Granger nodded. “That can be arranged. Do you have any ID with you, sir?”
Doc handed over his faked driving license and the stolen cash card Eve had provided. There was a bit of to-ing and fro-ing with a PINsentry reader and a computer screen, then Granger asked some obvious security questions that they’d both been briefed on—date of birth, postal code, nothing remotely challenging. Then Granger unwound infinitesimally. “You just want to check your safe deposit box?” he asked.
“Yes. There are some papers in it and I’m afraid my computer ate its hard disk last week, so I just need to copy down some numbers, otherwise my accountant will shout at me.” Doc leaned back, mirroring Granger’s posture.
“You just want to…” Granger mumbled under his breath. “Yes, well, that sounds entirely normal. You’ll need to come into the back office,” he added, so studiously offhand that Imp instantly flipped into paranoid alertness: It’s a trap, Admiral! “Follow me, please?” Granger stood and Doc copied him. Against his better judgment, Imp rose.
“After you,” Doc murmured.
Granger led them into a corridor running into the back of the building. Offices with interior windows and doors opened off it to either side. (The security door and the tellers’ counters appeared not to be so easily accessible from this side of the building.) He ushered them into one of the offices. “If you wait here, I’ll have Miss Deere bring you your safe deposit box,” he said. His moustache writhed in an approximation of a smile. “Don’t go anywhere,” he muttered rapidly. He ducked out into the corridor, pulling the door shut.
“I’ve got a feeling—” Imp started, before Doc elbowed him in the ribs and side-eyed a corner of the room. Imp followed Doc’s line of sight—“a feeling deep inside,” he continued in a squeaky falsetto, as badly out of tune as a grand piano with a buckled frame—“must be lunchtime,” he concluded. “Laibach, in case you were wondering.”
“Really? I thought it was the Beatles.”
Doc was twitching his cheeks in what was probably a Morse code of his own invention.
“I really need to go urgently,” Imp said, bouncing up and down in his chair, “to the loo.”
“Just hold it.” Doc looked irritated. “We’ll be done in ten minutes.”
Imp took a deep breath and held it. That’s what I’m afraid of. Someone was coming. He hated this part, the rising tension as a job came to life. Get a grip, he told himself. The door handle turned and the door opened to admit a woman in a dark trouser suit. “Which of you two gentlemen is Mr. Harris?” she asked, glancing at them: “I’m Ms. Deere.” Before either of them could move, she nudged the door shut: it latched with an ominous click.
Ring ring, Imp thought, you’re a ringer. Something about her bearing told him she was no more a bank manager than he was. It took him a moment to register what was wrong: she was wearing black Doc Martens shoes, not office-appropriate heels. She had an ID badge on a lanyard, but it was back-to-front and tucked behind one jacket lapel, rendering it unreadable. Floor security, he figured. But she was carrying Bernard’s bank deposit box, so there was still a chance they could bluff their way through and out the other side, so stay cool, Imp—
“He’s just here to look inside the box,” Imp told her, giving a little nudge, a push in the direction of plausibility. An instant stab of pain told him that Deere was warded. It wasn’t as strong as the one Eve had been wearing, but it still hurt like biting down on an olive pit.
“I’ll handle this,” Doc said, sparing Imp an irritated look.
Deere didn’t seem to have noticed the nudge. She placed the box on the table. Locked. “Can I see some ID?” she asked, rolling out a totally fake smile: “For both of you.”
“Certainly,” said Doc, reaching for his wallet, just as Imp patted his front pocket and said, “Shit.” His eyes widened as he conjured up the mind-set of a man who’d just discovered he’d lost his wallet on the underground: “Shit! I’ve left my—”
“There, there, dear.” Doc patted his arm. “You probably put it in the wrong pocket again.”
While Imp made a show of checking his jacket and trouser pockets, Ms. Deere scrutinized Doc’s driving license and card minutely. Finally she admitted, “This appears to be in order, Mr. Harris.” She returned his card, then reached into her jacket pocket for a bunch of keys—Wait, what kind of woman’s suit jacket has pockets? Imp worried—and unlocked the strong box.
“Voila.” Ms. Deere stepped out of the way, leaving the contents of the box to Doc and Imp. It did not escape Imp’s notice that she had taken up a position between them and the door. Nor did he fail to notice that she was balanced on the balls of her feet, arms held loosely by her sides, almost like some kind of martial arts enthusiast waiting for trouble to kick off. Or that she’d noticed him noticing her watching him.
Doc reached towards the box and slowly turned it so that the contents were visible. There were a couple of plastic boxes inside, like cigarette packets only three or four times as thick. Are those diskettes? Imp wondered. There were also some papers and an envelope. Doc pulled out the envelope and looked at the name on it: Evelyn Starkey. So that’s what she’s calling herself these days. “Huh. I think I need to update this,” Doc grunted.
“Who is Evelyn Starkey?” asked Ms. Deere.
“My sister—” Imp bit his tongue so hard he nearly drew blood. What did I just say? The alarm bells in his head were ringing deafeningly loud, now; bank guards were emphatically not paid to ask customers questions like that.
“Just asking,” she said guardedly. “You going to be long?”
“I hope not,” Doc muttered. He pulled out the sheet of paper from inside the envelope and laid it on the table.
