Riptide

§ 81

Troy and Cormack sat facing each other in his sitting room at Goodwin’s Court. Cormack had brought a bottle of bourbon-not a drink Troy was accustomed to. Sweet, heady stuff. He knew what his dad would say, that it was a cheek to call it whisky-but Troy was rather taken with it. After three large glasses it eased the pain in his ribs. He began to feel a bit less like a puppet held together by

Kolankiewicz’s staples.

After three large glasses Cormack managed to utter, ‘Kitty, I’ve been meaning to ask you about Kitty…’

And Troy said, ‘Later. We’ve got work to do.’

Cormack rallied, stuck his elbows on his knees and tried to look a bit less as though booze had just dumped him down in the armchair.

‘You cracked it?’

‘I think so. We’re going to set a trap.’

‘That’s what you told me yesterday. So what’s new?’

‘We re-run the same plan that Walter did. I’m going to send you a note asking you to meet me at such and such a time and such and such a place, and you’re going to let it sit in your in-tray at the embassy till somebody reads it.’

Cormack exhaled, a breathy explosion somewhere between a guffaw and complete incredulity.

‘You actually think that’ll work?’

‘We know whoever it is reads your mail, right?’

‘Sure. But the same scam twice-he’ll never fall for it.’

‘Which is why the trap needs very tasty bait. I’m going to say that I’ve found Stahl. And that this is the only way Stahl will meet you.’

‘You’re assuming that Stahl is of interest to our man.’

‘If he isn’t then we’re lost. But equally, I can see no other reason why our man would ever have wanted Walter Stilton dead. And I’m damn sure Walter died because whoever read his letter deduced that Walter was close to finding Stahl. Much as Walter avoided stating it.’

Cormack thought about this. Just mentioning Walter’s name seemed to bring tears; to his eyes.

‘He had found Stahl. I just didn’t know that. He went off on his own and said he’d keep me posted and didn’t.’

‘We won’t make that mistake.’

Troy had tried to make a glib phrase sound as reassuring as he could, but for half a minute he did not know whether Cormack was going to agree to the scheme or not.

‘Where is such and such a place and when is such and such a time?’

‘I thought tomorrow night. Say around eleven p.m. And I chose a place on the Isle of Dogs-‘

‘We have to go on a boat?’

‘Let me finish-not that kind of island-it’s a promontory that sticks out into the Thames opposite Greenwich. It’s where most of London’s docks are. I’ve got us a warehouse, or what’s left of one, in Tallow Dock. There’s only one way in but two ways out. It couldn’t be better. You turn up at the agreed time, but meanwhile I’ve got there half an hour earlier. We’ll be ready for him.’

‘Just a minute. Why can’t I be the one to get there early?’

‘Because “our man” knows what you look like. He’d be much more likely to follow you than to follow me. In fact, I’m acting on the assumption that he’ll work out for himself that killing Walter is unlikely to have made you give up-but also that he hasn’t a clue about me. There’d just have to be somebody like me-logically-some other copper doing what Walter did. I’m playing up to his expectations.’

‘So-what you’re telling me is that you’ll be going in there on your own?’

‘Initially, yes.’

‘Then you’ll need this.’

Cormack reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a handgun and slid it across the table to him. Troy just looked at it. Did not touch it. It wasn’t the same make as Cormack’s. It was an automatic, but it was bigger, a.38 at least. Cormack clutched his own gun in his right hand.

‘You’ll need to know how to speed load. Your life could depend on it. Our man will be armed. Goes without saying. He could have real stopping power. Standard issue is a.45.’

‘No,’ said Troy. ‘He’ll have a gun like yours.’

Cormack looked at him with incredulity.

‘What? How can you know that?’

‘Because Walter was shot with a.35.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me that?’

‘It didn’t seem important,’ said Troy. ‘And I didn’t want you to feel your brush with Chief Inspector Nailer had been quite as close as it was.’

‘Not many people use these, you know.’

‘I do know, and I think the fact is rather in our favour.’

‘Whatever. Just watch me.’

Cormack held a spare clip in his left hand. The flick of a switch and the old clip fell out, the new was banged in and he had racked a bullet into the chamber and levelled the gun.

‘Less than two seconds. Try it.’

It had seemed to Troy like the handiwork of a magician. One second he was watching Cormack’s face, the next he was staring down the barrel of a freshly loaded gun. The hand was truly quicker than the eye. Cormack was looking straight at him now, picking up on his incredulity.

‘Or did you think that because I wore glasses and did a desk job I somehow wasn’t a real soldier?’

‘Not at all,’ said Troy. ‘I was thinking more about myself. Sorry, I’m not a gunman.’

‘Picking up a gun doesn’t make you a gunman.’

‘Doesn’t it? Then what am I, a pretend gunman? I don’t live in your world of habitual pretence. I think I’d find pretence a dangerous illusion.’

‘Troy, this could be… no, goddammit, this is dangerous.’

‘Sorry. Can’t do it. Tell me I’ve been a London bobby too long, any cliché you like, but I can’t do it.’

He slid the gun back across the table to Cormack.

‘You mean you’re going in there with just a cop’s nightstick, that truncheon thing?’

‘Only detectives of Walter’s generation carry truncheons. I’ll have a pair of handcuffs and you’ll have a gun. That ought to be enough.’