Deep Black

21

Seven twenty. It would be dark soon. For once it was going to be an advantage that I hadn’t done any washing in ages.

I picked my keys and cell off the kitchen worktop. As I turned towards the window and caught sight of his office on the other side of the Potomac, I thought about Ezra.

I thumbed in his voicemail, my very own 911 number he’d given me in case I needed some emergency shrinkage. I couldn’t be arsed to go into the living room for the landline, and that, I thought, was a good sign of normality returning. If I’d still been his patient, he would have been proud of me.

Still looking out over the river, I pictured him doing the business with yet another in the long line of George’s fruits, going through the same fucking pantomime. ‘We must have complete trust between us. Blah-blah-fucking-blah.’

The voicemail gave me about a hundred options before I could talk. ‘It’s Nick. You probably know this already – George will explain if you don’t – but I won’t be coming any more. You’re right about the suicide thing. I won’t be taking the pills and jumping off the bridge, so no need to worry. And thanks, I suppose.’

I wasn’t too sure how that felt but, fuck it, no more Ezra.

Thirty minutes later I was on the Metro, heading back to Chevy Chase. In a carrier-bag I had a pair of washing-up gloves and a torch.

The road was just as busy when I got out as it had been when Jerry waved me off, but now it was dark. The street-lights glinted on the slowly moving traffic. Washington’s worker-bees had their heads down determinedly as they made their way home. Most of them just wanted to close the front door, get the telly on and throw something into the microwave. It was etched in their faces.

Jerry’s apartment block was easy to find. Just before I got to it I took a turning to the left that brought me round the back, into their communal garden. I sat on a bench as if I belonged there, a resident taking some air before the microwave went ping. I looked along the line of windows on the first floor. Two had no blinds or curtains, very bright white walls and a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. I could even see Chloë’s mobile turning just above the window-ledge.

The door into the hallway was open. There was no movement. I minced round the rear of the building and found the unlit admin area, where the entire apartment block’s garbage was stored in big dumpsters, awaiting collection.

I put on the rubber gloves and switched on the torch. It had been years since I’d done any dumpster diving. I always got out of one of these things smelling like shit, sometimes real shit, but it was worth it for what you could learn about a target if you were prepared to delve among the banana peel, coffee grounds and the odd dead cat in a bin-liner. Most people don’t give much thought to the letters, phone bills, credit-card statements, medical prescription bottles and even workplace memos they discard.

The first thing I looked for was some cardboard boxes. I pulled them out and set them aside. If anyone challenged me, I’d say that a friend was moving and I was just looking for boxes to help him pack. If they persisted, I’d come clean and say I’d thrown my wedding ring in the trash in the heat of the moment, but now I’d patched things up and wanted it back before my wife found out. With luck, they’d even help me look.

People like me weren’t the only ones with their heads in trash cans. Police departments around the country routinely trawled through garbage, and every kind of criminal from Mafia dons to petty embezzlers had had their convictions based, at least in part, on evidence gathered from their rubbish. Intelligence agencies had been doing it for years. After the Iranian revolution in ’79, the new government had bands of students gluing together all the documents shredded by the previous lot. It took them four years.

I did a quick sift first, checking all see-through bags for disposable nappies or other baby items. Then I moved to black plastic ones, opening them one by one. An hour later, I found a bag that had come from Jerry and Renee’s apartment. There was a letter from a clinic, saying that the whole family were now registered, and their medical cards were enclosed.

I went back to the bench with wet milk stains and onion skin on my knees. Still no obvious movement in the apartment. It was nine thirty. I got my cell out, and Jerry’s card.

At that moment, they both appeared at the window. Renee leaned forward and smiled, presumably checking the carrycot. When she turned to Jerry, the smile evaporated. They seemed to be in mid-argument. Maybe Renee had told Jerry about our meeting. I hit the cell keys.

Three rings and Renee picked up.

‘Hi, it’s Nick. Is Jerry there?’

She looked taken aback. ‘I’ll put him on.’

She handed him the phone.

‘Hey . . .’ It was his happy voice.

‘Listen, I just want to say it was really great seeing you and the family today. I will think about the trip, OK?’

‘That’s great news. I’ll meet you in London?’

‘Hold up, I haven’t said I’m going yet. I’ll give you a call in the morning. I’ve got one or two things to sort out.’

‘No problem. I’ll be in all tomorrow. I’ll wait by the phone. Good things, Nick, these are good things.’

‘One question.’

‘Sure, Nick, anything.’

‘How are you so sure your man’s in Baghdad? How do you know what he’s up to?’

There was the smallest hesitation. ‘It’s like, I have a friend, a source, I guess. He’s on one of the nationals. I can’t give you his name . . . If anyone knew . . . You know how it is. But he is very definitely on our team, Nick. He’ll try to help us once we get there.’

‘Fair one. Later.’ I closed the phone down but kept my eyes on the flat. He was smiling, and so, soon, was Renee. They kissed and hugged.

Jerry went over and picked up Chloë, held her in the air and flew her about. Then he brought her down towards his face and blew on her stomach, just like I used to do to Kelly when she was little.

I sat there for a while, just watching them do family stuff, and then I went back to what I laughingly called home to learn more about my new employer.