Ian Rankin - Westwind

‘Hello?’ said a voice on the other end.

‘Yes,’ said Hepton, ‘I’d like to speak to Nicholas Christopher, please. He works in control.’

‘I’ll see if I can find him. Who’s calling?’

‘It’s his brother, Victor.’

‘Hold on.’ The phone went quiet.

Hepton bit his bottom lip, then changed his mind and bit his top lip instead. Someone was coming down the stairs. A fat man in shirt and tie: one of the diners from upstairs. He pushed open the door to the gents’ and, once inside, started whistling the background music from the restaurant’s hi-fi. Hepton turned his attention back to the amount of money he had left. The LCD was ticking down, but there was still plenty of time.

He hoped Nick Christopher would recognise the code. One night, they had gone off base to a local pub, where the landlord had informed them that there was a disco in the village hall. After a few beers, they had visited the disco, and Christopher had dragged them onto the dance floor to introduce themselves to two young women.

‘I’m Nick,’ he’d shouted over the music, ‘and this is Vic. Nick and Vic.’

In private, that nickname — Vic — had stuck to Hepton for a few weeks, producing a smile every time as it reminded them of that night and that disco.

The receiver suddenly came to life.

‘Brother Victor,’ said Nick Christopher knowingly. ‘I thought you were on holiday?’

‘I am. Can you talk?’

‘Yes.’

‘I mean, is there anyone with you?’

‘Well, I’m at my console.’

‘So there are people around you?’

‘Not many, but yes. Look, give me your number and I’ll call you back.’

‘Okay, but hurry.’ Hepton recited the telephone number and put down the receiver. A good portion of his money, unused, came clanking out, and he scooped it back into his pocket. The phone started to ring. ‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Okay, I can talk now.’ Christopher’s voice was not as hale and hearty as it had been in the control room.

‘What’s happening, Nick?’

‘I don’t know, Vic. It’s been pretty weird here since I last saw you. Fagin asked me if I had any idea where you were. He said he needed to contact you about something. And now... we’re moving out.’

‘What?’ Hepton’s face creased in puzzlement.

‘Moving out. The place is being closed down temporarily. Something to do with fitting a new system. I don’t know, something like that anyway. So everybody’s getting two weeks’ R and R.’

‘But what about Zephyr? ’

‘She’ll be stationary. There’s going to be a skeleton staff to keep an eye on things. Fagin and a few others.’

‘What others?’ It was beginning to fall into place now.

‘I don’t know. But none of us. So, anyway, why did you call?’

Hepton had almost forgotten himself. ‘Oh,’ he said, reminded. ‘I’ve got a big favour to ask.’

‘Name it.’

‘I want you to send me a video tape of Buchan airbase. As recent as you can manage, so long as it’s after the Zephyr malfunction.’

‘You’ve got to be joking!’

‘I’m deadly serious.’

‘What the hell for? I could end up in jail for a stunt like that.’

‘Look, Nick, remember what I told you about Fagin and Paul and everything?’

‘Yes, I remember. But Paul’s dead now, isn’t he? They said you were the one who found him.’

‘I was. It wasn’t suicide, Nick. It just looked that way. If we’re going to find his killers, I need that tape. And if you could also send one of Buchan before Zephyr went haywire, that would help too. This is an emergency, Nick. I mean, life and death.’

‘Well, maybe, but... Christ, I can’t just—’

‘You’re shutting down, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘So it should be easy.’ Hepton thought fast. ‘Stuff’s being moved about, boxed up, what have you. Say a couple of video tapes go missing, it’s bound to happen.’

‘Okay, so I put them in my pocket — then what? Down to the local post office?’

Hepton hadn’t thought about that. He didn’t want to involve Sanders — or anyone else he didn’t feel able to trust. But if he wanted the tapes tonight... And he did want the tapes tonight.

‘Nick, do you still go to the Bull?’ The Bull was the public house closest to the base. It was a brisk evening walk, and a pleasant one in the summer months.

‘Not for a while.’

‘Could you drop in tonight? Just for a pint?’

‘And take the tapes with me?’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘I’m not sure I can get them that soon.’ Christopher paused. ‘Will you be at the Bull?’

‘I’ll try.’

‘The thing is, there’s a lot of logging to be done before we shut down. I’m not sure Fagin will spare me enough time. We were working till ten last night. I was so tired afterwards, I just collapsed into bed.’

‘Look, Nick, try your best, will you?’

He seemed to give this serious thought. Hepton was under no illusions: Nick was a nice enough guy, but he was no hero. Look after number one, that had always been his creed. There was an all-too-audible sigh on the line. Then he spoke.

‘Okay, Martin,’ he said. ‘If you want cloak and dagger, you can have it. I’ll be in the Bull at seven.’

‘Thanks, Nick.’

‘You owe me one.’

‘I won’t forget. See you tonight.’

Hepton put down the receiver and turned towards the stairs. Sanders was standing there, three steps up, arms folded. He had obviously heard some of the conversation.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

There was no point lying. ‘Binbrook, Lincolnshire. To the Zephyr base. I have to meet someone there.’

‘Can I ask why?’

Hepton moved past him and started upstairs, Sanders following.

‘No,’ he said. ‘But it could mean a whole lot of brownie points for you.’

‘I still need to know why we’re going to Lincolnshire.’

Hepton stopped and turned to him. ‘Is there a video recorder in the safe house?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, because we’re going to be watching some videos later on, after we come back.’

Sanders nodded. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me?’

Hepton fixed his eyes on those of the younger man. ‘Because you worked for Villiers,’ he said. ‘And because for all I know, you still do.’

Sanders shrugged. ‘You’re entitled to your opinion,’ he said. ‘But like it or not, I’m coming with you tonight. What about Jilly?’

‘I’d rather she didn’t go with us. No real reason.’

‘You think it could be dangerous?’

Hepton managed a wry smile. ‘These days,’ he said, ‘who can tell?’

Of course, Jilly was furious. She didn’t want to be left out, and the fact that Hepton wasn’t telling her much about the trip only served to kindle her curiosity further.

‘Damn you, Martin Hepton! You were always too secretive, that was what I hated about you!’

Her words bounced around inside his head all during the drive. In the end, she had calmed a little, thrown herself into a chair and picked up a newspaper, using it as a shield against him. No matter how pleasant the house in Marlborough Place was — and it was pleasant — it was still a prison, a place of detention. There were two guards to look after Jilly, but they didn’t only stop people entering the house; they stopped them leaving as well. And if Jilly was nothing else, she was a free spirit. Hepton could vouch for that.

Always too secretive. Damn you .

Yes, he’d been secretive. He had told her about his work, but not all about it. There always had to be something held back, something left unsaid. And he had never talked much about himself anyway, preferring to hear Jilly talk about her own life. It was so much more lively and vibrant, so much more interesting. So much more... open.