‘That’s obviously what he was thinking, though.’
Following him, Mark said, ‘What was that?’
‘He knew that kind of money could really help me out. He knew all about Alice’s family, the imbalance between us. It was just spite.’
Now Mark raised his voice.
‘Oh get off it, will you? You and I both know that’s a lot of shit. The will was altered for the last time over a year ago. He didn’t know anything about Alice’s family. He wasn’t striking out at you from beyond the grave, or whatever kind of conspiracy theory you’re trying to cookup.’
Ben’s eyes conceded the truth of this, but he said nothing.
‘Listen,’ Mark tried to end the argument. ‘Dad was proud of the fact that you were making a living doing the thing you loved. He told me that. Please just take his money. Buy yourself a couple of suits, take Alice on holiday and sort out whatever it is you two are fighting about. Seb pays me eighty grand a year. I have my own flat. I’ve got equity, a company car, all the clothes and gadgets a bloke could need. You’re a married man. You might have kids soon. Think about that.’
‘Always so organized,’ Ben muttered.
‘Eh?’
‘Always thinking about the future. Always an answer for everything.’
‘Well, at least one of us has his head out of the clouds.’
‘And that’s you, is it, Mark? Tell me, has this thing got to you at all?’
They might have been teenagers again, bickering in the school holidays. The exchange was a graphic illustration of their relationship: Mark doing his best to push forward out of the past while justifying his more practical nature to an incessantly analytical brother who preferred blame and self-pity.
‘What? Are we competing about Dad now? Who’s more fucked up? Who’s losing most sleep? You think I have to stand in a window looking moody and smoking a cigarette or I’m not grieving properly?’
It wasn’t a bad comeback. Mark was quite pleased with it. For a moment Ben was silenced, although the respite did not last long.
‘I’m just saying it’s weird the way a guy like Jock McCreery, or that Yank Robert Bone, or any one of the stiff-backed suits from MI6 seemed more affected by what’s happened than you do. You forgive and forget so easily. Nothing gets to you. Nothing makes you feel.’
Now Mark squared up to him. He was taller than Ben, not stronger, but with an advantage of height and age.
‘Jesus Christ. You know what the trouble with artists is, don’t you? They have too much time to think. You invite misery on yourselves, fucking wallow in it. Then you marry a girl like Alice to justify your black moods. You’re endorsing one another. It’s pathetic. You wanna move on, brother. I thought you’d seen the light that night outside the pub, but I realize I was mistaken. Benjamin doesn’t change his nature that quickly, never has. He feels too sorry for himself. Why don’t you try growing up a bit? Just because I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve doesn’t mean I’m not feeling anything.’
‘What did you mean about Alice? What did you mean by that?’
But Mark had backed off to the door, empty handed and set on leaving. Before long Ben would be blaming him for arranging the failed reunion with Keen, for making him betray their mother, for any small resentment or prejudice that had been troubling him over the past three weeks. That was the thing he dreaded, Ben needling his conscience with hideous expertise. Best just to get away and not see him for a while.
‘I’m gonna go,’ he said. ‘I’m not standing here taking this. You close up when you leave, do the lock. Next time we see each other maybe you’ll be better company. In the meantime, try not to drag us all down with you.’
22
‘Why don’t I put you in the picture, Yerm, clear a few things up?’
Macklin was walking east down Longacre with Vladimir Tamarov. He was at least six inches shorter than the Russian and they were moving quickly with a cold evening wind behind them.
‘Nightclubbing as a business in Britain is worth two billion quid a year. You want me to say that again? Two billion quid a year, mate. Turnover year-on-year has gone up seven and a half per cent. Wanna know why? It’s not the clubs, Yerm, it’s not your punters on the door. It’s diversification. My favourite fucking word in the English language. Clothing, accessories, books, magazines, radio stations, CD compilations. Even T-shirts, for Christ’s sake.’
Tamarov nodded. He was thinking about going back to his hotel.
‘Merchandising, that’s what it’s all about. We make seventy per cent of our profits selling branded merchandise. The clubs are just a small part of it, and getting smaller in my humble opinion. I’ll tell you another lovely English word if you like. Sponsorship. About half of all the eighteen to twenty-five-year-olds in this country go clubbing on a Friday or a Saturday night. Millions of ’em, mate. They’ve got disposable incomes, they’re fashion conscious, and they’re out to get pissed…’
‘I’m sorry,’ Tamarov said. ‘This word, please…?’
‘Pissed, mate. You know, drunk.’
‘OK,’ he replied, without bothering to smile.
‘So you’ve got your big corporations, your mobile phone companies, your clothing brands, your breweries, and all they dream about is access to that market. They want to reach out and touch the kids. Now how do they do that?’
‘Sponsorship,’ Tamarov said, like a student in a language class. If he was annoyed at being patronized by a supercilious English lawyer four years his junior then the Russian’s level tone of voice gave nothing away. In time it might be necessary to remind Macklin who was boss, to apply an element of physical or psychological pressure, but for now he would let him continue. From the pocket of his overcoat he extracted a pair of brown leather gloves and put them on.
‘Exactly.’ Macklin was leading him down Bow Street. ‘These companies pay for specific nights at the club. They put banners up on site. Not so’s it detracts from our brand, mind, but it gets what every boring blue-chip company craves. You got your latest digital WAP fax-modem espresso-making laptop associated with a brand like Libra, that buys you something priceless. It buys you credibility. Am I going too fast, mate?’
Tamarov’s face was usefully inexpressive. He merely shookhis head and said, ‘No, no,’ breath clouding out in the air.
‘Good,’ Macklin said. And then his phone rang.
Two hundred metres behind them, Michael Denby, a young MI 5 pavement artist on the Kukushkin team, saw Macklin come to a halt beside the entrance to the Royal Opera House. He immediately stopped and turned towards the window of a nearby shop. Called up as a last-minute replacement for a colleague whose husband had ‘taken ill’, Denby had forgotten to bring either a hat or gloves as protection against the cold. Mobile surveillance was the part of the job he least enjoyed. Taploe picked him, he knew, precisely because he was so ordinary — neither too tall nor too short, neither too fat nor too thin — and therefore less likely to be spotted by an alert target. He jangled coins in his pocket and thought of home as two teenage girls stopped beside him and peered into the window.
‘There they are,’ one of them said, pointing at a pair of shoes. ‘Nice, aren’t they?’
‘Bit tarty,’ her friend replied.
Denby glanced down the street. Macklin and the Russian were moving again, heading south into Wellington Street in the direction of the Strand.
‘So you’ve made up your mind then?’ Macklin was saying into the phone, his voice a rumble of disappointment.
‘’Fraid so, mate.’ Mark felt guilty that he was letting his friend down. But the argument with Ben had forced his hand: he just wanted to go home and get a decent night’s sleep. ‘There’s a lot of things I’ve got to clear up at the flat,’ he lied. ‘Then the police want a final inventory. I just don’t have time to come down.’
‘Fine. Whatever,’ Macklin said, and snapped the casing shut without adding goodbye. ‘Bad news, Yerm,’ he
