“You called me.”
“Doesn’t mean these things can’t be traced.”
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t really my problem.”
“No. I suppose that about sums it up.”
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“To find Bakker.”
“You just think sitting around on your arse is going to help you find Bakker?”
“Simmons will tell me where Bakker is.”
“So you’re waiting to find Simmons?”
“Yes.”
“What if he doesn’t? Or won’t that matter?”
“It’s complicated.”
“You are a one-note-answer kinda guy, aren’t you?”
“At the moment.”
“Fair enough.”
“Is that it? Fair enough?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Oh, please. I’m going to find you, remember?”
“You’ve made the point explicitly clear. Although, to tell the truth, it may not be such a bad thing.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m sure you’ll work it out,” I said. “When things get sticky, talk to Vera.”
“You trust her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She’s not actually sworn an oath to the deity to decapitate me at the earliest available opportunity,” I replied, “which is a good thing.” And hung up, before she could say something offensive.
About an hour later, Charlie rang.
“Found Simmons yet?” I asked.
“Yes – you were right, about the thing following him. It’s not pretty.”
“Where?”
“You’ll need a lift. Looks like this thing is going down in the middle of bloody nowhere.”
“Let me worry about transport.”
“I knew you would,” he said, and gave me the address.
Just one more thing that needed to be done, before it finished. Just one.
I found a copy of the Yellow Pages on top of a bus shelter, and leafed through it until I found the number under C for Catering. I wandered back to my hotel, picked up the phone and dialled.
The voice that answered said, “Palmero Paradise, yeah?”
“I’m looking for Mrs Mikeda.”
“Who’s calling, like?”
“Matthew Swift.”
“Right, give’s a mo.”
I waited. The owner of the sawing voice and grating accent could be heard in the distance beyond the receiver saying, “Hey, where’s the bag gone?”
We had a feeling…
… voices in the receiver…
… we knew we could know this voice, if we wanted to. Everyone leaves something behind, in the phones.
“Hey, Swift, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“She’s just coming.”
“Thank you.”
… so easily…
I pinched the palm of my hand until the skin was red and lumpy. A voice came onto the phone, with a different accent that drooled across every syllable like a pot of honey. “Yes? Who’s this?”
“Mrs Mikeda? It’s Matthew Swift here.”
“If you want money I’m not your woman, you know?”
“Money? No.”
“Then piss off.”
She slammed the phone down on the hook. I was surprised; but, thinking about it, I wondered how I had ever expected a better reception.
I packed up my belongings and decided to do things the old-fashioned way.
Palmero Paradise was a small, greasy sandwich shop off Smithfield meat market, where the butchers went in their lunch hour for salami sandwiches and a slosh of tea in a cardboard cup. When I arrived, it was early evening: too soon for the area’s fashionable wine bars and soon-to-be-heaving clubs to have opened their doors, but late enough for the market’s gates to be shuttered over the racks of mechanised hooks and the floors smelling of diluted blood and sawdust. The streets had a quiet, Sunday-afternoon feel, drained of excitement in a thin drizzle.
The lights were still on in Palmero Paradise, but they were clearly shutting up shop, moving the few wobbly metal tables back into the small shop and pulling down the covers on the fridges. I picked up the last sandwich on the shelves – Cheddar cheese and suspicious-looking pickles wrapped in cling film – and ordered a cup of coffee.
Behind the counter, the young man in the big red apron had the same nasal accent that I’d heard on the phone. He said, “We’re closing, like.”
“I just want a coffee.”
“Sure, right, yeah, but…”
“We think you call telephone pornography lines,” we said suddenly, feeling inspired both by his apron and the familiar drone of his voice, and irritated by his reluctance to give us something to drink. And then, because I was surprised to find both that we believed this and that his face showed it was true, I added, “You need to get yourself a girl.”
He said, “Are you…”
“Is Mrs Mikeda around?”
“You’re not the nut who phoned, are you?”
“That’s me.”
“Look, uh, I don’t want…”
“Maybe you should see if she’s still here.”
“Right. Yeah. Whatever.”
With that, he disappeared through the jangling plastic bead netting at the back of the café.
I waited. A moment later, to the sound of much stomping, Mrs Mikeda appeared. She had a mobile phone in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other and the words “Leave now, police soon or scissors immediately, which would you…” on her lips before she looked at me, I looked at her, and the words died.
“Mrs Mikeda,” I said politely, because Mum had always taught me to be courteous to older women.
“Mr Swift!” The words were as much twisted sounds on an uncontrolled rush of air, as showing any intent to speak. “You’re … not… I mean… you’re…”
“How are you, Mrs Mikeda?” I asked, in an attempt to break the ice.
