Down Cemetery Road Part 28

Sarah slammed the phone back on its hook.

In the lift again, heading back up to the room, she remembered a moment from ancient history, and a morning spent complaining to Wigwam about her boring life. No job. Housework. 'You know what he said to me the other day? . . . I was handing him a cup of coffee, and he said Thanks, em, Sarah.' No he hadn't. He'd said 'Thanks, Em Sarah.' b.a.s.t.a.r.d. She reached the room in a mood to kill. And then that vanished too, and there was very nearly real panic this time as she pushed the door open on an empty bed in an empty 'Michael? Michael!'

'What?'

He came out of the bathroom, a towel hanging limply over his shoulders.

Sarah pushed the door shut behind her, and leaned on it for support.

'I thought you'd gone,' he said.

Redundantly, she shook her head.

'Anyway, we've been here too long. We should both be going.' He went back into the bathroom, but left the door open. She could hear water running down the sink. She sat on the bed, and waited.

IV.

The room was still on the same floor and had the same old calendar on the wall; the same window provided the same view of, probably, the same traffic snaking through the same lights. C had the same mane of silver grey hair, the same look of repressed fury, and the same tension headache was creeping up on Howard as he stood in the same place he had last time: just in front of the desk. That mark on the wall hadn't been there before, though. Looked like a spider had been squashed about half-way up.

'Let's recap,' said C.

Yes. Let's.

'You let Axel Crane, who was barking mad, go ballistic on an operation that called for finesse. He blew up a nice suburban house, scoring exactly fifty per cent in his attempt to eliminate the targets, Downey and Singleton. He also killed Singleton's wife, and came this close to killing his young daughter, whom Amos Crane has since spirited away for use as bait to draw Downey out. Who meanwhile has killed Axel Crane, apparently to prevent him from murdering a local woman who got too nosy about Singleton's daughter's whereabouts. Said nosiness consisting in part of hiring a private detective, whom Axel successfully murdered. Did I miss anything important?'

Howard shook his head.

'Good. Now, here's the really interesting question. If only one part of that was to appear in the papers, which part would you like it to be?'

'The bit about Downey killing Axel,' Howard said.

C closed his eyes briefy. 'Have you any idea how f.u.c.king rhetorical that was?'

This time, Howard didn't reply.

From an office somewhere down the corridor a phone rang, which n.o.body answered. It was late afternoon, which in the Ministry for Urban Development counted as the wee small hours of the morning. Its name is MUD, Howard thought, inconsequentially. That gave them something in common, at any rate.

'You're supposed to be running a secret department, Howard. You don't officially exist.'

Howard thought: Sure. Fine. But the problem with running a place that doesn't exist is, you have to staff it with people who do. Which means creatures like the Crane brothers. Not much point in trying to get that across. 'I'm aware of that.'

'So why is Downey still on the loose? He's been out of our hands since almost last Christmas. He's been back in the country three weeks at least. Have you any idea how much damage he could do if he started talking? If anyone listened?'

'n.o.body would.'

'You'd like to guarantee that, would you, Howard? You'd like to sign your f.u.c.king name to the promise?'

'He's a war criminal. We can prove it.'

'Oh, brilliant. He's also technically dead, Howard. We can prove that too.' He shook his head. 'We are at war, Howard. Along with our good allies across the water. Protecting the proud name of democracy, and all the rest of the b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. Do we really want the world to know that it's our fault this time? Because some mad b.u.g.g.e.r with more ribbons on his uniform than brain cells in his head wanted live targets for the latest chemical toy? We won't look quite so f.u.c.king n.o.ble all of a sudden, will we? You ever wonder what it's like on the receiving end of sanctions, Howard? Or Scud f.u.c.king missiles, come to that? Because that'll be the least of our b.l.o.o.d.y worries if Downey lives long enough to talk.'

'If he was going to talk, he already would have. He's been on the loose long enough.'

'Didn't have a woman with him, though, did he? Just him and Singleton, right? Combat conditions. It's not like that now. And where's Amos Crane, anyway?'

'He's, er '

'Back at the office? Don't p.i.s.s me off, Howard. I heard about your contretemps. That's a bit more f.u.c.king French for you, you seem to like it. Put you on the floor, did he? He's a f.u.c.king animal. Always has been.'

'I don't know where he is. I think he went after Downey.'

'n.o.body ever claimed he didn't enjoy his work. But it's gone too far, Howard. Thanks to the p.i.s.s poor job those b.a.s.t.a.r.d brothers have done, there's another civilian on the dead-list. And given the hard-on Crane's got now Downey's boxed his brother, it's not likely to be a pretty death, either. I don't want to read about Mrs Trafford being found in six different locations. Alastair b.l.o.o.d.y Campbell couldn't make that sound accidental. So Crane's off the job, got it? Yank his leash and bring him home. As far as I'm concerned, you can pension him off. But do it properly. No amateurs. And I don't want his body turning up anywhere, ever. Clear?'

'Can I have that in writing, sir?'

'f.u.c.k off. Now, what happened to Mr Trafford? He been secured?'

'I think so.'

'How excellent. If I were interested in what you think, Howard, I'd be saving up for your memoirs. Has he been secured or not?'

'We've got him with his fingers in the till. His job's gone, obviously, but as far as his bank's concerned that's the end of it. Reputation to maintain and all the rest. But we're holding criminal charges open, and one squeak from him and we'll bury him.'

'Who made that clear?'

'Amos Crane.'

'Good enough.'

. . . Amos had told Trafford, apparently, to expect no chance of a holiday in an open prison, improving his squash, followed by an early release with temporary senile dementia. Amos, in fact, had been extremely graphic about just what Trafford could expect.

'He's staying with a friend of his, I gather. The story is, his wife's done a bunk. And no noise about finding a body in the kitchen.'

'But he knows the body was in the service.'

'He couldn't not, really,' Howard admitted.

C sighed slightly, as if picturing another accident happening in the not too distant future. 'How long have you been doing this job, Howard?'

'Six years, sir. Just under.'

'Wonderful. Stick with it another six years and the population explosion could be a nightmare of the past. Perhaps we should send you overseas. Africa, India. One of those very crowded places. Oh, stop looking so f.u.c.king resentful. I know it's not entirely your fault.' C scratched his chin malevolently. 'I just don't much b.l.o.o.d.y care, that's all. Now. Where's Downey headed? a.s.suming he lives long enough?'

'The child's on the island. Crane expected he'd go there.'

'Does he think Downey's very clever or very stupid?'

'Very stupid, I think, sir.'

'Fair enough. Either way, Crane'll be heading there himself, unless he tracks Downey down en route. I'm serious about this, now, Howard. Crane finds them before they get to the island, he'll leave a mess all over the landscape. On the island, it doesn't much matter. We can hose it down and forget it. But I don't want more of a pig's ear made out of this than you've managed already. So stop Crane. If he reaches the island first, fair enough. Let him do his job. But I don't want him leaving it. I don't mean to be harsh about this, Howard, but he's like a pit bull that's tasted blood. You can never trust him again.'

'I think I know what you mean.'

'And stop pretending it's a painful duty. I'm sure you'll p.i.s.s on his corpse. Now get out.'

There was a spring in Howard's step as he walked back across the park. It wasn't often a revenge fantasy received official sanction. Almost enough to make up for the amount of s.h.i.t he'd had to eat to get it: that man was a foul-mouthed b.a.s.t.a.r.d all right. Still. One fantasy at a time.

He hoped Crane made it to the island first.

He also hoped Downey still had a gun.

Chapter Six.

The Good Soldier I.

The hire car was a red VW, one of those compact, city models. Michael put his new rucksack in the back, along with the canvas bag Sarah had inherited from him. Two days ago, she'd left home with nothing. Already she had luggage; was acc.u.mulating a new history. It wasn't that easy to leave everything behind. You junked what you could, and new junk came right along and took its place.

At least there was a new Sarah, though. She turned the windscreen flap down, and checked herself out in the vanity: in Boots, she'd bought a dye-pack, and transformed herself from an average, mouse-brown woman to a raven. She wasn't sure how many washes it would take. From the state of the towel when she'd finished, not a lot. But it would do. She no longer looked like the Other Sarah Tucker. She looked like her own woman.

Michael saw what she was doing. 'I told you,' he said. 'It looks fine.'

'Thanks.'

'You could be anybody.'

'Thanks,' she said again, but he didn't register the difference. They were on the road now, leaving the town behind. She saw a pair of buzzards hovering over a concrete bridge. It was sad, with all the s.p.a.ce their wings might afford them, that they chose to live by the hard shoulder.

'How did you hire a car?'

He looked at her briefly.

'Don't you need ID? Aren't you supposed to be dead?'

'I've got ID.'

'Whose?'

No answer. She went back to landscape gazing. Once, on a drive with Mark, they'd pa.s.sed a buzzard sitting on a post. It had been much larger than they'd have expected. Unafraid, it had stared them down with an angel's contempt for the earthbound, then returned to surveying its field. As they drove on, Sarah's main feeling had been one of guilt. She did not know why this was so, and never would.

Another time, in Oxfordshire, they'd driven past a field of ostriches. Dozens of them: out of place, and wicked, and downright delightful.

'His name was Fielding,' Michael said.

'Fielding.'

'James Fielding.'

'Sounds like a stockbroker.'

'He was a wino. Living on the streets.'

'And you bought his ident.i.ty?'

'He wasn't using it any more.'

Once you had the social security number, everything came easy. Driving licence, credit cards . . . Even junk mail, if you had an address.

Michael kept driving. They didn't pa.s.s any ostriches.

After some hours, they were in London. And then, before she felt truly ready for it, Michael was finding a parking s.p.a.ce for the VW, and she was alone on a leafy street, walking through dappled shadows among houses that sang of summer, and light, and money.

Gerard's Hampstead home had none of the rural insecurities of his Cotswold cottage: he might be faking it with the county set, but he had nothing to prove in the suburbs. His house was large, detached, and mostly hidden from view by a high and surgically perfect hedge, whose purpose was less to secure privacy than to underline that, in a street like this, conspicuous expenditure was unnecessary. If you'd made it here, you'd made it. Scrunching up the gravelled drive, she admired the potted bays flanking the big front door; the way that, though a car was parked nearby, no tyre tracks betrayed that it had been driven rather than built there. Probably each stone was numbered and allotted a position. Probably Gerard had full-time staff, organizing this.

All of which supposed it was Gerard's home. But memories of conversations about Hampstead had steered Sarah to the appropriate phone book; she had little doubt she'd got it right. Especially when the car turned out a Porsche. Her only disappointment being, when she rang the bell, Inchon answered the door himself. She'd been hoping for something in livery, or at the very least a French maid.

'Good lord,' he said.

'Not at work?'

'It's a holiday,' he said automatically. Then, 'Sarah? What on earth are you doing here?'

'It's a long story.'

Michael appeared behind her. He'd moved silently over the gravel; had possibly floated an inch or two above it.

Gerard glanced at him briefly; said, 'I think you have the wrong house.'

'He's with me.'

'Really?'

Confirming it would have put her at a disadvantage. She simply waited until he said, 'You'd better come in.'

So they followed him through a wide, immaculate hall to a room at the back; a broad, sunny room with french windows, a baby grand, and large, comfy chairs. From outside came what Sarah thought was the chirping of crickets, but turned out to be a water sprinkler. Its reach didn't quite make the windows, but the patio sparkled wetly, and rainbows danced off the spray with each pa.s.s. Summertime in England. She half expected a string quartet to kick off.

'Drink?'

'No thanks.'

He said, 'Some people have been worried about you.'