‘Unless who helps you?’ I can’t be bothered piecing it together any more, so I clatter down the stairs. Em and Elle are at opposite ends of the room. Jonny’s in the corner, headphones firmly on, still trying to get into Davy’s laptop.
‘Nobody.’ Em is a human scowl. So, to my surprise, is Elle. ‘None of your business.’
‘Why not?’
‘Family stuff. Doubt you’d understand.’
That’s rather wounding, but I pretend to ignore it. ‘Family?’
‘Our sister,’ says Elle.
‘Half-sister,’ adds Em.
‘She could help us, but Em doesn’t want to even ask.’
‘What does she do?’
‘Security services,’ Em mutters.
‘What?’
‘Not in a way that could help us. She’s one of those recognisers. You know? She can look at a crowd of football fans and tell you which one was photographed robbing a bank in Hull three years ago. Except for her it’s mostly international stuff.’
‘And she’s in the UK? I thought you were French.’
‘As I said, half-sister,’ says Em. ‘Our dad was English. Look, there’s no point discussing it, because we’re not contacting her.’
‘What’s she called?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Pretty name.’
‘She’s called Claudia,’ says Elle, ‘and I think we’re being stupid not sending her a photo of Mr Bowling Ball to see if he rings any bells. Or even Davy.’
‘Absolutely not,’ says Em. ‘She’ll shop us. She wouldloveit. Can you imagine how pleased she’d be to tell Dad that his favourite daughter was right about the other two all along? It’s not going to happen, love.’
Elle subsides, crossly. I wonder who their father is.
‘I tell you one thing we have to do,’ says Em, in a consoling tone. ‘Let’s burn that diary of Davy’s. We may as well remove one piece of evidence linking us to his place.’
‘All right.’
Em retrieves it from her bag. The three of us take a final look at the page containing the footballers’ initials, then get a metal bucket from the garden, rip the notebook up, and each light a section using Em’s Zippo. (‘I didn’t know you smoked.’ ‘I don’t. I just like being able to set fire to stuff.’) We take some satisfaction watching the pages curl to nothingness.
Jonny, who has taken no part in this pagan ritual, pulls off his headphones.
‘Are you guys ready for this meeting?’ Three blank faces look back at him. ‘With the German guy. Davy’s stooge for the companies.’
‘Oh, Hans von Gruber.’
‘Wolfgang Eisenlohr, yes.’ Jonny has his own laptop set up. ‘We said eight p.m. Berlin time. He’ll be there shortly.’
The Zoom connects. The screen shows one of those computer-gaming chairs, all ergonomic black leather designed so you can sit in it playingWarcraftfor sixteen hours straight. Behind the chair, it looks like the bedroom of a teenage boy from 2004. Posters of Metallica, women in bikinis, a wolf surmounted by a Native American quote, a cannabis-themed tricolour … It’s like our new friend was at the closing-down sale for Athena.
After about thirty seconds, a youngish man shambles onto the screen, holding a steaming mug, and sits. He’s about my age, I’d say: pale, tall, scruffy fuzz on his jaw, and a thick black hairline that hardly clears his eyebrows. He could be a vampire or a zombie, with an outside chance of human. His T-shirtreadsALL ABOARD THE USBand shows a flash drive with wheels. He and Jonny are going to get on like a Samsung on fire.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I had to sort my Sleepytime tea.’ (Imagine all of his lines with a thick German accent, please.) He looks at the screen again. ‘Lots of you. There is a problem with Mr David?’
