In the Evil Day

59

…LONDON…

The man’s name was Kirkby. He raised his wine glass to the light, studying the yellowish liquid like a pathologist with an unusual urine sample. ‘We always try to help,’ he said. ‘Where possible.’

‘It’s finding someone,’ said Palmer.

They were in a wine bar in the City, in a long room with tables under high windows. Casca had arranged it. Casca said MI6 suggested a meeting, and that meant something.

Kirkby put the glass to his beaky nose, sniffed deeply, sipped, took in air like a fish, closed his eyes, rolled wine around his mouth, swallowed. ‘Helen Turley,’ he said. ‘A genius. One of yours.’

‘What?’

‘She made this drop. The proprietor here managed to get two cases. Exorbitant price. But.’

Palmer saw that Kirkby had caught the eye of the man behind the counter of the wine bar, a huge red-bearded, red-faced person wearing an apron. Kirkby toasted him wordlessly. The man nodded and raised his own glass.

Palmer drank. He liked wine. He’d come late to it. His father’s view had been that wine was one of many European curses on America. For some reason, he regarded it as an Italian curse. Probably because his father disliked Italians even more than he disliked the Irish. ‘The only good thing about the Irish is that they’re not Italian,’ he said when Palmer told him he planned to marry someone of Irish descent.

‘We’d like to know if he leaves, of course,’ said Palmer. ‘But he’s with a local. That’s where we’d appreciate help.’

Kirkby looked at him, a neutral gaze, looked away, looked back. ‘Yes?’

‘She may be the easiest way to find him.’

‘And she’s not…helping?’

‘Out of sight too.’

‘Inquiries, who’s been…?’

‘A private firm. Lafarge.’

Palmer knew that Kirkby knew about Lafarge.

‘Private. Yes.’ Kirkby touched his oiled hair, smiled, raised his glass to his lips. He seemed to hold wine around his gums before swallowing.

‘It’s urgent,’ said Palmer. ‘We wouldn’t ask otherwise.’

‘No, of course you wouldn’t. I’ll, ah, I’ll have a word with someone. Ask them to get a move on too.’

Palmer took out the card and held it edgeways on the table. Kirkby took it, delicately, at a corner, put it in his top pocket without a glance.

‘We’d like to know where she might go, friends, that kind of thing,’ Palmer said. ‘Without alarming her.’

‘Yes,’ said Kirkby, ‘that’s more or less what I thought you’d like.’

He finished his wine, licked his lips, took a doubled envelope from an inside pocket and gave it to Palmer. It wasn’t sealed.

Palmer took out his reading glasses. He hated having to do that.

Three pages. Phone-tap transcripts.

Palmer read, and he had to stop himself sighing.

‘You can keep those,’ said Kirkby.

‘Thanks.’

‘Well-connected, unfortunately. The father.’

Palmer nodded. It was over and they got up and went to the counter. He paid. Exorbitant was about right for the wine, he thought. At the door, they shook hands.

‘I’ll make a call from here,’ said Kirkby. ‘Get things moving.’