They left the office as a team.
The first thing to be done was to distribute photos of the Dutchman to police stations in central and greater London. The weekend wasn’t really the time to accomplish this, but they did their best. A computer was used to create an A4-sized poster containing a description of the Dutchman and his photograph. The quality of reproduction of the photo left a little to be desired, and Elder doubted that, faxed, it would remain recognizable.
“The woman who really knows this machine is on holiday,” was the excuse offered.
“Then bring her back.”
They brought her back, and she sharpened the image to Elder’s satisfaction, after which they laser-printed a few dozen copies. As well as police stations, the first target remained the Conference Centre itself. The description would go to every delegation, and to the various security organizations involved in the summit. The Dutchman probably wouldn’t risk getting close to the summit itself, but the warning was worth making. Here was someone tangible for everyone to keep an eye open for. Here was something to keep them on their toes. Here was, at the very least, a photograph.
The day passed quickly. Doyle was sent to have a word with his snitches and least salubrious contacts.
“Bit out of their league,” he said, “but you never know.”
There were Dutch-style pubs and Dutch restaurants in the capital. Greenleaf went to talk with owners, staff, and regular clients. Again, they could be pretty sure that the Dutchman would steer clear of such places. Again, it was still worth a try.
Elder thought of his own contacts in London... and came to the conclusion that none of them was left; none, at least, who could be of any possible use. Apart from Charlie Giltrap. He wondered if Charlie was still around. He wasn’t in the phone book, and a check showed that he wasn’t unlisted either. Not that either of these meant anything. It was over two years since he’d seen Charlie, over two years since Charlie had given him his last, near-fatal tip-off.
“Just popping out for a minute,” he said. He made for the nearest newsagent’s, where he flicked through a listings magazine, concentrating on “Events.” Sure enough, there was a record buyers’ mart in London today, and ironically it was taking place at Westminster Central Hall, within spitting distance of the Conference Centre and not a five-minute walk from where he was standing. He put the magazine back on the rack and set off. It was just another long shot... either that or fate.
At the Central Hall, he paid his entrance money and squeezed into a mayhem of noise and too many people crammed into the narrow aisles. Most of the music seemed to be heavy metal, not what he’d been expecting. The clientele was young and bedenimed and greasy-haired. They were listening to tapes on personal cassette players before deciding whether to buy. Rare LPs were displayed against walls, some of the asking prices reaching three figures. A young woman, a heavy metal fan by the look of her, was attracting attention and comment as she browsed, apparently unaware of the hungry stares behind her. She was wearing a tight red leather skirt, zipped up both sides, and a black leather jacket. Elder found himself examining her, too. He was looking for someone he knew beneath all that makeup and disheveled hair. He failed to find her.
A few old-timers, and he put himself in this category, did their best to move through the crush, seeking out stalls selling older stuff: ’50s and ’60s music. He did one circuit of the hall without seeing Charlie Giltrap. And then, in a corner, stooped as he riffled through a cardboard box full of LPs, there he was. Grinning, Elder tapped him on the shoulder.
Charlie Giltrap turned around, his fingers still keeping his place in the box. Then his eyes opened wide and he let the records fall back, both his hands coming around to clasp Elder’s.
“Dom! Where the hell did you spring from?” He was pumping Elder’s right hand with both of his own, his grin near toothless, cheeks slightly sunken where the extractions had been made. His eyes were dark-ringed, nose red-veined. Typically, he wore clothes too young for him: faded, patched denims, cheesecloth shirt, and a leather thong around his neck. His long gray hair was tied back in a ponytail.
“You never did send me your address, you bastard,” he said.
“I didn’t have an address for you, remember,” replied Elder. “But as it happens, I did send you a note.”
“Yeah?”
“Care of your father.”
A snort. “That explains it then. Mind like a sieve. He probably chucked it out without telling me.”
“How is he?”
“Six feet under, God rest his soul. Went last Christmas.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Comes to us all, Dom. Maybe if I start smoking forty a day I’ll live to be eighty-six like him. He used to say he’d smoked so much he’d been cured.” Charlie’s laughter spluttered out of him.
“Yes, I remember,” said Elder.
“How are you doing anyway? What brings you back to the Smoke?”
“Work brings me back, Charlie.”
“Yeah, didn’t think you’d just want to talk over old times.”
“Still get out and about, do you?”
“Not as much as before, but I keep my hand in.” Charlie winked. “Let me settle up here and we’ll go for a drink, yeah?”
Charlie turned back to the stall holder. Elder noticed that half a dozen LPs had been lifted from the box and placed flat down on top of another box. Charlie picked them up and handed them over. The stall holder totted up the prices and put them in a plastic carrier.
“Thirty quid, mate,” he said. Charlie handed over a fifty and, waiting for his change, turned to Elder.
“This place has gone right downhill, Dom. All hip-hop records and thrash bootleg tapes.”
“So I noticed.”
“Thing is, it’s about the only place in London where you can still buy LPs. The shops all sell CDs, bigger markup, see. Phasing out vinyl. It’s a catastrophe.” He took his change and his albums. “Cheers, mate. See you next time.”
“Right you are, Charlie.”
Charlie and Elder squeezed back through the crowds in the aisles until they reached the doors to the lobby. Elder noticed that the heavy-metal girl was standing chatting to some friends. As she laughed, he saw she was about ten years too young to be Witch...
“What a relief,” said Charlie, glad to be out of the crowd. “My motor’s parked round the side of the cathedral. Come on.”
“Where are we going?” asked Elder. Charlie looked at him.
“We’re going to find you a pint of Young’s best,” he said.
Elder laughed. “I haven’t had any of that in over two years.”
“You used to knock it back.”
“So where do we find Young’s round here?”
“It’s in a few places. The best I’ve tasted’s in Soho.”
They drove into the middle of Soho and, the car park being full, cruised until they found someone pulling away from a parking meter.
“God bless you,” Charlie called to the departing car, slipping his own resprayed Escort into the space. Elder noticed that Charlie hid his LPs under the driver’s seat, and then unslotted his radio and did the same with it.
“These days...” he said, simply, locking the car. He put some more money in the meter and led Elder into the dark interior of a pub. No jukebox, no television, no video games, and only a single slot machine.
“It’s an oasis,” commented Elder, who thought such pubs no longer existed in London.
“It gets noisy at night,” said Charlie, ordering two pints of Young’s Special. The beer when it came was dark and rich. “Just like my landlord,” said Charlie. They perched on stools at the bar and exchanged histories of the past two years. Charlie had cut down on cigarettes and also on drugs and drink.