‘Recognise him?’
‘Busy store. How many people d’ya reckon go through my door every day?’
‘He’s on camera going through your door. The question is whether you remember him.’
‘They send you around here?’
‘No. Only my mole knows I know.’
She was lying. She had no mole. Store security denied all knowledge of the incident.
Hird kept his eyes on her. He had a big drink of beer. Caroline matched him. Their glasses were down to the same level.
‘A mole in security?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’d tell you what’s on the street cameras.’
‘There’s some problem there.’
‘So how’d you know where to come?’
‘It’s my business to find out.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Right. Saw your name in the paper. That Brechan. Shafted the bastard, din you. Shafter shafted.’ He laughed, he enjoyed his joke. ‘Bloody rag, your paper.’
Caroline shrugged, said, ‘I gather the Prime Minister reads it.’
He laughed again. ‘Bloody would, wouldn’t he? See which Tory prick’s been up a kid’s bum last night. Course the lovin wife’ll give the bastard an alibi, won’t she?’ His voice turned to purest Home Counties. ‘We were at home all evening, officer, just the two of us, a quiet dinner, watched some television, had an early night.’
‘So you saw this man,’ said Caroline as a matter of fact.
Hird nodded. ‘This an interview? Read me name in the paper?’
‘No. Just background. No name. Nothing that can identify you. I promise.’
He studied her, drank some beer. ‘Just looked odd,’ he said. ‘Then I saw his hand up to the chest, blood comin out between the fingers.’
In her heart, she felt the spring of pleasure uncoil at her cleverness. ‘Did security see him?’
‘Nah, been called away.’
‘You didn’t tell them?’
Hird studied her. ‘What’s your mole say?’
‘He says he’s not aware of any report.’
‘Well, there you have it.’
‘So the man went out the door and…’
‘I went out, just to the corner to have a look-see. Deserted me post. Sackable offence. Still, had a customer’s welfare at heart, din I?’
‘And?’
‘Well, he was pretty normal, not wobbly, but he wasn’t walkin too straight. Bit of bumpin. Went into Brompton, though he might be heading for the tube. Then these two fellas come along, they were lookin for him, that’s for sure.’
‘And?’
‘Well, he keeps goin up the street, then he crosses and he gets on the back of this motorbike.’
‘Waiting for him? The motorbike?’
Hird shook his head. ‘In the bloody traffic, couldna been. He just stood there, then he got on the back of the bike. Another fella come from somewhere, he was runnin at them, then off the thing went like a rocket. Yellow helmet, one of them big helmets, spaceship helmet. Know what I mean?’
‘And the men?’
‘Buggered off.’
‘Didn’t get the number of the bike, did you?’
‘Too far.’
Caroline nodded, finished her beer, got up. ‘Thanks, that’s a big help.’
Hird stood up, not easily. ‘Can’t see how.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Caroline.
They left the room. He went first. On the way down the passage she found a fifty, rolled it up. He opened the front door. She went out, turned.
‘Well,’ she said. She tapped the side of her nose with the rolled note, offered the roll. ‘We were at home all evening, officer, we watched television…’
Hird laughed, gave her the nod, nod, wink, wink, took the note and put it in his shirt pocket.
‘Keep insertin it up the bastards,’ he said.
34
…HAMBURG…
Inskip was watching the vision from some pale anonymous formica-walled airport terminal, views of queues, of passengers, close-ups of faces when their turns came at the counter. He jumped from queue to queue, face to face.
‘Real time in Belgrade,’ he said. ‘It’s a feed to the people who sold them the system. Quality control purposes.’
‘Very nice,’ said Anselm. ‘What’s our interest?’
‘Intellectual, for the moment. Another breakthrough in techniques of invasion. I thought that earned praise.’
‘It does. You’re a promising person.’
Inskip sniffed. ‘That’s a theatrical sniff,’ he said.
‘Don’t get to the theatre much.’
‘Moving on, I have the new London subject’s hire car in a parking garage near Green Park. Bill’s mounting, they’ve run a check on it.’
Eric Constantine. The name stuck in his mind.
‘Probably a dead end then,’ said Anselm. ‘I’m going home.’
‘Do you do that?’ said Inskip.
Anselm was packing up when the phone rang.
‘It’s yes,’ said O’Malley.
Anselm rang Tilders.
‘Yes,’ said Tilders. ‘They understand this is going to be difficult?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wish us luck.’
‘I do. Luck.’
Anselm had no urge to run home, walk home. He went out into the cold, misty night and, for the first time, took the sagging BMW car home. Outside the house, he got out and opened the wooden gates. It was a fight. Bolts and rusted hinges contested his wishes. He parked in front of the garage. No car had stood there for a long time, on those brick pavers.
Standing on the dark threshold, looking for the key, and inside, when he was sitting in the kitchen, glass in hand, he thought again about his Moritz: pro-Nazi. An anti-Semite. He looked like some count painted by von Rayski. And I look like him.
Anselm went to the photographs on the wall, the photographs Alex had looked at on the first night. There were dozens, going back more than a century-formal portraits, groups, weddings, dinners, sailing pictures, pictures taken at balls, in the garden, on the beach at Sylt, pictures of children, children with dogs, him with his parents and Lucas, Gunther and his wife, him with his grandfather in the garden, both with forks, big and small. No photograph of anyone who could be Moritz.
Surely Moritz could not have missed every single photographic occasion?
He went back to the kitchen, sat down. Alex. He should telephone her and say that he had changed his mind, apologise for wasting her time in Stadtpark. He had enjoyed talking to her, he could say that, but he didn’t want to talk about the past.
The telephone rang and Anselm knew. He let it ring for a while and then, suddenly fearful that the ringing might stop, he went to answer it.
Alex’s apartment was the size of a house, on the third floor of an old building in Winterhude, built between the wars, an Altbauwohnung.
Anselm said, ‘May I lie on a couch? Or have I suggested that before?’
Alex Koenig smiled. ‘You have and you may not. I’ve got coffee. Or brandy and whisky. Some gin left. I like to drink gin in summer.’
She was all in black, a turtleneck sweater and corduroy. Her hair was pulled back. Anselm thought she looked beautiful and it made him even more uneasy.
‘You can’t drink gin after sunset,’ he said.
‘Yes? Is that a British rule? It sounds British.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘But you’re not British.’
‘My mother’s family are English.’
‘Ah, mothers. They like rules. Impose order on the world, that’s a mother’s primary function. There is also beer and white wine.’
‘White wine, thank you.’
She left the room and he went to the window. The curtains were open and he looked out at the winter Hamburg night, moist, headlights, tail lights reflected on the shiny black tarmac skin. The streetlamps made the last wet leaves on the trees opposite glint like thousands of tiny mirrors. He turned, noticed the upright piano, an old Bechstein, went across and opened it, he could not resist. His right hand played. The piano was badly in need of tuning. So was his hand, he thought.
‘You’re musical,’ she said.
Anselm turned around. ‘Playing “Night and Day” doesn’t make you musical.’