River said, “Yes,” though had no idea.
“My grandad hanged himself from that. When he lost his farm. See? History, that is. Means your family’s blood’s been spilt there. Somewhere doesn’t belong to you just because your parents bought a chunk of it.”
“It kind of does, though,” River said. “You know. In the strictly legal sense.”
They walked on.
“That’s bullshit about your grandad, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
They reached a crossroads, one fork of which was a farm track: two ruts in a narrow passage. Griff marched down it without altering speed. The surface was slick underfoot, with random outcroppings of rock. River had a pencil-torch he couldn’t use, partly because they were approaching the MoD land, but mostly so Griff wouldn’t think him a wuss. It was very dark. There must be a moon, but River had no idea where, or what shape it would be if it showed itself. Meanwhile Griff marched without stumbling or slowing, proving a point: this was his territory, and he could navigate it eyes shut. River gritted his teeth and picked his knees up. Less chance of stumbling.
Griff halted. “Know where we are?”
Of course I bloody don’t. “Tell me.”
Griff pointed left, and River squinted. “Not seeing it.”
“Start at the ground and move your gaze upwards.” River did as told, and about eight feet from the ground became aware of a change in texture. This wasn’t hedgerow any more. Catching light from somewhere it winked at River briefly, and he understood: this was the MoD range, bordered on all sides by wire-mesh fence, along the top of which razorwire curled.
“We’re going over that?” He was whispering.
“Can if you like. But I’m not.”
They trudged on.
“Common land, this used to be,” Griff said. “Before the war. Till the government invoked some whatyecallit, emergency provision, and used it for training. Then the war ended, but they never gave it back, did they? Leased it to the Yanks, then when they buggered off, it went back to the M of bloody D.” He hawked noisily, and spat. “For more training. So they say.”
“Artillery range, isn’t it?”
“Oh aye. But that might just be cover.”
“For what?”
“Weapons research, maybe. Chemical weapons, you get? Or other stuff they don’t want us knowing about.”
River made a non-committal noise.
“You think I’m joking?”
“Truthfully,” River said, “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Well here’s your chance to find out.”
It took River a moment to realise Yates was pointing at a section of dark overgrowth. It looked no different than any other stretch they’d passed this last half hour, but that’s what Griff was here for: to show him a way in he wouldn’t find for himself.
“After you,” he said.
“So how long have you been with the, ah, Department of Energy?”
“I thought we agreed. No business.”
“Forgive me. One of my vices, I find it difficult to relax.” He glanced at her chest, a fair proportion of which was on display. “Not impossible. Just difficult.”
“We must see what we can do about that,” she said.
“Something worth drinking to.” He raised his glass. She had already forgotten the name of the wine he’d ordered, and its label was obscured now as it wallowed in its bucket, but he’d specified the year, and that was a first for Louisa. Her dining experiences mostly involved sell-by dates, not vintages.
“I was sorry to hear about your colleague,” he said. “Mr. Harding?”
“Harper,” she said.
“My apologies, Harper. And my condolences. Were you close?”
“We worked together.”
“Some of my closest friendships have been born of work,” he said. “I’m sure you miss him. We should drink to his memory.”
He raised his glass. After a moment, Louisa raised hers to meet it.
“Mr. Harper,” he said.
“Min.”
“I’m sure he was a good man.” He drank.
After another moment, so did she.
The waiter arrived and began unloading food, the sight and smell of which made her want to gag. She’d just drunk a toast to Min’s memory with the man she was sure was the force behind his death. But now would not be a good time to retch: she had the whole evening to get through. Keep him sweet and keep him happy; keep him eager until they were back in his suite. Then business could begin.
She wanted to know who, and she wanted to know why. All the questions Min himself would seek answers to, if he were here.
“So,” she said, her voice far away. She cleared her throat. “So. You’re happy with tomorrow’s arrangements?”
He waved a finger like a disappointed priest. “Louisa. What were we just saying?”
“I was thinking about the building. Impressive, isn’t it?”
“Please. You must try this.” He was arranging bits of starter on her plate. She still had no hunger; she had an ache inside, but it wasn’t food she needed. She forced a smile and thought she must look grotesque, as if her mouth had fish-hooks at the corners. But despite his enormous wealth, he was too much the gentleman to shudder or point.
“Impressive, yes,” he said, and she had to change mental gear: he was talking about the Needle. “Capitalism at its most naked, rearing high above the city. You don’t need me to mention Freud, I’m sure.”
“Perhaps not this early in the evening,” she heard herself say.
“And yet it’s impossible to avoid. Where there is money, there is also sex. Please.” He gestured with his fork. “Eat.”
It was as if he’d prepared it himself, and she wondered if that were a symptom of wealth; that you assume yourself the source of all your company’s needs and pleasures.
She ate. It was a scallop, over which had been drizzled a nutty-looking sauce which tasted of too many things for her tongue to process. And yet that ache inside, which food could not pacify, rolled over on its back and quietened. Eat. Eat some more. It wasn’t wrong to be hungry after all.
He was saying, “And where there’s sex, trouble follows. I’ve been seeing posters everywhere, hearing news reports. This Stop the City rally. Are your masters at the Department of Energy worried about it?”
That joke could wear thin. “It’s not ideal timing. But our route avoids it.”
“I’m surprised your authorities allow it on a weekday.”
“I suppose the organisers felt there was little point in bringing the City to its knees at the weekend, when the City’s out of town.” Her bag buzzed. That was her phone receiving a text, but there was nobody she wanted to hear from. She ignored it, and speared another scallop.
He said, “And it won’t get out of hand?”
Similar demonstrations had seen burning cars and shattered windows. But the violence tended to be contained. “These things are strenuously policed. The timing’s a pain, but it’s just one of those things. We’ll work round it.”
Arkady Pashkin nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll trust you and your colleague to get me there and back safely.”
She smiled again. It felt more natural this time. Maybe because she was thinking that there was no chance Pashkin would be trusting her to do anything, once this evening was over.
Always supposing he was still alive.
For some reason River had expected it to be different, this side of the fence; lighter, perhaps; easier underfoot. But having followed Griff through not much of a gap in the spiky undergrowth, to a sheared-through section of the wire fence that peeled back, he found everything much the same, except that there was no defined track, and he was muddier.