LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

sir,’ said the seated man.

      I got into the cab. ‘What is this?’ I asked.

      ‘You know that flat is no longer yours, sir.’ He shook his head. The driver checked that the door was closed and drove off with us, along Cromwell Road. The man said, ‘Whatever made you trespass there, at this time of night? It’s brought all three of us out of a bridge game.’ The taller man was sitting on the jump seat. He unbuttoned his sheepskin coat.

      ‘That really reassures me,’ I told them. ‘Cops playing poker might frame you. Cops playing pontoon might beat you to death. But who could get worried about cops who play bridge?’

      ‘You should know better,’ said the tall man mildly. ‘You know how security has tightened since last year.’

      ‘You people talk to me like we are all related. I’ve never seen you before. You don’t work with me. Who the hell are you, dial-a-cop?’

      ‘You can’t be that naïve, sir.’

      ‘You mean the phone has always been tapped?’

      ‘Monitored.’

      ‘Every call?’

      ‘That’s an empty flat, sir.’

      ‘You mean – “Anyone do a Gloucester Road to Fulham with fifty pence on the clock” was your people?’

      ‘Barry was so near to winning the rubber,’ said the second man.

      ‘I just went in to use the phone.’

      ‘And I believe you,’ said the cop.

      The cab stopped. It was dark. We had driven across Hammersmith Bridge and were in some godforsaken hole in Barnes. On the left there was a large piece of open common, and the wind howled through the trees and buffeted the cab so that it rocked gently. There was very little traffic, but in the distance lights, and sometimes a double-decker bus, moved through the trees. I guessed that that might be Upper Richmond Road.

      ‘What are we waiting for?’

      ‘We won’t delay you long, sir. Cigarette?’

      ‘No, thanks,’ I said.

      A black Ford Executive came past, drew in and parked ahead of us. Two men got out and walked back. The man with the sheepskin coat wound down the window. A man from the other car put a flashlight beam on my face. ‘Yes, that’s him.’

      ‘Is that you, Mason?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’ Mason was the one who did the weather print-outs and got himself photographed with strangers wearing my clothes.

      ‘Are you in on this, then?’ I said.

      ‘In on what?’ said Mason.

      ‘Don’t bullshit me, you little creep,’ I said.

      ‘Yes, that’s him,’ said Mason. He switched off the light.

      ‘Well, we knew it was,’ said the first cop.

      ‘Oh, sure,’ I said. ‘Or else I would have got you with only twenty-five pence on the clock.’ How could I have been so stupid. On that phone if you dialled TIM you’d hear the tick of the Chief Commissioner’s watch.

      ‘We’d better get you home,’ said the cop. ‘And thank you, Mr Mason.’

      Mason let the driver open the door of the Executive for him as if to the manner born. That little bastard would wind up running the Centre, that much was clear.

      They took me all the way home. ‘Next time,’ said the cop, ‘get car-pool transport. You’re entitled to it after a trip, you know that.’

      ‘You couldn’t get one of your people to collect my Mini Clubman – between games of bridge, I mean.’

      ‘I’ll report it stolen. The local bobbies will pick it up.’

      ‘I bet sometimes you wish you weren’t so honest,’ I said.

      ‘Goodnight, sir.’ It was still pouring with rain. I got out of the cab. They’d left me on the wrong side of the street. U-turns were forbidden.

      3

      All time is game time …

      RULES. ALL GAMES. STUDIES CENTRE. LONDON

      I let myself into the flat as quietly as possible. Marjorie turned up the heating whenever I was away, and now the stale air, heavy with fresh paint and unseasoned timber smells, hit me like a secondhand hangover. It would be a long time before I’d get used to living here.

      ‘Is that you, darling?’

      ‘Yes, love.’ I prodded at the pile of mail, pushing the unsealed buff envelopes aside until there remained only a postcard from a ski resort, Cross and Cockade magazine and a secondhand book about the Battle of Moscow. On the silver-plated toast rack – a place kept for urgent messages – there was a torn piece of hospital notepaper with ‘Please go to Colonel Schlegel’s home on Sunday. He’ll meet the ten o’clock train’ written on it in Marjorie’s neat handwriting. I’d have gone Monday except that Sunday was underlined three times, in the red pencil she used for diagrams.

      ‘Darling!’

      ‘I’m coming.’ I went into the sitting-room. When I was away she seldom went in there: a quick bout with the frying pan and a briefcase full of post-graduate medical studies on the bedside table was her routine. But now she’d got it all tidied and ready for my return: matches near the ashtray and slippers by the fireplace. There was even a big bunch of mixed flowers, arranged with fern and placed in a jug amid her copies of House and Garden on the side table.

      ‘I missed you, Marj.’

      ‘Hello, sailor.’

      We embraced. The lingering smell of bacon I’d encountered in the hall was now a taste on her lips. She ran a hand through my hair to ruffle it. ‘It won’t come loose,’ I said. ‘They knit them into the scalp.’

      ‘Silly.’

      ‘Sorry I’m late.’

      She turned her head and smiled shyly. She was like a little girl: her large green eyes and small white face, lost somewhere under that dishevelled black hair.

      ‘I made a stew but it’s a bit dried up.’

      ‘I’m not hungry.’

      ‘You haven’t noticed the flowers.’

      ‘Are you working in the mortuary again?’

      ‘Bastard,’ she said, but she kissed me softly.

      In the corner, the box was keeping up its bombardment of superficial hysteria: British Equity outwits fat German extras shouting Schweinhund.

      ‘The flowers were from my mother. To wish me many happy returns.’

      ‘You’re not rerunning that twenty-ninth birthday again this year?’

      She hit me in the ribs with the side of the hand and knew enough anatomy to make it hurt.

      ‘Take it easy,’ I gasped. ‘I’m only joking.’

      ‘Well, you save your lousy jokes for the boys on the submarine.’

      But she put her arms round me and grabbed me tight. And she kissed me and stroked my face, trying to read her fortune in my eyes.

      I kissed her again. It was more like the real thing this time.

      ‘I was beginning to wonder,’ she said, but the words were lost in my mouth.

      There was a pot of coffee clipped into an electric contraption that kept it warm for hours. I poured some into Marjorie’s cup and sipped it. It tasted like iron filings with a dash of quinine. I pulled a face.

      ‘I’ll

Скачать книгу