Reconstruction (40 page)

‘But I’ll have had a head start. Traffic accident in Sicily, diving tragedy in the Seychelles . . . Bye-bye Neil Ashton, hello . . . whoever.’ And he’d looked directly at Ben. ‘And you’ll do the same. I don’t want you cocking the rest of my life up.’

Outside, a car accelerated. Ben closed the safe and stood, knees cracking loudly. Last time he’d seen Miro had been the day they’d done the deed – twenty minutes in cyberspace in the broad bright afternoon: the department hadn’t even been empty. ‘You think we should sneak in after dark?’ Miro had asked. ‘That would be less suspicious?’ Miro had been less Miro-like since Ben had agreed to help him. Or since Ben had indicated his price for helping:

‘Twenty-four hours,’ he’d said.

‘Twenty-four hours?’

‘That’s what I cost.’

‘I see.’

‘Nobody gets hurt, Miro. The money just has a little rest, a chance to catch its breath. Before you send it wherever you want it to go.’

‘Leaving you,’ Miro had said, ‘with twenty-four hours’ interest on a quarter of a billion pounds.’ He’d paused. ‘Have you worked out how much that will come to? At, say, four point two per cent?’

Ben said, ‘Don’t tell me you’re disappointed.’

‘Why should I be? As you say, no one gets hurt. There’s not a bank on the planet won’t jump at the chance to babysit that much, even for a day. Twenty-four hours. Okay.’

Which had been Ashton’s plan, of course. To keep Miro from making the money disappear at a keystroke.

The accelerating car moved out of earshot. Ben put the gun in his pocket.

The lift going down was as empty as it had been com-ing up. In its mirror he was an ordinary man, on an ordinary evening: gun in one pocket, mobile in the other. He remembered his last sight of Miro Weiss. That same after-noon they’d left the building together and parted on the pavement, and Ben had watched Miro Weiss head down the road and into the heart of Soho; just another rusty man in the big city. Before he’d turned the corner, Neil Ashton had peeled from a doorway to follow him.

Ben left by the back entrance. Walked to the main road. As he hailed a taxi, he fished his mobile out and turned it on for the first time today. It buzzed once, twice, three times, as the taxi rolled to a halt.

‘Paddington,’ he said, getting in.

‘What time’s your train, mate?’

‘Heathrow shuttle. They’re regular.’

When Tina, queen of the database, spoke, you jumped: that was what the children said. When the grown-ups were around, she struck a less strident note. ‘Okay,’ she said now. ‘That’s him.’

‘His phone’s on,’ Reggie said.

She didn’t like Reggie, and did like Benedict Whistler, but yes, that was Whistler’s phone. ‘It’ll pulse every six minutes. Or constantly if he makes a call.’

‘Where is he?’

On her monitor, a red spot glowed on the Edgware Road.

* * *

Not the worst thing I’ve done today.

That was what Bad Sam said when Kennedy com-plained he’d hurt her, but it wasn’t true. He’d been think-ing about Deirdre Walker, and his casual connivance in her racist attitudes: that crap always left him needing a shower. But no: hurting Louise Kennedy was worse. She was a bystander, and a brave one – had gone into her nurs-ery to face down a gunman – and he’d hurt her to keep her quiet until he’d discovered all she had to tell him. Which hadn’t been a lot. He’d ended up telling her more: an apology, he supposed.

‘Can this thing go faster?’

The driver grunted. ‘No faster than the traffic, mate.’

Innit
, Bad Sam mentally added.

Unlit cigarette in mouth, he stared out at the dwindling crowds, wondering if he still had time to get lucky: not a familiar feeling. Lucky was the missing frigging Marx Brother where Bad Sam Chapman was concerned. But right now, he’d take all the help he could get. If Whistler vanished, he’d take Bad Sam’s career with him. It was one thing not having found Miro Weiss, but not finding Neil Ashton or Whistler – the pair of them there in plain sight – fuck, it was no comfort Jonathan Nott would be heading down the same set of tubes.

. . . Everything came down to one of two outcomes: you were either right or wrong. Whistler was heading for an airport or wasn’t. The airport was Heathrow or wasn’t. Bad Sam would catch him or not.

Besides, right or wrong, reaching Heathrow was the simplest option. Taxi to Paddington; shuttle to the airport. If only the damn taxi would go faster.

‘Where’s Bad Sam now?’

Tina’s fingers moved: a box unfolded on her monitor, and she fed it Chapman’s call-sign. The machine digested the information, and the onscreen map shrank, then shrank again; the streets of London becoming lines scratched on a slate; its only recognizable landmarks parks and river, as the search program widened its parameters then widened them further, searching for the telltale pulse of Bad Sam’s mobile. Which didn’t come.

She said, ‘He’s off the mesh.’ Her fingers danced once more, and the map reconfigured; a steady glow its heart-beat. ‘But Whistler’s online.’

‘Amateur,’ said Reggie.

‘Heading for Paddington,’ Tina said, broadcasting the lowdown to the waiting crews.

Waterloo was thronged and massive. Louise had forgotten what London stations were like: seas into which rivers poured without cease, until at last they did, whereupon the stations became empty and massive instead, like cathedrals.

You really think Whistler tripped over himself?

Mainline trains and the underground and the Europe-bound express. Hundreds of people heading every which way. Shops and coffee bars, pubs and fast-food stalls – what chance of finding Ben Whistler, if he ever reached here in the first place?

There was a departures board overhead. The next Eurostar left at 19.43, from the concourse below – where Whistler would show, if he showed up at all. Needle in a haystack.

You really think it was an accident that kid was shot?

Even now, with rush hour fading, people piled past like lemmings. Which, she’d lately read, weren’t the suicidal types legend painted; the abrupt declines in their population less to do with mass clifftop dives than with hungry predators – arctic foxes, owls and the like. Which was more realistic, but disappointing too. Suicide had been the one thing everyone knew about lemmings. Now it turned out they didn’t even have that going for them. If they weren’t depressed before, that should do it.

You really think . . .

She didn’t know what she really thought. Except that she wasn’t going home yet. Ben Whistler hadn’t just stolen a fortune; he’d engineered – possibly – Jaime Segura’s death, and had hoodwinked – definitely – Louise herself. Had allowed her to think she was central to events.

A comfortable place, which had turned out a lie.

In the taxi Ben checked messages, the first being Neil Ashton’s from the previous night.
Who the fuck is Jaime
Segura? He called your office number, says he’s a friend of
Miro’s. Are you up to something?

Traffic edged past: everyone in London heading every-where else. People left pavements without looking, and blaring horns emphasized the error of their ways.

Message two:
Fucking Sam Chapman’s on my case, insists
on coming with me. Whoever this kid is, he’d better not know
anything. Where are you? – fuck, here’s Sam. Later.

So Chapman had suspected Neil. How long before he’d have worked down to Ben himself? But Jaime had come out of the woodwork, skewing events.

And Jaime lost his head, its contents spraying the annexe
door, while pigeons lifted in a spume from the trees lining
the lane.

He could still feel it in his knees, the drop-and-push he’d effected coming through that same door, Jaime’s empty gun at his temple. All around, marksmen’s rifles waiting for an inch of leeway; the inch Ben’s stumble gave them. But while he could reconstruct the moment, he could no longer recall exactly when he’d known what he was going to do. Was it when he’d told Jaime to empty the gun? Or only when they emerged into daylight, and he’d realized there was no way they’d be allowed to drive away?

It doesn’t matter. You no longer have a past. You won’t even be Ben Whistler much longer.

One last message on his mobile. Probably the one he’d turned his phone off for this morning; something bitter from last night’s stand-up, or something tender from the girl he’d slipped away with.

Ben Whistler? Ben, you’re a bastard and I hate you. I never
want to see you again.

Which was fine by him, because he sincerely hoped nobody would ever see Ben Whistler again.

He turned the phone off and dropped it in his pocket.

‘He’s finished his call.’

‘Switched off?’

‘Can’t tell. If not, we’ll get a pulse.’

‘When, basically?’

Tina, queen of the database, bridled, and didn’t care who noticed. ‘Within the next six minutes.’

Over their heads, a digital clock sliced seconds from their lives.

She said, ‘We know where he is. We know he’s in a cab.’

There were three cars heading for the area, one holding Moody, nursing a grudge and a sore head.

‘Who’d have thought our Ben had it in him, eh?’ Reggie mused.

‘He’s had a long day,’ Tina found herself saying. ‘It’s possible he’s having some kind of . . .’

‘He’d better fucking hope so.’

The clock didn’t so much tick as make a chopping sound.

A footfall told her Nott was there too. ‘Give me some good news,’ he suggested.

And a glow pulsed on the map, as if the machine bowed to his will.

‘He’s in Paddington station. Paddington station.’

Over the wires, three different cars received it.

Reggie said, ‘Heathrow shuttle. They leave every – quarter of an hour?’

Tina was already pulling on her web. ‘Next one in three minutes.’

‘How near are they?’ Nott asked.

‘They’ll get him.’

An escalator removed Louise to the Eurostar hall. Descending, she could see the booking office on her right; to her left, the barriers leading to the platforms, with another huge timetable above them. Ahead, another set of doors: he could walk in from the street. He could pause by those machines, and collect an e-bought ticket. Or come down this same staircase from the concourse; or ascend from the tube by another escalator behind her, which reached this level near a café area, about half of whose tables were in use. On reaching the ground, she stood for a moment.

What am I doing here?

You’re either right or you’re wrong. He’s either running or not. He’ll go for a plane or he won’t . . . It didn’t matter. She could only be in one place. If Whistler came for the Eurostar, she’d see him. Once he got on a train, he was captive. And she’d thus stake her place at the heart of events, where she’d been upon waking that morning.

Are you an only child?

She shook that memory away.

They have a tendency to think events revolve around them.

Whistler would come this way or not.

She bought coffee and sat near where the tube escalator reached the concourse; where she could see every point of entry, though some were more distant than others.

‘Jesus,’ Chapman said.

‘Traffic. What am I supposed to –’

Innit.

He threw money; threw open the door. Missed a stupid fucking cyclist by inches. Got out, and started to run.

Moody’s voice over the speaker: ‘I’m there.’

‘Platform six.’

They could hear his ragged breathing as he raced across the concourse.

‘Seventy seconds,’ Reggie said.

‘That’s our clock, not theirs,’ Nott said irritably. ‘And it’s a
train
, for God’s sake. It’s not like Mussolini’s –’

The thought was lost in an eruption from the speaker:

‘Security, let me through let me through let me
through
–’

Tina said, ‘Cops.’

‘Get back get
back
–’

He’d vaulted a barrier; had no time to go round . . .

‘Show him your
card
, man,’ Nott shouted at the speaker.

‘Sir?
Sir!
Step away –’

Words swallowed in a thump and a scuffle, while in the background, a woman screamed. A sudden plastic clatter was followed by a skittling rush, as if Moody’s phone had undergone brief flight and hard landing. They heard running, then more running, which merged into the sound of two bodies in motion hitting a third on a railway platform. And under that, or all around it, the loud and somehow hollow noise of big engines starting up, and heavy carriages beginning to move.

Ben, heart beating fast, thought: Okay, I’m safe.

Then thought: No, not yet. What would a joe think? He’d think:
You’re not safe until you’re somewhere you can
take your shoes off
. . . What you are is committed to a course of action. No changing your mind now.

So he closed his eyes and rested his head on the seat, and listened to the murmur of passengers around him.

Tina said, ‘Whistler’s phone is back on. And it’s moving.’

‘He’s on the train?’

‘Looks like it. Yes. Yes, he is.’

Reggie said, ‘Fuck.
Fuck!

’

Nott said, ‘Call Heathrow.’

Who knew smoking had this effect? Some fucker should have said something . . .

Sam Chapman reached Paddington with a sledgehammer heart and a coppery taste in his throat, just in time to see Jed bloody Moody covered in transport uniforms, with an absence in the background where a train used to be. He stopped, leaned against a pillar, and enjoyed a brief moment in which his vision clouded. When it cleared, nothing material had changed, though there were more characters converging on Moody, some of them Service dogs. Whistler, doubtless, was on the departed shuttle. He’d be collected at Heathrow, but Bad Sam wouldn’t be there, which was the same as failure where the powers were concerned . . . He’d disobeyed orders; should have returned to Vauxhall Cross on demand. Had been stand-ing by when Neil Ashton got thumped by a car, donating his gun to a hostage-taker. Not a great day at the office. If he’d collected Whistler he’d have cleaned the slate, but that wasn’t going to happen . . . He didn’t even know what they’d done with Miro Weiss. Though they’d get that from Whistler in the end.