The Wreckage

16

Colorful saris, black chadors, minarets and Halal butchers-it could be Bangladesh or Mogadishu or Hackney or Lambeth. Extended families. Illegal immigrants. Sweatshop workers. Flotsam washed up on British shores.

It took the Courier longer than expected to find Bernie Levinson. Following him had bordered on the banal-tracking him between his various businesses and his very ugly mock Tudor house in Ilford with its swimming pool and revolving sunroom.

A bell tinkles above his head. He spins a CLOSED sign on the back of the door. The shelves of the pawnshop are lined with DVD players, iPods, satnavs and TV sets.

“I won’t keep you,” says a voice in the back room. The Courier walks behind the counter and through the door.

“Hey, I told you to wait!” says Bernie, who is trying to repackage a CD player. “You got to stay out there-the other side of the counter.”

“How long will you be?”

“When I’m ready, I’m ready.”

The Courier walks back to the service counter, sure now that Bernie is alone. The pawnbroker appears, wiping his hands on his thighs.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for a girl called Holly Knight.”

“Never heard of her.”

“That’s a shame.”

The Courier has taken a golf club from a two-toned Slazenger bag in the corner. He holds it in his fists, more like an axe than a seven-iron.

“They’re a fine set of clubs,” says Bernie. “Belonged to a pro golfer who retired.”

“Is that right?”

“You like golf?”

“Not even a little bit.”

The Courier waggles the club.

“Hey, if you’re not into golf, have a look at these.” Bernie opens a drawer full of DVDs. “I got something for every taste in here. Fat Girls. Big tits. Nurses. Maybe you like them young. This isn’t your typical East European shit. It’s American-better production values. No dubbing. They moan in English.”

The visitor doesn’t take his eyes off Bernie. This is weird, thinks the pawnbroker; even the whacked-out crackheads and ice-addicts like porn, but not this guy. Instead he keeps grinning like he’s got dancing monkeys in his head.

Still talking, Bernie edges along the counter towards the cash register where he keeps a sawn-off shotgun on a shelf.

“Buy one and you get the second one free,” he says, “and if you don’t have a DVD player I can fix you up with one.” His right hand drops below the level of the counter and his fingers touch the stock of the shotgun. All he has to do is pick it up but for some reason he can’t do it. He’s staring at the smiling man, unable to focus.

“What do you want, mister?”

“You’re going to show me what Holly Knight sold to you. Then you’re going to tell me where to find her.”

“I told you-I don’t know anyone by that name. Why are you grinning at me like that?”

The golf club shatters the counter and Bernie leaps backwards, knocking over a rack of second-hand CDs. His mouth flaps wordlessly.

“Where is Holly Knight?” asks the Courier.

“She lives on the Hogarth Estate.”

“Not anymore.”

“Then I don’t know where she is.”

“What did she sell you?”

“Bits and pieces,” says Bernie. “Some of it I already sold.”

The Courier puts the seven-iron back in the bag and selects another.

“I mean, you’re welcome to the rest of it,” says Bernie. “I’ll show you. It’s in my office. Upstairs.” Bernie lifts his chin to the ceiling.

The Courier waits for him to lock up the shop and follows him around the side of the building and up the staircase.

“Why are you so fat?” he asks.

“I eat too much.”

“You don’t exercise? Walk every day. Twenty minutes.”

“That’s what my wife says.”

“You should listen to her.”

Once inside the office, Bernie fusses over opening cupboards, clumsy with nerves. He hands over the briefcase, a laptop, digital camera and a mobile phone.

“What about the notebook?”

“Why would I want a fucking notebook?” Bernie opens his palms, trying to sound reasonable. “That laptop won’t be much good to you. When I booted it up I got an email. I opened it up and a window popped open, then another one. It was a virus chewing through the files-emails, the calendar, contacts, spreadsheets… I held down the power button and then rebooted but it was too late. I got the black screen of death. All gone.”

The Courier glances around the office. Something bothers him. Maybe it’s Bernie’s wheedling voice. No, that’s not it. Then he notices the CCTV camera in a corner of the ceiling. Careless. He follows the wire to a DVD recorder below the pawnbroker’s desk and smashes it with his boot heel.

“It wasn’t on,” says Bernie, one hand trembling on his temple. “I got no beef with you, sir. I gave you what you asked for.”

The Courier turns towards the window where raindrops have left a pattern of dust on the pane.

“I got to figure out what to do with you,” he says. “Nothing personal, but you irritate me.”

“A lot of people say that,” says Bernie. “Even my wife says I’m irritating.”

“She’s a very perceptive woman. Do you think she’d mind if you were dead?”

“I hope she would.”

The Courier takes the keys from Bernie and pushes him into the storeroom, hooking the padlock through the latch. He puts his mouth near the door.

“What are you going to do if Holly Knight contacts you again?”

“I want nothing to do with her.”

“That’s the wrong answer, Bernie. You see, I know where you work and where you live.”

“I’m going to call you.”

“Now we’re communicating.”