‘How’d you end up here?’
I think about answering, but in the end I just shrug. ‘Long story. You?’
He’s called Len. He’s got the kind of story I used to give people – except he’s more convincing. It’s the usual stuff:family break-up, debt, addictions, and then the slow spiral until all the options have run out, all the sofas have been surfed and all the spare places crashed. He’s been on the street for four months.
On balance, I’d say Len is a bit worse off than a spoiled teenager who just had a row with his family and walked out one day, then never bothered to get back to them, carelessly throwing away an entire accumulated life on the strength of a few adolescent arguments and a large dose of self-pity. That seems like a fair appraisal.
I want to help him somehow, but offering interloping advice feels presumptuous, and I can’t think of anything else, until inspiration strikes.
‘Want a Kit Kat?’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah. I’m trying to cut down on sugar.’
‘Thanks.’ He pockets it.
I’m so tired. God, it was only this morning we visited Conor Vane in the Commons. Then Balfour Villas, the spy, the landing, the landingfromthe landing, the Uber, the hospital, the coach, Fred … There are years where little happens, and nights where your life is turned upside down and squeezed.
I can’t stop wondering where Em and Elle are. Were they arrested? Were they allowed to stay with Jonny? What’s happening to Jonny? I’d take any punishment going if I could trade it for him being all right.
Len is looking at me expectantly, and I realise he’s just said something. ‘Sorry?’
‘I said, where are you going from here?’
‘I’m not sure.’ This is the truth for once.
‘You can’t stay in this hut for ever,’ he says. ‘I’ve tried it.’
To be honest, I was thinking how you could interlope this place on a semi-permanent basis. Only use it after dark, when there’s nobody else around. You’d have shelter, warmth, light … God, what am I, a caveman? Al, you once spent three weeks in the Duke of Westminster’s house, telling the neighbours you were on a ducal exchange scheme. Aim a little higher.
‘I’ll probably …’ I could run, of course, I’ve got enough of my wits remaining to blag a ferry. French can’t be that hard. Make my way south, wind up in Nice or Marseille, get a tan, work on a boat, just live. Don’t be daft, Al. But it’s tempting. ‘I’ll probably just drift for a bit.’
Len shoots me a look of pity, as if I’ve given the wrong answer. I’m tempted to explain to him that I woke up last night in an actual mansion in London. He would nod, and smile, and chalk me up as the sort who needs a fantasy to cope. You meet them a lot, in this trudge of life. Everybody deceives themselves about something or other, and normally I’m the one helping people deceive themselves, but right now it’s me who seems delusional.
‘I hope you don’t mind, Len, but I think I need to sleep now.’
He nods. ‘All right, mate. I won’t disturb you.’
With the aid of a stuffed Bourbon cushion and two custard creams, I nod off. When I wake, he’s gone, and – for Christ’s sake, Len – he’s left me half the Kit Kat.
There’s a grey light out there beyond the sea. Dawn’s coming.
I get a few sheets of paper from the shelf – something for the children to draw on when it rains – and, for want of anything else, a brown Crayola. Then I write down everything I can think of, in the wrong order:
Davy; luxury places; mentoring scheme; Battersea flat; Wolfgang the German stooge; UAE bank (two have access); laundering; Nevis; Rivers; Charli and Lulu; Mrs P; Rob Wallace; Kate McAdams; Balham Brats (Fantasy Football); Conor Vane; flights to Dubai; dark police stations; spies why British spies; outbuilding outbuilding OUTBUILDING; what was he confessing to?; who was he working with?; who did he trust?
There has to be something in this mess, something I can tease out. Someone’s lying; and when someone lies, they leave a little fissure between what they’ve said and reality. Find those gaps. Find where the light shines through.
I look through my phone at the wide electronic trail I’ve left behind. I don’t have access to Davy’s inbox, but pretty much everything else in the last fortnight links me to the crime. I’ve got Davy’s number saved, Charli and Lulu’s numbers, the number of Kate McAdams from the National Crime Agency (I swiped it before we chucked the phone we spoke to her on), and numbers for most of Davy’s friends, everyone except Jay Hawthorne.
Wait. There it is. A gleam of light.
And … it’s gone again. Something snagged at my brain forhalf a second there. Somewhere a tiny revelation flashed a fin, a phrase spoken in the course of all those meetings that offered a theory I could test. What was it? Stay calm, Al. Don’t thrash. It’ll come around. Just gently meander back, let your eyes wander across the page again, stand motionless in the middle of the stream …
There. I have the thought, cradled between my hands. I slowly gather it up, ring two of the words in Crayola, link them together, and step back. It’ll take a few more hours before I can make the call, but I have time. I should have a few hours yet.
44
