the story.
‘Say the word and I’m gone,’ said Anselm. ‘You are fully entitled.’
Baader opened his eyes, blinked several times. ‘I should say it. But what if he’d been on O’Malley’s business? He’d still be dead. And you’ll be dead if you go on with this. I think you’re fucking around with stuff you can’t begin to understand. Leave it alone. It’s got nothing to do with you.’
‘It goes back to Beirut. That’s got something to do with me.’
Baader shook his head. ‘You can’t bring back the dead. You can’t change anything. Be grateful you’re alive.’
‘I’m grateful,’ said Anselm. ‘I’m grateful.’
‘Go away,’ said Baader. ‘You worry me. Go away.’
Anselm was leaving, he stopped when Baader said, ‘If they killed Kaskis for what he knew, you’re alive because you knew fuck all. Then. Now you might just know something. Something you don’t even know you know.’
‘I’ll reflect on that,’ said Anselm.
‘So composed. So fucking composed.’
Anselm stopped, didn’t turn, the desire to be punished fully risen in him. ‘Sack me,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you sack me?’
Nothing. He turned. Baader was looking out of the window and the view gave him no peace. He had tramlines down his forehead, deep between the eyebrows. Anselm had never noticed them.
‘Being sacked is too good for you,’ said Baader. ‘Sack yourself. Stand on your pride and your honour and your fucking dignity.’
Anselm went to his office. I’m like a small dog, he thought, only bark and snarl. The logs were waiting. He was grateful that he had something to do, working out how much to charge people he did not know for spying on other people for reasons he did not want to know.
…LONDON…
FROM THE carpark, Caroline rang Craig, Zampatti, the architects who employed Jess Thomas. She explained to the receptionist and was put through to a woman called Sandra Fox.
‘I’m an old friend of Jess Thomas’s, but I’ve been away, I’ve lost touch. I found her work address in the book but she’s not there and the someone told me she did a lot of work for you and…’ ‘She lives there,’ said Fox. ‘Battersea. In that last little pocket of… well, if she’s not there, I really can’t help. The people who could are in Nepal, climbing, I gather you have to, it’s all uphill in Nepal. So that’s not much use.’
‘Who are they, the people in Nepal?’
‘Mark and Natalie. They’re the Craig and the Zampatti, the principals here. Look, leave your number, I’ll ask around. Umm.’
A wait.
‘There is someone you might try called David Nunn. They came to our Christmas party together. An item, I thought, more than just good friends. You could try him. He’s with Musgrove amp; Wolters, I can give you a number, it’s here somewhere…’ Caroline left her number and rang Musgrove amp; Wolters. David Nunn was in Singapore. It took almost an hour to reach him, late afternoon there.
Too late to stop lying.
‘Mr Nunn, Detective Sergeant Moody, Battersea police. I’m hoping you might be able to help me locate someone called Jessica Thomas. I understand you know her well.’
‘What’s happened?’ He was alarmed.
‘Possibly nothing. There was some sort of disturbance at her place the other night and she hasn’t been seen since earlier that evening. We’d like to be certain she’s unharmed.’
‘Well, I don’t know. I haven’t seen her for a while, not since January or February.’
‘Close family?’
‘She doesn’t have any.’
‘Friends?’
‘Anne Cerchi, she’s a good friend.’
‘Do you have an address?’
‘Not a number, no, it’s in Ladbroke Grove.’
The old address.
‘We’ve tried her. Anyone else?’
‘Umm, she’s friends with Natalie Zampatti. Natalie and Mark Craig. They’re architects, the firm’s…’ ‘I know the firm.’
‘Right. She goes back a long way with Natalie, with the family, I think.’
‘They can’t be contacted. They’re in Nepal.’
‘Shit.’
‘Anywhere she might go? She might want to get away from everything?’ ‘Not that I know of, no.’
She said her thanks and sat for a long time with her eyes closed, slumped, an ache in her shoulders, in the back of her neck. Then, a man and a woman walked by, the woman laughed, a shrill birdlike sound.
What else to do, to try? Help me, McClatchie, she thought, wherever you are, help me.
73
…WALES…
Niemand got up early, left Jess asleep, innocent-faced, and went for a look around. They were high here, the farm buildings on a terrace cut into the hillside. Behind it, the slope was dotted with scrubby wind-whipped trees and then there were conifers, solid, dark.
Below the farm, the road twisted down the hill and crossed a small stone bridge over a stream. He couldn’t see water but the stream’s course was marked by dense vegetation. Low drystone walls flanked the road and all around on the slopes other walls marked out fields, nothing in them, no farm animals, no signs of tillage.
He could see where the road ended at a gate. From behind the barn, a track, deep wheel ruts, went around the side of the hill. There were no other buildings in sight, no power lines.
He went into the dark house and took the map off the corkboard in the kitchen, went outside and sat on an old bench beside the front door. It was large-scale, British Ordnance Survey, a decent map. He knew about maps, he had had maps beaten into him-reading them, memorising them, summoning them up on moonless nights in swampy tropical lowlands and high, hard, broken country.
Someone had marked the position of the farm in ballpoint. He traced the road they’d come on, the village, some long name full of ‘l’s and ‘m’s, the other roads around them. There weren’t many roads and most of them dead-ends. He studied the contours, the elevations, the beacons, the watercourses. A little peace began to fall on him. It would be hard for anyone to surprise them here.
‘You sneaked away.’
Jess, still in her nightdress, arms folded against the cold, no makeup. She looked like a teenager, he thought. Beautiful. He looked away, shy.
‘Nice country,’ Niemand said. ‘Looks like sheep country but no sheep.’
She came up behind the bench and kissed the back of his neck, put both hands on his forehead and pulled his head against her stomach. He felt the soft warmth of her and a lump rose in his throat.
Niemand made breakfast out of cans in the pantry: grilled tomatoes and pork sausages. There was mustard powder and he made some with water and a little dark fragrant vinegar.
‘Useful around the house then,’ she said when she came from the bathroom, shining clean, hair damp.
They ate.
‘Good this,’ she said. ‘Who says you need fresh food? I could live out of cans.’
