, both arms in the air. Zander got the message, turned to take off after the boy again, realised it was hopeless, stopped and walked back to Serrano. Serrano was enraged. Anselm could see spit leave his mouth, see Zander recoil. Neither of them looked at the woman, she’d failed them.

Two policemen arrived, one talking into his throat mike. The woman was on her feet, nose bleeding a little, blood black in the artificial light, her right hand massaging her breastbone. Her hair had come loose and she had to brush it back with her left hand. She looked much younger, like a teenager.

A third policeman appeared, told the crowd to get moving, the excitement was over.

The woman was telling her story to the two cops. They were shaking their heads.

Anselm looked at Tilders, who was looking at his watch. Anselm felt the inner trembling, a bad sign. He went over to the newspaper kiosk, bought an Abendblatt . The economy was slowing, the metalworkers’ union was making threats, another political bribery scandal in the making. He went back, stood behind Tilders.

‘How long?’

‘Five minutes.’

Serrano and Zander were arguing, the short man’s hands moving, Zander tossing his head, arms slack at his sides. Serrano made a dismissive gesture, final.

Anselm said, ‘I think we’re at the limit here.’

A tall man was coming through the crowd, a man wearing a cap, a blue-collar worker by his appearance. The throng parted for him. In one hand, he had the gypsy boy by the scruff of the neck, in the other, he had the photographer’s case, held up as if weightless.

The woman and the policemen went towards them. When they were a few metres away, the boy squirmed like a cat, turned towards his captor, stamped on his left instep, punched him in the stomach. The man’s face contorted, he lost his grip on his captive and the boy was gone, flying back the way he had first fled.

‘What can you do?’ said the man to the woman. ‘The scum are taking over the whole world. Is this yours?’

Serrano came up behind the woman. He was flushed, had money in his hand, notes, a wad, offered it. The man in the cap shrugged, uncertain. ‘It’s not necessary,’ he said. ‘It’s a citizen’s duty.’