In the Evil Day

66

…HAMBURG…

It began to rain as Anselm neared home, cold sleet-like rain, but it didn’t bother him. He had sent Tilders to his death. There would never be any escape from that fact.

On a whim. Not on business. Not on behalf of a client. On a personal whim.

For that, Tilders was dead.

The house seemed colder than usual, the rooms darker. He rang Alex.

‘I was wondering about you,’ she said.

‘I won’t be coming,’ he said. ‘Someone’s been killed. A friend.’

A silence.

‘I’m sorry. That’s terrible. Of course, you must…Whatever you have to do.’

‘Nothing. There’s nothing to do.’

‘Where are you?’

‘At home.’

‘Well. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

‘Yes, I’ll call you. I’m sorry.’

‘No, please, don’t be. These things, you need time.’

Anselm sat on the edge of the desk, looking at the carpet. He felt all his aches, no alcohol in the system to dull them.

A whim. Was it a whim?

No.

‘You aren’t a journalist anymore, John,’ O’Malley had said. ‘That part of your life is over.’

It wasn’t over. It had started again with the decision to put Tilders on the ferry. Sad-eyed Tilders, wry and icy-calm doer of the impossible, benchmark for reliability. It couldn’t stop because he had been blown to pieces. The opposite. It had to go on because he was dead.

Dead. How many people in this unfathomable business were dead. Now Tilders by chance, Serrano and Kael murdered, Bruynzeel, probably murdered. Lourens, probably. Shawn.

And, long ago, Kaskis and Diab.

He thought about the Wishart woman. She connected Kaskis and Diab to the film shown to her by Mackie, who was Niemand, and that brought in Serrano and Kael and Shawn and Bruynzeel and Richler and Trilling, whoever he was.

Anselm went to the cold kitchen and poured half a glass of whisky, took the bottle back to the study, sat in the ancestral chair behind the desk. He found the number and dialled.

It rang and rang and cut out.

The other number, he dialled that, it was a mobile number.

It rang and rang.

She answered.

‘John Anselm.’

‘Hold on, I’m in the car, have to pull over, I don’t have a hands-free.’

He waited.

‘Hi, hello,’ she said. ‘Sorry, the traffic’s terrible.’

He wasn’t sure how to put it, then he said it. ‘Mackie is a man called Constantine Niemand. He’s a South African mercenary. The film comes from South Africa. He came upon it by chance, I think.’

A sound, a sigh, perhaps a passing vehicle, too close.

‘Do you know what it’s about?’ Her tone was tentative, talking to a cat so as not to scare it away.

He didn’t know what to say.

‘No,’ he said, ‘but I think knowing about it is very dangerous.’

She said, ‘Yes. I know that. They tried to kill him again. Last night.’

‘Your paper knows what you’re doing?’

‘No. They don’t. It’s…well, it’s complicated.’

‘I’ll call you if anything else comes up.’

‘Please. I’m feeling desperate.’

He put the phone down. It rang.

‘Anselm.’

‘I’m outside your house. Yes or no?’

‘Yes.’

He waited for a while, drank some whisky, and then he went to the front door and opened it. Alex was there, hands in the pockets of a trenchcoat, face impassive, beautiful, rain on her hair.

‘I want you to fuck me,’ she said.

‘I ordered a pizza.’

‘We’re out of pizza.’

‘Well, this is most unsatisfactory.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

She came inside, closed the door, came up to him, close, he could smell her perfume. He put his hands on her waist and drew her to him.

They kissed, softly. Then harder and she pressed against him. He could feel her ribs under his hands. He slid his hands to her buttocks.

‘Do you have a bed?’ she said, not her usual voice, throatier.

‘We never sleep.’

‘I wasn’t thinking about sleeping.’

She put a hand on him but it was already happening.

‘I think you’re recovering,’ she said.

‘Only clinical trials can confirm that.’ His breath was short.

‘I’m a doctor.’ She unzipped him, put her hand in.

He was unbuttoning her red shirt. ‘A red bra,’ he said. ‘That’s provocative.’

‘White didn’t work last night.’ She squeezed him. ‘This is promising.’

‘Upstairs,’ said Anselm. ‘Quickly, I don’t know how long it will last.’

He was awake, lying on his back, still in the afterglow, and he caught the phone on the first ring.

‘Haven’t woken you?’ Inskip.

‘What?’

Anselm could make out Alex’s pale shoulders, the curve of the shoulder blades.

‘I heard about Tilders. I’m really sorry.’

‘Yes. Well.’

‘This probably isn’t of interest but that removed file, do you know…’ ‘Yes.’ He was talking about Diab’s file.

‘There was a number with the entry, a code. I didn’t think anything at the time, but it nagged. I went back and fiddled, just curious, you understand, pure spirit of inquiry, and…’ ‘What?’

‘It was one of a group of files removed at the same time, a bulk buy. All gone for good. Same remover.’

Alex turned onto her back and he could see her left breast lolling, flat on the breastbone, the nipple prominent. She moved her head, disturbed, as if worried by a fly.

He said softly, ‘How many?’

‘Eight.’

He felt her hand on his thigh, the long fingers moving slowly. Slowly. It was happening again and he had no moisture in his mouth.

‘Run the names,’ he said. ‘That’s good work. And if you’ve got time, do a biog on a Donald Trilling, Pharmentis Corp, that’s P-H-A-R.’

‘Certainly, sir. Enjoy your rest.’

‘Who said anything about rest?’

Her fingers were lying on him, doing nothing, he could feel each finger. Then they closed and she had him in her grip, a silken, strong grip. And there was something to grip.

‘Calling for pizza again?’ she said.

‘A victim of night hunger.’

‘Me too.’

He turned and she put her right hand to his head, he got his mouth on her breast, tried to engulf it, the whole breast, her, the whole of her.