Good Bait

49

Cordon’s left eye still looked as if he’d walked into a door just a few days before; either that or said the wrong thing to the wrong man in the wrong bar. More than enough of those around, as the previous night’s drinking with Kiley had proved. That great barn of a place on the corner where they showed the Gaelic football amongst them. Cordon had lost his footing at one point, his balance still not being what it was, banged his sore ribs against the end of the bar and let out a shout louder than the one that had gone up when Mayo scored the winning goal in the last minutes against Sligo at Quigabar.

Jane had been with them early on, but, in deference to what was to come, had made her excuses and left them to it. A shame, Cordon had thought. A nice girl, though she’d not have thanked him for calling her that; a pleasant woman, attractive, intelligent, both feet firmly on the ground.

What was it, he wondered, that had stopped him getting hooked up with someone like that, instead of the flotsam that, since the implosion of his marriage, had formed the basis of what he might have jokingly called his love life. Primary schoolteachers of the West Country, where had they all been when he needed them? Busy, Cordon assumed, filling in assessment forms, looking the other way.

Of course, the job hadn’t helped. By and large — and there were exceptions — it was a certain cast of woman who was attracted to the idea of going out with a policeman. And, from his experience, your average primary schoolteacher was not amongst them.

He wondered how Kiley did it. Downplaying, somehow, both his past years in the Met and his present role as a private eye in favour of what? A few old footballing scars and tales of his glory days with Stevenage Borough and Charlton Athletic?

Face it, he was jealous.

The nearest he’d got to what might be termed a relationship with a normal woman lacking criminal tendencies or connections had been his marriage to Judith and look what had happened there. A year or so of low-level lust and largely unfulfilled expectations, then the slow disintegration into brittle silences, betrayal and mutual recrimination. Result: a cold divorce, years of winnowing distance, and a son who, as far as he could tell, held them both in more or less complete contempt for the way they’d fucked up their lives and done their level best to do the same to his.

All with or without Philip Larkin’s blessing.

And if his future lay with the Letitias of this world, God help him.

And them.

Letitia, he wondered where she was now. What had happened? If, as he assumed, those who had taken her had returned her whence she had fled, what forgiveness, if any, might she have found in Anton Kosach’s arms? What forms of retribution might have been taken?

And Danny? Danya?

The bright smile on the boy’s hopeful face snagged for a moment on his memory and, best as he could, he brushed it away.

Don’t make him too fond …

Yes, well, like a lot of things, easier said than done.

He checked his watch. Already twenty past one. Back by twelve, Kiley had said, twelve thirty latest. A meeting with the local solicitor he sometimes did investigative work for which must have gone on longer than intended. Been parlayed into lunch, perhaps.

A flurry of voices drew Cordon to the window. Kids from the local comprehensive pushing and shoving, blocking the pavement, oblivious to anyone other than themselves. Small knots of them, standing smoking, eating from fast-food containers. One couple pressed up against the window of Sainsbury’s Local, kissing, tonguing, his hand inside her top and no one caring.

Fifteen, sixteen — in Cordon’s life, a long time ago. More than the sum of years.

He crossed to the stereo, pressed play and jacked up the volume. Amongst the last batch of CDs Kiley had filched from the charity shop below was a Nina Simone. ‘You’ll want to take a look at this,’ Kiley had said. ‘Collecting versions of “Good Bait”, aren’t you?’ At first, he’d thought he was having a laugh, taking the piss, but there it was, ‘Good Bait’, just Simone’s piano, one hand at first, slowly fingering out the tune, as if uncertain, then, after a while, the left hand coming in, and no vocal, no vocal at all. Bit of a sacrilege, probably, Cordon reckoned, but on the whole that was how he preferred her.

After close on a couple of minutes, bass and drums swing in and from there things become more emphatic, more outgoing. The last couple of chords were ringing out as Kiley came through the door, takeout coffees from the corner cafe balanced neatly in one hand.

‘Just time to drink these down, then we’re out of here. Message from Kosach’s brother on my mobile. He’s agreed to meet.’

‘You or me?’

‘Both. Here in London. Some Ukrainian restaurant on the Cali.’

‘Where?’

‘Caledonian Road. Between King’s Cross and the arse end of Holloway.’

The place they were looking for was on a strip of betting shops and second-hand furniture stores, launderettes and dodgy cafes. There was a Closed sign on the door, but not for them. The interior was dark, just a single light showing. Whatever lunchtime rush there’d been had long since disappeared. Taras Kosach sat at a table by the side wall, a glass of wine in front of him, smoking. No one was about to tell him how many by-laws he was breaking.

As Kiley and Cordon approached, he stubbed out the cigarette and, half-rising, offered Kiley his hand. Cordon he glanced at, nothing more.

‘Sit,’ he said.

They sat.

‘You want wine?’

‘Sure,’ Kiley said, ‘why not?’

Without any apparent signal, a waiter appeared with a bottle and two fresh glasses. The wine was dark and thick, like plum brandy.

Taras was somewhere in his forties, Cordon thought, a darkish complexion, darkened further by several days’ stubble, dark eyes; nicotine stains on his fingers, but the nails smoothed into even ovals, manicured. Some kind of balm or cologne that cut through the lingering smell of food from the kitchen.

He was looking at the markings round Cordon’s eye, the residue of swelling.

‘I think, perhaps, you are lucky guy.’

‘You’ll understand,’ Cordon said, ‘if I don’t see it in quite the same way.’

Taras shrugged. ‘What you did, it was very foolish.’

‘Story of my life,’ Cordon said, amiably.

‘Story?’

‘You wanted to see us,’ Kiley said.

Taras lit another cigarette. When he tilted back his head to release the smoke, there was a scar line, thin like a razor cut, across his neck.

‘A message from my brother. For you, especially.’ His eyes on Cordon. ‘What’s done, is done. He holds no …’ he searched for the word, ‘no malice. You understand?’

Cordon said nothing.

‘You understand?’ Taras said again. ‘Is finished.’

He drank some wine.

‘And Letitia?’ Cordon said.

‘What of her?’

‘Exactly.’

‘She is with her family. None of your concern.’

‘You say.’

‘Yes, I say.’

‘I think,’ Kiley said, ‘we would like to be sure of that, that Letitia is okay.’

‘And the boy,’ Cordon put in.

Taras waved a well-groomed hand. ‘Is no longer your business.’

Kiley started to say something, but Cordon cut him off. ‘You listen.’ He jabbed two fingers towards Taras’ chest. ‘I’m the one decides what’s my business. Not you or your brother or anyone else. Understood?’

A small nod from Taras, a retreat.

‘Last I knew of Letitia and Danny,’ Cordon said, ‘they were being taken by men who were dangerous and almost certainly armed, and I doubt would have any scruples about using as much force as they thought was necessary or they could get away with.’

Taras opened his mouth as if about to protest, but Cordon paid no heed.

‘You tell me Letitia’s back in the bosom of her family, well, I want proof. Proof that she and the boy are okay and not being held against their will. Then you can say it’s no longer my business. And not until.’

He eased away, hands gripping the table edge.

Steadying himself, Taras drew deeply on his cigarette and set it carefully down; picked up his lighter and rolled it across his fingers.

‘And if this does not happen as you wish?’

Cordon leaned forward again, his voice lowered to little more than a hiss. ‘Then I’ll move heaven and earth to make your brother’s life an absolute misery. Pull in every police contact, every favour I can. Dig into every nasty little corner I can find. By the time I’ve finished he’ll wish he’d never clapped eyes on Letitia, never heard my name.’

Taras lifted his glass and swirled the contents around the sides before he drank. ‘You are in no position, I think, to make threats.’

‘Try me.’ Cordon held his gaze.

Something inside Taras’ head switched gear. As if he had been prepared for this. Plan B.

‘I will talk to my brother. Tell him your concerns. I’m sure there will be a way to do as you wish. Put your mind at rest.’

A smile leaked from his face.

Pushing back his chair, Kiley stood, Cordon following suit. Behind them, a waiter hovered near the door.

‘Forty-eight hours,’ Taras said. ‘No more.’ Then looked away, as if dismissing them from his mind.

Back on the street, Kiley nodded left. ‘Let’s walk.’

A short way along, they crossed against the traffic and cut away from the main road into a street of tall, Victorian houses, plane trees, skips, aspirations.

‘All that guff about moving heaven and earth,’ Kiley said. ‘Where’d that come from?’

‘God knows.’

‘I thought for one minute you were going to deck him.’

‘I was.’

‘What happened?’

‘My good nature got the better of me. That and my natural discretion.’

Kiley laughed. ‘Natural bollocks!’ he said.

‘That, too.’