Babel (30 page)

‘What? Is that all?’

‘For the moment. Are you planning any more trips abroad?’

‘Er . . . The next is scheduled for the end of the month, but as things stand, it may be necessary—’

‘Don’t make any arrangements without consulting us first, will you? Here’s my contact details.’

Brock handed Haygill a card and got to his feet.

Leon Desai left his coat with the cloakroom attendant and strolled through a pair of large panelled doors into a bar lounge, trying to appear confident and relaxed, as if he came to places like this all the time. It wasn’t at all to his taste. A cross between an old-fashioned gentlemen’s club and a Turkish brothel, Wayne O’Brien had said, and he could see what he meant. The furniture was too amply stuffed, the carpet pile too thick, the port and burgundy colour scheme too livid, so that the effect was bombastic. The theme of the decorations was horsy, in keeping with the club’s name, with large Stubbs reproductions of thoroughbred champions framed around the walls, and bronze horse heads mounted on pedestals. Leon found it all both contemptible and thoroughly intimidating, especially in view of O’Brien’s estimate of the amount of money that passed through here each night.

The place seemed quiet, a few people embedded in the plump furniture around the room. The opulent mahogany bar that formed one end of the lounge was deserted, and Leon walked to it and eased himself onto a leather barstool. The doors in the far wall opened as a couple passed through, and he glimpsed more people in the gaming room beyond.

The barman returned with a silver tray of empty glasses. ‘Good evening, sir. What can we do for you?’ He was as smooth and glossy as the brandy balloons glistening against the mirror at his back.

‘My name’s Desai. I’m a friend of—’

‘Mr O’Brien, sir. Why yes, of course. I’m Rupert. How are we this evening?’

Actually he wasn’t feeling too bad now. Earlier he had been petrified with what he took to be a form of stage fright, his mouth so dry that he could hardly speak, his stomach aching. But now that things had begun, he felt much better. ‘Fine, just fine. I might have a glass of champagne.’

As he poured it Rupert leaned forward a little and said, confidentially, ‘The gentleman you’re interested in is behind you, Mr Desai, in the far corner, talking to a blonde lady. They’ve been there for twenty minutes.’

‘Ah, right.’ Leon glanced at the mirror behind the bar and just managed to make out two figures in the distance.

‘Don’t know who she is. Haven’t seen her here before. Let’s hope he sends her packing and comes to the bar, eh?’

While they waited Rupert chatted on about what a great bloke Wayne O’Brien was, a real card, while Leon tried to make appropriate noises. He had a tape recorder in the pocket of his suit, but he didn’t switch it on. He had no intention of recording praise of O’Brien if he could help it.

The barman left to service the seated drinkers and an American came and sat at the bar for a while, resting, as he said, between bouts of losing his children’s inheritance. He went on at some length about his ungrateful children, and Leon began to feel depressed. Finally the American slid out of the stool and lurched away, and Rupert returned, with a wink for Leon.

‘He’s getting her a taxi. I think we’re in luck. Another champers?’

‘Why not?’ Leon reached into his pocket and clicked on the machine.

After a few minutes Leon sensed Darr’s presence behind his right shoulder, and caught sight of him in the mirror. He had an impression of a tall, sombre figure. The hands that rested on the edge of the bar wore heavy gold rings.

‘Another of the usual, Rupert, please. And one of my cigars.’

He watched the barman fixing his order without turning to look at Leon. Rupert lit his cigar and let him draw on it before saying, ‘And have you met Mr Desai, Dr Darr? He’s in the science game too, aren’t you, sir?’ Darr turned slowly and eyed Leon for a moment before offering his hand. ‘Tahir Darr.’

‘Leon. What sort of science are you into then, Tahir?’ Leon thought his words sounded fatuous and utterly false as he said them, and his confidence ebbed away.

Darr eyed him as if he really didn’t want to get into a conversation, but then replied, ‘I work for a research company. Biotechnology.’

‘Oh, right. Important area.’

‘And you?’

‘We do testing. DNA, that sort of thing.’

Darr nodded but didn’t seem inclined to pursue it. He puffed his cigar and raised the glass to his mouth, then cleared his throat. ‘Pakistan?’

‘What? Oh, no. Liverpool. You?’

‘London.’

Rupert obviously sensed that they didn’t seem to be hitting it off, and said brightly, ‘And what sort of a day have you gentlemen had, then? Good start to the week?’

‘An abomination of a day, Rupert,’ Darr pronounced with grim relish. ‘And if this week’s like last week, and the one before it, it will be an abominable
shit
of a week.’

‘Oh.’ Rupert was a little taken aback by the vehemence of Darr’s words, and turned to Leon. ‘And what about you, Mr Desai?’

Leon watched the smoke curling from Darr’s nostrils and caught his mood. ‘Awful,’ he said morosely. ‘My boss has given me a pig of a job to do and my girlfriend’s run off with a bloody copper.’

It seemed rather lame to Leon, but Darr turned to him and a smile spread slowly over his face. ‘Join the bloody club, old chap.’

Afterwards, when she came to hear the tape, Kathy realised that she had been wrong in doubting Leon’s ability to get Darr talking. Someone with O’Brien’s breezy style would only have alienated Darr. In his dark mood, Leon’s laconic misery touched a chord. And much of this, it seemed to Kathy, was due to the fact that Leon’s gloom was quite genuine, and his tales of woe absolutely true. She felt his real pain when he told Darr about the misunderstanding he had had with his girlfriend, and how she had gone off with someone else, a smooth-talking police bastard who had no soul. She felt it, and responded in kind.

‘And tell me, Leon,’ Darr had said, ‘is this a white girl you’re talking about by any chance? Yes, I thought so. These English women are total bitches, believe me. It’s the way they’re brought up, indulged, spoilt.’

‘You talk from experience, Tahir?’ Leon had asked, and the reply had come:

‘Oh, yes . . . Oh, dear me, yes.’

They had bought each other further drinks, warming to their theme, turning from the treachery of women to the injustices of work. Darr didn’t go into details, but he was clearly discontented with his lot.

‘We are in the most unenviable position, you and I. Those below us need us to guide their every step, while those above expect us to make their business work. We are under pressure from both ends. We have maximum responsibility without commensurate reward.’

‘You’re right. Does your boss make unreasonable demands on you?’

‘Oh, does he not!’

‘Did you see that psychological study of bosses of British companies, how one in six fulfil the diagnostic criteria for psychopaths?’

‘Hah! Only one in six?’

‘I suppose you’re expected to control everything your staff do, are you, Tahir?’

‘Absolutely. And if they do something, if something goes wrong, then it’s as if it’s
your
fault. As if
you
did this stupid thing!’

‘Has somebody done something stupid, then?’

‘Oh, I can’t talk about it. It’s all a disaster. And then, on top of all that, I’m expected to drop everything to write some phoney report, which no one will ever use, to cover my boss’s unworthy backside. As if I didn’t have a mountain of real work to do!’

‘Yes, yes. He’s English, is he, your boss?’

‘Yes, very pukka, quite the English gentleman. “Just get it done, Tahir. Just see to it.” Hah!’

‘And what about
Mrs
Haygill. What is
she
like?’

This had been a line that Brock had suggested, following Reggie Grice’s hint. But for some reason the question seemed to throw Darr completely. There was a long silence, and then he asked, ‘
What
did you say?’

Leon repeated the question, not sure what had happened. ‘I just wondered what his wife was like. Do you know her well?’ Darr was staring at him fixedly, and Leon began to ramble. ‘If she’s anything like my boss’s wife she treats the staff like private servants, you know? A chauffeur, a secretary . . . What’s wrong?’

Darr turned to his drink and didn’t reply for a moment. He looked at his watch, then at Leon, ‘Oh, I could tell you a few interesting tit-bits about her, don’t worry. But I must get going now. I’m late for another appointment. How long are you in town?’

‘A few days.’

‘Tell you what, if you’re stuck for something to do, I could meet you for another drink tomorrow night, and continue our conversation.’

‘Yes, great. That would be good.’

‘Do you have a card?’

Leon reached for his wallet, then stopped and said, ‘Oh, I ran out today. I need to get some more.’

‘I see. Well, let’s say nine o’clock tomorrow. All right?’

They shook hands and Leon breathed a huge sigh of relief and switched off the recorder.

‘Go all right, did it?’ Rupert asked as Leon got to his feet.

‘Excellent, yes. We’re meeting again tomorrow. See you then.’

‘Give my best to Mr O’Brien.’

And it was O’Brien, as they listened to the tape the next morning, who spotted what had gone wrong. ‘You said “Mrs Haygill”, you berk.’

Leon flushed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘No one had mentioned Haygill’s name until then. Darr had been careful not to give you any names, of CAB-Tech or UCLE or anything. He’s rumbled you.’

There was a deathly silence. Then Leon said, ‘Rupert could have told me, while we were talking before Darr came over.’

‘How would Rupert know the name of Darr’s boss?’ Wayne objected scathingly.

Brock said, ‘Is it possible that Haygill has been to the club, Wayne? Maybe you could speak to Rupert, and discuss our problem.’

They waited in uncomfortable silence while O’Brien tried to get hold of the barman on the phone. Kathy felt sick in her heart. Leon hadn’t looked once at her since they had come together, and she’d had a couple of quizzical looks from Bren as they’d listened to Leon’s voice on tape complaining about his faithless girlfriend.

Wayne returned, looking worried. ‘I can’t get hold of him. But look, I’ve been thinking, it’s just too big a risk. We should stop this now. If Leon doesn’t turn up tonight, Darr will never be sure and no harm will be done.’

‘But nothing will have been achieved, either,’ Bren objected. ‘We didn’t learn anything concrete, except that Darr’s pissed off with his boss. I think he’ll start getting down to specifics on a second meeting.’

‘It was intriguing what he said about writing a phoney document,’ Brock said. ‘That could be the protocol I asked Haygill for.’

‘Brock, my priority has got to be to protect Rupert,’ Wayne O’Brien protested. ‘There’s a lot of dodgy people go through that club, and he’s a very useful source. If Rupert tells Darr that he knew his boss’s name was Haygill, and Darr knows for a fact that he couldn’t have, then Darr will know that Rupert is as fishy as Leon here. He’s a regular at that place. If he spreads the word that Rupert spies for us, then Rupert’s finished.’

Brock nodded. ‘Yes, I see that, Wayne. Pity.’

He seemed about to debate it further, but Kathy broke in, agitated. ‘Apart from that, I think it would be wrong to go ahead with the second meeting anyway. For all we know, Darr may well be the one who engineered Springer’s murder and Abu’s death. It’s far too dangerous for Leon to keep this appointment now. The whole thing was a mistake in the first place. I was wrong to suggest it.’

They looked at her in surprise and she flushed, feeling that she’d been a little too vehement. ‘I just think it’s risky and a waste of time. We should get Darr in again and question him formally, so we can use whatever he says.’

Leon looked at Kathy for the first time, and as their eyes met she read the doubt, as if he couldn’t make her out.

Bren said, ‘Seems a shame. I thought Leon was doing pretty well. What do you think, Leon? You’re the one in the firing line?’

He hesitated, then said, ‘I think I’ve been wasting my time if I don’t go back. Yes, I think we should go on with it.’

He had to say that, Kathy thought. He felt he had to redeem his mistake, and probably thought that she’d said otherwise only so as to support O’Brien.

But Brock settled the matter. ‘No, Wayne and Kathy are right. The risks are too great. We’ll play this by the book. Thanks anyway, Leon. You did very well. I’m sorry to cut short your promising undercover career. Sounds as if you got a taste for it. Maybe you’ll be applying to join Special Branch, eh?’

Kathy caught Leon’s half-hearted attempt to smile at that, and watched him leave.

18

K
athy was on her own in the office later that day when her mobile phone rang and the reporter, Clare Hancock, came on.

‘Hi, back on Brock’s team again are you, Kathy?’

It was a question that Kathy had postponed thinking about.

‘Only I was down at UCLE this morning, and I heard that you’re reinterviewing Haygill and his staff, is that right?’

‘Clare, I can’t discuss it with you, I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, come on, off the record. You’re talking to them, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does that mean you don’t buy the lone gunman theory any more?’

‘Sorry, Clare. Are you running out of ideas or have you got something for me?’

‘Oh, I’ve got lots of ideas, and trading with you didn’t do me much good last time. But let me run an idea past you, free of charge, and if you feel inclined you can give me a theoretical, off-the-record opinion. You remember how we were torn between the fatwa and Haygill for Springer’s murderer? Well, why not both?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean, Haygill orders the fatwa. He’s got some pretty heavy friends overseas. Maybe he decided Springer had to be stopped, and they obliged.’

‘Why would Haygill be so desperate to stop Springer?’

‘Yes, that’s the puzzle, isn’t it? No suggestions?’