The Tightrope Men

Twenty

Carey sat in the Café Hildén on Aleksanterinkatu and sank a beer while waiting for Harding. After twelve hours’ sleep he felt refreshed and no longer as depressed as he had been. He knew his depression had been caused by tiredness. All the same, rested and clear-headed though he was, the coming decision was not going to be easy to make.

He saw Harding come around the corner so he held up his hand. When Harding came over, he asked, ‘You’ve seen Denison?’ On Harding’s nod, he said, ‘Have a beer.’

Harding sat down. ‘That’ll be welcome. I didn’t think it got as hot as this in the frozen north.’

Carey went to the counter and returned with two more beers. ‘What’s the verdict?’

Harding had his head on one side, apparently watching the foam rise in his glass. ‘Oddly enough, he’s improved since I last saw him. He’s better integrated. What are his drinking habits like now?’

Carey tapped the side of his glass. ‘He just has the odd beer.’

‘In an odd sort of way this experience might have been therapeutic for him.’ Harding smiled wryly. ‘Although I wouldn’t recommend it as a well-judged treatment. Now that we know more of his past history I’m better equipped to assess his present state.’ He took a notebook from his pocket. ‘Denison was something of a car enthusiast and ran a Lotus Elan. Three years ago he was driving with his wife, there was an accident for which he was partly — and only partly — to blame, and his wife was killed. They had been married eighteen months. She was pregnant at the time.’

‘That’s bad,’ said Carey.

‘He took all the blame on himself,’ said Harding. ‘And one thing led to another. He began to drink heavily and was on the verge of alcoholism when he lost his job for incompetence.’

‘That baffles me,’ said Carey. ‘Because he’s bloody competent at what he’s doing now.’ He grinned. ‘I’m thinking of offering him a permanent job.’

Harding sampled his beer. ‘He can’t remember his wife in any meaningful way because of what’s been done to him. He remembers her and he remembers her death but it’s as though it happened to someone else. Of course, that’s just as it should be after three years. In a normal person the sharpness of grief is blunted by the passage of time and, in that respect, Denison is now normal.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Carey.

Harding gave him a sharp look. He mistrusted Carey’s reasons for being glad. He said, ‘Consequently he has lost his irrational guilt feelings and has no need to anaesthetize himself with booze. Hence the return to competency. I rather think that, with a little expert treatment, he can be made into a much better man than he was immediately prior to his kidnapping.’

‘How long would that take?’

‘Three to six months — that’s just a guess.’

Carey shook his head. ‘Too long; I want him now. Is he fit to carry on?’

Harding pondered for a moment. ‘You know, I think he’s actually enjoying himself right now. He likes the cut and thrust of this business — the opportunity to exercise his wits seems to be good for him.’

‘So he’s fit,’ said Carey in satisfaction.

‘I didn’t say that,’ said Harding testily. ‘I’m not thinking of your damned operation — I’m thinking of Denison.’ He thought for a while. ‘The present pressures don’t seem to worry him. I’d say the only danger is if his past is revealed to him in a traumatic manner.’

‘That won’t happen,’ said Carey definitely. ‘Not where I’m sending him.’

‘All right,’ said Harding. ‘Then he’s as fit as a man in his position can be — which isn’t saying a hell of a lot.’

‘Which brings me to another problem,’ said Carey. ‘Meyrick is dead.’ He inspected that statement, found it wanting, and amended it. ‘Probably dead. We have a body but once bitten, twice shy.’

‘I see your difficulty,’ said Harding with a half smile.

‘I can’t tell the girl her father’s dead — not with Denison around. She’d blow up like a volcano and bang goes his cover as Meyrick — and I need him as Meyrick. The point is — do I tell Denison?’

‘I wouldn’t,’ said Harding. ‘Handling Lyn Meyrick is tricky enough for him as it is. If he knows her father is dead it might put him into a moral dilemma, assuming he’s a moral man which I think he is.’ He sighed. ‘God knows we’re not.’

‘We represent the higher morality,’ said Carey sardonically. ‘The greatest good for the greatest number. I’ve always been a Benthamite at heart; it’s the only way to keep my job bearable.’ He drained his glass. ‘That’s it, then. Where is Denison now.’

‘Sightseeing,’ said Harding. ‘He took his daughter to see the Sibelius Memorial.’