A good forger’s art, of course, does not lie in making up the fake ID. Anyone can fake an ID. The forger’s art lies in having to hand authentic or authentic-looking blank ID forms. Harry would never tell anyone where his blanks came from, or even if they were the genuine article. I reckoned he’d got his hands on a real ID form a while back, and had a friendly printer run up a few hundred. There were other things he could do, like put an official stamp on something. Those he made himself, and they were beautiful. He’d done a US visa for me once that was incredibly lifelike. Only, without me knowing, he’d made it a student visa. The questions at Immigration had almost given me away. Next time I’d seen Harry, I’d been able to get a fake passport at a reduced rate.
‘I’ll need both your signatures,’ he said. He’d switched on an anglepoise lamp and put on a pair of John Lennon-style NHS glasses, the kind you hate to have to wear as a kid, but often crave as an adult. I’d never needed glasses. People said it was a sign of having lived a pure life.
I was using the name Michael West on my ID, while Bel was Bel Harris. She said she’d rather stick with her own Christian name. They say that the best lies have a nugget of truth in them, and these names were just different enough from our real names that they wouldn’t help the police. I’d sometimes called myself Michael West in the USA, but never before in England. Bel was having enough trouble as it was remembering my name was now Michael and not Mark. She didn’t need another name to confuse her.
‘Right, sweetheart,’ said Harry, ‘if you’ll sit on that chair...’
Bel turned to me. ‘Is he talking to you?’
‘I think he means you.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Harry, ‘I forgot for a moment there. Women’s lib, eh? Don’t mind me, love, just sit down anyway.’
Bel eventually sat down, and Harry stuck the ID form he’d just typed into the suitcase-machine.
‘Don’t smile or frown,’ he told Bel, ‘just look natural. That’s about as natural as a performing seal. Better, better.’ There was a flash, and Harry stood up straight. ‘Lovely. Takes about half a minute. Sit yourself down, Mark.’
We changed places.
‘By the way, Harry, you’d better take a few extra shots of me. I want you to set up a whole new identity.’
‘That takes time, Mark.’
‘I know. What shall we say, four days?’
‘Make it five. What do you need: passport, driving licence, National Insurance number?’
‘They’ll do for a start.’
‘We’re talking serious money.’
‘I know. I’ll give you two hundred on account.’
‘Now, just think bland thoughts. Mushy peas, liquor, the Spurs midfield. Look at him, he’s a natural.’
There was a flash, then Harry switched to his everyday SLR camera and plugged it into the flash-lamp. He fired off a few more shots, asking me questions while he did.
‘What name?’
‘How about Michael Whitney?’
‘Date of birth?’
‘Same as mine. No, make it a month earlier. Place of birth: London. You can make the rest of it up as you like.’
‘I will then.’
When he peeled the paper from my card and handed it to me, the clear plastic laminate was still warm. Behind the plastic, I wore that same policeman’s scowl. Bel wasn’t happy with her card. She reckoned she looked like a frightened animal. I studied her card but had to disagree.
‘Look on the bright side, Bel. At least it’ll give them a laugh when they arrest us. Harry, have you got any of those—’
But he was already coming back into the room, waving two small black leather wallets.
‘Put them in here,’ he said. ‘You can fill the spare pockets with anything you like.’ He crumpled one in his hand. ‘Give them a bit of a seeing to first though, otherwise they look like they’ve just come from the sweatshop. He smiled at me. ‛No extra charge.’
Which was my cue to hand over the cash.
We took a mini-cab from the office at the corner of Harry the Cap’s road. Our driver didn’t even know where Marylebone was, and mention of Baker Street and Regent’s Park didn’t ring any of his rusted bells. So I gave him some directions, and kept giving them all the way back to the hotel. He radioed his office to see how much he should charge.
‘Depends whether they look loaded or not,’ said the crackly voice. The driver looked at me in his rearview, and I shook my head at him. I gave him the money, but no tip, seeing how I’d have been better driving myself and letting him sit in the back.
I’d got him to drop us a couple of streets from the hotel. If anyone got to Harry the Cap, they might ask questions at the cab office, and the cab office wouldn’t forget a fare from Tottenham to Marylebone Road. I didn’t want anyone coming any closer to me than that. And yes, I did have someone specific in mind.
‘Hang on,’ said Bel, ‘I want a pizza.’ So we went to a takeaway and stood with the delivery riders while Bel’s deep-pan medium seafood was constructed. Then it was back to the hotel. I took her to her room. She lifted the pizza box to my nose.
‘You want to help me with this?’
Which was, however innocent its intention, an invitation to her bedroom, where we’d have to sit on the bed to eat.
‘Not hungry, thanks,’ I said. But I’d paused too long.
‘I won’t tell my dad.’ She was smiling. ‘Shouldn’t we talk anyway? Go through the plan for tomorrow?’
She had a point. ‘Over breakfast,’ I said.
‘Cold pizza maybe?’
‘Don’t be disgusting.’
I went to my room and called Max. He’d been sitting right by the phone.
‘Everything’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you the number here, you can call Bel any time you like.’
‘Thanks,’ he said grudgingly. He then found a pen and some paper. I gave him the hotel number and Bel’s room number. ‘She’ll probably be calling you herself,’ I said.
‘If she hasn’t already forgotten me.’
‘Don’t be daft, Max, she talks about you all the time.’ This was a lie; she hadn’t mentioned her father all day until I’d brought up the subject in the pub. I won’t tell my dad. “Night, Max.’ I put down the phone.
I’d known Bel for a few years now, and naturally sex had never... well, it wasn’t that I didn’t like her. It wasn’t that we didn’t flirt. It wasn’t even that I was scared Max would bury me in one of his walled fields. It was mostly that I didn’t, as the Americans say, ‘do’ sex any more. It didn’t exactly go with the lifestyle. The women I met in my life I met infrequently and for necessarily short periods. If I wanted to get to know any of them, I had to construct a set of lies and half-truths. You didn’t get too many ads in the lonely hearts columns from women looking to meet ‘tall okay-looking assassin, 30–35, interested in ballistics, cuisine, international travel’. So I’d given up on women. I didn’t even use hotel whores often, though I liked to buy them drinks and listen to their own constructed stories.
Speaking of which, I knew I had one more call to make. It had taken me a while to get round to it. I picked up the receiver and pressed the digits from memory. I have a good memory for numbers. The call was answered.
‘Allington Hotel, can I help you?’
‘Yes, I’d like to speak to a Mr Leo Hoffer, please.’
‘Hoffer? One moment, please.’ A clack of computer keys. ‘I’m sorry, sir, we don’t appear to have a guest with that name.’
‘I’m sure he’s staying there,’ I persisted. ‘He was there today, or maybe he’s booking in tomorrow?’
‘Hold on, please.’ She muffled the phone with her hand and asked a colleague. The colleague took the receiver from her.