‘Can’t take you, Trace. Like to, course I would. Hardly fun, but an opportunity.’
The apartment he had bought her was high in the tower. One of the best that had been available in Canada Wharf, it was convenient and discreet. There were lifts, or staircases, if he had the energy. He was not at his best that afternoon. His mind was not on the business of justifying the basic outlay of a thousand a week, which was what it cost to keep the roof over Trace’s head, food in her belly, the frequent hair and nail appointments, the holidays with her sister, clothes and pocket money. A grand a week wasn’t unreasonable.
It was his fault. She’d tried hard – wasted effort. She was unsettled and it showed. Bent could have said, no fear of contradiction, that he ruled that part of east London – Rotherhithe, Bermondsey, Peckham – where Trace was installed. No one would have denied it, neither the Flying Squad detective who’d checked his file, nor any dealer in the area. He’d dealt with foreigners enough times, of course, and none had considered taking a liberty with him, except one Russian. The man had gone home and would have had a bad flight – difficult to travel by air with a leg in plaster because your kneecap’s shattered. Different, what was coming. Off his territory. He’d not met them, didn’t speak their language.
Trace said, ‘You’ll be all right, Bent. It’ll be fine, like it always is.’
The room behind the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window, with a view up the Thames to die for, was immaculate. He liked it that way, ordered. Her clothes were folded in a small pile on a chair, and his hung from hangers. He disliked mess and confusion. He had a phobia about the unknown, but his life was about taking opportunity when it came up. He couldn’t back off.
He said, ‘Good one, Trace. Fine for me, like it always is.’
The party was finishing. The magician had performed well. The bell was ringing as parents came to collect their children. Wilhelmina was on the phone and the noise swelled around her. The junior in the analysis section was adamant. Jago Browne wasn’t answering his landline or returning mobile calls. He hadn’t responded to emails or texts.
Wilhelmina spluttered indignation and wiped a child’s chocolaty face. There was lemonade on the cheque for the caterers. It was about discipline. She had no quarrel with his work, his attitude towards clients or his behaviour in the office – but he was foreign. Also, he was aloof, and not a team player. With discipline went the requirement that he should be on call one Saturday in three and one Sunday in five. He could be in the middle of an ice-rink, or with a girl in the Tiergarten, playing tennis or at the cinema, but on those few days he was required to answer his phone – and had not.
Peculiar. Three parents waved and left. The birthday party was, for her, a major social opportunity and a chance to identify possible clients. It was more than peculiar. Wilhelmina, annoyed, was unforgiving and formidable.
She said, ‘Leave it to me. I’ll speak to the client. Thank you. And I’ll deal with the young man who is on call.’
‘It’s a murderous place. They slaughter them and enjoy it. Barbarians . . .’
The man was two rows behind Jago Browne and he spoke with a thick Yorkshire accent. The coach was taking them from Lamezia Terme airport to Reggio, and tempers had frayed. Jago hadn’t noticed his fellow travellers in Rome or on the flight.
‘They butcher them. It’s a mark of manhood, down here, to kill.”
There were eight of them and they belonged, he’d gathered, to a conservation group. Their speciality was watching birds’ migration routes, and a hot-spot was the straits between Sicily and Calabria, which was less than three miles wide at the narrowest point.
‘They’re not choosy, a vulture or an eagle, a harrier or a falcon – but they love to massacre the buzzards. It’s a sort of choke point for the birds, and the bastards are waiting for them. It must be like flying in a Wellington through concentrated flak, if you’re a raptor.’
A woman said, ‘For God’s sake, Duncan, leave it.’
‘Top of the list is the honey buzzard. If any make it over the strait, going south now or north in the spring, it’s a miracle. Tells you what the people are like. If your top thrill is bringing down something as beautiful as one of those, it shows what you’re made of.’
‘People are on holiday, Duncan, looking for a break. They haven’t asked for your opinions.’