‘Sir, yes?’
Broken English. The barman was a shrimp with a fuzz of cropped black hair brushed forward, wearing a grungy apron over a denim shirt that needed ironing.
‘Do you have Kalashnikov vodka?’
He looked blank. ‘Krashakov?’
‘Forget it,’ Ronnie said. ‘Any vodka, neat, and an espresso. You have espresso?’
‘Russian coffee.’
‘Fine.’
The shrimp nodded. ‘One Russian coffee. Vodka.’ He walked with a stoop as if his back was hurting.
A man was hurting on the screen. He was a bald, black guy covered in grey powder, with a clear breathing mask over his face, attached to an inflated bag. A man in a red helmet with a visor, a red face mask and a black T-shirt was urging him forward through grey snow.
‘So much shit!’ the shrimp said in broken English. ‘Manhattan. Unbelievable. You know about this? You know what happening?’
‘I was there,’ Ronnie said.
‘Yes? You was there?’
‘Get me a drink. I need that drink,’ he snapped.
‘I get you a drink. Don’t worry. You was there?’
‘Some part of that you don’t understand?’ Ronnie said.
The barman turned away huffily and produced a vodka bottle. One of the Bond heavies turned to Ronnie and raised his glass. He was drunk and slurring his speech. ‘You know what? Thirty years ago I’d have said comrade to you. Now I say buddy. Know what I mean?’
Ronnie raised his glass seconds after the barman put it down. ‘Not exactly, no.’
‘You gay or something?’ the man asked.
‘No, I’m not gay.’
The man put his glass down and windmilled his arms. ‘I don’t have no problem with gays. Not that. No.’
‘Good,’ Ronnie said. ‘I don’t either.’
The man broke into a grin. His teeth were terrible, Ronnie thought. It looked like he had a mouthful of rubble. The man raised his glass and Ronnie clinked it. ‘Cheers.’
George Bush was on the screen now. He was wearing a dark suit with an orange tie, sitting at the back of a school classroom, in front of a small blackboard, and there were pictures stuck to the wall behind them. One depicted a bear with a striped scarf riding a bicycle. A man in a suit was standing over George Bush, whispering into his ear. Then the image changed to wreckage of a plane on the ground.
‘You’re OK,’ the man said to Ronnie. ‘I like you. You’re OK.’ He poured more vodka into his own glass, then held the bottle over Ronnie’s for a moment. He squinted, saw it was still full and set the bottle back down in the ice. ‘You should drink.’ He drained his glass. ‘Today we need to drink.’ He turned back to the screen. ‘This not real. Not possible.’
Ronnie took a sip. The vodka burned his throat. Then, moments later, he tipped the glass back and drained it. The effect was almost instant, burning deep inside him. He poured another for himself and for his new best friend.
They fell silent. Just watching the screen.
After several more vodkas, Ronnie was starting to feel rather drunk. At some point he staggered off his stool, stumbled over to one of the empty booths and fell asleep.
When he woke up, he had a blinding headache and a raging thirst. Then a sudden moment of panic.
My bags.
Shit, shit, shit.
Then, to his relief, he saw them, still standing where he had left them, by his vacated bar stool.
It was 2 o’clock.
The same people were still in the bar. The same images were still repeating on the screen. He hauled himself back on to the bar stool and nodded at his friend.
‘What about the father?’ the Bond heavy said.
‘Yeah, why they don’t mention him?’ the other heavy said.
‘Father?’ the barman said.
‘All we hear is this Son of Bin Laden. What about the father?’
Mayor Giuliani was now on the screen, talking earnestly. He looked calm. He looked caring. He looked like a man who had things under control.
Ronnie’s new best friend turned to him. ‘You know Sam Colt?’
Ronnie, who was trying to listen to Giuliani, shook his head. ‘No.’
‘The guy invented the revolver, right?’
‘Ah, OK, him.’
‘Know what this man said?’
‘No.’
‘Sam Colt said, Now I’ve made all men equal!’ The Russian grinned, baring his revolting teeth again. ‘Yeah? OK? Understand?’
Ronnie nodded and ordered sparkling mineral water and coffee. He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, he realized, but he had no appetite.
Giuliani was replaced by stumbling grey ghosts. They looked like the grey ghosts he had seen earlier. A poem from way back at school suddenly came into his head. From one of his favourite writers, Rudyard Kipling. Yeah. He was the Man.
Kipling understood about power, control, empire-building.
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs…
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same…
On the screen he saw a fireman weeping. His helmet was covered in grey snow and he was sitting, visor up, cradling his face in his hands.
Ronnie leaned forward and tapped the shoulder of the barman. He turned from the screen. ‘Uh huh?’
‘Do you have rooms here? I need a room.’
His new best friend turned to him. ‘No flights. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘Where you from anyway?’
Ronnie hesitated. ‘Canada. Toronto.’
‘Toronto,’ the Russian repeated. ‘Canada. OK. Good.’ He felt silent for a moment, then he said, ‘Cheap room?’
Ronnie realized he could not use any cards – even if they had any credit left on them. He had just under four hundred dollars in his wallet, which would have to tide him over until he could convert some of the other currency he had in his bag – if he could find a buyer who would pay him the right money. And not ask questions.
‘Yes, a cheap room,’ he replied. ‘Cheaper the better.’
‘You’re in the right place. You want SRO. That’s what you want.’
‘SRO?’
‘Single Room Occupancy. That’s what you want. You pay cash, they no ask you questions. My cousin has SRO house. Ten minutes’ walk. You want I give you the address?’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Ronnie replied.
The Russian showed him his teeth again. ‘Plan? You have plan? Good plan?’
‘Carpe diem!’
‘Huh?’
‘It’s an expression.’
‘Carpe diem?’ The Russian pronounced it slowly, clumsily.
Ronnie grinned, then bought him another drink.
45
Major Incident Room One was the larger of two airy rooms in the Major Incident Suite of Sussex House, which housed the inquiry teams working on serious crime investigations. Roy Grace entered it shortly before 6.30, carrying a mug of coffee.
An open, modern-feeling L-shaped room, it was divided up by three principal work stations, each comprising a long, curved, light-coloured wooden desk with space for up to eight people to sit, and massive whiteboards, most of which at the moment were blank, apart from one marked Operation Dingo, and another on which were several close-up photographs of the Unknown Female in the storm drain and some exterior shots of the New England Quarter development. On one, a red circle drawn in marker pen indicated the position of the body in the drain.
A large inquiry might have used up all the space in here, but because of the relative lack of urgency in this case – and therefore the need to budget manpower and resources accordingly – Grace’s team occupied only one of the work stations. At the moment the others were vacant, but that could change at any time.