‘Forty-eight, right?’ said Mike. ‘Right,’ I said.
I rang the bell and the three of us waited. After a few moments a shortish, dapper-looking chap appeared and busied himself with the bolts and locks on the door.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said. Very far back voice. ‘Morning, Vince. How’s the leg?’ I said, and stepped into the gallery.
The dapper fellow was much too English to say who’s Vince? what leg? and by the way, what are you talking about? Instead he stood back, with a polite smile, and let Mike and Carl in behind me.
The four of us moved to the middle of the shop and surveyed the daubs. They really were awful. If he sold one a year, I’d be amazed.
‘If you see anything you fancy, I might be able to do you ten per cent,’ I said to the Carl, who blinked slowly.
The good-looking blonde, in a red shift this time, came through from the back and beamed. Then she saw me, and her well-bred chin dropped to her even-better-bred chest.
‘Who are you?’ Mike was addressing the dapper man. The Carl was staring at the paintings.
‘I am Terence Glass,’ said the dapper man.
It was a great moment. One I’ll always remember. There were five of us standing there, and only Glass and I were able to keep our mouths from hanging open. Mike was the first to speak.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘You’re Glass.’ He turned to me with a desperate look on his face. A forty-year career with pension and numerous postings to theSeychelles was starting to flash before his eyes.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Not strictly true.’ I looked down at the floor to see if I could spot my blood stain, but there was nothing there. Glass had been very swift either with the Vim, or a fake expenses claim.
‘Is there something amiss, gentlemen?’ Glass had sensed unpleasantness in the air. Bad enough that we weren’t Saudi Princes. Now it looked like we weren’t buyers at all.
‘You’re the… killer. Man who…’ The blonde was struggling for her words.
‘Nice to see you too,’ I said.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Mike, and he turned to the Carl, who turned to me.
He was a big chap.
‘Well, sorry about that little misunderstanding,’ I said. ‘But now that you’re here, why don’t you go away?’ The Carl started to move towards me. Mike caught his arm, and then looked at me, wincing.
‘Wait a minute. If you’re not… I mean, do you realise what you’ve done?’ I think he really was at a loss for words. ‘Jesus.’
I turned to Glass and the blonde.
‘Just to set your mind at rest, because I know you must be wondering ever so slightly about what’s going on here. I am not who you think I am. Neither am I who they think I am. You,’ I jabbed a finger at Glass, ‘are who they think I am, and you,’ to the blonde, ‘are who I would like to talk to when everyone else has gone. Clear?’
Nobody put their hand up. I moved towards the door with an ushering motion.
‘We want the file,’ said Mike. ‘What file?’ I said.
‘Graduate Studies.’ He was still a lap or two off the pace at this point. I couldn’t blame him.
‘Sorry to disappoint you, but there is no file. Called "Graduate Studies" or anything else.’ Mike’s face fell, and I genuinely felt sorry for him. ‘Listen,’ I said, trying to make it easier, ‘I was on the fifth floor, the windows were double-glazed, it wasUnited States territory, and the only way I could think to get out was talking about a file. I thought it might appeal to you all.’
Another long pause. Glass started clicking his teeth, as if this kind of nuisance was just happening too often these days. The Carl turned to Mike.
‘Do I take him?’ His voice was surprisingly high, almost falsetto.
Mike chewed his lip.
‘That’s not really Mike’s decision, actually,’ I said. They both looked at me. ‘What I mean is, it’s up to me whether or not I’m taken, as you put it.’
The Carl stared at me, weighing me up.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’ll be honest with you. You’re a big chap, and I’m sure you can do more press-ups than I can. And I admire you for it. This world needs people to be able to do press-ups. It’s important.’ He lifted his chin menacingly. Just keep talking, Mister. So I did. ‘But fighting is a different thing. A very different thing, that I happen to be very good at. Doesn’t mean I’m tougher than you, or more virile, or any of that stuff. It’s just something I’m good at.’
I could see that the Carl wasn’t comfortable with this kind of talk. He’d most likely been educated in the school of ‘I’m gonna tear your heart out etc.’ and knew how to respond to that, and only that.
‘What I mean is,’ I said, as kindly as I could, ‘if you want to spare yourself a lot of embarrassment, you’ll just walk away now and have yourselves a decent lunch somewhere.’
Which, after some whispering and staring, they eventually did.
An hour later, I was sitting in an Italian cafe with the blonde, who shall hereinafter be referred to as Ronnie because that’s what her friends called her, and I’d apparently just become one.
Mike had left with his tail between his legs, and the Carl had had a ‘one of these days fella’ look about him. I’d given him a cheery wave in return, but I knew I wouldn’t count my life a disaster if I never saw him again.
Ronnie had sat wide-eyed through my abridged version of events, leaving out the stuff about dead people, and had generally adjusted her opinion of me to the point where she now seemed to think I was a hell of a fellow, which made a nice change. I ordered another round of coffee and sat back to soak up some of her admiration.
She frowned a bit.
‘So you don’t know where Sarah is now?’ she said.
‘Not the faintest idea. She may be all right, just laying low, or she may be in quite a lot of trouble.’
Ronnie sat back and gazed out of the window. I could tell that she was fond of Sarah, because she was taking her worrying seriously. Then suddenly she shrugged and took a sip of coffee.
‘At least you didn’t give them the file,’ she said. ‘That’s one thing.’
This of course is one of the hazards of lying to people. They start getting confused about what’s true and what isn’t. No great surprise, I suppose.
‘No, you don’t understand,’ I explained gently. ‘There is no file. I told them there was one, because I knew they’d have to check it out before they had me arrested or dumped in the river or whatever they do to people like me. You see, people who work in offices believe in files. Files are important to them. If you tell them you have a file, they want to believe it, because they set a lot of store by files.’ Me, the great psychologist. ‘But I’m afraid this one simply doesn’t exist.’
Ronnie straightened up and I could see that she was suddenly excited. Two little red dots had appeared in her cheeks. It was rather a pleasant sight.
‘But it does,’ she said.
I shook my head once to check that my ears were where I’d left them.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Graduate Studies,’ she said. ‘Sarah’s file. I’ve seen it.’
Ten
Yet in oure asshen olde is fyr weye.
CHAUCER
I arranged to meet Ronnie at four-thirty, when the gallery closed for the day and the thundering stampede of customers had been safely locked out for another night to drool on the pavement with their camp-beds and open cheque-books.
I didn’t actively try to enlist her help, but Ronnie was a game young thing who, for some reason, sensed a combination of good deeds and high adventure and couldn’t resist it. I didn’t tell her that so far it had only involved bullet holes and mashed scrota, because I couldn’t ignore the possibility that she would be extremely useful. For one thing I was now without transport, and for another, I find I often think better when there’s someone else around to think for me.