David Szalay - London and the South-East

She sighs tremulously, and stands up. She seems in a hurry.

‘Look, I’m sorry … I didn’t mean … Are you really going?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? Please …’ he says, half standing. For a few moments he stays on his feet, prevaricating, wondering whether to follow her, whether the situation might still be saved. It seems unlikely. In haste, she is pushing her way tearfully towards the exit. He sits, and fishes his cigarette from the ashtray. On his own — feeling shaky, empty — he finishes the pint and a half of bière blanche . He tries her phone. It is switched off. For several seconds he hesitates, poised to leave a message. Then he hangs up, and threads his way through strangers’ voices to the door.

WATT INSISTS ON meeting in Eastbourne. He says that Brighton is not safe, Hove even less so. So on Saturday evening, straight from his porridge, Paul sets out. He was up earlier than usual — when Marie was still in evidence, and there was still light in the sky, and shadows in the garden — and he feels muzzy and soft leaving the house. It is a mild evening. The hotel in Eastbourne that Watt has selected is part of a Victorian terrace on a side street perpendicular to the seafront. It is white stucco, several houses wide — where front doors used to be, windows with lace curtains. The bar is quiet. No one is playing the walnut baby grand; the red velvet armchairs are mostly unoccupied, the cut-glass ashtrays mostly empty. Paul advances over the maroon carpet, looking for Roy Watt. When he sees him — in one of the armchairs, his head lolling on a stained antimacassar — he is shocked how exhausted he looks. He looks utterly shot, like he has not slept in days. The weary brown shadows under his eyes spread almost to the edges of his face. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Paul says, holding up an apologetic hand. ‘The train took longer than I thought. It takes forty-five minutes. Did you know that? It can’t be more than twenty miles …’ Watt looks hurt. He has a sip of his G&T. Then a sip of his Silk Cut. ‘Drink?’ Paul says. Technically, Watt is supposed to be paying for everything. (And he is insisting on receipts.) ‘I’m all right actually,’ he says.

‘Sure?’

He nods.

When Paul returns from the bar — which looks strangely flimsy, like something left over from some very amateur dramatics — Watt is still sulking. ‘We’ve not got much time,’ he says. From the carpet next to his seat he lifts an old-fashioned British Airways flight bag. ‘The equipment. Take it.’ Paul takes it. ‘The instructions are all in there. I’ve tested it and it works. But test it again before … You know.’

‘All right.’

Paul wants to unzip the bag and inspect the equipment. Watt is staring at him, with exhausted-looking eyes. The situation seems to be wearing him down. He has had to lie to his wife and daughters about where he is. Nor do they know that he has started smoking again — he has to hide his cigarettes and suck mints and tell them that he has been in smoky pubs with boring men. None of which is positive for his self-esteem. He peers into his glass, empty except for a few shrunken ice cubes. When he speaks, his voice is scratchy. ‘So who’s this “Andy” then?’ he asks.

Unhurriedly, Paul puts down his pint. The tablecloth is a filthy ivory, with lumpy lace edges. He had waited until Watt phoned him on Friday — in a terrible, feverish state — to tell him that he had found someone. Andy. On Thursday, at his wit’s end, he had tried Andy’s mobile number, hoping that it would still be the same. It was. And it was not the only thing. Andy — it was almost incredible — was still at Park Lane Publications. Everything just went on , Paul thought. It just went on . He had joined Tony Peters’ team. Paul said that he had a job proposal for him. He explained, loosely, what was involved — two days in Brighton, pretend to be a fruit seller, two hundred quid. Andy had not taken much persuading. The whole thing lasted only a few minutes, though it might have lasted longer had Paul been more expansive when Andy asked him what he was doing. ‘This and that,’ he said quickly.

‘With Murray?’ It was the only mention — oblique — of what had happened last winter.

‘No. Um. In Brighton. So …’

So he would meet Andy at Brighton station on Monday morning. ‘Oh, and bring a suit,’ he said.

‘No problemo.’

And that was that. Andy had not asked a single question.

‘Just a bloke I used to work with,’ Paul says. ‘A salesman.’

‘You were a salesman?’

‘Yeah.’

Watt looks surprised for a second. ‘Presentable, is he?’

‘Very.’

‘How old?’

‘Mid, late twenties.’

‘Hope he’s not too young.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

Watt is worried though. He looks miserable, threadbare with stress. He leans his ugly face over the low table, and says, ‘Does he understand how serious this is?’

Paul shrugs. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘I’m sure he does.’

‘Tell him,’ Watt says, with a cigarette in his mouth, making a mess of lighting his lighter, ‘tell him he’ll get no money if he doesn’t get any evidence.’

Mildly outraged, Paul looks at him for a moment. ‘That’s not what we said.’ Watt sighs, frustrated. ‘I’ll be able to see of course,’ he says, squinting through the cigarette smoke. ‘I’ll be able to see if he’s not trying. On the tape.’

‘Yeah, you will.’

He pulls some printed sheets from his briefcase. They are neatly stapled together in two sets, and he hands one to Paul. The first page is headed ‘The Strawberry Market’. Watt starts to go through the text, explaining, quickly, how the fresh-produce market works. It is a frenetic, fast-moving world. Fruit, vegetables, cut flowers. Prices hugely up and down. The strawberry price, for instance, might swing from a high of five hundred pence a kilo to a low of a fifth of that, and then up again, in a matter of weeks. Thus early season the prices are usually high, falling precipitously over the summer, then shooting up in September time. The supermarkets, with a price horizon of a month or two, try to manage their stock in line with this. Men like Martin watch the five principal wholesale markets — Liverpool, Bristol, Birmingham, and the London markets, New Covent Garden and New Spitalfields. They pore over the fine statistics of DEFRA’s weekly Agricultural Market Report ; for Martin, it is the most important document in the world. They watch the weather, subscribe to special Met Office data services. They need an encyclopedic knowledge of seasonality, of the natural processes of horticulture.

Maximising profits means fully exploiting the volatility of the market. But since the produce is highly perishable, and everyone is trying to do the same thing, margins are squeezed, sometimes to zero. To outperform the market, therefore, it is necessary to snatch hold of opportunities the moment they present themselves. ‘Your mate should call the supermarket and ask to speak to the fresh-produce manager,’ Watt says quietly. He has turned to the second page. Paul has done the same.

‘All right.’

‘He should say he’s from a strawberry grower, based in Kent.’

‘Strawb’rries.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Okay.’

‘Morlam Garden Fruits. It’s all here.’ Watt indicates the printed sheet. ‘He should say he wants to meet. That’s routine. It’s normal.’

‘Sure.’

From his pocket Watt takes a small stack of business cards — he had them made that afternoon. ‘MORLAM GARDEN FRUITS’ is written across the top, next to a stylised image of a tree. ‘Andrew Smith’ is the name; ‘Sales Manager’ the post. There are some telephone numbers, and an email address — asmith@mgfruits.co.uk. When he holds them out to Paul, his hand is shaking slightly. ‘These look good,’ Paul says, taking them. He spends a few seconds in polite inspection — Watt has evidently put some time in. ‘The numbers …?’