Mike Carey - The Devil You Know

WE SAT UP IN THE ATTIC IN A COMPANIONABLE POSTcoital languor, leaning against the bare wall. We’d already made ourselves decent again, and anyone clattering up the bare stone stairs would announce themselves from a good way off, so we didn’t have to worry about being caught in a compromising position.

“You never suggested using a condom,” I commented.

“Have you got a condom?”

“No.”

“There you go, then.”

“Are you always this happy-go-lucky?”

“I got carried away. So did you. But I’m on the pill. Are you saying I should still be worried?”

I shook my head. I steer clear of relationships. I’ve always been afraid of someone I love turning up dead, and then—having to live with that or having to deal with it. Having to face the choice. So although I’m not entirely celibate, I think I count as chaste.

“And no more should you. Word. Let’s change the subject.”

“Okay,” I conceded. “Can we talk shop?”

“Sure. Go on.”

“Have you ever heard of a strip club called Kissing the Pink?”

Cheryl laughed; she had a dirty laugh that I liked very much. “I’m glad we’re talking shop now,” she said. “I’d hate to think you were gonna ask me out on a date. No, I don’t know it. I’ve never been in a strip club in my life. I saw the Chippendales once, if that’s any good.”

“Have you ever met a man named Lucasz Damjohn?”

“Nope.”

“Or Gabriel McClennan?”

“Nope again. Felix, what’s any of this got to do with my Sylvie? You’re sounding like a private detective.”

“It’s all tied together somewhere,” I said, aware of how lame that sounded. “Cheryl, what about these rooms? Do they ever get used for anything?”

“Not yet. We’re gonna expand into them eventually. Some bits of stuff get stored up here, but not much. Why?”

Instead of answering, I got up, breaking what was left of the drowsy, intimate mood. I crossed to the window and looked out. Then down. Three floors below was the flat roof of the first-floor extension. A plastic bag lay on the gray roofing felt, the wind making it jerk and flurry, but not shifting it.

“What’s underneath us on this side of the building?” I called over my shoulder.

“Strong rooms,” said Cheryl.

“Just strong rooms?”

“Yeah, just strong rooms.”

“With no windows?”

“Right. Why d’you want to know? What’s going on?”

“I thought I heard someone up here,” I told her, going for a half truth. “When there shouldn’t have been anyone.”

“That’d be Frank, then,” said Cheryl.

“Sorry?” I said, turning back to face her. “Why would it?”

“He does his meditating up here. Jeffrey said he could.”

“Frank meditates?”

She grinned. “How’d you think he got that laid-back? We’ve got the only Zen security guard in London. Only he’s really a butterfly dreaming he’s a security guard.”

“This was at night. When the archive was closed.”

“Yeah?” She blinked. “Okay, I take it back, then. Frank only comes up in his lunch hours. But—what were you doing up here after the place was shut?”

“Long story,” I said. “Would you mind keeping it a secret for now?”

“You’ll have to buy my silence.”

“With what, exactly?”

She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“I’m just a plaything to you, aren’t I?” I complained with mock bitterness.

“Too right, boy. Let’s say six o’clock tonight—give me time to get out of here. I’ll meet you at Costella’s. You’re gonna have to work hard to keep me happy.”

“Will I get time off for bad behavior?”

“We’ll see. Depends how bad you can be, I suppose.”

“Cheryl, is there an alley off to the side of the new annex?”

“Yeah, that’s where the wheely bins are. Why?”

“I’m going to go down there and shinny up on that flat roof.”

“As an aftermath to sex? A lot of people would just smoke a cigarette or something.”

I kissed her on the lips. “Smoking’s bad for you,” I pointed out.

“So am I, boy. I’ll do your back in.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Wait for me—I’ll only be a minute.”

I left her there and descended the stairs. Frank gave me an amiable nod as I went by. For the first time, there was a second guard on duty with him—a younger man with a military crew cut who gave me a fish-eyed stare. I smiled a smile of good-natured idiocy and kept on going.

The alley was a cul-de-sac, lined on both sides as Cheryl had said with the wheely bins of the adjacent buildings—each standing black plastic coffin bearing a number in white paint that had dripped while it was drying.

Everything looked different from ground level. Judging the spot as best I could, I climbed on top of a Dumpster and then used the horizontal bar of a closed steel gate. It was an easy climb, which didn’t surprise me in the least. Someone at the archive was doing it on a regular basis, after all. But I was too far over, and I was looking into a builder’s yard. The flat roof of the Bonnington annex ended ten feet to my left. I tightrope-walked along the wall until I got to the roof. I could see the plastic bag lying close to the sheer wall of the main building—which, apart from the attic skylights at the very top, was an eyeless cliff face.

I went over to the bag and picked it up. Good Food Tastes Better at Sainsbury’s , it said. But whatever was inside it, it wasn’t food. It was heavy and rectangular. I tore open one corner and looked inside.

The words looked back at me, but that was a coincidence. More than half the letters and documents in the bag were in English.

A whistle made me look up. Cheryl was leaning out of the attic window. She waved at me, and I waved back. I mimed “stay there,” palm out like a policeman’s stop sign. She nodded.

I went back inside and headed for the attic, but she met me halfway.

“What was in the bag?” she asked.

“A selection of good wholesome produce at reasonable prices,” I said. “Cheryl, will you let me into the Russian room again?”

“I thought you said it was a dead end. What was in the bag?”

“Stuff. I did say that, and I might even be right. But there’s something I want to take a look at.”

Everything in the strong room was just as I’d left it the other night. The boxes were still stacked up on the floor, Rich’s laptop was still on the table, and the place still had the same sour, dispiriting smell as it’d had the first time I’d walked in, four days ago now.

“Six o’clock,” Cheryl reminded me.

“I’ll be there,” I promised.

We kissed and parted.

As soon as she’d left, I turned the computer on. Then, while it warmed up, I went looking for the other thing I needed. It should have been on the table, but since it wasn’t, I must have shoved it into one of the boxes along with an armload of papers.

It took me about ten minutes to find it, but at least it was still there: the ring-bound reporter’s notebook with Rich’s handwritten notes in it. Armed with that, I opened the database program on the computer and tried to figure out which end of it was up. There was a file named RUSSIAN1, which seemed to be a reasonable place to start. The program said it contained about 4,800 records.

I opened a few at random. Like the boxes, there wasn’t a lot to choose between them.

LETTER. 12/12/1903. SENDER MIKHAIL S. RECIPIENT IRINA ALEXOVNA. PERSONAL. RUSSIAN.

LETTER. 14/12/1903. SENDER MIKHAIL S. RECIPIENT PETER MOLINUE. PERSONAL. ENGLISH.

LETTER. 14/12/1903. SENDER MIKHAIL S. RECIPIENT RUSSIAN EMBASSY “TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.” BUSINESS/FORMAL. RUSSIAN.