Requiem (54 page)

‘They usually call down.’

‘But I’d like you to call up. Then Miss Kershaw will know she’s free to leave, won’t she?’

She pursed her lips. ‘If you like,’ she conceded.

He shone her a gracious smile. ‘It would be so useful.’ He kept his fingers firmly on the money. ‘You’ll phone immediately then, will you?’

She nodded, but he still didn’t let go, not until she’d actually put it in words. Then he released the money with a gay flick of his fingers. When she had given him his change and stamped the receipt, he inclined his head. ‘How very efficient you’ve been,’ he said. ‘It’s been a real pleasure.’

He drove straight back to Battersea. Beji yapped excitedly round his feet as he let himself in, and panted up the stairs ahead of him, pausing hopefully by the flat door, asking for food. Ignoring the dog, he walked straight into the main office.

No Beryl. Cigarette butts in the ashtray, a half-drunk coffee, stone cold with lipstick marks on the rim, a newspaper folded at the racing selections. It was, he noticed, Ascot Gold Cup Day. She’d be locked in the betting shop for the rest of the day, the old bag. He bent over the typewriter to see how far she’d got with the transcription of the last tape. Not far, was the answer. But far enough to cause him a distinct spark of interest. He leafed back through the transcript, then, sliding the earphones over his head, he played the rest of the tape, making notes as he went along.

He looked through what he’d written to make certain he’d got the essential points, then dialled the number of the South Bank office. There was no answer.

After lunch in the flat he took a coffee down to the office. Miss Kershaw would have had plenty of time to get home by now. He dialled her number.

She answered.

‘Ah, Miss Kershaw, how are we? All right, I trust. Was the clinic comfortable? It seemed a most pleasant place. As far as these places ever can be, I mean.’

‘Leave me alone.’

Now that wasn’t very pleasant. He adjusted his tone; friendly but firm. ‘I was wondering how we were progressing towards Friday. Travellers’ cheques, passports, that sort of thing.’

‘Go to hell.’

‘I only want to be of help,’ he said, ignoring her little outburst and maintaining a cheerful and uplifting tone. ‘Your flight’s at eight, I believe. Why don’t I order a car for five? That’ll allow us plenty of time for the Friday-night jams.’

‘Christ – ’ She was suddenly tearful. ‘Just leave me alone – ’

‘I understand,’ Hillyard said, feeling magnanimous. ‘Why don’t I call you again tomorrow?’

‘Listen, just piss off. I don’t
ever
want to hear from you again. Not
ever
again, d’you understand?’

‘Now, now. I only want to be of help. Make sure you get away for your little break. After all you
have
– ’ He was going to say ‘earned it’, which, considering she was getting a very tidy sum for having got laid by a minister of the crown, wasn’t far off the mark. But, checking himself, he said instead: ‘You
do
deserve it. And then you’ll be wanting me to give you your spending money, won’t you? You’ll be wanting to buy a nice swimsuit, and the odd frock – ’

‘Fuck off, you little pimp,’ she screeched violently, and the line went dead.

Hillyard dropped the phone gently into its cradle. He said to Beji: ‘Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.’ The dog, who’d been hovering in the doorway, plucked up courage to come trotting across and sit at his feet.

‘She’ll be more herself by tomorrow,’ Hillyard said to the dog. ‘She’ll be thinking about the rest of the money.’

Looking at the time, he tried the South Bank number again. This time it answered. He said immediately: ‘Got something of interest for you.’

‘Yes?’

‘That Washington outfit, EarthForce, they’re on to something to do with Silveron. I quote their man, Paul something: “We might have some hard evidence.” He meant, against Silveron. The Field girl’s flown over. They’ve promised to give her the details.’

There was a silence from the other end of the line, then: ‘That’s it?’

‘For the moment,’ Hillyard said, somewhat piqued at the lack of reaction. ‘I thought it sounded quite promising.’

‘Well, keep me informed.’ The interest, Hillyard noted, was not exactly overwhelming.

‘I can’t say when I’ll have anything. The Field girl’s due back in the morning. There’ll be the usual delay.’ Hillyard added peevishly: ‘It’s not easy having one hand tied behind one’s back.’

There was a silence. This was an old argument and not, apparently, one Hillyard was going to be allowed to go into just at the moment. ‘And the other matter, the one you dealt with today?’ came the voice.

‘All on schedule,’ Hillyard replied. ‘The main event was yesterday afternoon. She’s decided to go to the Seychelles with a friend. I’ll see her off myself.’

‘No problems then?’

‘No, all paid up.’ Unable to let things lie, Hillyard returned to the old argument. ‘You know, it’s crazy to leave that office uncovered.’

‘You know the policy. Too risky.’

‘There’d be no risk, not with the new technology. I told you, no one’d ever know they were there.’

A pause. ‘We’ll see.’

‘You talk about risk, but personal visits are ten times riskier.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ He was sounding edgy. He didn’t like being pushed.

‘What about the boyfriend’s place then?’ Hillyard suggested. ‘I could fix that up, no trouble – ’

‘No.’

‘But she spends quite a bit of time there.’

‘No.’

Hillyard gave a biting little sigh of annoyance. ‘Right-ho, you’re the boss. But don’t blame me if I miss something.’

Hillyard replaced the receiver a little too hard so that it jumped out of its cradle and he had to replace it. The dog was still at his feet. He bent down and grabbed its head. ‘No imagination, these people, eh, Beji?’ he hissed into its ear. ‘
No
imagination.’

The dog looked up at him, its eyes bulging beseechingly, and gave a little whimper. Hillyard pushed its head playfully from side to side, gripping the fluffy ears tighter as it tried to struggle free. ‘None at all.’

Releasing the dog, he pushed it aside with his foot.

Daisy thought: Now how did I manage this?

She was standing in the main hall of the Greyhound depot at the Port Authority building, on her own, with a hundred and fifty-three dollars in her pocket, an empty folder of travellers’ cheques, and a gaping ignorance of New York. Her homeward flight had left Washington two hours ago, making her return air ticket, which had been a cheap no-swap deal, worth nothing at all. Worse, she wouldn’t have time to find a hotel, not if she was going to get to Madison Square Garden by seven thirty.

She looked for some bench space, no easy matter when the little available seating was taken up by sprawling family groups, back-packers, and sinister men with lizard eyes and large bellies. Taking her case to a corner, she laid it on the floor and sorted her way through underwear, a change of T-shirt and a toothbrush. A passing security guard paused to stare.

Pushing the bundle into her voluminous shoulder bag, she lugged her case towards a uniformed official. It took a moment to establish that it was not a left-luggage office that she wanted but a parcel check.

The depository was on the lower level, and cost two dollars. Which left a hundred and fifty-one dollars for a non-available ticket for a concert that may or may not happen, and a hotel room she may or may not find.

Outside, the heat was oppressive, and a thin clammy rain was falling, almost as warm and sticky as the air itself. The traffic was heavy and the cabs all taken, and it wasn’t until Daisy leapt across the street at a run, yelling at the top of her voice, that she managed to capture a cab offloading a passenger.

The traffic was at a crawl and the ten or so blocks to Madison Square Garden took ten minutes. The cab driver, who spoke almost no English, did not understand her questions about cheap but decent hotels, although she noticed that his English improved dramatically when it came to spelling out the fare.

The Garden was a massive circular building covering two blocks. The entrances were choked with people. When Daisy finally managed to get inside there was no misreading the signs above the ticket windows. Sold Out. No Returns.

Back outside, the touts were asking upwards of a hundred dollars and weren’t about to haggle. One laughed derisively when Daisy volunteered an English cheque.

Seven twenty-three. A passer-by directed her to a late-opening bank in a nearby shopping plaza. At the bank she discovered that money was easy to get, but only if you were a paid-up card carrier. Gold card, dispenser card, charge card: the automatic dispensing machine wasn’t too fussy. But if you were a non-plastic-carrying foreigner with scruples about easy credit the place was a fortress. Sometimes, Daisy reflected, pursuing one’s principles was a pain.

It was after seven thirty. The rain was thin but penetrating. She ran back to the Garden along an uneven and slippery sidewalk. A few latecomers were still rushing for the entrances, but otherwise the street was empty. Even the touts had evaporated.

She walked round the curve of the building until she found the employees’ entrance, a dark doorway hidden under an overhang. It was well-defended, a veritable Alamo, with rows of hefty security guards glaring out over metal barricades, looking for hostile forces.

She approached the nearest guard, who was staring at a point somewhere above her head. ‘I’ve come to see someone in the show.’

His eyelids flickered. ‘Passes only.’ She noticed he spoke without moving his lips.

She nodded slowly. ‘Suppose I said that I was expected, but I’d lost my pass – ’

The guard swivelled his eyes in her direction. ‘Look, lady, no one gets through without a pass, okay?’ This time his lips gave the slightest quiver, as if he were exhaling sharply.

‘I see,’ she conceded. ‘Could I at least leave a message?’

His mouth hardened.

‘All I’m asking is to write it inside and come straight out.’

‘
Lady
– it’s no pass, no
pass
, okay?’

‘Let’s try it another way,’ she said. ‘Suppose I write the note out here and then hand it to you to leave inside the stage door.’

The guard blinked impassively. ‘Lady, you can write an en
tire
book so long as you don’t pass this point, okay?’

She eyed him, this fountain of assistance, then smiled to show that she had no trouble in moving her lips.

She retreated. A note – what would a note do? She felt a sudden gloom, a loss of energy. A note probably wouldn’t even get through.

In the shelter of the overhang she extracted one of her cards and scribbled a few words on the back.
I’m here in New York. I have some news. I wondered if we could meet
… The next moment she groaned aloud as the absurdity of the exercise struck her, as she remembered that she had no number to leave, no contact point. She leant her head against the wall. What madness is this, Daisy? Not thinking straight. Not thinking at all. Ever since the meeting with Alan Breck she had been overcome by a driving compulsion to act; and now it had lost her the last of her judgement.

Dropping the business card back into her bag, she crossed the street to a phone and rooted around for a number Paul Erlinger had given her. It was a friend of his; someone environmental in Greenwich Village. The friend had been out that morning when Paul had called, and now as the line picked up Daisy heard the unmistakable click and blip of an answering machine. Curious sounds came singing down the line, a gentle twittering. At first she thought it was a bad connection but then she realized it was birdsong, a dawn chorus. After a few seconds, a voice came winging over the symphony. ‘Hi, this is Thomas H. Raffety, working towards an integrated environment. I can’t take your call right now, but I’ll get back to you as soon as …’

Rain came shafting against Daisy’s face. She twisted away from it, and, out of the corner of her eye, saw a figure emerge from the barricades around the employees’ entrance.

Tom H. Raffety’s machine bleeped in her ear, awaiting an answer. She gave her name absently, her attention fixed on the briskly walking figure who was crossing the street towards her. He was a young man in jeans, pale sneakers and a bomber-jacket with the collar turned up against the rain. As he drew closer she saw
Amazon
emblazoned across the front.

Tom H. Raffety’s tape was turning patiently, the bird population silent. She muttered, ‘Call you later,’ and replacing the handset, hurried to intercept the striding figure.

‘Excuse me – are you with the show?’

He cast her a sidelong glance but didn’t break step.

‘I’m a friend of Nick Mackenzie’s. I’m in town unexpectedly.’ She was almost running to keep up. ‘You wouldn’t be able to get a note through for me, would you? I couldn’t get past the apes on the gate.’

His face grimaced, he rolled his eyes wearily heavenward. ‘Come on, luv, I’ve ’eard it all before!’

She laughed: his accent was pure East End. And resuscitating the full ear-splitting beauty of her half-forgotten south London accent, she gave her best performance yet; she was the environmental campaigner over on a conference, she’d come to the show because Nick had invited her, but she’d failed to let him know in time, hence the lack of contact. After the long day and the succession of disappointments, the little embellishments came easily.

His name was Les and he was a roadie and he wasn’t totally convinced. But he had at least come to a halt and was standing in the rain, listening. The campaigner bit seemed to hold him; he was impressed by the sight of her card. He also took in the fact that she’d had meetings with Nick, that they’d worked on an investigation together. She could see from his face that he’d already worked out which investigation that must have been.

He dithered for a while, his expression swinging between caution and suspicion, then with a decisive grunt he jerked his head towards the barricades and led the way back to the Alamo. After a few minutes he came out with a pass that got her as far as the stage door. As she passed through the barricade Iron Lips, impassive to the end, made a point of looking away.