‘I’m afraid so,’ she said. ‘I know it’s totally irrational, I know that flying is pretty much the safest way of travelling, but there’s something about being in a metal tube thirty thousand feet above the ground that just seems so . . . unnatural.’
‘I do have trouble with the concept of metal being lighter than air, but they seem to work,’ said Shepherd. ‘Have you ever flown?’
‘Never,’ said Elaine.
‘That must make holidays difficult.’
‘Ireland’s a beautiful country,’ she said, ‘and there’s the ferry to the UK. You came over from Liverpool, right? On the Norfolkline?’
Shepherd nodded.
‘I do business in Liverpool and Manchester and I use the Norfolkline every few months. I get the overnight ferry, then do a day’s work and take the night ferry back. If I need to get to London I go to Dublin and get Stena Line or Irish Ferries to Holyhead and drive from there. It’s less than twelve hours door to door and I get to use my own car. If I want to go to France I take the ferry to the UK, and Eurotunnel gets me to the Continent. I took the QE2 to the States a few years ago. Really, it’s no biggie. And I tell myself I’m doing my bit for global warming by not flying.’
‘Have you tried hypnosis or tablets?’
‘Everything,’ said Elaine. She held up her cigarette. ‘I think there’s more chance of me giving up smoking than getting me on a plane.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘Do you know many people here in Belfast?’
‘There’s a couple of guys who work from an office in the city, sales, mainly, but with email and the phone, there’s no need for us to meet in person. Most of the office staff are in London and I’m lucky if I see them once in three months.’
‘That sounds a bit sad,’ said Elaine.
‘It’s the way of the world,’ said Shepherd. ‘My work is mainly computer-based and it doesn’t really matter where that computer is.’
‘So why did you move here?’ she asked, tapping her cigarette into the ashtray.
‘We’ve quite a big customer base in the city and they like to see a human being from time to time. I was flying in about once a week and we decided it made more sense for me to set up here, for a while at least.’
‘No family?’ She opened her notebook and clicked a black Parker ballpoint pen. ‘I’ll make a few notes.’
‘Just little old me.’
‘Are you employed by a company?’
‘I work mainly for one firm, but I’m effectively freelance,’ said Shepherd.
‘So you’re self-employed?’
Shepherd nodded.
‘And how much would you earn in a year?’
‘It varies, depending on the contracts we get. Between sixty and eighty thousand, I guess.’
Elaine swung her briefcase on to the table and clicked open the locks. ‘This isn’t a sales pitch,’ she said, ‘but I’ve a few brochures you should read, about pensions and the like.’ She handed him some printed leaflets. ‘What about investments?’ she said.
Shepherd shrugged. ‘This house, I guess,’ he said. ‘Some cash in the bank.’ He stubbed out his cigarette.
‘Pension plan?’
‘Nope.’
‘ISAs?’
‘I’ve no idea what they are. Sorry.’
‘So you probably don’t have a PEP tucked away?’
‘No idea what a PEP is, either.’
‘Don’t worry, that’s why I’m here to help,’ she said. ‘Shares? Unit trusts?’
‘Nope. Nope.’
‘Insurance?’
Shepherd held up his hands. ‘I’m hopeless, aren’t I?’
‘You’re like most people,’ she said. ‘You’re too busy earning your money to think about investing it.’ She handed him more leaflets. ‘I can suggest a range of tax-free investments that you should think about. The big one for you is your pension. Have a look at those and see if anything interests you.’
‘Elaine, retirement is years away,’ said Shepherd, ‘and I’ll probably die in harness anyway.’
She took a final drag at her cigarette and put it out, then picked up her pen again. ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ she said, scribbling in her notebook. ‘Sixty is the new forty, these days. You want to retire at – what? Fifty-five? Sixty? You could live to be eighty or ninety. How are you going to fund all the things you want to do after you’ve retired?’
‘Good question,’ said Shepherd. ‘I guess I’d always assumed the state pension would kick in.’
Elaine shook her head. ‘It will probably be all but history by then. But if you start saving now, you’ll have a decent nest egg put by for when you do retire. And with the tax you get back from the Government, the sooner you start the better.’ She tapped the leaflets. ‘Read,digest,and we’ll discuss.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Shepherd. ‘I had a teacher like you once.’
‘You obviously need a little discipline,’ she said. She finished her coffee and put down the mug. ‘I’ve given you enough to think about.’ She peered at her watch, a stainless-steel Cartier. ‘Plus I’ve got to be in Londonderry this afternoon.’
Shepherd stood up and showed her out. He wasn’t sure how he should say goodbye. A handshake seemed too formal but he didn’t feel he knew her well enough to kiss her cheek.
She was on her way down the path when she turned back. ‘What do you do for fun, Jamie?’
‘Television, the Internet, the regular stuff.’
‘Do you play pool?’
‘I’ve been known to pick up a cue. Why?’
‘Tonight’s my pool night and there’s a bunch of us going to Laverys in Bradbury Place. Come along – I’ll introduce you to some people. We’re normally there from about eight.’
‘I might just do that,’ said Shepherd. ‘So long as you promise not to hustle me.’
The sky overhead was clear of clouds but there was a chill in the air and Salih turned up the collar of his overcoat as he walked along Swain’s Lane towards Highgate Cemetery. A middle-aged woman in a fleece jacket and a bobble hat asked if he was there for the funeral. Salih nodded, and she pointed up the path that led through the Victorian burial ground. Salih thanked her. The cemetery was packed with tombs and monuments, most of them overgrown with brambles and ivy. Tree roots pushed their way between the stones and moss obscured the names and dates of the long-dead.
The path wound to the left and Salih followed it. There were stone angels with spreading wings, massive crosses, and tombs as big as garden sheds, built to stand for centuries, in an attempt to keep alive the memory of the dead. It was a waste of time, Salih knew. A generation or two at most, then virtually everyone who lived was forgotten. Testament to that, most of the graves were untended. Only rarely were people remembered and then it was for their deeds. The greater the deed, the longer the memory. It didn’t matter whether that deed was good or bad. The great dictators of the world were remembered just as vividly as the great peacemakers. But most people lived, died and were forgotten. That was the way the world worked, and Salih had no plans to fight it. He didn’t want to be remembered. He wanted to live his life, take his pleasures where he could, and prepare himself for whatever lay beyond.
He saw Viktor Merkulov on a wooden bench fifty feet or so from a small crowd of mourners that had gathered round four sombre men in dark suits who were lowering a mahogany coffin into the ground. Merkulov had the physique of a weightlifter that had gone to seed. His square face was topped with thinning hair and a pig-like nose with large flared nostrils. His shoulders strained against his black Burberry trenchcoat. Salih slowed and checked that no one had followed him up the path, then went to sit beside Merkulov. ‘Who died?’ he asked.
‘A man,’ said Merkulov. He nodded at a thirty-something woman with shoulder-length dyed-blonde hair who was dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief. ‘That’s the widow. The teenager by her side is the son.’ A boy with a crew-cut and pimply skin, wearing an ill-fitting pinstriped suit, stood beside her. He was staring at the coffin, his jaw muscles straining as he forced himself not to cry.
‘Did you know him?’
‘He was just a man.’ Merkulov lit a small, dark cigar, cupping his hand against the wind until he got it to draw.