43
CITY AIRPORT DID NOT improve on further acquaintance, Jonjo reckoned, as he took his seat as close to the stairs down from the cafeteria as possible, had a sip of his cappuccino and began to do the puzzle in the newspaper. SREIBGMAR. Four-letter words, and longer, all with an ‘R’ in them; GRIM, GRAB, RAGE…He looked up to see Darren approaching. Jonjo’s smile of welcome was not warm and he noticed that Darren ventured no smile in return — more of a wince, a frown — the bearer of bad news, Jonjo guessed.
“Better make it quick, Dar, I got a lot on. I’m getting close.”
“This has nothing to do with me, Jonjo, you have to know that.”
“Yeah, of course. Spit it out.”
“You’re off the Kindred case.”
This was a real shock — he hadn’t been expecting this — just more bollocking, more pressure. He kept his face still, somehow, though he felt his guts loosen. This was serious: no way he could go to the toilet now.
“You must be fucking joking me.”
“No, Jonjo. I told you: the heat on this one is massive. They can’t understand how some poxy university bloke is still out there. Why can’t you find him?”
“Because he’s clever, precisely because he’s a poxy university bloke and not some wanking loser,” Jonjo said with controlled vehemence. Then he added: “Who’s ‘they’, by the way?”
“I don’t know,” Darren said, pleadingly. “I never know — haven’t a fucking clue.”Jonjo believed him, but Darren went on, “There’s layer upon layer upon layer above me. I don’t know who’s sending me these messages, these instructions. I get paid — I just do what I’m told.”
“OK, OK. Cool.”
Jonjo sat for a while, thinking, letting his anger build. Then he said, “Well, the upshot is you’ll let Kindred go. I told that Rupert-arsehole, ‘Bob’, that I was close. Now, I’m even closer. You take me off of this and Kindred walks free. You tell ‘them’ that.”
“There’s another plan. Hold on.” Darren took out his mobile phone and made a quick sotto voce call.
“I told him to wait outside,” Darren said, apologetically. “I wanted to see you myself, first.”
A minute later Jonjo watched as a big bloke came up the escalator to the cafeteria: dark hair shaved close and a big drooping moustache, like he was in a ipyos western.
“This is Yuri,” Darren said.
Jonjo looked at Darren incredulously as if to say—what?
“Yuri was in Spetznaz for twelve years. Chechnya, counter-terrorism—”
“Fanbloodytastic,” Jonjo said. “Does he speak English?”
“I speaking English,” Yuri said.
“Just tell him everything what you know,” Darren said. Jonjo could feel how uncomfortable and embarrassed he was. He looked down at his puzzle — the word AMBERGRIS formed mysteriously in front of his eyes. What the fuck was that? He looked up and told Yuri all he was prepared to let him know.
“Kindred was living on the Shaftesbury Estate, Rotherhithe — Flat L, Level 3, Unit 14—for some weeks with a prostitute who went by the name of ‘Mhouse’. Kindred now has long hair and a beard and he goes by the name of ‘John’. He isn’t there any more and the prostitute,” he paused, “has run away.”
“Thank you,” Yuri said slowly. “I go to this Shaftesbury. I asking questions — I get answers.”
“Good luck, mate,” Jonjo said coldly, standing. “Nice to see you, Darren. Good luck to you too.”
Darren looked a little hurt, unhappy with the guilt-by-association. He rose to his feet and slipped Jonjo a packed envelope.
“Half your fee. There are no hard feelings—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Move on.”
Jonjo strolled out of the cafeteria without looking back.
♦
Bishop Yerni paused and looked out at his sparse congregation as if searching for some encouragement, some zeal.
“Imagine — imagine you are John, the true Christ, and the Romans are closing in, with their swords and their spears. What do you do? And then your disciple, Jesus, the carpenter’s son, steps forward. Lord, he says, let me pretend to be the Christ — I do it for the cause. While they arrest and torture me you can escape to continue the struggle, to spread the word.” Bishop Yemi paused. “It’s a superb plan, John says. Jesus is taken, he dies on the cross, the Romans think they have their man. Meanwhile John escapes to the sunny island of Patmos where he writes Revelation. It’s all there — read the book of John. Only the true Christ could have written this book. Only the real son of God!”
It’s a very interesting point, Jonjo thought, sitting in the front row with a ‘John 1794’ badge on his chest. Makes a lot of sense. Brave man, that Jesus bloke, sacrificing himself like that. Jonjo thought further: it must have helped you, also, while you were hanging on that cross, with nails through your hands and feet, knowing that your leader had escaped and outwitted everyone. The words ‘escaped’ and ‘outwitted’ chimed unhappily with his own recent preoccupations. He sneaked a look at his watch — the bishop had been going for forty minutes already. He felt a little exposed sitting in the front row — the only new ‘John’ that evening. He glanced behind him at his fellow Johns, a small congregation of scumbags and halfwits, so he thought, but was encouraged to think that Kindred had been here, in this very room — that Kindred had been a John also, only 191 places ahead of him in the John-queue. He was on to him, people here must have known him, must know where he lived — where he was living. He smothered a yawn with the back of his hand. The bishop had now moved on to the evils of short-selling and of risky speculation on global stockmarkets, quoting from the Book of Revelation to support his argument and bolster his scorn. He could certainly talk, that Bishop Yemi, Jonjo conceded — but bloody hell, how much longer?
They were served steak and kidney pudding for supper and remarkably tasty it was, Jonjo thought. Excellent grub for a hungry man. In his pocket he had Kindred’s reward poster with a heavy beard shaded on to the photograph with a felt-tip pen. He showed it to the other three junkies sharing his table but they claimed not to recognise him.
“Never seen him,” one of them said.
“He’s a John like us. Friend of mine,” Jonjo said. “He used to come here — I’m trying to find him.”
“Never seen him,” the junkie repeated.
“Nah,” said another.
As the meal ended and, as people began to leave, Jonjo mingled with the departing Johns, showing the picture to as many as he could, but had no success, just shrugs of apology and shaken heads. He stepped outside the church: there had only been twenty or so in the congregation that night; if he was the 1794th John then he was canvassing only a tiny number. He strode off, unbowed — he’d just have to come back and try again.