The car turned another corner. He seemed to see nothing but failed businesses and boarded up shops, with occasional empty lots as if an entire structure had been sucked into the ground and the hole quickly screened-in with sheets of ply. The plywood had been fly posted with ads for rock groups and poll tax protest meetings, and the posters had been oversprayed with layers of graffiti.
But wait.
There ahead of him, a little way on from a defunct carpet warehouse and a place that sold tiles in job lots, a young man was bending over a car that had pulled in by the side of the road. Its engine was running, and its brake lights were on. The side window was open and the young man was talking to the driver. As Pavel moved to draw in behind he saw the young man abruptly straighten and look his way, waving the driver on with a slight but definite gesture as he watched this new approaching vehicle with suspicion.
As he came level, Pavel dropped the electric window halfway. The boy stooped and peered in through the opening, still on his guard.
"How're you doing?" he said. His breath was like dogfood.
"I'm doing fine," Pavel said. "Are you in business?"
"Just hanging around."
"I need to clear my head," Pavel said. "Is there anything you could suggest?"
"Let's stop fucking about," the boy said wearily. "It's twenty a packet, take it or leave it but make it quick."
Pavel pulled out a twenty. It was his last. He glanced around before he held it out, but the rest of the street was empty.
The boy reached for the money. Pavel hit the button by his seat and the electric window rolled up, trapping the boy's hand at the wrist. The hand was filthy, with rims of dirt under the nails. The boy tried to pull back, but his wristbones were clamped tight and there was no give in the window. He screamed.
"Not so loud," Pavel said. "Now come with me."
And he let out the clutch.
The boy staggered and stumbled backward, drawn with the car as Pavel rolled along in low gear. At the next corner he turned, and pulled the boy along with him into an alleyway between two rows of buildings. The boy was cursing and trying to break the window, but he couldn't do it one handed and off balance. Under the grime, the fingers of his trapped hand had turned white.
Pavel stopped the car, and clambered across the seats to get out on the passenger side. The boy was calling him names now, many of which he'd never heard before.
Broken glass crunched underfoot on the stone cobbles. The alley was about three, no more than four metres across, and as sleazy a piece of territory as he'd ever seen. To either side were the rear yards of buildings. Some of them had been roofed over and converted into garages, although with some the walls had simply been pulled down to make a small parking area. All of the yard doors looked as if they'd seen long, hard service in some other place before ending up here; they were various styles and painted in various colours, all of them blasted and peeling. On some of them, street numbers had been daubed in a giant hand.
Pavel winced as he picked his way around the car. An open box of trash had been dumped out behind one of the buildings, and the alley was strewn with soiled disposable nappies. This was no self respecting way to make a living. The boy tried to claw at him with his free hand, and Pavel hit him once in the middle to double him over and disable him.
The boy's pockets were empty. His drugs and his money were all in his underpants. He was gasping and trying to speak, but he couldn't take a breath.
"Take it slowly," Pavel suggested. "Don't struggle for it so much, just relax."
He took the cash. He left the drugs. He opened the driver's door, and the boy swung back with it; but then Pavel reached in and lowered the window, and the boy fell back heavily to sit on the ground.
He nursed his deadened hand.
"Rub it," Pavel suggested. "When the circulation comes back, it's going to hurt quite a lot."
The boy was still trying to speak. Pavel paused before he got in behind the wheel; it seemed only courteous to give him a hearing.
Gasping like a fish, the boy finally managed to get out a few words.
"You're dead," the boy spat.
Pavel looked down at him for a moment.
"I know it," he said.
And then he got back into the car, reversed out of the alley, and drove away.
THIRTY
It was about a week later when Diane dropped in at the yard; she'd been putting it off for as long as she could, but she couldn't put it off any longer. Ever since the day that she'd taken Ross Aldridge out to look at the six dead deer, she'd been troubled by a persistent squeaking from somewhere at the back of the Toyota. What Diane knew about motor vehicles could be tattooed on a gnat's left buttock and still leave space for Mother; it might need a penny's worth of grease, it might be halfway to losing a wheel. But she knew when she needed qualified advice, and she needed it now.
The two dogs bounded out to meet her, looking happy and stupid. One of them lost interest almost immediately and went snuffling away along the ground, the other followed her in. There was a radio playing in the car workshop and a Mercedes on the hoist, but nobody around. She called out, "Hello?" and then she went through to take a look in the marine section.
She stood in the yard, but still could see nobody.
"Hey," a voice called from somewhere above her. "Hey, how's it going?"
It was Pete McCarthy. He was up on the deck of one of the landlocked craft, looking down over the rail. Then he disappeared for half a minute before coming around to her from the other side, this time at ground level. He looked rough and dusty and hardworking, and he was wiping his hands on a paint-stained rag.
"Ignore the mess," he said, balling the rag and then tossing it with some brushed together debris in the shadow of the hull. "What is this, business or social?"
"Call it both," she said, and explained about her worry.
"Sounds like a brake shoe," Pete said, and they went out to where she'd parked so that he could take a look.
There wasn't much that he could tell with a superficial inspection; he crouched down and took hold of the wheel and tried to rock it on the axle, but there was no undue play. She said, "Look, if it's going to be a problem, I can do some phoning around. I know how busy you are."
"It's no problem," Pete told her. "Ted's back in action, and the marina's back on its feet now we've got the Wilson boys in. If you can leave it with us, I'll fit it in as soon as I can."
"How soon is that likely to be?"
"Maybe tonight. Shouldn't be any later than in the next couple of days."
"Fine," Diane said uncertainly. And then she said, "Listen, you wouldn't have anything I could borrow until it's fixed, would you?"
She was thinking of the only two estate vehicles that she had to fall back on; Dizzy's huge and expensive limo, and the lumbering, wire mesh-windowed Land Rover that the gamekeeper had been using until his ignominious departure. There was a little Morgan sports job that she'd discovered in one of the stables, but after thirty years' use as a byre it was somewhat in need of restoration.
"Depends how proud you are," Pete said, and he reached into his pocket and handed her a set of keys.
"What are these for?" she said.
"James Bond's Aston Martin," he said, and nodded toward a car behind her. She turned, and found herself facing his own black Zodiac.