Ian Rankin - Westwind

‘To wish him a speedy recovery, of course.’

The man nodded. ‘It’s taken you a while to get round to that, hasn’t it?’

Hepton reminded himself that he had no time to play games. ‘Look,’ he said firmly, ‘there’s just something I need to speak with him about. Something personal, but very important.’

‘Oh?’ The civil servant had picked up one of the new biros and was examining it. It struck Hepton that he didn’t know who this man was.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Sanders,’ the civil servant said. ‘And you said yours was Harris.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, Mr Harris, it’s just that we have to be careful. A lot of people would like to speak to Major Dreyfuss. I’m sure you understand. Reporters from the less scrupulous newspapers, and other people. So, if there’s some way we can establish your identity...?’

Hepton cursed silently. Sanders was shrewder than he had anticipated. He shook his head. Sanders appeared to have been expecting this.

‘Or,’ he said, ‘if you can prove your relationship with Major Dreyfuss...?’

Hepton thought this over. ‘We have a mutual friend,’ he said at last. ‘Miss Jill Watson. She’s a reporter on the Herald .’

The civil servant looked up from his pen. ‘And she sent you here?’

Hepton saw the implication and shook his head. ‘No, no, of course not. She doesn’t even know I’m in London, for Christ’s sake.’

‘No need to lose your temper, Mr Harris.’ Sanders was writing Jilly’s name on a sheet of paper. ‘But you’ve no proof of identity on you?’

Oh, what the hell, thought Hepton. If they’re going to check on Jilly, they’ll get my name eventually.

‘My name’s Hepton, not Harris,’ he said.

Sanders seemed satisfied. ‘But you signed the visitor’s pass Harris. That could get you into trouble, you know. Why the deception?’

‘Look, I just want to get in touch with Major Dreyfuss. If you could help me contact him...’

Sanders rose to his feet. ‘Wait here a moment, would you, please?’ He walked smartly to the door. ‘Help yourself to more coffee,’ he said, making an exit.

Hepton stayed seated, but couldn’t relax. This had seemed such a good idea at the time. There was bound to be someone from the FO in contact with Dreyfuss. It had seemed so simple... But now he had given them so much, and they had given him nothing. He got up and went to the window, pushing aside the net curtain to look out. All he saw was other windows in another building. They too had net curtains, making it impossible to see into the rooms.

He crossed to Sanders’ desk and examined it. The papers, as expected, were just blank sheets. The drawers of the desk were locked. Over at the bookcase, he wiped a finger along one surface and it came away carrying a bud of dust, which he blew into the air. There was another door, a cupboard perhaps, but it too was locked. He went to the percolator and refilled his cup, drinking slowly. What was happening? Where had Sanders gone? Would Harry walk in through the door? Had he delivered himself to her on a plate?

When the door did finally open, Sanders himself stood there, looking composed.

‘If you’d like to follow me, Mr Hepton,’ he commanded, and they set off together back along the silent corridor and up an imposing staircase. There weren’t so many rooms on this second level. A large and busy reception area was the hub of the activity as people walked briskly in and out of the various offices. Telephones rang, and a few visitors sat on modern upholstered chairs, flicking through magazines.

Sanders approached the reception desk and said something to the prim woman seated there. She filled in another pass, which was torn from its pad and handed to Sanders, who in turn gave it to Hepton.

‘Sign it, please,’ he ordered, and Hepton accepted the proffered pen. ‘Best stick to calling yourself Harris,’ Sanders advised. ‘That way it doesn’t get complicated when you’ve handed back both passes and somebody tries to collate the day’s visitors in and out.’

‘Right.’ Hepton signed himself as Martin Harris and followed Sanders towards one of the doors. This led into a smaller reception, where a young black secretary tapped away at a computer.

‘Morning, Sarah,’ said Sanders, passing her and pausing at yet another door. Sarah smiled at Hepton, and he smiled back. He was thinking now that everything was going to be all right.

Sanders had knocked at the door. There was a command from within, and he opened it, ushering Hepton into the room before him.

It was a decent-sized office, its furniture a mixture of the antique and the up-to-date. Books lined one wall, while another contained paintings and prints. The fourth and last was taken up for the most part by a large window, again net-curtained. At the window stood a middle-aged man, an important-looking man. The cut of his clothes was expensive, and where his cheeks had been shaved there was a bright ruddiness that bespoke health and wealth. Hepton had the feeling that he had seen this man before somewhere, on television perhaps.

‘Ah, Mr Hepton. Do come in, please. I’m George Villiers.’

Villiers! Hepton’s heart shrank to the size of a peach stone. But he kept his face neutral, betraying no emotion, and finally shook the proffered hand. It struck him that Villiers wouldn’t — couldn’t — know that Hepton knew about him. He had to stay calm, not give anything away. He breathed deeply to stop himself from hyperventilating. His heart was racing, but he kept his posture stiff.

Villiers motioned for him to sit, and Hepton did so. Then Villiers seated himself and drew his chair in towards the table. Something about his actions — a clipped, rehearsed quality, a feeling that each movement of the body possessed its own cause and effect — told Hepton that he was ex-military. And not all that ex either.

Villiers lifted a sheet of paper from his desk. It was a typed sheet, not the one Sanders had taken with him from that first room. ‘Can you tell us why you wish to contact Major Dreyfuss?’

‘No,’ said Hepton briskly. ‘If you could just pass a message on to him that I’m trying to reach him, perhaps—’

‘You’re on holiday at the moment, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but how could you—’

‘These things aren’t difficult. All right, Mr Hepton. We’ll see what we can do. Where will you be staying while you’re here?’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’

‘With Miss Watson, perhaps?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Oh?’ Villiers stared past Hepton’s shoulder, towards where Sanders stood. ‘I was under the impression the two of you were friends?’

‘We are. That is, we were.’ Hepton’s thoughts were quicksilver now. This was a man he’d been told to avoid, told by Paul Vincent, who was now dead. He couldn’t afford to let Villiers know anything, and already the man knew too much... ‘We broke up. We haven’t seen one another in months.’ Hepton sounded bitter, and made his face look the same. They had to be made to think that he wouldn’t be contacting Jilly.

‘Ah.’ Villiers went back to studying the typed sheet of paper. Hepton noticed that there was a buff-coloured file on the desk, down the edge of which was written a name: Dreyfuss, Major M. The paper had undoubtedly come from the file. Villiers seemed to know who Hepton was, and didn’t seem overcurious about Jilly. Therefore he already knew as much as he needed to know. Had he gleaned the information from the typed sheet? Hepton doubted it. No, there was another reason why Villiers knew about him.

Villiers looked up suddenly and caught Hepton staring at him. He smiled, as if to say: I know what you’re thinking. Then he read through the sheet again, and Hepton relaxed. Villiers couldn’t know he knew.