‘There are a lot of danger signals involved in a job like that, red flags. You strike me as someone who ignores red flags.’
‘You shouldn’t rush to judgement; I got map-reading and signals intelligence badges in the Cub Scouts.’
‘The last thing I want to do is prejudge you unfairly. How would it be if I gave you a little aptitude test?’
‘Fire away.’
He observed me through narrowed eyes and stroked his chin. ‘Well, using all your skills and wide knowledge of semiotics, which we have both agreed is the study of signs and meaning, tell me how you would read the following situation. A man walks into your office and chops your desk up with an axe.’
I scratched my head. ‘That’s a tough one.’
‘Any red flags there you can see?’
‘This is pretty advanced semiotics.’
He put the cigar down on a vulgar onyx ashtray. Then took out a semi-automatic pistol, pointed it at the ceiling and made a clicking sound in the back of his throat. ‘Walther PPK, my favourite, the one favoured by James Bond –’
‘There are not many mayors who can say that.’
‘Adolf Hitler shot himself in the bunker with one, too. What do you think the PPK stands for?’
I shrugged.
‘
‘You got me there.’
He looked unhappy. He put the gun down on the desk and swivelled it round to point at me. ‘Why have you come to see me?’
‘It’s about your soothsayer. I need to know how good he is. You told me that I would soon be poking my nose into your affairs and for that reason you were taking the precaution of chopping up my desk in advance. Then shortly after you left, a man entered my office with a case that may or may not constitute poking my nose into your affairs, but I need to know.’
‘Who was this man?’
‘I’m afraid that information is protected by client privilege.’
‘It was that fool Raspiwtin.’
‘I can’t confirm or deny.’
‘You don’t need to. My soothsayer gives very detailed prophecies.’
‘Maybe you should let me have his card. I like to have my fortune told.’
‘I don’t think you would like what’s in store for you.’
‘I need to know if I had a client who wanted me to ask questions about say, for the sake of argument, a man called Iestyn Probert, would that be OK?’
He narrowed his eyes slightly and you could see he was debating whether the forced politeness was worth the effort any longer. The debate went on for a long while. Eventually he said, ‘Mr Knight, I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely frank with you. I don’t have a soothsayer. When I referred to my soothsayer I was being . . . I was just . . .’
‘Cracking wise?’
‘Call it a figure of speech. You see, Raspiwtin is a man with whom I have had some dealings in the past. Word reached me that he was in town and that he had been asking for your office. How do I know this? Because I am the mayor and I get to hear about things. I am well informed: I know where he stays and what pyjamas he wears. I know what brand of toothpaste he uses and what he has on his breakfast toast. I know because I know. Unfortunately Mr Raspiwtin is unwell in the head, and in that head there is an obsession with matters from the past that I wish to remain private. But there is no soothsayer, just a prediction that your fate will mirror that of your desk if you decide to oblige Mr Raspiwtin.’
He glanced for effect at his watch. ‘Goodbye, Mr Knight. Your time, I’m afraid, is up, both here in this office and in the wider context of life in Aberystwyth. I gave you fair warning; let’s hope I haven’t wasted my time. The mayor of Aberystwyth is not a guy who likes to have his time wasted; he’s not the sort of guy who likes to give duplicate warnings, it’s wasteful.’ He reached forward and pressed a buzzer that indicated the interview was over.
It was just after midnight, maybe 1.00 or 2.00 in the morning. I lay asleep in my caravan in Ynyslas. The far- off susurration of the waves was barely audible, but the wind coming in off the sea cuffed the caravan like the hand of a giant schoolteacher and made the metal fabric sing. There is something deeply comforting about that sensation, of feeling protected and cocooned in warmth and yet aware, too, of the proximity of the ocean. Ynyslas is 6 miles north of Aberystwyth and lies hidden from the world in a corner of sand adjacent to the estuary. During the day in summer nothing moves here except tide and cloud and, occasionally, across the estuary on the distant hill, two carriages of a toy train going north.
There was a noise. Close. I opened my eyes, knowing without knowing how that there were people inside. The deepest, darkest fear of every householder in the night. The one that has never changed throughout time. The moment when you come face to face with your own mortality. Someone shone a flashlight into my face; someone put a gloved hand over my mouth; someone pressed the barrel of a gun into my eye. I was ordered to dress, and a hessian sack was placed over my head. I was pushed out into the cold night and into a car. We drove off. Fifteen minutes later the chimes of the station clock striking 2.00 told me we were passing through Aberystwyth.
When the hood was removed, I was sitting in a hard-backed chair facing four men across a desk in a dingy room. It felt like a basement but there were no clues for thinking this. Just the conviction that the business to be transacted was probably going to be hidden from the world. An Anglepoise lamp was trained on my face. After the darkness of the hood it was unbearable. I pushed the lamp down to cast its beam on the desk. One of the men was an officer in the military, wearing combat fatigues; he had silver hair, closely cropped, and his face was red. One was dressed in the neat, sober and expensive suit of a Whitehall mandarin in his sixties, with the pallor of a snail, the Man from the Ministry but not one you can find in the telephone directory. The third had cop written all over him: standard-issue crumpled suit, police hair grease, truncheon-battered ear – he was eating an ice cream. Next to him, doing his best to counterfeit a kindly face, was a military chaplain. The brass hat looked to the mandarin for a cue regarding the lamp. The mandarin nodded acceptance. His shirt was crisply ironed, the tie knot small and rammed home without compromise. He looked tired, his face lined and pallid with the air of one used to dispensing authority in rooms that seldom saw daylight. The cop simply stared at me with a look that might have been bored contempt or maybe amusement. The brass hat spoke first.
‘Thank you for coming.’
‘No problem, I was passing anyway.’
He looked round to the mandarin, as if unsure how to react and needing a cue. The mandarin made an impatient grimace and said, ‘We want you to help us.’
I smiled.
‘If it was up to me,’ the brass hat added, ‘I’d have you flogged.’
‘What a shame it’s not up to you; you look like you’d enjoy it.’
‘Don’t get funny. It doesn’t mean I can’t have you flogged, or that I won’t. It’s just not in our best interests at the moment.’
‘Or mine.’
His face turned a deeper shade of red. ‘Look here you –’
The mandarin placed his hand on the officer’s forearm. ‘Let’s not get distracted.’
‘How can I help you?’ I asked.
‘We want you to betray someone,’ said the mandarin.
‘Who do you want me to betray?’
‘The man calling himself Raspiwtin,’ he said.
‘What do
The mandarin sighed. ‘Please don’t keep asking impertinent questions. We’re not here to negotiate. We’re offering you a deal you can’t refuse.’
‘It’s not a deal then, is it?’
He raised his head slightly and looked over my shoulder. He nodded. Four strong, hard hands grabbed me
