Dead Lions (26 page)

“How goes the writing business?”

“Oh, you know. Early days.”

“Still researching?” said Meg. Though her eyes were on River, her long, nervous fingers toyed with the smoking equipment in front of her: packet of tobacco, Rizla papers, throwaway lighter. Her graying blonde hair was under wraps tonight, coiled beneath a black silk headscarf; and this too, and the wrinkles at her eyes, and even her clothes marked her out a smoker—the ankle-length skirt glittering with silver threads, and the black cardigan with deep pockets, and the red-fringed shawl she wore like a displaced Bedouin. In London, he’d have dismissed her as a superannuated hippie; here, she seemed more like an off-duty witch. He could see her knocking up a remedy for lovesick swains, if that was still a word. Probably was round here. Not much call for it in the city.

The couple sat next to each other on the bench, which River
thought sweet. “Ninety per cent of the job,” he said. Funny how simple it was to be an expert on writing. “Getting it down on paper’s the easy part.”

“We were talking about you with Ray. You met Ray yet?”

River hadn’t, though the name was all too familiar. Ray Hadley was the maypole around which the village danced: he was on the Parish Council, on the school’s board of governors; on everything that required a name on a dotted line. He was the
eminence grise
of the flying club, too: a retired pilot, and the owner of the small plane housed near the MoD land. And yet he remained elusive.

“I haven’t, no.”

Because Hadley always seemed to have just left, or was expected any moment but didn’t turn up. There weren’t many places in Upshott that weren’t the pub, but Hadley had contrived to find most of them these past few weeks.

“Ray was great mates with the brass at the base,” Meg went on. “Always in and out of there. Wasn’t he, darling?”

“Give him half a chance, he’d have joined up. Still would. The chance to fly one of those Yank jets? He’d have given his right bollock.”

“I can’t believe your paths haven’t crossed yet,” Meg said. “He must be hiding from you.”

“Actually, I might have seen him this morning, heading for the shop. Tall bald man, yes?”

Meg’s phone rang:
Ave Satani
. “Son and heir,” she said. “Excuse me. Damien, darling. Yes. No. I don’t know. Ask your father.” She handed the phone to Stephen, then said to River, “Sorry, dear. Busting for a fag,” and collected her paraphernalia and headed for the door.

Stephen Butterfield began a lengthy explanation of what it sounded like was wrong with Damien’s car, waggling an apologetic eyebrow at River, who made a no-matter gesture and returned to the bar.

The pub had oak rafters onto which paper currency had been pasted, and whitewashed walls on which farm implements hung. In a corner were photographs of Upshott through the years. Most had been taken on the green, and showed groups of people metamorphosing through black-and-white austerity to the Hair-Bear Bunch fashions of the ’70s. The most recent was of nine young adults, more at ease with their youth and good looks than earlier generations had been. They stood on a strip of tarmac, three of them women; Kelly Tropper at their centre. In the background was a small aeroplane.

He’d been looking at this photo on his first evening there, and had recognised the woman who’d just served him a pint, when a man approached. He was about River’s age though broader, and with a head like a bowling ball: hair trimmed to the skull, an equally sparse fuzz prickling chin and upper lip, and eyes sharp with cunning or suspicion. River had seen similar eyes in other pubs. They didn’t always spell trouble, but when trouble broke out anyway, they were usually right near the middle.

“And who might you be?”

Let’s be polite, thought River. “The name’s Walker.”

“Is it now.”

“Jonathan Walker.”

“Jonathan Walker,” the man repeated in a sing-song voice, to underline the effeminate nature of anyone limp-wristed enough to be called Jonathan Walker.

“And you are?”

“What makes that your business?”

And now a third voice chimed in, and here was the bartender, offering a brisk “Behave, you.” To River she said, “His name’s Griff Yates.”

“Griff Yates,” River said. “Should I repeat that in a stupid voice? I’m not sure I’ve grasped the local customs yet.”

“Oh, we’ve got a clever one,” Yates had said. He put his pint
down, and River had a sudden glimpse of what his grandfather would have made of this.
You’ve been under cover five minutes, and you’re about the same distance away from a public brawl. Which part of
covert
is giving you trouble?
“Last clever one we had in here would have been that city twerp who took the James’s place for a summer. And you know what happened to him?”

River had little option. “No,” he said. “What happened to him?”

“He fucked off back where he came from, didn’t he?” Griff Yates paused a beat, then roared with laughter. “Fucked off back where he came from,” he repeated, and kept laughing until River joined in, then bought him a pint.

Which had been River’s first Upshott encounter, and a little bumpier than those that followed, but then Griff Yates was the odd one out; Griff Yates was local stock. A little older than the crew known as the flying club, he existed at a tangent to them: part envy, part blunt antagonism.

He wasn’t here now, though. Andy Barnett—who was known as Red Andy, having voted Labour in ’97—was at the bar instead, or technically was, his unfinished pint and Sudoku puzzle claiming the area for the duration. Andy himself was temporarily elsewhere.

With no immediate audience, Kelly smiled a welcome. “Hello again, you.”

He could still taste her. “I haven’t bought you a drink yet.”

“Next time I’m your side of the bar.” She nodded at his glass. “And it won’t be mineral water, I can tell you.”

“You working tomorrow?”

“And the night after.”

“What about tomorrow afternoon?”

“Habit-forming, is it?” There was a look women could give you once you’d slept with them, and Kelly bestowed this upon him now. “I told you. I’m flying tomorrow.”

“Of course. Going anywhere nice?”

The question seemed to amuse her. “It’s all nice, up there.”

“So it’s a secret.”

“Oh, you’ll find out.” She leaned forward. “But I’m finished here at eleven thirty. If you want to pick up where we left off?”

“Ah. Wish I could. Kind of busy.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Kind of busy? What kind of busy can you be after closing time round here?”

“Not the kind you’re thinking of. It’s—”

“Hello, young man. Chatting up our lovely bar staff?”

And this was Red Andy, back from having a smoke, if the fumes clinging to his jacket were any guide.

“Andy,” said River.

“Just been chatting with Meg Butterfield out there.” He paused to drain his pint. “Another one of these, Kelly dear. And one for our visitor. Meg tells me you’re well on with your book.”

“Nothing for me, thanks. I’m about to leave.”

“Pity. I was hoping to hear about your progress.” Andy Barnett was everybody’s nightmare: a genuine local author, whose self-published memoir had been quite the
succès d’estime
, don’t you know. Which anyone who’d met Andy Barnett did two minutes later. “Be more than happy to look at anything you’re ready to show.”

“You’ll be first in line.”

A draught at River’s back indicated someone new had just come in, and Barnett said, “Here comes trouble.”

River didn’t have to turn to know who this was.

It was
growing dark when Louisa emerged at Marble Arch among crowds of young foreign tourists. She threaded past giant rucksacks and breathed the evening air, tasting traffic exhaust, perfume, tobacco, and a hint of foliage from the park. At the top of the steps she unfolded a pocket map, an excuse for pausing. After inspecting it for two minutes, she put it away. If she was being followed, they were good.

Not that there was reason for anyone to be following. She was just another girl on a night out, and the streets were heavy with them: whole migrating herds of fresh young things, and some less fresh, and some less young. Tonight Louisa was a different woman to the one she’d lately been. She wore a black dress which stopped above the knee and showed off her shoulders, or would do once she removed her jacket, which was four—no, five—years old, and starting to look it, but not so much a man would notice. Sheer black tights; her hair pulled back by a red band. She looked good. It helped that men were easy.

She carried a bag on a strap, just big enough for a few feminine essentials, the definition of which varied from woman to woman. In her own case, alongside mobile phone, purse, lipstick, credit card, it included a can of pepper spray and a pair of plastic handcuffs, bought off the Internet. Like many Internet-related activities, these purchases were amateurish and ill-thought out, and part of her wondered what Min would have said, but that was arse-backward. If Min had been in any position to know, she’d not have been carrying this stuff.

The Ambassador looked different at night. Earlier, it had been another imposing urban monolith, all steel and glass and carefully maintained kerb-flash. Now, it glittered. Seventeen storeys of windows, all catching reflections of the whirlwind traffic. She used her phone as she approached, and he answered on the second ring. “I’ll be straight down,” he said.

She’d hoped he’d ask her up. Still: if not now, later. She’d make sure of that.

In the mirrored lobby, it was impossible not to catch sight of herself. Again: What would Min have thought? He’d have liked the dress, and the way her tights showed off her calves. But the thought that she’d scrubbed up for someone else would have struck ice through his heart.

And here came the lift, and out of it stepped Arkady Pashkin. Alone, she was relieved to note.

Crossing the lobby he was careful not to show teeth, but there was a wolfish gleam in his eyes as he took her hand and—yes—raised it to his lips. “Ms. Guy,” he said. “How charming you look.”

“Thank you.”

He wore a dark suit, with a collarless white shirt, its top button undone. Knotted round his neck was a blood-red scarf.

“I thought we might walk, if that’s all right,” he said. “It’s warm enough, yes?”

“Perfectly warm,” she said.

“And I have so few chances to see the city as it should be seen,” he said, nodding at the young woman on reception as he guided Louisa out onto Park Lane. “All the great cities—Moscow, London, Paris, New York—they’re best enjoyed on foot.”

“I wish more people thought so,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above the traffic. She looked round, but no one was following. “It’s just us, then.”

“It’s just us.”

“You’ve given Piotr and—sorry, I’ve forgotten—”

“Kyril.”

“And Kyril the night off? Very good of you.”

“It’s the modern way,” he said. “Treat your workers well. Or they look for pastures new.”

“Even when they’re goons.”

He had taken her arm as they crossed the road, and she felt no increase in pressure. On the contrary, his voice was amused as he replied: “Even when, as you say, they are goons.”

“I’m teasing.”

“And I like to be teased. Up to a point. No, I gave them the evening off because I took the liberty of assuming that tonight is not business. Though I was surprised to get your call.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He smiled. “I won’t play games with you, I get calls from women. Even from English women, who can be a little … is reticent the word?”

“It’s a word,” Louisa allowed.

“And this afternoon, you seemed so businesslike. I don’t mean that as a criticism. On the contrary. Though in this particular case, it means I have to ask, was my assumption correct?”

“That tonight’s not business?”

They were safely across the road, but he had not released her arm.

She said, “Nobody knows I’m here, Mr. Pashkin. This is entirely personal.”

“Arkady.”

“Louisa.”

They were in the park, on one of its lamplit paths. It was warm, as Louisa had promised, and the traffic’s hum receded. Last winter, she’d walked this path with Min, heading for the Christmas Fair—there’d been a ferris wheel and skating, mulled wine, mince pies. At an air-rifle booth, Min had missed the target five times in a row.
Cover
, he’d said.
Don’t want everyone knowing I’m a trained sharpshooter
. Bury that, she thought. Bury that moment. She said, “We seem to be heading somewhere. Do you have a plan, or are we just seeing where the moment takes us?”

“Oh,” he told her, “I always have a plan.”

That makes two of us, Louisa thought, and her grip tightened on the strap of her bag.

Two hundred yards behind them, out of reach of the lamplight, a figure followed silently, hands in pockets.

There was
damp in the air, and overhanging clouds; a grey mass, hiding the stars. Griff Yates set off at a lick, but River kept up.
They met nobody on the village’s main road, and few houses were lit. Not for the first time, River wondered if the place existed in a time warp.

Perhaps Yates read his mind. “Missing London much?”

“Peace and quiet. Makes a nice change.”

“So’ll being dead.”

“If you don’t like it, why do you stay?”

“Who says I don’t like it?”

They passed the shop and the few remaining cottages. St John of the Cross became a black shape and vanished into bigger darkness. Upshott disappeared quickly at night. The road curved once, and that was it.

“Some of the people, mind. I’d happily be shot of them.”

“Incomers,” River said.

“They’re all incomers. Andy Barnett? Talks like he’s farming stock, but he doesn’t know the business end of a bull.”

Which probably depended on whether you were a cow or a rambler, River thought. “What about the flying crew?”

“What about them?”

“They’re a young crowd. Weren’t any of them born here?”

“Nah. Mummy and daddy moved here when they were small, so the kiddies could grow up
in the country
. You think real locals have aeroplanes to play with?”