‘I haven’t really heard much about anything yet. He told me to come straight here this morning, so I haven’t even seen the place.’
‘Asked, I’m sure, not told. Ivor likes to preserve a gentlemanly feeling. It’s not a bad pad. Lots of space. Good area. Harrods is just round the corner. Nice bit of crumpet on the front desk instead of those wall-eyed human Rottweilers at Thames House. Secure car park down below, space for one and all. Bloody sight more relaxed than life at the old place, I can tell you.’
Johnny, looking sideways down the street, said, ‘Is that her?’
It couldn’t really be anyone else, he thought, unless John Islip Street was a secret centre for startlingly exotic Brazilian hookers with a taste for bouffant hair and low-cut Lycra tops.
‘That’s Fifi,’ said Adam, and he crossed over to the table to flick switches on the equipment.
‘What’s she really called?’
‘God knows. Sybil something, I think. It’s written down in the log.’
They heard, clearly through their speaker, the sound of her key in the front door then her feet climbing the stairs and the door opening so loudly that Adam had to turn the volume down. It was only then that Johnny looked at the equipment closely for the first time and realized both that he knew it well and that it was odd that he should do so. It was state of the art surveillance hardware, the very same gear he’d used in the office, a product of the government scientific centre at Hanslope. The familiarity was disconcerting.
‘I heard the story,’ said Adam, attaching the Nikon to the big reflector telephoto.
‘What story?’ There was a touch of arrogance about him that went with the expensive clothes and it was already irritating Johnny.
‘The Yank. Your wet job.’
‘It wasn’t a wet job. It was an accident and it wasn’t me that knocked him down the stairs.’
Adam looked at him, weighing him up. ‘Have it your own way. I wasn’t complaining. The other one was you, though, Wineglass, wasn’t it?’
Did everybody know about Wineglass?
‘That was me.’
‘Bloody good show. Everyone thought so.’
‘Not everyone. There was a lot of trouble,’ said Johnny, remembering the endless inquiry.
‘Everyone worth asking. Sort of thing we should do more often, not leave it to the Hereford lads. Bloody brave, what you did. Not many would have grabbed the chance.’
Another little decision down the long trail of deception. It was no contest, really, so much easier to take the accolade and not try to insist on the less glamorous truth. Johnny just nodded and added another layer to the heavily varnished image of his past. Wineglass. Everyone knew the story but no one knew the story and for sure he wasn’t going to tell this man what had really happened. Not now.
Finberg looked down to screw the lens to the tripod and the conversation was over.
The appointed time came and there was no sign of the man they expected. The girl appeared in the bedroom from time to time slipping clothes on and off with complete disregard for the open curtains. Johnny was just admiring her bronze breasts when his companion said, ‘She’s a bloke really, of course.’
‘What?’
‘Brazilian. Typical Rio number. Had the operation. Looks like it went well. I hope the bugger comes. I’ve got the day off tomorrow. Ivor said I’d have to stay on if this lot goes over. Pain in the bloody arse that would be.’
‘Something important?’
‘Invitation to hunt with the Quorn. Can’t miss that.’
Johnny was silent and Finberg looked at him, trying to read his face. ‘D’you hunt?’
‘No.’
‘Ride?’
‘Oh yes. Sometimes.’
‘Surprised you haven’t ridden to hounds. Only riding worth a damn. Bloody boring just sitting on a horse. Never tried it?’
‘Only once, when I was a lad. Didn’t catch on.’
The phone rang in the girl’s flat and they heard her answer it, could even hear the sound – though not the detail – of the other side of the conversation. Their target.
‘Baby… Why not?’ she asked plaintively. There was a buzzing rattle of explanation.
‘Two then, OK, huwwy honeybun. I wai’. I have no clo’ on.’
It wasn’t quite true. They watched her as she sat on the bed and rolled a joint, then lay back, smoking with one hand and stroking herself with the other, which merited three quick frames of motor-driven Nikon.
Their own doorbell buzzed. ‘Ah, good-oh,’ said Finberg, ‘lunch.’
Johnny stood back, watching, feeling his capacity for surprise being tested once again as the other man went downstairs and came back carrying a small wicker hamper.
Finberg undid it, taking out foil packets and plastic plates. ‘God, Greek again,’ he said, ‘I wish Ivor wouldn’t go for Greek. It’s the only one I don’t like.’
It was expensive Greek, a beautifully prepared meze with a half bottle of cold retsina.
Johnny gave up waiting for an explanation and explored the subject cautiously. ‘Does this go with the job?’
‘London stake-outs, yes, whenever possible. If it’s a really long boring one you get a hamper from Fortnum’s.’ Finberg looked at him questioningly. ‘You haven’t really got the hang of this yet, have you? You’re in the private sector now, Kay. Money no object and all that, at least for the sort of things we do.’ He chewed, made a face, spat out an olive stone. ‘Your mother hunts, I’ve seen her.’
‘Yes.’ Johnny froze, then put down the food in his hand. It came winging back to him, across the years, a clear, cutting memory of a cold day in the muddy edge of a field, a crumpled fox corpse, partly savaged, and the dogs being whipped off it. His mother with a fierce look of satisfaction, leading him closer by the hand and then the foul, acrid smell as the bleeding stumpy tail was pushed at him, into his face. Wet blood smearing on his face and the smooth, white powder of her face, red lipstick, bright eyes framed by the netted hair and the riding hat. ‘Hold your bloody head still, Johnny. Oh, for God’s sake, don’t puke. It’s the blooding, you stupid little boy. It’s an honour. Take it like a man.’ As so often, he’d embarrassed her in front of her friends.
His head began to ache as it usually did when the subject of his mother came up.
The target arrived at two sharp, just as they finished lunch. Ansell was almost running with pent-up sexual desire. Johnny recognized him, wondered vaguely why his peccadilloes mattered and to whom. He wasn’t a minister, wasn’t even likely to be one. Maybe he featured on some committee or other. Used as he was to not questioning the motives behind his instructions, he suppressed the doubts. The girl, back in her clothes now, made a token effort at closing the curtains but the bent rail prevented her and they could hear through the mike that it was an uneven struggle.
‘Leave it, for God’s sake. No one can see us up here. I want you now.’
‘All righ’. Don’ panic. I here,’ she said. ‘What you wan’ do?’
‘Same as before. You know.’ He sounded unwilling to say the words.
Finberg clicked away with the camera, chortling as Ansell stripped and lay on the bed without touching her once. She bent to each corner in turn, pulling straps tight, then stood just on the edge of their line of vision, slowly peeling off her clothes to reveal herself in some kind of dark underwear.
‘Leather,’ said Finberg, ‘love it.’
Without the telephoto to help, Johnny could only see vaguely what happened next but he soon had no regrets about that. She straddled the man on the bed, on her knees above him. Liquid splashing noises came through the mike and Ansell’s groans of pleasure.