In the Evil Day

40

…LONDON…

The request from Lafarge to find a motorcycle was on his desk. He was tired, not just his knees hurt now, his left hip sent splinters of pain up and down. He summoned Inskip and explained.

‘It’s Mission Hopeless,’ he said, ‘but they’re paying. Carry on, Number Two. Or is that Number One? No, I would be Number One, surely?’

‘Number two,’ said Inskip, ‘is a crap in toddler talk.’

Anselm nodded. ‘I shouldn’t distrust my instinct for the language. Carry on, Number Two.’

In mid-morning, Inskip stood in the door, his egg head to one side. Anselm thought he saw a faint flush of blood in the pale skin. Also, Inskip was wearing a red T-shirt. He hadn’t noticed that earlier. Had fashion changed? Was red in the ascendant?

Inskip said, ‘Would you like to listen to something, Number One? Number One being a piss.’

Anselm nodded, rose and went to Inskip’s workstation, sat beside him.

‘I’ve found this person,’ said Inskip. ‘In a company that’s doing closed-circuit TV trials in London. Roads, stations, shopping malls. The football. A minion of the coming total surveillance state. I haven’t been entirely straightforward with him. Forgivable, is that?’

Anselm looked into the black eyes, looked away.

Inskip touched the key.

Asked and we could’ve fucking looked, couldn’t we?

They didn’t know. Inskip’s voice.

Asking’s how you find out what you don’t fucking know.

They didn’t know to ask.

What? Is this fucking philosophy? This what I fucking missed by not going to fucking Oxford?

George, what could you have told them?

What? Every fucking pushbike and Porsche and cunt on a skateboard that went through the check, that’s what.

Can we get that now? It’s a small window, five, ten minutes.

I’m waiting. We serve you lot, don’t we. Only to ask. Say again?

Four-fifty on. The passenger might be leaning on the rider. He might have a bag, a sports bag, that would probably be on his lap, hard to see. No helmet, the passenger… No helmet. That’s where you start, sunshine. Hang on.

I’ve got an offender here, five-three, that’s a nice bike, he looks like he’s gone to sleep, the bumboy, not at all alert, no helmet, shocking disregard for the law.

Plate? Can you run that?

Running, my lord…Yes, this is your person…I can give you an address, see how fucking easy it is when you simply ask?

Point taken. A salutary lesson, George. Name and address?

‘He thinks you are?’ said Anselm.

Inskip put a hand to his naked scalp, lay fingers on it. ‘MI6,’ he said.

‘You may go far in this line of work.’

‘And owe it all to my teachers.’

‘Give it to Lafarge.’