Those Who Feel Nothing (19 page)

‘But that confirms my original point. If nobody valued them the colonists would have chipped nice bits of the temple decorations off and brought them back with them over the past couple of hundred years just as souvenirs.'

She nodded. ‘Undoubtedly. And over the past thirty years a number of pieces from the Angkorian period have come on the market.' She gave a little shrug of her shoulders and looked him in the eye. ‘Not through this shop, however.'

He nodded, thinking: with your denial you've put a notion in my head that wasn't there before.

‘So – the owner or owners.' Watts looked at the card again. ‘Is anyone around?'

It isn't Will Rogers.

‘You haven't changed much,' Frank Howe says when you turn to face him. ‘Still skinny as piss.'

‘Nor you,' you say evenly, though in truth you're surprised at how bloated he's become: heavy jowls and big belly, all his muscle turned to fat. He still has a moustache, though smaller now, carefully trimmed. Grey.

‘Good to see you, Jimmy,' he says.

You half expect him to offer his hand but both arms remain loosely hanging by his sides. He is showing no weapon but that doesn't mean he isn't armed. And his eyes haven't lost their watchfulness.

‘You were expecting me to come and find you?' you say.

Howe turns to the fridge and bends to open it and take out the vodka. He gestures to you with the bottle. You nod and he pours two big shots, almost emptying the bottle. He stretches his arm out to offer you your glass.

You take it and he tilts his glass at you. You both drink.

‘One day, of course, I knew you'd come,' he says. ‘I haven't exactly been hiding.'

‘But then I did think you were dead.'

‘We've all been in plain sight. Maybe you just needed better spectacles.'

‘I thought you were dead so I wasn't looking.'

Howe shrugs. Although he's overweight there was something almost balletic about the way he'd taken the vodka from the fridge. Economy of movement and effort. When you decide to move, he's not going to be easy.

‘I need to know where the others are,' you say.

‘How do you know they're still alive?'

‘Because those kind of bastards never die, however much they deserve their comeuppance.'

‘So are they going to get their comeuppance? Am I?'

You don't reply. Keep the bastard hanging.

‘We didn't do so much to you.'

You keep your voice level. ‘You took my wife. You killed my wife. You lied to me about that and everything else.'

Howe shrugged. ‘How were we supposed to know she was your wife? You said bugger all about that.'

‘Would it have made any difference if I had?' You take a step towards him. ‘And don't fucking shrug about this.'

Howe puts a pacifying hand up.

‘Sorry. But we didn't kill her. The Khmer Rouge did.'

‘You say.'

‘It's true.'

‘In the same ambush you were all killed in and you died trying to save her. Yes, I heard.'

‘We got lucky.'

‘Did Paradise believe your story or was he just stringing me along when he told it me?'

Howe walks to the window and looks out. ‘You survived, didn't you? You're still around.'

‘It's not about me. And surviving isn't the same as living.'

Howe turned. ‘For Christ's sake, Jimmy. Save me the fucking violins. If you couldn't get over that you're not the kind of man I took you for.'

You think back. How had you dealt with it? By hardening your heart? Throwing yourself into your work? Both those things.

You take another sip of your drink. You know you can't blame Howe and the others for what you've done with your life.

As if reading your thoughts, Howe says: ‘Rogers says freedom is what you make of the hand you've been dealt.'

You snort. ‘Thanks for the bumper sticker.'

‘Sartre actually.' Howe grins. ‘Or maybe Camus. One of those existential fuckers anyway.'

‘What actually happened to Michelle?'

‘What did Sal Paradise tell you happened?'

‘A pack of lies, presumably.'

‘A mix of lies and truth, actually. The truth is she did die pretty much as he said. She'd tried to get away from us but we caught up with her and she was with us when we were ambushed. The lie was that not all of the rest of us died with her and her father in that ambush.'

You look at the glass in your hand. ‘Somebody has to pay. She was innocent.'

‘Jesus, Jimmy – nobody is innocent. Her father was helping us do the looting. She was helping him.'

You think for a moment. ‘That's why they were back in Cambodia in the first place? She wasn't in any condition to help anyone.'

‘Before. That's how they were caught. Trying to take stuff out by sea. They were working for Paradise too.'

You mull over this for a moment. ‘I can't believe that of her.'

‘Hey, listen, I'm sure her father and Paradise played her – told her this stuff was going to be destroyed otherwise, blah, blah, blah. But it came down to the same thing. It isn't too difficult to persuade someone to do something if you apply the right pressure.'

‘Michelle wasn't like that. She wasn't corrupt and she couldn't be coerced.'

You are surprised how heated you sound.

Howe made a noise that was half grunt, half laugh.

‘Everyone can be coerced, Jimmy boy.'

‘You would say that, wouldn't you?' you finally say.

Howe shakes his head. ‘You don't have a fucking clue what's going on now and you didn't have a fucking clue then. You are
so
naïve.'

You're a bit old to do a drop kick but you're picturing the heel of your foot connecting with the underside of your former friend's chin just the same. It's satisfying. Very.

‘Do tell me what I'm missing,' you say, controlling yourself and taking another sip of your drink.

‘Look, we were all working for Sal. The mission wasn't to get three sailors or three spies; it was to get out the valuable stuff from Cambodia. And Westbrook told Paradise there was some juicy stuff in the National Museum that nobody knew about.'

‘Which you and the others went to get, leaving Rogers and me behind.'

You frown. That doesn't sound right now. Howe sees your look.

‘We needed to take the truck to start loading. Rogers knew where we were headed. We were waiting there.'

You take another sip of your vodka. ‘I'm working for Sal too.'

That throws Howe, you can see, but he tries for nonchalance and a mirthless grin.

‘I know,' he says. ‘That's why you're not dead already.'

‘You think you could take me?'

‘Don't be a spaz.' He pats his belly. ‘I haven't done my own dirty work for years. There's a man with a rifle in the room opposite just waiting for my signal.'

It's your turn to smile. ‘Long lens on the rifle?'

‘Of course,' he says, frowning at your smile.

‘Well, that's not going to work, is it?'

Howe looks suddenly uneasy but tries not to show it. ‘Because?'

‘Because he can't be aiming at me if he's looking at you for your signal.'

‘You're working for Sal,' Howe says.

‘I said I'd deal with someone for him.'

Howe tries to keep the bonhomie going but his eyes are fearful. ‘Not me. He needs me.'

‘Does he? Do you think he has ever actually forgiven you – any of you – for what you did?'

‘We made restitution. Gave him the stuff.'

‘All of it?'

‘All he wanted.'

‘And he was happy with that?'

‘'Course he was. We've been working for him ever since, haven't we?' Howe finished his drink in one gulp. ‘You're winding me up.'

You keep your smile. ‘A bit. His name is Harry Nesbo. The man I'm looking for.'

‘Don't recognize it.'

‘That won't be his only name.'

‘Then how am I supposed to know him?'

‘He's … distinctive. Weird.'

Howe laughs. You join in, watching him.

‘He's weird,' he finally says. ‘You shitting me? This is Cambodia. Weird westerners is the fucking norm.'

You're still laughing as you reach to put your phone and your glass on the bedside table beside the lamp.

‘Anyway,' he says, chortling then suddenly suspicious. ‘Why would you do anything for Sal Paradise?'

You tug the light flex out of the wall socket and in the plunging darkness whisper: ‘So he'll let me kill you.'

Gilchrist was nervous about dinner with Merivale. She couldn't decide what to wear and ended up with her summer uniform of T-shirt, jeans and plimsolls. It was her winter uniform too, actually. She wished Kate had still been living with her to advise on applying make-up for the no-make-up look. There was a dab of perfume and, OK, a bit of lippy.

They met in the Coachhouse. Merivale too was in jeans and a T-shirt and some chunky American boots. She couldn't help noticing that he was, as they say, ripped.

‘I remember this as an antiques shop,' she said when they were settled at a table by the open windows looking into the narrow courtyard.

‘Seems to me Brighton is one big antiques emporium,' Merivale said. ‘You a local girl?'

‘Born and bred.'

‘From one of those estates I saw on the way in?'

Gilchrist gave a little grimace. ‘Let's talk about my past another time.' She smiled. ‘Or at least when I've had a few more drinks.'

He smiled. ‘The time could be now.'

She shook her head. ‘Now there are crimes to combat.' She gestured at his hands, clasped on the table. They were rough and scarred. ‘Those aren't office worker's hands.'

‘I like to get out of the office whenever I can.'

‘And that tan isn't from a sunbed.'

‘To be honest it's more windburn than sunburn. I spend a lot of time out in the elements.' He looked down, clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘I've never been a workout down the gym man,' he said. ‘I like doing more natural physical stuff.'

Gilchrist was alert to a double entendre but Merivale didn't leer or tip it in any way. One up to him.

They ordered two steak salads and a bottle of red wine. She was aware he was watching her but she was doing the same. She guessed it was two coppers who were so used to trying to figure out people that neither could turn it off. Usually, of course, she was looking for something that was a bit off. There didn't seem to be anything off about Merivale. Far from it.

‘Had you heard of the temple complex at Koh Ker before I mentioned it?' he said when they'd taken their first drink of wine.

‘I thought I was good knowing about Angkor Wat.'

Merivale smiled. ‘It was the tenth-century capital of Cambodia. It's remote so not as well known as Angkor Wat. Wonderful statues were chiselled there. Wonderful.'

‘You've been there?'

Merivale nodded. ‘Several times. It's magnificent and tragic. Its remoteness makes it one of the most heavily looted sites in Cambodia. A combination of poor roads and unexploded landmines has kept it isolated. Which means looters can really go to town without fear of interruption.'

‘You think some of the stuff we've found …?'

‘Too early to say. The National Museum managed to remove quite a number of the most important pieces but, for the rest, well, museums around the world are exhibiting them and many are in private collections. All looted.'

If Gilchrist was honest she couldn't get excited about this artefact stuff. She didn't really value art, probably because she was not interested in it.

‘That's terrible,' she said, doubting how convincing she sounded. He didn't seem to notice.

The food arrived.

‘We've been on this stuff for over ten years,' Merivale said, between mouthfuls. ‘Trying to get back up the pipeline for stolen Thai antiquities. We've uncovered a couple of scams. The first was the one I told you about earlier, with objects being appraised at inflated values and then being donated to museums for fraudulent tax write-offs. What I find interesting is the close link between the experts and the exploiters, the crooks and the collectors.'

‘Meaning?'

‘A woman called Hilary Black helped us. She's an expert on South East Asian ceramics. She'd lived in Thailand for years, just outside Bangkok. She'd tipped us to a suspect dealer. She said that in his warehouse she'd seen human arm bones strung with antique bronze bracelets.'

Arm bones? Was this some link to Rafferty? Gilchrist put her fork down.

‘What she didn't say was that she was the one who'd sold those bracelets to him, plus Thai ceramics from burial sites on the Burmese border and a bunch of other antiquities – Neolithic stone tools and so on.' Merivale tapped the table with the end of his fork. ‘They were all stolen objects that her signature had made legitimate. Turned out she was also making inflated appraisals for a couple of LA-based Asian art dealers. God, we were pissed. The next time she touched down in the US we arrested her.'

‘What happened when it came to trial?'

He shook his head. ‘Maybe later – wouldn't want to spoil your dinner.'

They ate in silence for a moment.

‘Criminals don't specialize any more,' Merivale said abruptly. ‘They're portfolio workers. They know all about diversifying. If you're smuggling drugs you may as well smuggle people and antiquities whilst you're about it. And antiquities serve other purposes.'

‘Such as?'

‘Money-laundering and tax evasion.'

‘But the stuff you mentioned wasn't worth very much.'

‘Well, the standard stuff, worth a few thousand dollars, is just part of it. There's also the rare stuff. And the irreplaceable, priceless stuff. The museums can't touch such objects easily or they'll be in serious doo-doo. So these pieces are going to the private buyers. It disappears from public view and appreciation for decades, sometimes forever.'