Ian Rankin - Westwind

‘I must have made a mistake then, it’s as simple as that.’

They were sitting in the morning room, a modern extension to the main building fitted with patio doors and filled with pot plants. It was like a hothouse, and Hepton, who had already taken off his jacket, now dragged his tie loose from his neck. Paul Vincent, dressed in slippers, thick dressing gown and sunglasses, didn’t exactly look ill. He looked rested and a little tanned. In fact, he looked a good deal healthier than Hepton felt.

‘Still,’ Vincent continued, ‘it’s good to see you, Martin. Thanks for coming. So tell me, what’s happening back at the base?’

Hepton shook his head. He hadn’t driven all this way for gossip. ‘What makes you so sure you made a mistake?’

‘Well,’ Vincent opened his arms in supplication, ‘like you say, nothing’s been done about it. And Fagin doesn’t seem to think anything’s amiss.’

‘Fagin can make mistakes.’

‘Not while I’ve been working for him he hasn’t.’

‘So how come we lost Zephyr for over three minutes?’

‘You can’t blame that on him.’

‘Why not? He’s in charge, isn’t he?’

‘Martin, what’s wrong?’ Vincent seemed genuinely concerned.

Hepton rubbed sweat from his forehead. It was a good question. What was wrong? Why was he so keen to see mysteries where there might be none? Paul Vincent didn’t seem anxious. Nick Christopher didn’t seem anxious. Fagin didn’t seem anxious. So why was he bothering?

‘I don’t know, Paul. It’s just...’ He sighed. ‘I really don’t know.’

Vincent smiled. ‘It really was nice of you to come. I haven’t seen anybody since I came in here.’

‘What happened to you? I mean, back at the base?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m not exactly sure. One minute I was fine, the next I was in hospital.’

‘And what did the hospital say?’

‘You know what they’re like. The patient always gets to know the least.’

‘Who was your doctor?’ Hepton had asked the question in a rush. It seemed almost to catch Vincent out; he stared at Hepton before replying.

‘McGill, I think. Yes, a Dr McGill.’

Hepton sat back in the chair and looked around. A few elderly men were seated in wicker chairs. Two were playing a game of chess so delicately they looked to be moving in slow motion. The heat was prickling Hepton’s neck and back. He rubbed a finger beneath his shirt collar and glanced towards the doorway, where two muscular male orderlies stood, their jaws fixed. Like soldiers on parade, he thought, rather than nurses caring for the sick.

‘So what’s it like here?’ he asked.

‘The food’s good,’ said Vincent. ‘Mind you, the sex isn’t up to much.’

They laughed, but Hepton was beginning to catch something behind his friend’s eyes, something trapped behind that dead, unfocused look.

‘Are they giving you any drugs, Paul?’

‘No more than I usually take.’ Vincent laughed again, but Hepton managed only a smile, listening to that laughter, to its nervy hollow centre.

‘Know what I think, Paul?’ he said. Then he leaned towards his friend and lowered his voice. ‘I think you’re in trouble. I think you’re frightened. I think this is all bullshit.’ He nodded in the general direction of everything around them. ‘And I think you need a friend like me. Maybe I’m wrong.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Give me a call if you feel like talking.’

‘Martin!’

But Hepton knew that the only way to end the scene effectively was for him to walk and keep on walking. So he did. He wasn’t going to learn anything here, not unless he could scare Paul enough to make him say something.

He was practically at the car when he heard footsteps hurrying across the gravel behind him.

‘Martin, wait!’ Paul Vincent caught up with him, looking paler now after the exertion. ‘Martin.’ He paused for breath. ‘At least stay for afternoon tea.’

It wasn’t the answer Hepton wanted. He opened the driver’s-side door. Vincent’s hand came down onto his own level.

‘Look,’ he said. He glanced around him. ‘I’m going to say this just the once, but that should be enough. You always were a good listener, weren’t you?’

‘I still am, Paul.’

‘Well, listen now. Stay out of it. Take a holiday. Suggest it to Fagin. He’ll approve it. Go off somewhere warm.’ He laughed at this, the sweat gleaming on his face. ‘I mean somewhere exotic, somewhere quiet.’

‘That’s friendly advice, is it?’

Vincent shrugged. Hepton could see the two orderlies in their white uniforms watching them from the main building. Could he bundle Paul into the car and make a getaway? Not against the fitter and younger man’s will. He climbed into the Renault and closed the door.

‘Tell me,’ he said through the open window. ‘Really, just between us, what did you think you’d discovered?’

Vincent sighed. His voice when he spoke was no more than a whisper. ‘There was something up there, Martin. Something big.’ He glanced over his shoulder towards the orderlies. ‘But that doesn’t seem to be the point.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘The point seems to be that no one cares . One name, Martin.’

‘Yes?’

‘A man called Villiers. He came to see me, to ask a few questions. He didn’t give his name, but I asked at the desk afterwards and they told me. I didn’t like him much. Steer around him if you meet him.’

‘What questions did he ask?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, routine stuff. What happened at the base? What happened with my computer? That sort of thing.’ Vincent paused. ‘The disk got wiped, didn’t it? The hard disk?’ Hepton nodded, and Vincent sighed. ‘They’re being pretty thorough.’

‘You’re saying the disk wasn’t wiped accidentally?’

‘I’m not sure, but I never was a great believer in coincidence.’

‘No, me neither. But then someone in the control room must have wiped it.’

‘I suppose so, yes. I got the impression Villiers wanted everything kept as quiet as possible.’

Which, Hepton thought, seems to mean keeping you out of the way.

‘Thanks, Paul,’ he said.

‘Remember what I said about taking a holiday.’

‘Goodbye, Paul. Look after yourself.’

‘You too, Martin. And I mean that. You too.’

Driving off, Hepton checked in his rear-view mirror and saw the two orderlies approach Vincent. Vincent had the look of a lonely man, of a man unfairly imprisoned. Hepton felt his hands harden around the steering wheel. He pressed down a little on the accelerator and enjoyed the momentary feeling of complete control.

The Palladio Bookshop was sited not far from Holborn Underground station, and every weekday morning the shop’s proprietor, Mr Vitalis, would take the Piccadilly Line Tube from his home in Arnos Grove. He always walked up the escalators rather than standing, but this was due not so much to impatience or any need to be getting on as it was a keen desire to keep himself fit. After all, Mr Vitalis was nearing fifty, though he looked older. Some said his background, to judge from his voice, was east European, and that he had come to England at the outbreak of World War Two. Others, examining his olive skin, proclaimed him Greek, while a few guessed at Italian and fewer still north African. In a sense, they were all correct, since Mr Vitalis liked to think of himself, in the truest sense of the phrase, as a man of the world.

The Palladio was fairly quiet in the mornings, busying at lunchtime with customers from the offices and shops, browsing as they munched on a sandwich or sipped from a carton or can. In the afternoon, a few of the regulars usually dropped in either to buy or to sell. Mr Vitalis had a good reputation with the city’s book reviewers, who would offer him the latest titles, once they had been finished with, for one third of the cover price. These books Mr Vitalis sold on to libraries and, it must be said, other bookshops. And in this way he made his money.