one or two apparent anomalies in the Ashur-Proffitt accounts at this present moment, and Mr Kafka’s name has been mentioned as someone who might be able to help us with our enquiries. So when we learned that he was expected to land here in the States today…”
“Mr Hackenburg, I’ve no idea where my husband is. I wish I did know. I’m putting the phone down now as I’m hoping to get a call either from Tony himself or the authorities, giving me information as to his whereabouts. Good night.”
She replaced the receiver.
Next time it rang, it was Andy Dalziel.
“Andy, you’ve heard something?”
“Sorry, luv, nowt. I’m just checking how you are.”
“I’m fine. Worried sick, but fine.”
“I know the feeling. Listen, Kay, it doesn’t look like Tony had an accident or anything, so we need to ask… well, was there any other reason he might just have decided to take off? Trouble at work, summat like that?”
“You mean has he headed for the hills because of this investigation into A-P that’s just hit the headlines? The answer’s no. I’m sure he knows nothing about what’s been going on back there. He’s been away from the centre of things so long… he’s been here, with me, because of me… that’s been the trouble.”
Dalziel said, “You OK, lass? You sound a bit upset. Shall I come round?”
A moment of silence, then Kay spoke again, her voice at its normal controlled pitch.
“Andy, if your lads heard you being so gallant, I think you’d have to resign. Thank you, but it’s truly not necessary. I’m fine. And I’m sure Tony is too. The next time the phone rings, it will probably be him.”
“Well, let me know if it is,” growled Dalziel. “And I’ll give him a big wet kiss when I see him, but only after I’ve kicked the bugger up the arse first for causing you so much grief.”
“That I would like to see,” said Kay. “Good night, Andy.”
She put the phone down and looked at her watch.
Time for bed. Routine is the best way through darkness. It doesn’t matter that you can’t see if you know your foot is going to hit solid familiar ground with every automatic step.
She stood up. The phone rang again. She snatched it up and sank back into her seat.
“Yes?”
“Mrs Kafka?” said a dry-edged voice.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“I’m a friend of your husband’s, Mrs Kafka.”
The voice was like dead leaves drifted across a pavement by a chilly wind.
“Where is he?”
“Don’t you know, Mrs Kafka? Let’s assume you don’t. He needs to be out of things for a little while. No doubt he’ll contact you when he can. But meanwhile he feels the best thing for you to do is nothing that might draw attention. Yes, that would be best.”
“Best for who? For Tony? For me? For you?”
“For all of those, Mrs Kafka. And for your stepdaughter and her family too, I daresay. They all depend so much on you, Mrs Kafka. Don’t let them down. Goodbye now.”
“Wait! I want to…”
But the phone was dead.
She dialled 1471. To her surprise she got a number. She pressed 3 to ring it back. After three rings a very English voice came on the line.
“Good evening. This is the Mastaba Club. I regret there is no one in attendance to take care of your call at this time. If you wish to leave a message for one of our members, speak after the tone and we will endeavour to pass it on at the earliest convenient opportunity. Thank you. Good evening.”
All kind of rudenesses came into her mind but she put the phone down before they found utterance. You do not make faces at wolves.
She stood up once more. There would be no more calls.
As she crossed the entrance hall towards the stairs, the American long-case clock began to strike midnight.
She went to it and opened the pendulum cupboard.
As the eleventh note sounded, she reached in and stopped the pendulum.
Then she went upstairs to bed.
April 2003
The war had been over three weeks.
A young marine called Tod Lessing sat on a pile of rubble and lit a cigarette to mask the faint smell of decay which hung over all such ruins. He was attached to a unit searching for weapons of mass destruction in which he personally had little interest. This had been his first spell of active service and he’d rapidly learned to focus his attention on weapons of personal destruction, to wit those likely to be an immediate danger to himself and his comrades.
So now while the men in white suits went about their so far unprofitable work in a relatively undamaged building a couple of hundred yards away, Tod grasped the chance for a spot of R and R.
But he still remained vigilant and when he heard a noise behind him, he twisted round, bringing his weapon to bear with the unthinking instinct of a hunting dog scenting danger.
It was a kid who called to him and beckoned. Tod rose and went towards him, but he didn’t relax. Weapons of personal destruction came in all shapes and sizes.
The boy spoke excitedly and pointed downwards. Tod let his gaze follow the pointing finger.
The high sun slid a ray of light deep between shattered concrete slabs till it bounced back off white bone. The rats and flies had pretty well finished their work here but the after-smell of decay was strong. Tod drew deep on his cigarette and looked enquiringly at the boy. In this country where the smart bombs had done their smart work, corpses were sadly too commonplace to be remarkable.
The boy pointed again impatiently. Tod peered down once more and this time saw that there was something round the corpse’s neck. A chain with some kind of amulet. The kid was jabbering away, clearly irritated at Tod’s lack of understanding. Then suddenly he seized the marine’s arm and held it up and shook it fiercely.
It took a moment for Tod to confirm he wasn’t being attacked and another to get the message.
The kid’s arm was too short to reach.
Motioning the boy to one side where he could keep an eye on him, Tod inserted his arm into the crack. He had to lie flat on the rubble before his groping fingers found the chain. He pulled. It resisted. He jerked hard. It snapped.
Slowly he withdrew his arm. A graze so close to a decomposing body could be nasty.
The boy came close, impatient to see what they’d found.
He looked puzzled when he saw what it was but Tod recognized it instantly. The bust of Washington bedded on purple and framed in gold.
A Purple Heart.
He turned it over and read the name. Amal Kafala.
Sounded Arab. Weird but not very. Any American phone book was full of weird names. Maybe this was some poor bastard taken prisoner by the gooks who ended up getting popped by his own side. Could be he was a left-over from the first Gulf War. Smelt a bit fresh for that. Or maybe the guy down there had plundered the Heart from some dead soldier.
Whatever, it wasn’t his business. First chance he got, he’d pass the medal on to the unit’s i-officer with details of where he’d found it and let the machine take it from there. Knowing the way it worked, they wouldn’t
