Dead Point

27

La Contessa, assetnoC aL in reverse, was a narrow place in Bridge Road, Richmond, that looked as if it had been there longer than those on either side in what was now a smart strip.

Although it was cold and too early for the after-work crowd, the half-dozen tables outside were taken. Inside, there were only a few customers. I found a seat near the kitchen. The man operating the coffee machine was not of the new generation of cafe people; he had the pained expression of someone too long standing to perform a repetitive task: the assembly-line worker’s look.

A young man, possibly the son, came out of the kitchen. He was wearing the apron in the picture, a long black apron with La Contessa printed on it. I asked for a short black. When it came, I had the picture out, facing him.

‘That’s probably you,’ I said, tapping on the reflected apron.

He was intrigued, had a good look. ‘Yeah,’ he said.

‘Who’s that?’ I said, my finger on the fleshy man.

‘Alan Bergh,’ he said, suspicion starting. ‘What’s this, what’s this about?’

‘I’m a lawyer.’

This statement often has the effect of briefly paralysing the brain of the hearer.

‘Right.’ Uncertain. ‘What do you-’

‘I’d like to get in touch with Alan.’

‘Yeah, well, he’s away.’

‘Away from where?’

‘Where? His office.’

‘Where’s that?’

He indicated with a thumb. ‘Vietcong supermarket. Upstairs.’

He’d learned that from his father. The war in Indochina was not over. The battle for the hearts and minds of the invaders had still to be won.

I didn’t pursue the matter. The waiter left, went outside.

The coffee was terrible, sour, third-rate beans, old, probably black market.

‘Come again,’ said the father, giving me my change.

‘Can’t wait to.’

I walked in the direction indicated by the son’s thumb. Halfway down the block was a business that satisfied his description. Beyond it, a heavyweight door with a mail slot carried the

names of two businesses on the first floor: VICACHIN BUSINESS AGENCY and CORESECURE.

The door was locked. I pressed the buzzer on the wall.

‘Yes,’ said a woman’s voice, hissing through holes in a slim stainless-steel box beside the door.

‘Client of Coresecure,’ I said. ‘Here to see Alan.’

‘Mr Bergh not here,’ said the voice, staccato.

‘When’s he coming back?’

‘Don’t know.’

I accepted that, wrote down Vicachin’s phone number. Coresecure didn’t have one on the door. Then I went home, a slow journey in failing light in the company of irritable people.

Coresecure wasn’t in the White Pages. Nor was it in the Yellow Pages in any category I could think of. I packed up for the day, not a great deal to pack, and drove around to Lester’s Vietnamese takeaway in St Georges Road.

Lester was alone in the shop, in the kitchen. When the door made its noise, he looked up and saw me in his strategically placed mirror.

‘Early, Jack,’ he barked. ‘How many?’

‘I need a favour,’ I said.

‘Ask.’

I asked. He nodded, took the piece of paper and went back to the kitchen, held a long, rapid-fire conversation in Vietnamese on the phone.

He came back and returned my slip of paper. ‘They talk to you,’ he said. ‘You can go there tomorrow.’