Birdkill (24 page)

Warren shook his head. ‘You’re going too far. This is getting freakish now. We have no proof that he’s gone down that road at all.’

‘He won’t be the first. And it wasn’t just Hitler and his Nazis who were attracted to the whole idea. There were research programmes into making better people before them and there have been after them, as well. Take Darwinism and just apply a nice, healthy dose of psychopathic tendency and you’re there. Neuter the mentally incompetent, abort abnormal babies, winnow out the weak and you can build a better race of people. Stimulate their minds and you can make the most of their superior capabilities.’

Warren laughed. ‘Okay, you can stop now. You’re scaring me and I don’t scare easily.’

They pulled up into the driveway in front of Warren’s house. There was a car already parked on the gravel and the living room and kitchen lights were on in the house.

‘That’s interesting.’ Warren killed the headlights and engine and fished in the glove box, lifting out his pistol in its holster. He strapped the gun on under his jacket. ‘Could you stay behind me, three or four paces?’

‘Sure. Do you recognise the car?’

‘No. And the alarm’s been disabled. I can’t say I like the look of this at all.’

‘So call the cops.’

He glanced at her in sheer disbelief. ‘No.’

His feet crunched on the gravel. Mariam followed a few paces behind him. The front door was ajar. Warren pushed it open and stepped over the threshold, his pistol held out ahead of him. He scanned the hallway and paced into the living room.

‘Good evening.’ A very fat man sat on the armchair by the fireplace, the gas fire turned on. He gestured at the tumbler of scotch at his side. ‘I helped myself.’

Warren lowered his hands. ‘What the fuck do you want?’

‘A chat. Close the door, dear boy. You’re letting in the cold.’

Warren raised his chin at her. Mariam turned and shut the front door. She followed him into the living room. The fat man was wearing a grey suit. There were dark patches under the arms of the jacket. He smiled at her and she felt like she was being undressed.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your charming young friend, Clive?’

‘Mariam, this is Jolyon Raynesford. He is a cherished member of our intelligence community.’

‘Nice to meet you, Mariam. That’s an Arab name, isn’t it?’

‘My parents are Lebanese.’

‘Ah, really. Lebanese. How very nice. Do you think you could pop along and play somewhere while I have a word with your uncle Clive?’

‘She stays.’

Raynesford’s heavy brow lifted. He took a drink of whisky, his jowls wobbling. He wore a signet ring with an amethyst cabochon on his pinkie, which he lifted when he drank. ‘Very well. You are a journalist, are you not my dear?’

‘Yes.’

‘Write one word of what is said in this room tonight and I will ensure you never write another word again.’ He beamed at her. ‘Do I make myself abundantly clear?’

With a glance at Warren, who looked like he had just found a scorpion in his ice cream, she nodded.

‘Clive, I have come as a friend. I understand your infatuation with young Merriam here, but you have allowed it to take you into territory you most definitely do not want to be occupying. We have interests at stake and they are strategic. You are to stop stirring immediately or there will be Unfortunate Consequences.’

Warren walked over to the decanter and poured two drinks. Raynesford’s deep-set black eyes followed him across the room. Warren handed a tumbler to Mariam and sat down. Raynesford rested his hands on the great mound of his gut, the genial expression on the moony face never quite managing to take away the snake-like impression left by the glittering orbs.

‘You know how I am about taking orders. It’s why I found the military life didn’t suit.’

‘You are
such
an alpha male. It was a shame about Matthew Duprez, was it not?’

‘Who?’

Mariam put her tumbler down on the glass side table. ‘What about Matt?’

‘Killed, dear. Dead. Quite, quite dead. A terrible traffic accident. These Americans drive so very atrociously.’

Warren’s face was grim. ‘I see. I think you can be assured we have received the message, Jolyon.’

‘I am very gratified to hear it. We would always rather avoid a mess. It’s so, well, unsubtle.’

‘Now if you would kindly get the fuck out of my house?’

Raynesford smirked and grappled at the arms of the chair, hoisting his great bulk out of the cushions. ‘Thank you for your kind hospitality, Clive. I must say, you might like to invest some of your considerable resources on purchasing some decent whisky. I find these Juras all very well as far as they go, but they lack depth and complexity. This one was quite excellent. I’ll let myself out. Goodbye my dear.’

Warren’s face as he watched Raynesford’s retreating bulk told Mariam for two pins he’d have graced it with a few holes. The front door closed and, a few seconds later, car tyres ground on the gravel outside and the sweep of the beams flashed across the window.

Warren collapsed back into his armchair and took a whack of his whisky. ‘Brilliant, that’s all we need. Your friend Hamilton has powerful protection.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Raynesford sits on the Joint Intelligence Committee. He’s a spook. And his choosing to deliver his message personally is more worrying than the bloody message. Now you know who killed Buddy Kovak.’

‘And I know who killed Matt Duprez, too.’

‘Not personally, but friends of his for sure, yes. What was Duprez doing in America?’

‘Chasing the Tom Parker angle.’

‘He was after
Tom Parker
?’ Warren’s perplexity was absolute. ‘You guys are really that naïve?’

‘We’re journalists. We go after the story.’

‘No you don’t. You stay home and hide under the table. I think it’s time to call a stop and walk away from this. You’ll not change anything for the better and you’re likely to get hurt or killed if you go on. He’s serious, he’s hard-core. And he’s untouchable.’

‘Nobody’s untouchable.’

‘They are if you haven’t got hands. Seriously, Mariam. Drop it.’

‘I can’t. Seriously, I can’t.’

Warren pushed himself to his feet and picked up his glass. He held out his hand to Mariam. ‘Time to turn in. You can make a decision in the morning.’ His hand was warm. He pulled her up from the chair.

She looked into his eyes and the last thing she thought before their lips met was ‘Oh, shit.’

FOURTEEN

An Unfortunate Death

Mariam woke worrying about Robyn. She was in a strange room, disorientation and a guilty thrill of memory of the night before. She threw out a hand to encounter the warm body next to her. Clive Warren. She stared at the ceiling. How the hell had that happened? He turned over, opened his eyes and smiled.

‘Hello.’

It had been natural between them and he was gentle, generous and strong. ‘You said no funny business. Liar.’

‘I blame you entirely. You should have known I have a thing about Lebanese girls with frizzy hair.’

‘It’s not frizzy, meanie, just naturally curly.’ She punched him. Her waking thought nagged at her. ‘Clive. About Robyn. I haven’t been thinking straight. Hamilton’s keeping her because she’s the key to the whole Odin mess. If she remembers what happened, there are going to be investigations and no fat spy will keep the lid on something that big. So Hamilton’s keeping her where he can see her. I have the feeling she’s in danger down there, if not from Hamilton, then from these super-kids he’s breeding. She’s often talked about Martin Oakley’s aggression towards her. We need to get her away from there, whatever else happens.’

He reached over and played with her hair. ‘Did you think about whether you’re going to pursue the Odin story?’

His hand started wandering and she let out a murmur. He moved closer and she threw her head back as he kissed her neck.

‘No. I got distracted.’

It was the finest day of spring so far, warm and balmy. Robyn had the windows open and church bells sounded as she drove through the village. She’d been racing through the winding country roads for half an hour, pushing the TT to its limits and experiencing the thrill of driving, taking a great loop through the woodland and countryside to head back to the Institute. It was a real chocolate box village, a riot of hanging baskets, thatched roofs and mullioned windows. She passed a charming little sandstone pub and, on a whim, slowed and turned into the car park.

She ordered a coffee at the bar and took it outside to the patio where she sat contentedly at one of the bistro tables set on the flagged area surrounded by planters. Old teapots had been planted and strung from the pergola at different heights. Patting her pockets, she located her cigarettes and rolled off the rubber band. She lit it and took the smoke in luxuriantly, the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland coming to her mind. There was no ashtray on the table so she flicked the ash into the plant pot behind her.

The caterpillar thought reminded her of smoking
argileh
down by the river in Zahlé and Tenniel’s illustration in the big untrimmed book she had cherished as a child, with its glossy plates pasted down onto untrimmed pages, the paper thick and imbued with the smell of
book
. It had been her grandfather’s, passed down through the family, even inscribed with his name in flowing, faded black ink.

She recalled the play room in the big Victorian house in Croxley where she had lain reading, turning the coveted pages gingerly in case she should somehow alter the state of the precious book. And then everything had changed and they had moved away to Singapore, her father’s circumstances altered by the mystery she had only later learned was bankruptcy.

She’d kept the book with her all her life. And lost it in Lebanon. To the Void.

She leaned back and pushed the cigarette butt into the plant pot. She cleaned her nail with the serviette and finished her coffee. She should move on, she told herself, but she was enjoying the sun, basking like a lizard on a rock. She closed her eyes, disliking the after-smell of her cigarette on her hands. When she got home she’d put two elastic bands on the packet. But for now, the gentle sun smoothed the wrinkle from her forehead.

Someone had left a tap on, their overflow was spattering. It was closer than that. She felt wet warmth on her leg and looked down even as her mind shrieked at her not to, to look away, to do anything but stare at the stream of blood coursing down her thigh and pooling under her stained sneaker. Her skirt was drenched, a cochineal bloom spreading. She leaped to her feet, upending the table. Her scream tore at her throat, the cup shattered. She slipped on the slick paving and fell, her hands splashing in her own blood.

She blacked out, the Void claiming her as its own. She floated in the silence, cosseted by the darkness and borne up by an invisible force, stable and paralysed. She wanted to stay there, to have this moment last for eternity and be safe from the stress of having to bother with the constant striving life demanded. Here she would float, at one with the universe. She felt something rushing towards her, a fearful riot of light and colour, painful sound and dreadful anguish.

She woke, crying out against the overwhelming blast of sensation. Anxious faces surrounded her. A voice called, ‘Give her some space.’

The faces withdrew, blue sky beyond them. She blinked in the access of sunlight. There was a murmur as she opened her eyes and stared around at the little crowd. She fought to regain control of her breathing, to calm herself. The gushing had stopped, she held her hands up. No blood.

She pushed herself to sit, staring around at the ground, her sneakers, legs and skirt. They were all perfectly ordinary. Panic gripped her and she grasped wildly at herself and checked her hand. Nothing.

‘What’s she doing?’

‘Just give her room. She’s had some sort of fit.’

‘Did you call the ambulance?’

‘Ringing now.’

She cried out. ‘No!’ She clutched her head in her hands and fought for control. ‘No, I’m fine, thank you. I’m fine.’

I’m fine, she repeated to herself.

A glass of water was pressed into her hand and she gulped at it, handing the glass back. ‘Thank you.’

‘Robyn? Is that you?’ She knew the voice and died a little inside. Not like this, not sprawling all over the ground with a crowd around me. Please God, not this. Simon Archer. ‘Are you okay? Excuse me, she’s my colleague, excuse me.’

She just wanted to go back to the Void. Anything but this. She lifted her head from her hands and her view was filled with his concerned features. She wanted to punch him so much, her shoulder actually tensed. She held her hand out to him instead.

‘She had some sort of seizure,’ A husky woman’s voice. ‘Just lay there twitching and breathing funny.’

Archer pulled her up and she smoothed down her skirt, tidied her hair. ‘Thanks. What are you doing here?’

‘I came out with some of the kids. They like to buy sweets from the shop here. It’s a sort of Sunday outing thing.’

‘I suppose Martin’s with them.’

‘Martin Oakley? Yes. Why do you say that?’

‘No reason, really.’

Archer turned to the onlookers. ‘I think she’ll be fine now. Thanks for your concern, though.’

He guided her away. ‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. Some sort of petit mal. The sun? I’m not sure. I’m fine now.’

‘Has this ever happened before?

‘No. But it’s fine now. I’ll just hop into the car and go back home.’

‘What if it happens again?’

‘It won’t. It’s fine. Thank you, Simon.’

‘Give me a ring when you’re back safe, will you?’

‘Sure. Thanks.’

She climbed into the TT and backed it up, taking it easy out of the car park and onto the main road through the village. Standing outside the sweetshop, framed by the yellow-painted mullioned window, Martin Oakley stared at her driving past.

Mariam got to the office early. The place had been cleaned up, the cluster of desks around where the server had been were back in place, although the machine itself was still missing. The shelving was back up, stacked randomly with the documents and books which had been strewn on the floor by the burglars.