In the Evil Day

61

…LONDON…

The man on the phone ended the call and stood up.

‘Mr Palmer,’ he said, ‘didn’t expect you so soon.’

Palmer nodded to him, went to the corner window. Outside, the day was the colour of pack ice, low cloud, a wind tearing at two flags on a rooftop. He looked down at the river, slick and grey as wet seal fur. A feeble sun came out for a few seconds and caught the oil streaks.

‘Where’s Charlie?’

‘Just stepped out. Get something to eat.’

‘Call him.’

‘Right away, yes.’

Palmer waited, eyes on the river, listened to Martie make the call.

‘Charlie, Mr Palmer’s here.’

He put the phone down. ‘He’ll be here pretty soon.’

Palmer turned, looked at Martie. Martie returned his gaze for seconds, then he looked down, touched the collar of his blue shirt.

‘Not the best run of operations this, would you agree, Martie?’

‘No, sir. Ah, yes, sir. Not the best, no, we’ve had some…’ ‘Don’t say bad luck, Martie.’

‘No, sir.’

‘These contractors.’

‘Agincourt Solutions. Carrick knows the boss. Ex-army, ex-MI6.’ Palmer looked at him for a while. What to do with clowns? ‘That’s like saying ex-Mossad,’ he said. ‘There’s only Mossad and dead. Why’d they shoot this guy?’

Martie stopped running his tongue over his teeth under his upper lip. ‘Well, it’s the back-up man, he’s there if something goes wrong with the handover. He says the guy just got to the top of the escalator, looked at him, dived at him, he fired. Instinct.’

‘Instinct of an arsehole,’ said Palmer.

‘Yes, sir.’

Palmer turned back to the window. In the building next door, on the third floor, he could see a man moving down a long white table. It was a restaurant. The man was putting out the cutlery, the implements flashed like fresh sardines. He had the precision and economy of a casino dealer.

He heard the door close. Martie coughed.

‘Mr Palmer, this’s David Carrick.’

Palmer turned. Carrick was medium-height, pale smooth hair, in a dark suit. He was going to fat but he held himself like a gasoline pump.

‘Any other contractors you’d like to recommend, Mr Carrick?’ said Palmer. ‘Any other old friends?’

He noted Carrick’s swallow, the bob in his short neck above the striped shirt.

Soldiers, dogs, kids. Kick ’em and forgive ’em. His father’s dictum. That had been his father’s ranking order too. Soldiers first. Dogs before children.

Palmer turned back to the window, to the river, stood rubbing his palms together, hands held vertical. His palms were dry and the sound was of water moving on sand, a tropical sound. Australia. Never mind the Virgins. The Great Barrier Reef. After this, with the boy. Golf, sailing. He hadn’t sailed enough with the boy, they worked well together. You never had to tell him anything twice.

Kick ’em and forgive ’em.

The door.

‘Scott.’

Charlie Price, in a dark-grey suit, grey shirt, no tie. From across the room, Palmer could see the blood in his eyes.

‘I don’t want to run this down the chain of command, Charlie,’ said Palmer. ‘I want you three to hear it from me. This business, it’s maybe a bit more important than I’ve managed to get over to you. And it’s getting more important and more fucked up by the minute. Now it isn’t just this South African and the woman, now it’s…’ Carrick’s mobile trilled. He looked at Palmer, who nodded.

‘Carrick. Yes. Yes. A second, please.’ He went to Martie’s desk and wrote on a pad. ‘Thank you. Well done. Stay on it.’

Carrick pocketed his phone.

‘Progress,’ he said. ‘The woman used a card to buy petrol on the A44. We’re back on track.’