скачать книгу бесплатно
Over the last fortnight, I have started to perform some stretches myself. I have been amazed at how creaky and stiff I am. In general, the last month has been a great boost to my health; I have started to eat healthy food at regular intervals and I am sleeping properly. I have put on some weight and my skin looks less blotchy and grey. The smudges around my eyes are fading. But I am not supple in the way that I was when I was a teenager. I am upset by my physical condition and I am determined to improve it.
Christmas has been and gone. Proctor was in Israel, then. I was here, alone. It was the best Christmas I’ve had since the crash. New Year’s Day has gone, too. For that, he was in Indonesia. Now, we are in January. For everyone else, it is just another year. For me, it is another life. The changes that I have initiated have a momentum of their own and I cannot stop them.
Proctor was still frowning. Stephanie rolled an inch of ash on to a saucer. It had been less than an hour since he walked through the door, suitcase in hand, fatigue on his face. Now, after a shower and a change of clothes, he looked revitalized.
Stephanie said, ‘How was it?’
‘Terrible. If anybody ever takes you on a holiday to Miami, you can assume they hate you.’
‘So what are you going to say in your article?’
‘That it’s a winter weekend paradise.’ They were in the living room. Proctor was on the sofa, Massive Attack was on the sound-system. Noticing for the first time, he said, ‘New haircut?’
Stephanie ran her hand through it and nodded. ‘Do you like it?’
It was shorter than before, not quite touching the shoulders. The dark roots had been dyed.
‘Sure. It looks good, although I thought you were going to let the blonde grow out.’
She shook her head.
‘I couldn’t do it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I always wanted to be blonde. When I was younger, you know …’
‘And now?’
‘It makes it easier to believe I’m someone else.’
‘I thought you were getting past that.’
Stephanie stubbed out her final cigarette. ‘I’m never going to get past that.’
Later, Stephanie came across Proctor in the bathroom. He was lying on the floor, beneath the sink, unfastening the panel at the end of the bath.
‘Is there a leak?’ she asked him.
He grinned. ‘I certainly hope not. Not after this kind of precaution.’
She saw that there were three computer floppy-disks on the floor beside him. ‘What are you doing?’
‘A bit of home security. This is where I keep the important stuff. The floppy-disks and my lap-top. There’s nothing on my desk-top of any significance – I back up information down a phone-line and then erase it – and I don’t keep any good material on paper. The juicy bits are here.’
‘Isn’t that rather primitive?’
‘Primitive is sometimes best.’
‘Why don’t you just get an alarm or something?’
‘In a place like this? Are you kidding? That’d be an invitation to a burglar.’
He put the three disks in an airtight plastic pouch already containing four. Then he re-sealed the pouch and replaced it, taping it to the underside of the bath. The lap-top, which was in a protective cover, was inserted between two filthy floorboards. Finally, he re-secured the panel with a screwdriver.
It was a soulless place, catering for the rush-hour trade in Victoria. There were fruit-machines along one wall, Sky Sport on a vast TV suspended over the bar and a sound system that played at a deafening volume. Proctor bought himself half a pint of Guinness and ordered a Coke for Stephanie. They sat at a small circular table with a good view of the bar.
Proctor wriggled out of a leather coat which he folded and placed on the bench beside Stephanie. He wore a denim shirt. The ironing creases were still sharp on the sleeves. Stephanie wore what she wore almost every day; faded jeans and a sweatshirt over a varying number of short- and long-sleeved T-shirts. Her blonde hair was scraped back and gathered by a clasp, which was a new look for her. Before, her face had been too gaunt to justify it. She wore no make-up, which was also a departure for her and one with which she felt increasingly comfortable.
Proctor said, ‘You see the guy on the stool, the one with the half-moon glasses and the charcoal jacket?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s who he’s coming to see. I don’t think Bradfield usually comes here but the man on the stool likes it because it’s crowded and noisy, good for anonymity.’
‘Who is Bradfield?’
Proctor took a sip from his glass and then wiped the thin line of cream from his upper lip with the back of his hand. ‘I told you. He’s a document-forger.’
‘I know. But why’s he important?’
‘It’s possible he forged a passport for our man. There’s this guy in Whitechapel – Ismail Qadiq – he’s an Egyptian T-shirt importer. His brothers run the manufacturing end of the business in Cairo and Qadiq brings the product over here and sells wholesale. But that’s not the only thing he’s importing. He brings in stolen documents for reprocessing, or brand-new documents, ready for use.’
‘Brand-new?’
Proctor nodded. ‘Genuine passports or driving licences from Syria, Iran, Iraq, Egypt, Algeria. Anywhere. They get stolen over there – or bought on the sly – and then they’re distributed all over Europe. There are dozens of ways into this country. Qadiq is just one. The point is, he may have actually seen our man, but he’s not sure. At least, that’s what he says but then he’s a compulsive liar. An intermediary brought a stranger to his Whitechapel warehouse – the place where he stores all his merchandise – and asked Qadiq to help process some documents as quickly as possible, including one Israeli passport and another in the name of Mustafa Sela. Money was no object. Qadiq says he never saw the stranger fully, that he was lurking in the background, but he told me that he organized it for the two men to meet Cyril Bradfield.’
‘So why do we need the man on the stool?’
‘Because Cyril Bradfield’s number isn’t in the phone-book. Because no one seems to be sure what he looks like or where he lives. Because Cyril Bradfield’s name probably isn’t even Cyril Bradfield.’
Stephanie sipped some Coke. ‘And he’s some kind of sympathizer, is he?’
‘Bradfield? No. He’s non-political. He’s not even in it for the money. Apparently, he’s in it for the love of it. For him, it’s art. And a question of quality. So naturally, he draws attention from the worst kind of people.’
‘How does the man at the bar fit into this?’
‘He’s a go-between for some low-life in Birmingham who reprocesses passports for the criminal fraternity and who prefers to have the artwork done down here. The go-between ensures Bradfield and his client never have to meet, which is better for all concerned.’
‘How did you discover this?’
Proctor smiled. ‘Slowly.’ He drained his half-pint glass and rose to his feet. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
Stephanie thought about Barry Green and his sideline in altering the PIN codes on stolen credit cards. It felt as though she had borrowed the memory from someone else.
‘Straying a little, ain’t you?’
She looked up. The man before her had emerged from the sea of boozing suits, from the waves of accountants, local government officials and cut-price travel-agents. She checked Bradfield’s contact; he was still perched on his bar-stool, nursing a pale gold pint and a slim cigar.
She said, ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’
‘You’re straying a little.’
He wore a suit as badly-fitting as any other she could see; tight trousers eating into a medicine-ball gut, a jacket with spare room at the shoulders, sleeves that ended inches short of the wrist. His face was pink and his neck was coated in shaving rash.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.’
‘Nah. At first, I thought I might’ve – you look different with your kit on – but not now. I couldn’t place your face and then it clicked. You work up west, not down here. Brewer Street, top floor, near the Raymond Revuebar. Right?’
Stephanie was reintroduced to one of her least favourite sensations as her stomach turned to lead and seemed to seep through her bowels, through the floorboards and deep into the earth below. Mentally, she reached for the mask; the hardness in the eyes, the firmness of the mouth, the determination to betray no sign of weakness. But there was nothing there and it showed.
‘It’s Lisa, ain’t it?’ The man was leering, enjoying her shock. ‘Remember me now, do you?’
Truly, she didn’t. He could have been one in a thousand. He might have been every one in a thousand. The pub seemed to shrink, the crowd grew taller, the lights dimmed, until they were the only two people in the room.
‘You’ve put some meat on. Don’t look bad on you, neither. You was well thin the last time I had you. But now you got more to sink into, know what I mean?’
There was no stinging comeback, there was no response at all.
He lowered his voice. ‘You on the meter?’
‘What?’
‘You working or what?’
‘You’ve made a mistake –’
His bravado was in his piggy eyes, which dropped to her thighs, as much as it was in his voice. ‘I got eighty quid in my pocket says you’ve got something for me down there.’
‘I told you –’
‘And I’ll go to a ton for a bit of A-level.’
Suddenly, Proctor was back, standing beside the man, looking at Stephanie, reading her alarm and saying, ‘Are you okay? What’s going on?’
Once again, the words stalled in her throat.
Bristling with aggression, the stranger turned to Proctor. ‘Who are you?’
Proctor stared him down in silence. Stephanie watched the arrogance subside and the confusion surface. The man turned to her and said, unpleasantly, ‘Should’ve told me you was busy.’
‘I don’t have to tell you anything.’
Then he turned to Proctor, in a futile attempt to salvage some gutterborn self-respect. ‘I’m telling you, she’ll cheat you, that one. Bleed your wallet dry and won’t give hardly nothing back. So do yourself a favour and make sure she gives you full value, know what I mean?’
Before Proctor could protest, he was gone, back into the sea of suits. Proctor looked at Stephanie, grabbed his leather coat from the bench and took her hand. ‘Come on, we’re getting out of here.’
‘What about Bradfield?’
‘He can wait.’
The wind was brisk along Victoria Street. They stood on the pavement, waiting for a taxi. Stephanie was trembling, a fact that was more disconcerting to her than the cause of it.
Proctor said, ‘Are you okay now?’
‘I guess I’m cold.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘I’m shaking.’
He took hold of one of them. It was icy. She lifted her gaze to meet his. He traced absent-minded lines across her palm. Then his fingers threaded themselves through hers.
She said, ‘We shouldn’t throw this chance away.’
He moved closer. ‘No.’
‘I’m talking about Bradfield.’
His cloudy vision cleared. ‘What do you mean?’
Stephanie smiled at his mild embarrassment. ‘I can get home all right. You should stay. If there’s a chance you’ll find him, you’d be crazy not to take it.’
Proctor knew she was right. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine. He was just some wanker trying it on. It’s happened a million times. I don’t know why it got to me this time. But it’s over now.’
They were still holding hands.
7 (#ulink_587827bb-88b0-5aa5-9e53-8ffc24f6f03a)
‘What are you doing?’
‘What does it look like? I’m cooking. Or at least, I’m going to.’
Proctor appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘What is it?’
‘Stir-fried vegetables with noodles.’
‘You’ve been waiting all this time? It’s midnight.’
Stephanie sliced the leeks that were on the chopping board. Then she placed a pan of water on to the blue circle of flame.
‘How did it go?’ she asked.
‘Bradfield showed up a couple of hours after you left. He was only there for about ten minutes. I followed him and he went to a place called Gallagher’s in Longmoore Street, not far from where we were, maybe a ten-minute walk. He stayed there until closing time and then went home. It turns out the pub’s his local; his house is right down the same street.’
‘What happens now?’
‘I’ll go and see him.’
‘And what will you say?’
