“Will you keep in touch?” Gulliver implored, touching Reeve’s arm, letting his hand rest there.
“Maybe.”
“And is there any good cause?” Reeve didn’t understand. “A charity, something like that. You know, for mourners to make donations to, as a mark of respect and in memory.”
Reeve thought about it, then wrote a phone number for Gulliver on the back of a paper napkin. “Here,” he said. Gulliver waited for elucidation. “It’s the number of a bookie’s in Finsbury Park. They tell me Jim owed them a ton and a half. All contributions gratefully received.”
Reeve walked out of the hotel thinking he’d probably never in his life met someone so powerful, someone with so much influence, a shaper and changer. He’d shaken hands with royalty at medal ceremonies, but that wasn’t the same.
For one thing, some royalty were nice; for another, some of them were known to tell the truth.
Giles Gulliver on the other hand was a born-and-bred liar; that was how you worked your way up from market stall to pinstripe suit. You had to be cunning, too-and Gulliver was so slippery you could stage ice dancing on him and still have room for the curling rink.
The phone was ringing as he barged into the flat. He willed it to keep ringing and it obliged. His momentum took him onto the sofa as he snatched the receiver. He lay there, winded, trying to say hello.
“Is that Gordon Reeve?”
“Speaking.”
“My name’s Joshua Vincent. I think we’d better meet.”
“Can you tell me what my brother was working on?”
“Better yet, I think I can show you. Three stipulations.”
“I’m listening.”
“One, you come alone. Two, you tell nobody where you’re going or who you’re going to meet.”
“I can accept those. And number three?”
“Number three, bring a pair of Wellies.”
Reeve wasn’t about to ask questions. “So where are you?”
“Not so fast. I want you to leave Jim’s flat and go to a pay phone. Not the nearest one. Try to make it a pub or somewhere.”
Tottenham Lane, thought Reeve. There are pubs along that stretch. “Yes?”
“Have you got a pen? Take down this number. It’s a call box. I’ll wait here no longer than fifteen minutes. Is that enough time?”
Reeve thought so. “Unless the telephones aren’t working. You’re taking a lot of precautions, Mr. Vincent.”
“So should you. I’ll explain when we meet.”
The line went dead, and Gordon Reeve headed for the door.
Outside in the street, just before the corner where the quiet side road connected with Ferme Park Road, there was a dull-green British Telecom box, a metal structure three feet high which connected the various landlines into the system. A special key was used by technicians to open the box’s double doors. The key was specialized, but not difficult to obtain. A lot of engineers kept their tools when they left the job; an ex-BT engineer could open a box for you. And if he’d moved to a certain line of work, he could fit a call-activated recorder to any of the lines in the box, tucking the recording device down in the base of the structure, so that even a normal BT engineer might miss it.
The tape kept spooling for a few seconds after the call had ended. Then it stopped, awaiting retrieval. Today was a retrieval day.
TEN
IT WAS A TWO-HOUR TRIP from London. Reeve didn’t bother going out to Heathrow to retrieve his car. For one thing, it would have taken time; for another, Vincent wanted him to travel by public transport. Reeve had never heard of Tisbury. As his train pulled in, he saw beyond the station buildings a country town, a narrow main road snaking uphill, a soccer field turning to mud under the feet of the children playing there.
It had been raining stair rods the whole journey, but now the clouds were breaking up, showing chinks of early-evening light. Reeve wasn’t the only one getting off the train, and he studied his fellow travelers. They looked tired-Tisbury to London was a hell of a distance to commute-and had eyes only for the walk ahead, whether to parking lot or town house.
Joshua Vincent stood outside the station with his hands in his Barbour pockets. He was quick to spot Reeve; no one else looked like they didn’t know quite where to go.
Reeve had been expecting a farming type, tall and heavy-bodied with ruddy cheeks or maybe a sprouting beard to match the wild hair. But Vincent, though tall, was rake-thin, clean-shaven, and wore round, shining glasses. His fair hair was thinning badly; more scalp showing than follicles. He was pale and reticent and could have passed for a high-school science nerd. He was watching the commuters.
“Mr. Reeve?”
They shook hands. Vincent wanted them to wait there until all the commuters had left.
“Checking I wasn’t followed?” Reeve asked.
Vincent gave a thin smile. “Easy to spot a stranger at this railway station. They can’t help looking out of place. I’m so sorry to hear about Jim.” The tone of voice was genuine, not overwrought the way Giles Gulliver had been, and the more affecting for that. “How did it happen?”
They walked to the car while Reeve started his story. Through several tellings, he had learned to summarize, sticking to facts and not drawing conclusions. The car was a Subaru 4x4. Reeve had seen them around the farming towns in the West Highlands. He kept on talking as they drove, leaving Tisbury behind them. The countryside was a series of rises and dips with irregular wooded sections. They chased crows and magpies off the rough-finished road, then rolled over the flattened vermin which had attracted the birds in the first place.
Vincent didn’t interrupt the narrative once. And when Reeve had finished, they drove in silence until Reeve thought of a couple of things to add to his story.
As he was finishing, they turned off the road and started bumping along a mud track, churned up by farm machinery. Reeve could see the farm in front of them, a simple three-sided layout around a courtyard, with other buildings dotted about. It was very much like his own home.
Vincent stopped in the yard. A snapped command at a barking untethered sheepdog sent it padding back to its lair. A lone lamb bounded up to Reeve, bleating for food. He had the door open but hadn’t stepped out yet.
“I’d put your boots on before you do that,” Vincent warned him. So Reeve opened the bag he’d brought with him. Inside were all Jim’s notes plus a new pair of black Wellingtons, bought in the army surplus store near Finsbury Park Station. He kicked off his shoes and left them in the car, then pulled on the boots. He swiveled out of his seat and landed in a couple of inches of mud.
“Thanks for the tip,” he said, closing the door. “Is this your place?”
“No, I just stay here sometimes.” A young woman was peering at them through the kitchen window. Vincent waved at her, and she waved back. “Come on,” he said, “let’s catch a breath of air.”
In the long barn farthest from the house, two men were preparing to milk a couple of dozen cows, attaching clear plastic pumps to the teats. The cows’ udders were swollen and veinous, and complaints filled the shed. Vincent said hello to the men but did not introduce them. The milking machine shuddered as Reeve passed it. The two men paid him no attention at all.
On the other side of the milking shed, they came to a wall beyond which were darkening fields, trees silhouetted in the far distance.
“So?” Reeve asked. He was growing impatient.
Vincent turned to him. “I think people are trying to kill me, too.”
Then he told his story. “What do you know about BSE, Mr. Reeve?”
“Only what I’ve read in Jim’s notes.”
Vincent nodded. “Jim contacted me because he knew I’d expressed concern about OPs.”
“Organophosphorous materials?”
“That’s right. Have you heard of ME?”
“It’s a medical complaint.”