In the Evil Day

46

…HAMBURG…

The phone.

‘Mr Anselm?’

‘Yes.’

‘David Carrick from Lafarge in London. Does that mean anything?’

‘It does.’

The man had the kind of English voice Anselm disliked. Eton and the Guards. He’d come across a few of them. The pinstriped suits with a white stripe. Not blue, not red. White. When had he come across them?

‘Wonderful,’ said the man. ‘Good. We’re secure here, are we?’

‘What can be done has been done.’

‘Of course. That’s Latin, isn’t it? Totally rotten at Latin. I wonder if I can ask you to run a credit check? Someone new to the UK.’

Customs.

‘Name?’

‘Martin Powell.’ He spelled the surname. ‘Recent arrival, we would think. And we’d also like a general search, anything that turns up in the name. May I say that this could not be more urgent.’

‘You may. We’ll give it priority.’

‘Thank you. The numbers, you have them?’

In his segment of view, Anselm could see that the day was darkening.

‘We do.’

‘Immediate contact, please.’

They said goodbye.