The Darkest Day

THIRTEEN

Victor had crossed fifteen metres of asphalt before he heard Muir’s voice behind him, shouting:

‘Hey.’

He stopped, turned. He watched her jog over to him. Graceful, efficient movements. Hurried, but not rushed. She wore a brown leather jacket over her work clothes. He recognised the jacket from the last time he had seen her. It flared at the waist, giving her the illusion of shape. She was narrow in width and depth.

‘You waited longer than I thought you would,’ Victor said.

‘Yeah, well, it’s hard to call after someone when you don’t know their name, right?’

She had the flat accent of a Midwesterner. Maybe she had come from somewhere with a regional accent, but many years in the homogeny of the heartlands had smoothed out any local intonations.

He didn’t answer.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I should be as honest with you as you are with me, but I’m in a difficult position here.’

She edged closer. The last time he had seen her she had been thin and unhealthy. Now, she was still thin, but she looked better. Her skin and hair spoke of plenty of rest and enough of the right kinds of food. The small amount of extra fat in her face smoothed out some of the lines and made her seem younger than she had then. She didn’t wear a lot of make-up, at least during the day, but she knew how to make it work for her. She looked uncomfortable in civilian attire. She would work long hours in a business suit. Time out of it would mean loungewear or pyjamas or workout gear. She wouldn’t own a lot of dresses. He didn’t imagine many heels in her closet.

‘You chased after me just to say that?’

‘No, I’m telling you that although I can’t — won’t — pass on personal information about the client, I will pass on your concerns.’

‘Not good enough,’ Victor said, and began to turn.

She reached out to stop him, but stopped herself an inch before her fingers came in contact with his arm. He looked at the fingers, picturing grabbing the index and forefinger in one hand and the ring finger and little finger in the other hand, and using the strong muscles of his upper back to rip the hand in two pieces, right down to the wrist bone.

‘Sorry,’ she said, snapping the hand away as though she had read his mind.

She was scared of him, he knew. Which was the way it should be. He didn’t seek to frighten, but if he ever met Muir and he saw no fear in her eyes he would know he had walked straight into an ambush.

‘But will you let me speak for a second?’ she said. ‘I’ll pass on your concerns and I’ll have him contact you. Maybe directly you can work this thing out.’

‘No,’ Victor said. ‘I’ll meet him, face to face, in one week’s time. On O’Connell Bridge in Dublin, Saturday, twelve noon.’

She regarded him, close and searching. ‘Why do you want to meet him in person?’

‘Same reason I met you in person.’

The breeze blew her hair across her face. She pushed it back behind her ears. ‘So you could tell if I’m lying?’

‘That and, if you were, so I could kill you.’

She inhaled and swallowed. ‘I can’t allow you to kill the client.’

‘That’s for me to decide.’

‘I’ll have to tell him you said that.’

‘Do so. If he has nothing to hide, there’s nothing for him to be worried about.’

‘Okay,’ Muir said. ‘I understand, but I guarantee he’ll feel the same way. Why Dublin?’

‘I like Guinness.’

She looked at him like she didn’t know if he was joking or not. Which was the point.

Victor said, ‘Please stress to the client the importance of punctuality.’

‘Right. And I suppose I should tell him to come alone?’

‘He can bring as many guys with him as he likes. Tell him it won’t make any difference.’