an investigator from Berlin's tax unit; he was there for experience, they had been told, on an exchange visit. He had no need to intervene, was as quiet as the target he watched. Always, if it were possible, Konig wanted to see a target – close up – to watch his hand movements and see if his fingers fidgeted, sense whether he was nervous and note if sweat came to his neck. Did the tongue flick over his lips to moisten them? Did he shift in the chair? Was he too friendly and agreeable, or too hostile? To gaze into the eyes… The meeting would soon be over. Konig had not looked long into the eyes.
Had not dared to.
There were Russian gangs in Berlin, Polish mafiya, the cold little bastards from Vietnam who ran the cigarette trade, pimps from all over eastern Europe, and Albanians. He would have looked into any of the eyes confronting him across an interview table in the interrogation block and not been fazed. An experienced police officer, twenty-nine years of service behind him, a spell at Wiesbaden with Intelligence, and time in New York on secondment, he had never before failed to look deep into the eyes of a target.
Something in the eyes of Timo Rahman – and he could not have explained it – unsettled him. He would have thought himself without fear. He found that each time Rahman glanced along the length of the table and at the men opposite him, he looked away. Never before.
His mind had drifted. Sunlight made zebra stripes on the table from the blinds, sharp lines, formed patterns on Rahman's face. The man scratched his head, then looked down at his watch.
Indifference? Johan Konig understood.
Preoccupation. Wants to be somewhere else, handling another situation.
Extraordinary… Timo Rahman, with his accountants, was having his wealth dissected by a body of the Revenue endowed with sanctions and his mind was elsewhere. What could be more important than the business at the table? Every minute he had sat in the room now seemed to Konig to be justified. A weightier problem exercised the pate… From problems came mistakes. The policeman felt his confidence surge. He looked into the eyes.
Chilled, bright, the eyes met his. He did not look away. He held the Albanian's glance. That was a victory. The meeting broke up. The Revenue men, at the door, shook hands with the accountants in turn, and with Timo Rahman. Konig stayed at the table. A problem he could learn about, a mistake he could exploit.
As the door closed on them, he tilted back his chair to gaze at the ceiling and wondered what, or who, would explain it.
As Malachy finished his meal – a meat pie, boiled potatoes and beans – then wiped the plate with bread, he heard them coming along the walkway
There was a deathly hush on the Amersham that day and the sounds drifted to him clearly
Wheels squeaking, a heavy footstep, shuffled shoes approached, then passed his door and stopped. He gulped the last of the bread and listened. Keys turned and there was the scrape of the barricade gate opening.
A big voice, familiar. 'Home now, Millie, where you should be. Dawn'll get you to bed and then you rest.'
The next door shut and the gate clanged to. A moment of quiet, then a rap on his own door. 'Heh, Malachy, you there? You there, man?'
He pulled down the bolt and turned the key. The great bulk of Ivanhoe Manners filled the doorway.
'I was by here. Seemed right to call on you. I do driving for the hospital when I have the time – you know, a day off. Brought Millie Johnson home, and her friend. She's in a wheelchair for the moment, but she's strong in spirit. Her guts, they should be an example to those who lock themselves away.' He stared keenly at Malachy. 'Are you going to leave me standing here?'
Malachy stood aside. 'Whatever you want.'
'I want to see how you are. Are you standing on your own feet, or are you leaning, or are you on the floor?'
'I'm managing,' Malachy said softly.
'Are you ready to move on?'
'I don't know.'
'You got work, you looking for work?'
Malachy shook his head, then hung it.
'There's work out there for those who look for it.
With work you could pay a proper rent, and free up the unit. Eight months here, right? I've a queue that needs units. You tell me, Malachy, what's happening on the Amersham, what gives?'
He saw the social worker gaze around him. He would not notice anything different from the day he had been brought here – same table, same chairs, same TV and settee, same carpet – would not know that through a door and under the bed, in the bag with the vagrant's clothes, were the last of the tape and the rope and a plastic toy. But Ivanhoe Manners missed little.
'You done well on the shoes. That's good polishing.
They're the right shoes to wear if you go for a job. They show purpose, like you're climbing back. I asked, what gives on the Amersham? Police don't know, and we don't know.'
Malachy shrugged, like he avoided events beyond his bolted and locked front door.
'I'm asking, Malachy. Three of the High Fly Boys strung upside down off a roof and their authority finished, that's happening. A class-A dealer roped to a post, that's happening. I have this gigantic and massive confusion, man. Help me.'
'I don't think I can.'
'You please yourself… I don't support what happened to the boys or the dealer, no sympathy for it from me. A gesture, but it's the way to anarchy. Where did the spark for it come from?'
'Nothing for me to say that would help you.'
The big man went back to the door, opened it, and his smile beamed white teeth at Malachy. 'Get on the road, man. You done your time here. Get walking in those fancy shoes. You need your life back, and sitting like a cat in a cage won't do it for you. Do it soon. Each day you're here – whatever was in your past – that's a wasted day. I'm offering advice and it's meant kindly.
You should feed off that little woman's courage. Get living again.'
'Thank you for calling by – I'll go when I'm ready.'
He closed the door after the social worker, locked it and pushed up the bolt.
Chapter Eight
The train rattled across country on a slow, stopping line.
In a few days the clocks would go forward and the evenings would stay brighter. Dusk hovered over the carriages and the track, and weak pinpricks of light marked remote homes set among the grey of the fields, hedges and woodlands. It was a complicated journey for Malachy, the longest he had made since coming to London: one leg from the Amersham estate to Victoria, by bus, the next on a fast train south to Redhill and the last on the line that stopped every-where, at Marlpit Hill, Penshurst, Paddock Wood, Mardon and Headcorn. His journey was nearly complete.
The carriages were filled with schoolchildren, their bags and noise, with shop workers and shoppers, with the first of the office commuters to get away from their desks. He wore the old clothes and his shoes were caked with mud from a litter-strewn garden in the play area. He stood in the rocking space between two of the carriages – he smelt and knew it. His woollen hat was low on his head and the collar of his coat was turned up to mask his face. As passengers passed him, to board the train or get off it, they hurried by because of the smell that came from the plastic bag gripped in his fist. He never put the bag down but kept it tight against his leg. Malachy knew that at every station there were cameras, and that cameras were now routinely fitted inside train compartments. An old world returned to him: he recalled lectures from long ago. Care ruled him, and he had regained a long-lost cunning. His ticket, expensive but not wasted money, was for Folkestone, far beyond his destination; it would act as a confusion if his route was traced. The clatter of the train soothed him and the map given him and memorized, then
