Wayne gave me a knowing, between-men sort of nod.
'No problem.
Tell you what, I'll call you on the in-house if I see her.'
Metal Mickey and I took the elevator to the sixth floor. The door opened onto a corridor that was every bit as plush as the entrance hall downstairs, with the same colored walls and subtle, wall-mounted lighting.
You could see the vacuum marks on the thick blue carpet.
Metal Mickey was quiet for a change as we walked along the corridor, his hands in his pockets as he sorted out some keys. He stopped outside the door to apartment 612. 'Here we are.' He undid the large, five-lever deadlock first, then the equivalent of a Yale lock, and pushed the door open for me.
I stepped in before him and blocked the doorway, which opened straight into the living room. He got the message, dangling the keys between his thumb and forefinger in front of me.
'Do you want me to stay and make you some coffee, or do you need anything else?'
I said, 'There will be a few things I need to talk to you about work stuff, you know. Later on. But apart from that, mate, no. But thanks a lot for everything. I just need a little time on my own, to sort myself out; it's my first one, I need to do a good job.'
He nodded as if he knew what I was talking about, which was just as well because I didn't; it had just come into my head. It was nothing personal, I just didn't want him around.
He gave me his card.
'My home and pager.'
I took it from him.
'Thanks, I'll try not to call you out of hours. I can't imagine there'll be any need. It can all wait until Monday.'
It always pays to be nice to people, because you never know when you might need to use them. And besides, Metal Mickey was harmless. As he started to walk back toward the elevator, I poked my head around the doorframe and called out, 'Thanks a lot, Michael.' He just waved his right hand in the air and said, 'Byeee, and remember, anything else you need, just call.'
I closed the door and remained standing on the threshold while I keyed Metal Mickey's numbers into my 3C cards always get lost. Once done, I looked around at nothing in particular, just tuning in to the place rather than charging in and not noticing anything. I knew there wouldn't be any letters under the door, because they all went via the central mailbox. I also knew that there'd be nothing tangible, like a notebook with a detailed plan of what she was up to, but if you don't take your time you can go straight for the sixpence and miss the five-pound note.
I went to lock myself in so no one could enter; it was a natural reaction to being in someone else's house when I shouldn't, but on this occasion there was no need. I wanted her to come in; it would certainly make my job a lot easier, and if Wayne kept his eyes open I'd get a warning.
A strange thought struck me. I'd seen Sarah so many times in shortterm accommodation, when we'd stayed in hotels or flats, but this was the first time I'd seen where and how she lived for real. I felt like a voyeur, as if I were watching her undress through her bedroom keyhole.
Basically it was just a large one-bedroom apartment, furnished, I could see at once, by the 'accommodation pack'--the standard furniture provided on the diplomatic circuit. Very plush, very expensive, very sophisticated, but not much of it, which the FCO (Foreign and Commonwealth Office) probably called minimalist because that way it sounded fashionable.
The rest of it you bought yourself with an allowance. She obviously hadn't got around to that yet.
In the main room there was a slightly lighter blue carpet than in the hallway outside, and a matching blue sofa and chairs. In the far left-hand corner was a long sideboard with three drawers, facing a large window that looked out on to the rear of the building and one of the creeks that ran into the Potomac. Next to the window was a bookcase, its four shelves filled with hardbacks. I went over and scanned the spines. Quite a few titles seemed to be concerned with the Middle East and terrorism, and there was a complete set of the 1997 Economist world reports. One shelf started with biographies--Mandela, Thatcher (of course, she would have that), JFK, Churchill-- and ended with a couple of Gore Vidal's books, plus a few heavy-going ones on American history and a collection of Oscar Wilde's plays. The bottom shelf held what looked like large-format, coffee table-type books. They were lying flat because of their size and I had to twist my head to see the titles. I recognized The Times World Atlas because it was the free offer of that which had enticed me into one of the book clubs I'd used when becoming Nick Davidson, and then there were several pictorial ones on different countries in the Middle East, and one about the U.S.
Both the sideboard and bookcase were made from a light wood veneer, and the walls were emulsioned off- white. There had been no effort whatsoever to personalize this flat. It was as anonymous as my house in Norfolk, though at least she had a sofa and a bookcase.
There were a few society, news and what's-on-in-Washington magazines beside the sofa on the floor, piled on top of each other. A phone was lying on top of the mags, its digital display telling me there were no messages.
The walls were bare apart from some bland views of D.C. that were probably taken when JFK- was boss. There were two lamps: a normal table lamp on the floor just in front of the sofa, its wire snaking away across the carpet, and a standard lamp over by the bookcase, both with matching white shades. That was her all over; she might be highly professional in her job, but when it came to her personal admin she was a bag of shit. But what did I expect from someone who wouldn't even know her way around Tesco?
There wasn't a television set, which didn't surprise me. She'd never watched it. If you asked her about Seinfeld and Frasier, she'd probably say it was a New York law firm. My eyes moved back to the bookcase. On the bottom shelf sat a large glass vase, but there were no flowers in it, instead it was filled with coins and pens and all the rest of the shit that people pull out of their pockets at the end of the day. Near it was her social calendar:
thick, gilded invitations for drinks at eight at British Embassy or American Congress functions. I counted seven for the last month. It must be a terrible life, having to scoff all those free vol-au-vents and knock back glasses of champagne.
On the sideboard was a standard, all-in-one, solid-state CD player, probably quite inexpensive, but serving its purpose. About a dozen CDs were stacked on top of each other, and as I walked over I could see that three of them were still in their cellophane. She hadn't had enough time to play them yet maybe next week. There was also a boxed set of five classical operas. I turned the cases to read the spines. Cosi Fan Tutte was there, of course one of the few things I did know about her was that it was her favorite.
I looked at the rest of the music: a couple of 1970s Genesis albums, remastered on CD, and what looked like a bootleg cover of a group called Sperm Bank. I'd have to have a listen to that one, it was so out of place.
She and I had never really talked that much about music, but I knew she loved opera while I'd hear things on the radio and think. That's good, I'll buy that, but then lose the tape before I'd even played it.
The standby light was still on. I pressed 'open,' put in the Sperm Bank CD and hit 'play.' It was some kind of weird Tahitian rap/jazz/funk, whatever they call it very noisy but very rhythmic. I turned the volume up a bit so I could hear it big time, and felt very fashionable. Fuck it, the chances of her coming back here were ziff.
I'd had my first cursory look in the living room, now I'd try the kitchen.
It was about fifteen feet square, with units completely filling up both sides of the wall, so that it ended up being more like a passageway. The stove, oven and sink were all built-in.
I had a mooch in the cupboards above the work surfaces, trying to get some idea of how this woman lived. It was nothing to do with the job now.
I was just curious to see this other side of her. There was hardly any food, and probably never had been. There were cans of convenience items, like rice and packet noodles, which could just be opened and boiled, and a couple of packs of gourmet coffee, but no spices or herbs or anything else you'd need if you cooked at home. On the few occasions when she wasn't at embassy dos, or being dined in restaurants, she probably got by with the microwave.
I opened another cupboard and found six of everything the accommodation pack again plain white crockery,
