A short, thick-set man stepped from the van, his crop of white, wiry hair catching in the wind above a brown, leathery face. He wore a heavy tweed coat and was not what Kale had been expecting. He seemed quite inappropriate; honest blue eyes. ‘Kale?’ he asked. Kale nodded. ‘Into the back of the van then, lad.’ He rounded the van and opened the doors for Kale to climb in. ‘Here, stick this over your head. An’ don’t think you can whip it off when we get moving. I’ll be watching you in the mirror.’
Kale pulled the black cotton hood over his head and squatted down on a rug on the floor as the driver shut the doors. There were dog hairs on the rug and there had been fresh mud on the man’s brogues. Despite the good coat and shoes, his hands were those of a working man. Heavy, hard-skinned, calloused hands. His accent was Yorkshire, or Lancashire, and he had that weathered outdoor air about him, uncomfortable in his expensive city gear. Kale adjusted his senses to the darkness, pressing his back up against the side of the van. There was the smell of a dog and stale cigarette smoke.
They seemed to have been driving around the town for an eternity. Several times Kale had lost his bearings, but always he picked up their position again. The hoot of a train as it approached the station, the steep cobbled climb up Cotton Street, the quarter hour chime of the church clock on the edge of the new housing estate — the only chiming clock in the town. They were leaving the town now, he was certain. The roundabout on the north side with roads leading north and west. The sound of a pneumatic drill, and a slight delay at temporary traffic lights erected for road works. They had taken the A road west. Kale had checked the road the first day he arrived.
The driver stuck to the A road for what must have been nearly twenty minutes. That would take the time to around three forty. Kale would check the time when they stopped. Another seven or eight minutes perhaps, and then the van turned off the main road. Kale heard the click, click of the indicator before they slowed to take the corner, tight, the driver forced to crunch into first gear. It would be a narrow road, maybe a farm track. The van bounced and clattered over the uneven surface. Kale heard the splash of mud along the side. Then they stopped, and above the idling engine Kale could hear a man’s voice and the sound of hooves, the lowing of cattle. He strained to catch more. The scraping of a wooden gate, again a man’s voice calling, cattle retreating, and they were moving again, very slowly. Up a sharp incline and then suddenly down. A bridge? Over water? Yes, he could hear the water. The driver had rolled down the window and now they were picking up speed, the surface a little better, the swish, swish, swish of fence posts or perhaps trees along the route. Slowing again, the clatter of a cattle grid, and then the crunch of asphalt beneath the tyres. They stopped, and the driver cut the ignition and climbed out.
‘Just keep yer hood on, lad.’ The back doors opened and Kale felt the working man’s hands help him out. Even in his enclosed darkness he could sense the presence of trees and a building. Stone. Something big, impressive. Up stone steps into a hall, a great sense of space around them. A flagstone floor, or tiles maybe. The man with the white hair and the big rough hands felt the tension in Kale’s arm. ‘Okay, lad. Take it easy.’ Kale was surprised by the close friendliness of the voice, its innocence, its honesty. This man could know nothing of what Kale was about. It is strange, he thought, how a voice can tell you more about a man when you cannot see his face. ‘In ’ere.’ The big hands guided him across the hall and through a doorway. ‘You can take yer hood off when I’ve shut the door. There’s a bell press below the light switch when you’re ready to go.’ The door closed, the key turned in the lock, and the sound of the working man’s heavy tread receded across the hall.
Kale removed the hood and screwed up his eyes against the sudden glare of electric light. It took nearly half a minute for his eyes to adjust fully. He checked his watch. It was just after four. Then he looked around. This was a small room. No windows, no fireplace, cream-painted walls, bare floorboards. A smell of dust and age. Perhaps a storeroom. But there were no clues, the room completely bare save for a wooden bench against the far wall. Kale’s eyes fixed on the bench. Towards one end of it lay a folder, a heavy black phone placed beside it. He was startled by the sudden loud ring of the phone — a short, single ring. He crossed the room and lifted the receiver, checking the dial as he sat. It was not an outside line, but an internal phone with only an extension number. Four.
‘Kale?’ a voice rasped in his ear.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Now understand this...’ The voice seemed without particular accent, but it was an educated voice, mature. Even from the five words Kale had heard he detected a quality of confidence. A man used to speaking, a man used to having others listen. ‘...You and I are the only ones who will ever know the purpose of this meeting. You do not know who I am and so it shall remain. I know very little about you except that you are reputed to be the best.’ The voice paused for effect. Kale let the silence drag out and became aware for the first time that he was cold in this empty room. Then the voice was there again, insistent, demanding of attention.
‘In the folder you will find five thousand pounds in cash, the first half of your fee. You will also find two photographs marked A and B.’
Kale switched the phone to his other ear and opened the folder. The money was there in an unsealed envelope. He did not count it. He took out the photographs and laid them side by side on the bench.
‘Listen carefully to what I tell you because you will receive nothing in writing and you may not take the photographs with you. If you wish me to repeat anything, ask.’
‘Hold on.’ Kale took out a small, dog-eared notebook and a biro pen. ‘Okay.’
‘Photograph A is Robert Gryffe. He is an Under Secretary of State at the Foreign Office, a Junior Minister.’ Kale had recognised the face but had been unable to place it. So, political assassination. It meant nothing to him. ‘Gryffe has special responsibilities in acting for the Foreign Minister at the European Commission of the EEC in Brussels. He is there at least one week a month, during which he stays at a terraced house he owns in the Rue de Pavie, number twenty-four. Today is Thursday. On Sunday morning Gryffe has an appointment at his Brussels home to meet the man pictured in photograph B. That man’s identity is of no importance to you, just so long as you remember the face. I want both men dead... without a supicion of murder. How you do that is your business.’ The voice paused and Kale waited.
‘You will then proceed to the Rue de Commerce, the top floor flat in the apartment block at number thirty-three. It will be empty. There is always a key below the mat. Let yourself in and go straight to the main living room. On the fireplace wall hangs a painting by Brueghel, behind it a safe set in the wall. The combination is three, zero, five, nine, six, two. Inside you will find a black briefcase...’
‘Burglary is not my line,’ Kale interrupted, his voice flat and cold.
The other hesitated. ‘I have already had the place checked out by a professional. You will simply be required to collect the case and leave.’ Again the hesitation, the reluctance to answer Kale’s unasked question. Kale was only too aware of the power of his silence. ‘The case could not be taken before the... before you have fulfilled your task at the Rue de Pavie.’