Ian Rankin - Westwind

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll put lunch on expenses, then give the office a ring.’

‘Why?’

‘To tell them I’m not coming in this afternoon. I’m going to be working on something, and you’re going to be resting.’

‘I am?’

‘My flat’s not far from here. You can stay there while I go into town.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Hepton did feel drowsy, but then he’d had the larger share of the wine. He could feel the effort in each word he spoke aloud.

‘I’m going to see what I can find out about this George Villiers character, among other things.’

‘Jilly...’

‘What?’

‘You’re sure it’s okay for me to go to your place? I mean...’

‘It’s all right, Martin. There’s no other man around just at the moment. Christ, I wish I had time for one.’ She paused, then tapped the Filofax. ‘I want to take a look at this. God knows, it’ll make a nice change for me to do some sleuthing again. Who can say, there may even be a story in it.’

Hepton was asleep on his feet by the time they reached Jilly’s apartment block by the river. He had been expecting, if anything, an old converted warehouse, but in fact the block was of recent design.

‘Mock warehouse,’ Jilly explained.

There was a security system at the main entrance, and each flat had its own little video screen so that callers could be identified before being let in. That might come in handy, Hepton thought to himself.

The flat itself wasn’t huge, though Jilly stated that by London standards it was more spacious than most. The living area was open-plan, with a bedroom and bathroom off it. There was a narrow veranda — not for the nervous — outside the French doors that took up the far wall. And yes, there were views of the Thames, though fairly unsavoury ones. The river itself was a mottled grey colour, and across the water there were gasometers, a stretch of wasteland and not much else.

‘You can see for miles,’ Jilly said. ‘Make yourself at home. I’ll try not to be too long, though parking can be hell itself in town.’

‘Where exactly are you going?’

She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Journalists never reveal their sources, especially before they’ve visited them. It’s bad luck.’ She bent down to give him a peck on the cheek, then closed the door behind her and was gone.

Hepton was surprised. He really didn’t feel anything more than friendship towards her now. When she’d been far away and inaccessible, he had longed for her, but now that they were together again, there wasn’t the same spark. Perhaps Jilly had been right to come to London. Their affair would have fizzled out in any case, wouldn’t it? Better to make a clean break. He lay along the sofa and closed his eyes, not intending to sleep. He just wanted to rest...

He awoke to the sound of a purring telephone. He hadn’t been asleep long, and felt light-headed, disoriented. He reached for the receiver and picked it up.

‘Hello?’ he said.

There was a silence on the other end, a crackling of wires, and perhaps, in the background, someone’s fluttering breath.

‘Hello?’ he said again. Still nothing. Then a short laugh.

‘You’ve been a very bad boy, Martin.’

Hepton felt his fingers tighten around the receiver.

‘Hello, Harry,’ he said. The light-headedness left him. He was wide awake now. ‘How was Leeds?’

There was that laugh again, laughter lacking humour but filled instead with cruelty. ‘Leeds was a clever idea, Martin. I couldn’t think why you’d be going there. Then I realised you’d found my little device.’

‘How did you track me down?’ Not that he was really interested, but he needed time to think.

‘I spoke to your employer. He told me how depressed you’d been when your girlfriend moved to London. I thought it was worth a try.’

Hepton’s mind was working now. There was no point mentioning to her that he knew about Villiers. It would be a cheap point to score, like throwing an ace onto a low card. No, he’d keep his ace for the moment. But he needed to knock her off balance. She was sounding a little too confident, and this, married to her thoughts of revenge — he could hear how bitter she was about Leeds — made her doubly dangerous.

‘You should have killed me back at the nursing home,’ he said. ‘Don’t think you’re going to get a second chance.’

‘What are you going to do? Run for it?’

‘No, I’m going to wait right here.’ For Paul, he was thinking. ‘And when I see you, I’m going to kill you.’

The laughter this time had a hysterical edge to it. Good: his words were having their effect.

‘That’s fine, Martin,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll see you soon then. I’m calling from just outside your building.’

And with that the telephone went dead. Hepton paused, put the receiver down and got to work.

Three short knocks followed by one long.

‘Come in, Parfit.’

Parfit entered Johnnie Gilchrist’s office. Gilchrist was pouring himself a drink.

‘Want one?’ he asked.

‘Why not?’ said Parfit. ‘I’ll have a small brandy, thanks.’

Gilchrist poured half an inch of Martell into a crystal glass and handed it to Parfit.

‘Cheers,’ he said. They chinked glasses.

Gilchrist took a mouthful of his own whisky, then smiled, shaking his head.

‘I have to hand it to you, Parfit. Getting hold of a private jet like that. I won’t ask what favour the owner owed you.’ He paused, inviting Parfit to tell him anyway, but Parfit merely savoured his drink. ‘How is the patient?’

‘He’s fine,’ said Parfit. ‘I don’t think he was overly pleased about being brought in from the airport in a crate, but he’ll get over it.’

Gilchrist smiled again, then sat down, gesturing for Parfit to do the same.

‘How was the City of Trees?’

Parfit looked quizzical.

‘That’s what they call Sacramento,’ Gilchrist explained, pleased that Parfit hadn’t known. ‘Home of the Pony Express.’

‘More relevant, it’s also the home of McClellan Air Force Base, which is where they landed Dreyfuss once they’d decided he shouldn’t stick around Edwards. To answer your question, the City of Trees was... interesting.’

‘So your gambit paid off?’

‘What gambit, Johnnie?’

Gilchrist rubbed a finger around the rim of his glass. ‘Leaving your man there so damned long on his own. You wanted to see what they’d try to get out of him, didn’t you?’

‘That’s your interpretation. I was hoping for... a reaction.’

‘I take it you got one?’

‘Oh yes. You know a man called Frank Stewart?’

‘The Frank Stewart? National Security Agency?’

‘Yes, that’s the one.’

‘What about him?’

‘He was there.’

‘Good God. I wonder why?’

‘I got the feeling it wasn’t so much to do with Dreyfuss as it was to do with General Ben Esterhazy.’

‘So Esterhazy was there too?’

‘Yes, you were right about that. What’s more, he was looking fairly rattled.’

‘Oh? Any particular reason?’

‘Several, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Parfit finished his drink and took the empty glass back to the drinks cabinet. He left it there and walked to the window, from where he watched the remnants of another demo as they chanted something incoherent, their fingers pointing towards where he was standing. He gave them a wave, which seemed to anger them further. ‘Esterhazy’s up to no good, Johnnie. I can’t say yet quite what, but I’m getting closer.’ He returned to his seat.

‘Don’t tell me about it, Parfit. It would only make me an accessory. Just tell me what you need.’