burned strips off my back nor froze my balls off, when my mobile phone rang.
I strode into the bedroom, and pulled it out of the pocket of my jacket. I'd bought it the previous day in Manila, and only one person was aware of the number: Tomboy Darke. But as soon as I looked at the screen and saw that there was no incoming number showing, I knew it wasn't going to be him.
I pressed the Call Receive button and put the phone to my ear.
'Mr Kane, good evening.' The words were delivered slowly and with authority in an accent that was unmistakably middle-class London, and north of the river if memory served me right.
'Sorry, I think you've got the wrong number. I don't know a Mr Kane.'
'Really?' he said. 'Somehow I believe you do. My name's Pope. I think we should meet up. I've got a feeling we've got a lot to talk about. Don't you?'
'Let's make it tomorrow morning,' I said, pissed off that the element of surprise was gone, and way too tired to see him now. Tomboy must have talked, but why? Surely he'd have known he was putting me in potential danger.
'I'd prefer tonight. I don't want you to have to hurry tomorrow for the plane you've got to catch.'
'Which one's that?'
'The one taking you back to where you belong.'
I didn't bother rising to the bait. 'Well, tomorrow it's going to have to be. Take it or leave it.'
'In that case, I'll take it. There's a cafe in Islington, off the Pentonville Road. It's called the Lantern. Meet me there at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll be sitting at the corner table on your left as you go in, next to the window.'
'What do you look like?'
'You'll know who I am,' he said, and rang off.
I stood there for a moment, still holding the phone while I thought things through. It seemed that Tomboy hadn't given Pope my real name, but what if he'd described me? I couldn't believe that the bastard — someone I'd known for years, someone I had to admit that I trusted — had blown my cover. Maybe he was frightened I'd hurt Pope and cut off what was obviously turning into quite a lucrative little sideline. Or maybe I was being cynical, and he was just looking out for me. By telling Pope what I intended, he might just be trying to get things straightened out before they went too far, and get me back on the plane to Manila without anyone coming to any harm.
Either way, though, he'd betrayed me, and I couldn't forget that. It's funny how people you think you know can react when the going gets a little tough. I tried his number, but it was early in the morning and he wasn't answering. I didn't leave a message, but instead tried the lodge in the hope that someone on night duty might pick up. But no one did, and eventually I hung up, hoping that the start I was having wasn't the shape of things to come.
9
First thing the next morning, I walked over to the Edgware Road and bought myself a thick waterproof coat with too many pockets. I then wandered round until I found a stationer's shop that printed personalized business cards. I ordered a hundred (the minimum number) in the name of Marcus Kane, private detective, from the old guy behind the counter. He said that he'd never met a private detective before and asked me what kind of work I did.
I told him missing persons. 'I've just come back from a case in the Bahamas,' I said, and when he asked for more details, spun him a cock-and-bull story about a runaway wife and her young lover fleecing the husband of all he owned before escaping to the Caribbean. I explained that I'd got them both arrested by the local authorities and they were now awaiting extradition. He said that it served them right, and that the cards would be ready by Monday.
By the time I walked out of the shop it was quarter past nine and I needed to get moving if I was to make the rendezvous. I'd thought about not turning up at all, since it wasn't immediately obvious what I was going to get out of it, but I guess curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to see what Les Pope looked like in the flesh and hear what he had to say.
I caught the Circle Line from Paddington station to King's Cross, the journey being less crowded than I remembered, probably because it was a Saturday, then walked the length of the Pentonville Road from west to east, through my old stamping ground, marvelling at how much things had changed in the past three years. The porn shops at the start of Pentonville Road were all boarded up now, and scaffolding covered the grime-stained buildings. Huge cranes towered across the skyline above the station and beyond. I'd heard somewhere that they were going to make King's Cross station the main terminal for the Eurostar rail service linking London to Continental Europe, and it looked like the powers that be were doing their utmost to clean up the area, so that those stepping off the trains from Paris and Brussels for the first time would get a good initial impression of Britain's capital. There was still a long way to go, and the place definitely had a mid-construction feel about it, but on the surface at least it looked better than it had done when I'd been a copper here.
All the way to my destination, I kept my eye out for anyone suspicious, but the pavements were quiet, as they always were in this part of town. Nothing much happens on the Pentonville Road, the only activity tending to be the steady flow of traffic heading between the West End and the City, and that's because there's really nothing on it, bar a handful of shops, the odd pub in need of refurbishment, and the occasional luxury apartment complex. It had a real windswept feel — you half expected to see a pile of tumbleweed dodging between the traffic. It suited me fine, because if anyone was following me, I'd have known about it.
The Lantern was a shabby little place in need of a serious paint job on a quiet backstreet no more than a hundred yards from the junction of Pentonville Road and Islington's Upper Street, and also not far from where I used to live. I got there at just before ten and walked past on the other side of the road, seeing immediately that the corner table Pope had mentioned was empty. I kept walking until I got to Chapel Market, fifty yards further on.
The market was in full flow and crowded, another familiar sight that was vaguely comforting. It was a dry day and chilly, with a blanket of unbroken white cloud overhead, and there was also the first sniff of Christmas in the stall decorations and the excited faces of the many young kids milling around with their weary-looking parents. It was December 6th, and Asif Malik had been dead, and his wife and kids grieving, for just over five weeks.
I turned and headed back in the direction of the cafe, watching the street like a hawk. Two Italian men in white tops were unloading vegetables from a van and taking them into a restaurant. Other than that, there was little to attract my attention.
As I passed the cafe, however, I saw that the corner table was now taken. I didn't get a good look at the occupant but continued on casually until I came to the door, then stepped inside. The interior was cramped, with no more than seven or eight tables. Two workmen in white hard hats and fluorescent jackets sat at one of the tables, piling into plates of sandwiches, while at the corner table sat a good-looking guy in his early forties and wearing it well, with a lean face, a full head of dyed blond hair and a very nicely tailored Italian suit. He was smiling at me with the sort of confidence that left neither of us in any doubt that he knew exactly who I was. It wasn't an unpleasant smile either. Tomboy's description had been basic in the extreme, and I think I'd been expecting some middle-aged, greasy individual with a lot of jewellery and bad hair. The name Les never seems to conjure up much in the way of sophistication. However, this guy was a cross between a stockbroker and a good timeshare salesman. A definite Tom or Greg.
He stood up as I walked over. 'Mr Kane, thanks for coming. Take a seat, please.' The same authoritative voice I'd heard on the phone the previous night.
We shook and his grip was tighter than it needed to be. He kept his hand there for several seconds and I think he wanted me to flinch, although he continued to give me that welcoming smile. I didn't, and he let go.
I sat down opposite him, noticing that he had an orange juice and a black coffee.
'I've ordered a sandwich,' he told me, sitting down as well. 'Do you want something? It's on me. They do a good ham and salad ciabatta, I'm told.'
'No thanks. If the waitress comes over, I'll have a coffee. Otherwise, forget it.'
'Thanks for coming to see me. I'd just like to say, before we start, that I'm very happy with the services I've
