Sanctus

‘Listen Rawls, I — ’

‘Don’t give me excuses. Just give me that story.’

‘Rawls, I haven’t written it.’

There was a moment’s pause. ‘Well, you’d better start writing it right this — ’

‘What’s the story on the front page of the Inquirer this morning?’ she asked, before he could launch into a full-blown roasting.

‘What the hell’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Just answer the question.’

‘The monk. Same as every other paper.’

‘He was my brother.’

The phone went silent.

‘You’re shitting me!’

‘I’m in Ruin now; I flew in this morning. There’s something strange going on here. I don’t know what it is, but it’s something big. I’m in the middle of it and I need your help.’

The silence flooded back. She could picture him in his office, staring out at the river, calculating how much an exclusive might be worth. Her phone beeped loudly in her ear and for a moment she thought she’d been disconnected. Then Rawls’s voice rumbled back through the ether. ‘What do you need?’

‘I’m heading towards the offices of a local newspaper called Itaat Eden Kimse. I want you to call ahead and get them to kit me out with some petty cash, a notebook and some pens. Maybe the loan of a desk for a few hours.’

‘No problem.’ She heard the scratch of Rawls’s pen. ‘Just don’t go sharing anything valuable with them. Remember who’s signing your paycheque. Tell them you’re writing a travel piece or something.’

‘OK,’ she said. The low-battery signal beeped in her ear again. ‘My cell’s about to die. Can you see if they can hook me up with a charger as well?’ She gave him the make and model, but there was only silence at his end of the line.

The screen was blank. She slipped it back into her pocket. Looked back up the road. Saw a vehicle approaching.

Chapter 83

‘Over there. .’ Kutlar pointed at a group of people eating stuffed flatbreads from a food stall but kept his eyes on the screen. Cornelius turned towards them. Sulley’s door was open almost before they came to a stop. ‘I’ll look around,’ he said, and slammed it back shut with a pungent cloud of spices and onions. Kutlar glanced up from the screen. He watched the policeman hitching up his trousers and scanning the crowd.

‘You see her?’ Cornelius said.

Kutlar scrutinized the mass of faces on both sides of the street. ‘No,’ he said finally. The smell of the food made him feel nauseous.

Cornelius took the notebook from him. The street map was frozen, the arrow at the centre pointing at the place they were now parked. The side column showed the last number she had called and an hourglass icon spun slowly next to it as the system searched through the networks, hunting it down.

Kutlar glanced in the side mirror. The policeman was now talking to the stallholder and helping himself to some food. His stomach lurched and he looked away. Thanks to the brutal oneway system it had taken them nearly five minutes to get here. He could have done it in half the time, but the sat-nav had sent them along busy main roads and he’d had no desire to challenge it. The longer they kept looking for her, the more chance he’d have of working his way out of this situation.

He also had another agenda, not quite as strong as his instinct for survival, but strong nonetheless. It involved the man who had put the bullet in his leg and forced him to leave his cousin lying dead in the road. He’d never been particularly close to Serko, but he was family. He figured if these guys found the girl then maybe they’d find the guy who killed him as well. He really hoped he’d try and get in their way.

The hourglass icon had disappeared from the screen and in its place was a dialogue box listing a name and address. He watched Cornelius copy the information into a text message.

‘The guy says he saw someone about five minutes ago sounds like our girl.’ The policeman leaned in through the open window, chewing his last mouthful of bread. Kutlar recoiled at the garlic on his breath. ‘Says he thinks maybe she hopped in a cab.’

Cornelius pressed send. Waited for it to go.

‘Listen,’ Sulleiman said, ‘if she’s mobile she could be anywhere by now. I mean, you’ll pick her up again as soon as she switches her phone back on. But I really need to be getting back to the station. I took a big risk to give you guys a head start. . and if I don’t get back and call the girl in missing, it’s going to get ugly.’

Cornelius waited until message sent flashed up then squinted at the traffic. Every other car was a cab. ‘Sure,’ he said finally. ‘Hop in, we’ll give you a ride.’

Sulleiman hesitated for a beat then climbed in.

Kutlar edged away from him as far as he could. The smell of garlic and sweat coming off the policeman almost made him gag.

Chapter 84

It was cold in New York, colder than Rodriguez remembered it, and he’d put on the red windcheater as soon as he shuffled off the plane with the other passengers. He was walking through the international arrivals hall when his cell phone vibrated in its pocket. He glanced at the new name and address: somewhere in Newark; residential, by the look of it.

He looked around for a newsstand or a bookstore. The old TWA Flight Centre was all curved edges and scooped, elegant lines; it looked like it had been built by giant bugs rather than bureaucrats and Teamsters. He spotted a Barnes and Noble.

The last time he had been here was six years ago. Back then he thought he was leaving his country and his old life for ever. Now here he was, back in town and back to something close to his old ways. He cleared the message and dialled a number from memory. He had no idea if it was still valid, nor even if the person he was trying to contact was dead or in jail. The phone started ringing as he walked into the bookstore, past displays of cookbooks by celebrity chefs and paperbacks with one-word titles.

‘Hello?’

The voice sounded like the rustle of dry paper. He could hear a TV turned up loud in the background; angry people shouting, other people yelling and applauding.

‘Mrs Barrow?’ He’d arrived at the shelf where they usually kept the city guides.

‘Who dat?’ The tone was guarded.

‘Name’s Guillermo,’ he said, upping his old street accent, which now tasted strange on his tongue. ‘Guillermo Rodriguez. Used to go by the name Gil. I’m an old friend of JJ’s, Mrs B. Been outta town fo’ while. Be nice to hook up with him — if ’n he’s around.’

There was a pause filled with more TV applause and whoops of encouragement. It sounded like Springer, or Ricki Lake. The type of show he’d forgotten existed.

‘Loretta’s kid!’ the woman said suddenly. ‘Used to live in that two-room walk up over on Tooley Street.’

‘Sure am, Mrs B. Loretta’s kid.’

‘Ain’t seen nothin’ o’ her in a while.’

An image flashed into his mind. Skin stretched tight over brittle bones. Tubes feeding medicine into spots on her arms where the junk used to go.

‘She died, Mrs Barrow,’ he said. ‘’Bout seven years back.’

‘Aw yeah? I’m real sorry, son. She was a nice lady, far as she went.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, knowing what she meant but letting it go all the same.

The strident voices from the TV stretched into the silence again until he began to wonder if she’d forgotten