In the Evil Day

‘Some nonentity. No mine detectors, no helicopters, no foot soldiers.’

Inskip rubbed his beard stubble. ‘Pardon my inquisitive nature but I’ve wondered about something. Does this firm make enough to have premises a few spits from the Senate guesthouse?’

Anselm took a last draw, cartwheeled the butt into the sad garden below. ‘It’s complicated but the short answer is No. I need that file.’

They went inside, crossed the room, raked by the cold fire of Beate’s disapproval. Anselm collected the file and took it to his office. He looked at the lists and then he went back to Inskip’s station and gave him the name.

Ten minutes later, Inskip came in with a piece of paper.

‘A charming woman in the newspaper’s library,’ he said. ‘She looked it up for me. They still have actual paper clippings and file cards with names.’

‘Quaint,’ said Anselm.

He looked at the sheet of paper, then he put it in the file. He rang Caroline Wishart.

‘I can’t help you,’ he said. ‘The name Mackie means nothing. And Diab’s death, that was just a coincidence. People got shot in Beirut all the time then.’

She was silent.

He didn’t wait, said sorry and goodbye.

The file was open on the desk, the names of the brigands assembled to stage a coup in the Seychelles.

Just above POWEL, MARTIN on the first list.

Just above NIEMAND, CONSTANTINE on the amended list.

The name MACKIE, ROBERTANGUS.

Robert Angus Mackie was a mercenary, killed in Sierra Leone in 1996 said the newspaper library in Johannesburg.

The man who showed Caroline Wishart the film, the man Lafarge were hunting, he wasn’t Bob Mackie.

The man was Constantine Niemand.

58

…LONDON…

Caroline listened to her voicemail. It had gone unattended.

Listen you homophobic bitch, you think you can crucify this man because he…

Next.

Hi, Caroline, my name’s Guy and I think we should meet. I’ve been fucked by names, you would not believe, I’m talking about big names, I’m talking show business, I’m…

Next.

Caroline, I’m Tobin Robinson’s producer. Tobin would very much…

Next.

Listen, sweetie, I really like your face, you have that kind of thin cocksucker…

Next.

We had a little chat, glass of beer, you came to see me. Remember?

It was Jim Hird, the doorman who saw Mackie.

I was talkin to a bloke today, he wrote down the number of that bike, know the one I mean? Some blokes come around askin but he didn’t like the look of ’em, kept mum. I thought you might have a use for it.

He read out the number.

She was out of the door in seconds but she had to wait five minutes for Alan Sindall, the chief crime reporter, to get off the phone before she could ask him.

‘You’ll have to buy me a drink,’ he said. ‘I’ve got something urgent on at the mo. I’ll send it around. Soonest.’

59

…LONDON…

The man’s name was Kirkby. He raised his wine glass to the light, studying the yellowish liquid like a pathologist with an unusual urine sample. ‘We always try to help,’ he said. ‘Where possible.’

‘It’s finding someone,’ said Palmer.

They were in a wine bar in the City, in a long room with tables under high windows. Casca had arranged it. Casca said MI6 suggested a meeting, and that meant something.

Kirkby put the glass to his beaky nose, sniffed deeply, sipped, took in air like a fish, closed his eyes, rolled wine around his mouth, swallowed. ‘Helen Turley,’ he said. ‘A genius. One of yours.’

‘What?’

‘She made this drop. The proprietor here managed to get two cases. Exorbitant price. But.’

Palmer saw that Kirkby had caught the eye of the man behind the counter of the wine bar, a huge red- bearded, red-faced person wearing an apron. Kirkby toasted him wordlessly. The man nodded and raised his own glass.

Palmer drank. He liked wine. He’d come late to it. His father’s view had been that wine was one of many European curses on America. For some reason, he regarded it as an Italian curse. Probably because his father disliked Italians even more than he disliked the Irish. ‘The only good thing about the Irish is that they’re not Italian,’ he said when Palmer told him he planned to marry someone of Irish descent.

‘We’d like to know if he leaves, of course,’ said Palmer. ‘But he’s with a local. That’s where we’d appreciate help.’

Kirkby looked at him, a neutral gaze, looked away, looked back. ‘Yes?’

‘She may be the easiest way to find him.’

‘And she’s not…helping?’

‘Out of sight too.’

‘Inquiries, who’s been…?’

‘A private firm. Lafarge.’

Palmer knew that Kirkby knew about Lafarge.

‘Private. Yes.’ Kirkby touched his oiled hair, smiled, raised his glass to his lips. He seemed to hold wine around his gums before swallowing.

‘It’s urgent,’ said Palmer. ‘We wouldn’t ask otherwise.’

‘No, of course you wouldn’t. I’ll, ah, I’ll have a word with someone. Ask them to get a move on too.’

Palmer took out the card and held it edgeways on the table. Kirkby took it, delicately, at a corner, put it in his top pocket without a glance.

‘We’d like to know where she might go, friends, that kind of thing,’ Palmer said. ‘Without alarming her.’

‘Yes,’ said Kirkby, ‘that’s more or less what I thought you’d like.’

He finished his wine, licked his lips, took a doubled envelope from an inside pocket and gave it to Palmer. It wasn’t sealed.

Palmer took out his reading glasses. He hated having to do that.

Three pages. Phone-tap transcripts.

Palmer read, and he had to stop himself sighing.

‘You can keep those,’ said Kirkby.

‘Thanks.’

‘Well-connected, unfortunately. The father.’

Palmer nodded. It was over and they got up and went to the counter. He paid. Exorbitant was about right for