There was something more, though, something that bothered Miles much more. For he was in no doubt now that the man who had walked away from him had walked with Billy Monmouth’s gait and was wearing Billy Monmouth’s clothes.
Twelve
Jim Stevens was sucking mud. It was not a pleasant sensation. He should have taken the morning off, should have visited a dentist.
He was drinking coffee, trying to trickle the gray liquid into the good side of his mouth, the side where it didn’t hurt. Coffee dribbled onto his tie and his shirt, while the other customers in the café looked at him blankly.
Where was the man he was supposed to meet? He was late, that’s where he was. That was London for you. Time went to pieces here; the more you watched the clock, the later you were. Stevens had been in London only thirteen months. It really pissed him off. His new editor did not allow him much freedom, certainly not as much as old Jameson up in Edinburgh had. He had become a cog. They didn’t want him to use his initiative.
Take the murder of that embassy man, the Israeli. Everyone shrugged their shoulders. Just a robbery gone wrong. But then why was everyone being so careful to skirt around it? That was what interested Stevens; it was as if an unspoken D-Notice had been slapped on it. He wasn’t sure what he could smell, but he could smell something. Perhaps it was the poison in his mouth, but then again...
There were the phone calls, too, anonymous but regular. Keep at it, there’s a story there, and while you’re at it why not take a look at Harold Sizewell MP? A little birdie tells me he’s hot. Stevens called the voice on the telephone his ‘Deep Throat.’ He kept its existence secret from everyone around him. Maybe they all had something to hide.
The enemy tooth bunched up its fist and slammed it hard into the quivering root. Stevens threw half a cup of cold coffee over his trousers and clutched his jawbone, cursing.
‘Mr. Stevens?’
‘Yes, damn it.’
‘I telephoned you.’
‘Great, sit down. Do you have any aspirin?’
‘No.’
‘Fine.’
He looked at the man, younger than his voice, deferential in manner. A civil servant smell about him, but very junior. Still, they knew stories, too, didn’t they? They were crawling out of the woodwork these days with their tuppence worth of spite.
‘So what can I do for you, Mr....?’
‘Sinclair, Tony Sinclair. That’s my real name, I swear, but please call me Tim Hickey from now on.’
‘That’s fine by me, Tim. Well, what is it I can do?’
‘It’s more a case of what I think I can do for you.’
It was a cliché perhaps, but there was none sweeter to Stevens’s ear. They always liked to think of themselves as doing you a favor. It saved them feeling guilty about spilling the beans. God, Jim, there goes another cliché. All they were doing in fact, of course, was seeking revenge, sometimes out of spite, sometimes justifiably. Not that motive was any of his concern. Maybe it would be a tale of some philandering cabinet minister, a private secretary with pedophilic leanings, an administrator with occult powers and a coven in the Cotswolds. Surrogate revenge, thought Stevens, that’s what I am.
‘Go on,’ he said, stabbing at his cheek with a finger, goading the pain to life.
‘Well,’ said the lean young man, ‘you see, I’m a spy.’
Walking down a nervous Whitehall, Stevens recalled that when he had first arrived in London, a young graduate named Compton-Burnett had been given the job of acquainting him with the city. Since he had not known any decent pubs, he had been of little use to Stevens, but he still remembered their first meeting in the editor’s office, the young man laughing behind his executive spectacles.
‘No relation, I’m afraid,’ Compton-Burnett had said, as though Stevens were supposed to get some joke. He had looked toward the editor, who had looked away, baffled. Compton- Burnett had then walked him down Whitehall, pointing out the various government buildings.
‘What’s that one, then?’ Stevens had asked.
‘Ah, that’s the MoD.’
‘And what about that one?’
‘Ah, I think that’s the MoD, too.’
‘And the ugly one?’
‘Milk and fish.’
‘Milk and fish?’
‘Agriculture and fisheries,’ Compton-Burnett explained, laughing again, pushing his glasses back up the slippery slope of his nose.
‘And that one?’
‘Not sure. MoD possibly.’ But on closer inspection, the tiny building, towered over by its colleagues like a tiny dictator by his bodyguards, had turned out to be the Scottish Office. Nowadays, Stevens knew the identities of most of these buildings, and none of them interested him except the tiny little Scottish Office. He empathized with it, seeing something of his own situation mirrored there, and tried to look the other way whenever he passed it.
At the entrance to Downing Street, several thuggish-looking policemen had replaced the usual crew of friendly ‘bobbies.’ It was a bad time. Bombing campaigns were bad news for everyone, but then bad news was just what the press thrived on.
His tooth reminded him again that there were plenty of dental surgeries in the area. And he had wasted the whole morning. Nervous little Sinclair aka Hickey had wanted only to bite and scratch, having been kicked out of his little job, ready with his tiny fists to beat against the door of that which had been denied him. But Stevens had shut his eyes and his ears, had told Sinclair that there was another investigative journalist in London who would listen to him with a clearer notion of what he was talking about.
This had not pleased the young man. He had a story to tell. (Stevens wondered now whether he had said ‘tell’ or ‘sell.’) It was a tale of injustice, of underhanded dealing. It was a great big zero in Stevens’s book, a zero with not the faintest hope of any corroboration. Take it to Australia, pal. Write it up as a novel, sell a million.
‘Take me seriously, you bastard!’ And with that Tim Hickey aka Tony Sinclair had risen to his feet and walked out of the café. Which was just what Jim Stevens had wanted him to do.
He had problems of his own after all, didn’t he? And a column to write through the pain.
He met Janine in the Tilting Room. Happy Hour. His tooth no longer hurt. He had swallowed his fear, marched into the surgery, and, hissing that this was a national emergency, had been led into the little torture room.
And so, tooth numb, mouth half frozen, he found himself trying to drink whiskey and spilling it down his trousers. Nothing had changed. Only his pocket was lighter.
‘Hi,’ said Janine, squeezing in beside him.
‘You’re late.’
She ignored this.
‘What have you done to your face?’ she asked.
‘Don’t ask.’
She was a bright young girl with bright looks and a bright figure. Stevens was aware that they made an unlikely pair.
‘What have you got for me?’
She was already searching in her briefcase, drawing forth a red file. She opened it and began to read to herself, her usual ploy before telling him her findings. She said it was an exercise for her short-term memory. To Stevens, it was a long-term pain in the arse.
She was a bright girl. She wanted to work in the media. The media hadn’t existed in Stevens’s youth. But she was learning the hard way, because her family, though decent and hardworking, were nobodies, and so there was no ready-made niche for her in her chosen career. A friend had pleaded with Stevens to take her on as a lackey, and Stevens had agreed.