The inside of the custom house stank of stale urine and the damp, was filled with rubble and rebar and other detritus of renovations abandoned, and was icily cold. Aleksey had immediately turned and whispered with glee in Ben’s ear, ‘Time for bed then.’
It had not been received in the spirit he’d intended.
* * *
‘Tell me again why we’re here.’ Ben, arms wrapped around his knees, shifted uncomfortably on the concrete in the little space they found alongside the loading bay doors.
Aleksey smiled privately. ‘I told you, it was something Neil said before he died. And Lee, I suppose. I think the moron has spent a few nights here to see what he could find out, but he’s now busy for me, so…’ Aleksey wasn’t entirely sure why he wanted to do this, if he was honest. A strange concept, honesty, and he was still struggling a little with it. He didn’t want to admit, even to himself, that he’d been annoyed by the moron’s assertion that he wasn’t physically able to do such things these days. Nor did he want to feel grateful to him for the very same observation—a remark that seemed uncharacteristically thoughtful. If he started believing Michael Heathcote had a brain, or a heart come to that, then all kinds of other assumptions about the idiot would have to be challenged. Particularly, he didn’t want to be impressed with the cretin: that he had thought to do this surveillance—that he cared enough to do this for his fellow man. But most especially, he didn’t want to acknowledge that he felt guilty taking the man away from this task for something so trivial—a wealthy man and his concerns about an island holiday. Clearly, he didn’t owe homeless veterans in Exeter anything. He hadn’t made them homeless. His wealth didn’t contribute to their situation—even though it had been earned supplying the machines of war which had made them veterans in the first place. In fact, when he considered it with his Aleksey Primakov sensibilities, he could very easily make the case that these men had only had a home at all because he’d supplied it to them at one time: the army. Armies, after all, are only needed because of the military-industrial complex. Without arms manufacturers, Politicians’ little squabbles and power grabs would be nothing more than toddler spats: easily ignored. But he didn’t do Aleksey Primakov thinking any more. He’d promised the man for whom he’d changed his name—better thinking.
So, here he was. Because he cared, he supposed. It was a depressing thought really.
Ben was suspiciously quiet, fidgeting. When he spoke, he’d apparently been thinking about their mutual acquaintance, too. ‘Are you going to be okay with him? Make it up with him?’
Aleksey shrugged, though he knew Ben probably couldn’t see this in the dark of the cavernous space. ‘He will have to do something fairly dramatic to get back in my good books.’
‘What’s that noise?’
‘Just the rain. Something probably shifting in the wet.’
‘You seriously believe there’s going to be a gang of yobs rampaging through here tonight after the pubs close…looking for homeless people to beat up?’
‘Not exactly. Neil said he was taken somewhere nice. Maybe they took him to a house and fed him before they did what they did to him? I don’t know. Anything is possible. In Russia he’d have been found missing his organs. He might have unwittingly been forced to star in a snuff movie. Or be found with drugs inserted into him so he could act as a mule. But he would not just be let go afterwards. I think they might be looking for him.’
‘Because he could have identified them.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Perhaps he did have something on him. In him. We didn’t check.’
‘Yours is the only body cavity I enjoy searching.’
‘You could have been doing that tonight.’
‘Ack, there is still time. If they’re not here by—’
‘Yeah. Dream on.’
‘Huh. Your desire for sex is waning with age. It’s inevitable I suppose.’
‘Shh. Listen.’
Ben’s cold fingertips turned his chin towards the sound he claimed to hear.
He was about to reply once more that it was too early to expect anything, when he too heard the distinct beeping sound of a reversing vehicle, right outside the place where they were waiting. Something was backing down the alley to the loading ramp, audible even above the sound of drumming rain.
They rose swiftly from their position. There was a wide ledge they’d recce’d earlier, which was part of an upper storey which had fallen in. Still strongly fixed to the wall with rusting steel girders, it gave them an excellent vantage point to survey the activities below without being seen. Ben pulled himself up then put a hand down and dragged him up too.
There were low voices and then the sound of boards being levered away. Four men, just dark shapes, came in through the gap they’d made where the custom house doors would once have been. One made a gesture to the waiting vehicle outside. Aleksey was glad they’d planned their elevated vantage point earlier, for the entire floor space below them was suddenly illuminated by headlights.
The men had thick jackets over hoodies, the hoods of which were pulled up over their heads. Boots and dirty jeans completed the uniform of rough sleepers. They glanced around, kicked away a few lumps of concrete to make a space, set down a few objects in the area they’d cleared and went out again. They returned with a man slung between them. Aleksey could not tell if he was unconscious, drunk, or dead, but he looked soaked, as if he’d been out in the rain for a good few hours. They set the slumped man down and began to unpack some of the items they’d brought in for him before: a roll mat, a sleeping bag and a small stove.
It almost appeared as if they were friends of the man, all homeless, setting up a safe camp for the night. It was almost as if they were the do-gooders Lee had referred to—finding the rough sleepers who were too far gone to get themselves in from the rain, and helping them.
Almost. The impression that they were on stage, floodlit and performing, rather put paid to any of this as a solution to the confusing scenario.
Once the men were satisfied they’d made it nice for their still comrade, they lit the little stove and emptied a tin of beans in it to heat. Another two men came in. They’d apparently been keeping out of the rain and cold in the van. One of them pulled something out of his jacket. It appeared to be an open bottle of vodka. He knelt by the supine man and tucked it into his pocket, slopping it without concern. The six stood around for a few moments.
Then left.
