Through Every Human Heart (14 page)

‘Oh, excuse me.' It was the receptionist. She'd left her desk to come to him. ‘Were you with the blond lady in the linen suit? In the conservatory?'

‘That's right. Is there a problem?'

‘Could you give her this, please?'

He read the note. The writing was large and like a child's.

‘From Ronnie. Asks are you ok? Should she pass your message on to the police? Call back. Paul going crazy, use his direct line.'

He smiled, ‘Do we owe you for the call?'

‘Oh no, sir,' she said, a frown creasing her forehead. ‘You paid for it already. I added it to the bill.'

‘Of course you did.' He'd missed it. Careless, Charlie boy, careless. ‘Thank you so much, Frances,' he said, leaning forward to read the name on her small rectangular gold badge. ‘You've been a real help.'

‘Oh no, there's no need,' she said, as he then drew out his wallet.

‘I've worked in a few hotels in my time, Frances,' he said. ‘I was never paid what I was worth, and I'm sure you're not either.' He closed his hand around her little plump one and the money.

Dina drove through Glencoe village in a state of misery. Frank's car was an automatic, which took a bit of getting used to. Frank's legs were obviously a lot longer than hers, but she'd found the right button to move the seat forward so that her feet touched the pedals. Why couldn't all cars have the same buttons? She didn't know how to get more air without making the whole inside cold. Nor did she dare suggest stopping at a phone box, although she knew the time to make the call had come and gone.
I'm not afraid of him,
she told herself.
I just don't care anymore. I don't care if Lazslo's alive or dead, I don't care about Irene, and I completely do not care how he feels or what he does. He's mad, that's all.
Eventually they would roll to a stop, and then what?
I don't care.

When the road divided and Feliks said nothing, she took the Ballachulish road, crossing over the metal bridge, which was now pale blue, not green as she remembered it. Beneath them, Loch Leven stretched out to the right, Loch Linnhe to the left towards the sea.

She didn't look at them, she knew they were there, because they always had been: all she saw was the road ahead. The world had narrowed rather like a fatty artery, clogged by too much talk and people being vulnerable and hurt and shot, and she had, she decided, simply stopped caring about any of it.

They passed a sign giving the miles to Fort William.

‘Fort William,' he said. ‘What is that? Army? Navy?'

‘It's just a town. A big town. We're running out of petrol.'

He didn't reply.

She slowed as they reached the outskirts. Edwardian mansions behind tall trees, wrought iron railings above century-old walls. Vacancies / No Vacancies, the signs said, and here was the one where they'd stopped often for afternoon tea. Massive chocolate eclairs, she remembered. Or had they seemed huge because she was small? On the new road now, by-passing the town centre.
Nico's Fish and Chips
was still in existence – she saw the sign on the back end of the building. But she didn't care about food.

And what are you going to do when he tells you to stop the car? Run? Get shot like Frank?

How loud the gulls were, screaming at one another as they swooped overhead. The Hospital came and went, and the new Fitness Centre, exactly and ironically opposite the graveyard.

‘Pull in there,' he said suddenly.

It was a filling station. She managed to slow in time. And now, when another chance to fight or flee presented itself, she didn't scream or run. Instead, she sat where she was while he filled the tank, then did as she was bid, following him into the shop without a murmur. There was a hot drinks machine and a chill cabinet, rows of vegetables, newspapers with the usual shock horror headlines, magazines with celebrities gaining weight and losing weight and doing the stupid things they were always doing. He asked what she would like, and stood beside her at the till to pay. She didn't care whether she ate or not. She did nothing, didn't even look the cashier in the face, all the while thinking how very strange this was, that she was standing compliantly beside a madman when she ought to have been screaming her head off. Somebody's syndrome. She'd heard of it.

He had her drive on until they were clear of the town. Then he told her to stop, giving her the carton of tomato soup and one of the packs of sandwiches. Her body betrayed her completely, insisting that she did care. It insisted that the warmth of tomato soup was wonderful, that garage tuna sandwiches tasted like something out of Heaven's best delicatessen. Beside her, the madman was eating a banana, taking tiny bites of it, chewing it in slow motion almost, looking out into space as if she wasn't there.

Come back, Frank,
she begged.
Don't be dying like Lazslo
. If only Frank would appear, as he had in the beginning, as he had in the traffic queue. Frank the provider of milk chocolate who was bleeding somewhere back down the road. She told herself that Frank was fine. Frank was a policeman. He would be all right. He would boldly stop the next passing car. Frank had found them before and would find them again. He might even find Irene.

‘What happens now? I mean, I'm happy for you to shoot anyone you feel like shooting, happy to drive all over the Highlands, but I'd like to feel there was a purpose to it, you know? Can't help it, it's just the way I am.'

The words sounded so clear in her head she almost believed she'd spoken them aloud.

I can't stand it. I cannot stand this silent banana-chewing madman any longer. I may quite probably go mad myself. Any time now. Which will be a relief. Because then I won't have to try to make sense of anything at all.

They passed through Spean Bridge and Letterfinlay, with the long dark grey stretch of Loch Lochy on their left. Since he didn't tell her to stop or change direction, she simply drove on. They were getting closer and closer to her old home and every landmark let loose a memory. They passed the line of electricity pylons with their feet dug into the hillside and arms akimbo.
Do you see that sparrow on the wire? If he puts one foot on the ground he'll be electrocuted
. Her father's old joke.

They crossed the Caledonian Canal on the swing bridge at Laggan, then passed the sign to Mandally. ‘
On the road to Mandalay, where the flying fishes play'.
They'd sung the ancient song together, her child soprano and his light tenor harmonising. For years she'd thought the old song really was about Mandally, and that there were flying fish there.

‘Too much hard work,' everyone said. Too much diligence, too much caring for his patients. No one said anything about his personal unhappiness. How could you blame them? He'd kept it well hidden. Not one mean word about her mother.

This wasn't good for her. She forced her mind back to the present as they passed into the gloom of Glenshiel. School project, she told herself, Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Spanish being defeated by the weather.
‘Good content, Donaldina. Improve your handwriting!!'
Nothing grew here but conifers, and many, she saw, had been recently felled, leaving a desolation of splinters and half trunks, as if the hillside had been bombed. At Shiel Bridge she automatically took the familiar road to the right. Over the loch on the causeway, then through Inverinate. And onwards wound the road, Eilean Donan on the left as ever, grey and grim in the failing light, with its elbows in the water. Then Kyle. Ramshackle, functional, unplanned, and ugly. She had always hated Kyle.

Onto the island they went, through Breakish, Skulamus, Harrapool. The golf club house was still the same, still looked exactly like a toilet block.

Feliks was hardly aware of the changing scenes. His thoughts drifted, debris swirling slowly in a mill pool. The day's events re-played yet seemed unreal. Why was he still here in this alien country?

If I'd been one of those secret agents in the war, with the poison capsule fixed in their mouths, I'd have been the one with the placebo. One bite and you live on.

Why did he have to believe that Boris would keep his word? Millions of people all over the planet didn't keep their promises and slept well enough. He'd been brought up to believe in keeping his word, that was the tragedy of it. He was trapped because of how his mother had brought him up. She'd been frequently in tears, yet tenaciously religious, her faithful soul proofed somehow against his father's rants and the realities of life. He'd not been able to bear it when the girl had gone into her jittery question mode, the way she'd been at the very beginning. After a minute or two he'd guessed from the small sounds beside him that she was crying.

He became aware that they were crossing a wide expanse of water. The voice in his head began again:

Talk to her
.
Tell her why you shot him
.
Explain.

She wouldn't believe it. She probably thought Frank was a big friendly bear. She'd never seen a real bear, not like the ones at home. Dangerous, flea-bitten, defecating on paths, rummaging through rubbish heaps in the darkness . . .

Tell her,
the voice insisted.

‘I would like to tell you why I shot him back there.'

There, that was a beginning. Perhaps not the best one possible, judging by her face.

‘First, I don't trust anyone who carries a gun. All right, I know, I used it. But I shot to wound him, only to slow him down. I am a very good shot. My father taught me when I was a boy. I'm also competent with sticks and stones, and the Australian boomerang.'

Not the slightest glimmer of a smile. It was true about the boomerang. He'd been given one for Christmas when he was nine. Green and black stripes and dots on pale wood. He'd brought down pigeons for the pot. Great fun until another child managed to break a window with it.

‘Also, he lied to us in the beginning about being a news reporter. That was not necessary. I am not certain an ordinary person can listen to the police communication, so I ask myself, how did he find us? In fact he keeps finding us. And if he is working for your government, which is his story now, why is he telling a mixture of lies and truth?'

‘You tell me,' she said.

He hated the indifference in her voice.

‘I cannot reason it all out. He makes it sound so clear. Perhaps that is why I don't trust him. He told the truth about the oil. There are massive reserves in my country waiting to be exploited. It is also true that my father wants Miss Arbanisi to come home because that will help him. Somehow she is important to him. Then I ask myself why exactly does he want her? I don't know. No one can know what his plans are. Certainly, this is all about oil. Clearly he will need foreign help to get the oil out, but he needs also to stay secure, you know? To please all who might oppose him. Then I ask, can Frank have learned about the oil from my father? Perhaps. So why not admit it? Perhaps he is working for some other party.'

‘Why does that matter?'

‘Because I think they should not know yet either. I myself am not supposed to know. Therefore, the information has been obtained covertly. Did you hear me say the name Janek?'

She nodded.

‘Janek is a thoroughly bad man who works for my father. Who is of course also bad, but not in quite the same way. No one who knows anything about my country could fail to know his name. So that was another needless lie. But worst of all, Frank also mentioned Dimitar, who is my best friend in the entire world, who has a head shining like the Buddha, and cannot speak in any way whatsoever since before I was born. So that is why I shot Frank. Whoever he is, he does not mean good to us or to Miss Arbanisi.'

He wasn't sure if he was making complete sense, but it was as far as his mind would take him. It had been a long time since he'd had to think in a lengthy or logical way. A scan of his brain would, he imagined, have shown great blank spaces where connections had once been.

‘No, you mustn't cry,' he said, seeing her eyes begin to fill. ‘I won't let him hurt you. You do believe me?'

Why should she? Lazslo lay dying in a ditch, death and eternity were all around them and he'd demonstrated his nobility of soul by kissing her and shooting a stranger.

‘What happened to Lazslo?'

‘I don't know.'

‘How did Frank know his name? His other name.'

‘I told him.'

After a little she said, ‘We're never going to find Irene, are we?'

He guessed what she was really asking, but he had no answer for that either.

Frank was taking stock. He'd always been fond of the little Walther. It was light and eminently concealable, but of course he'd never been shot with it before. Cautiously, he lowered his trousers and examined his thigh. Two neat quarter-inch holes, front and back. It hurt like hell, but the bullet had gone straight through the muscle and exited cleanly. It felt not unlike the shoulder wound five years back, although that had been sheer bad luck, a case of mistaken identity. Forget that, he told himself. Past memories could do more damage than bullets. The roads back there were barricaded.

Quickly he pulled off his sweater and t-shirt, wrapped the shirt tightly around the wounds, put the sweater back on. He'd been shot with his own gun, and he was thoroughly cold and wet, especially around the bum area, on a moor, with only one house in sight. No car, no phone, no wallet. Not as bad as it might be then. ‘I am not being paid enough for this,' he told himself, not for the first time. No recriminations though. Time for that later. He'd never been the type to sit around getting morose.

So what happens now?

What happens is, you get out of this sodden field, and you limp along this road, trying not to weep or fall over, until you get somewhere. Or until someone stops to help you. Possibly even a police car
.
Which would be highly embarrassing.

There was still a job to be done. First things first. Brenda said childbirth was worse than being shot, but he doubted it. Sometimes he wished he hadn't studied so hard at University. If he hadn't got a bloody first he'd not have been recruitment material, he'd be in the private sector, or even retired from it, sitting comfortably beside a pool somewhere, with a long cold drink in his hand, cultivating his tan.

Well, this wasn't bad luck, but it wasn't stupidity on his part either. He'd done his homework, done his best with the material he'd been given. Berisovic had no track record of violence. Short-tempered, egocentric, confrontational – yes. Violent – no. Maybe the loss of Christescu had been a turning point of some kind.

Should he have admitted knowing the name Janek, Boris Albescu's right-hand man? He'd flipped a mental coin. Sod's Law. What can go wrong, will go wrong. Find a phone. The bungalow up ahead was the obvious first move. Maybe they'd have information on the woman's kidnapper by now.

He made it to the white bungalow, rehearsing his opening speech, but there was no one around. He broke into the garage from the rear. No car, but as good if not better, a smart black Yamaha XV 950, with its key hidden in plain sight in a glass pickle jar. ‘Oh careless, careless motorbike owner. I do love you,' he said aloud.

The door to the kitchen wasn't even locked. No food smells, no breakfast dishes. There was a fine selection of alcohol in another cupboard, including whisky miniatures, one of which he drank, several of which he pocketed.

Then he used the householder's own headed notepaper and pen to write a quick note, explaining and apologising for the theft of the motorbike, the whisky, a waxed jacket, and the use of the facilities, and giving a number to call for a fuller explanation and compensation.

They had a large laminated wall map in the corridor between the kitchen and the front of the house, which told him exactly where he was. Even more helpfully, there was a list of numbers beside the phone, including that of the local doctor. Oh, how he loved these noble, organised, generous people. He loved their whisky and their careless attitude to security. There were family photographs on the fridge. ‘Thank you, dear Bob and Margaret,' he said, kissing two fingers and touching their smiling faces. ‘I wish you and your lovely daughters the very best, wherever you may be.'

The doctor turned out to be a heavily bearded bachelor. He had not gone to bed and was not surprised to be stirred from his chair by a stranger. ‘Happens a lot,' he said nonchalantly. ‘Not a great many bullet wounds, though. I'll get you to hospital. Quicker than an ambulance. I'm thinking you've had a drink or two?'

Frank confessed to the whisky, and declined the trip to hospital, explaining as best he could. The doctor thought it over, then got to work with no more questions. He was a young man of strong opinions who believed among other things that all politicians were merely moving deckchairs on the Titanic. He was also staunchly opposed to soap and shampoo, he told Frank, because they were ruining the planet. Fortunately he was not opposed to antibiotics and painkillers when there was a real need. Once the wound was dealt with he offered Frank the use of his phone and went to make tea. He brought back a pair of jeans with the tea, but they were too tight around the waist to be of any use. The damaged ones would have to do. Frank drank some tea and made the call. He left the door open so that the doctor could hear if he wanted to.

‘It's Frank.'

‘How can I help you, Frank?'

‘I need to know where my car is,' he said.

‘Oh dear. Altzheimer's strikes again. You're getting old, Frank. You and that stunning wife of yours still together, by the way?'

This was said with such obvious spite that he would have hit the owner of the voice if he could have.

“I suppose you're in real need,' the voice went on, ‘since you've had to call us. Shouldn't take long. This line ok?'

He promised it was. ‘And check if there's something for me.'

There was a brief interval of clicking. He could hear other voices in the background, the noise of a drawer being shut, faint laughter. ‘I can give you that right now,' the voice said. ‘We think your mystery man is called Charles Bedlay, or Charles De Bono, or Carl Brereton. No criminal record. Interesting, that, in view of all the name changes. D'you have a fax there?'

‘Just tell me.'

‘Well, salient facts are, born London, schooled locally. Father deceased, mother extant in London, two siblings of no apparent interest to us or anyone, in Canada. No further education, various unimportant jobs, then progress into charity fundraiser posts and religious counselling services. That's about it.'

‘Thanks for nothing,' he said.

‘Oh, don't be grumpy, Frank. It doesn't suit you. We're still digging. Stay there and I'll call back as soon as.'

Before very long the phone rang again. The signal was loud and clear, they told him. His car was stationary. He noted the co-ordinates. This encouraged him greatly. Of course there was the possibility that Berisovic and his companion had found another vehicle or were travelling on foot, but he liked to think that they'd merely stopped for the night.

The young doctor again suggested hospital, but Frank declined. Then he offered a bed, which Frank accepted. Exactly how much pain relief had the doctor given him? He certainly wasn't fit to ride a bike in darkness.

‘You wouldn't have an Ordnance Survey map I could borrow?' he said. They could be in a hotel, or an empty cowshed. They could be with aliens in a flying saucer for all he knew, but it was more likely they were simply sleeping in a lay-by. The map was produced. He circled the spot. It was always good to know where you were going even if you didn't know what was waiting for you there.

 

He checked for anxiety and oddly it wasn't there. The medication probably.

As soon as his head went down on the pillow, he began to slip away off into a strangely contented darkness. One thing would lead to another. Cristescu had died with the tracker from Miss Arbanisi's car in his jacket pocket, for reasons unknown, but find Berisovic and he'd surely be a step closer to finding her, Pain woke him before five. He swallowed two of the capsules beside the bed before getting up. He got dressed without washing.

The doctor, in pyjamas, came down the stairs as Frank opened the front door. It looked like being a sunny day.

‘Let me change the dressing.'

Frank shook his head.

‘At least you should eat something. I wish you wouldn't do this,'

‘I wish I didn't have to. The phone didn't ring through the night, did it?'

‘No. Look, you should have something in your stomach . . .'

‘I'll be fine.'

‘In my professional opinion, you're an idiot,' the young man scratched his head. ‘And you're breaking the law, on that thing without a helmet.'

‘Believe me, I break the law all the time.' Frank got astride the bike, not without crying out. The pain went right through him, right to his teeth and beyond.

‘Don't overdo those pills I gave you. And don't mix them with anything. Especially alcohol. I don't want to be struck off.'

‘No problem.'

‘The fact is, I don't want to read about you in tomorrow's paper.'

‘Don't worry,' Frank called back, ‘It wouldn't be in the newspaper.'

Still, he rode with care. The cold air on his face helped. It seemed like a very long time since he'd tailed the two men from the airport to their rustic retreat, and to the Arbanisi woman's flat the following morning. His bosses hadn't anticipated trouble. ‘He's the President's son, estranged, he's been off the grid for years.' Where? They didn't know. Apparently. Sometimes things were kept from people at various levels. Insurance, they called it. ‘We don't think he'll go looking for trouble, and the other one's a lightweight, a civil servant of some kind.' It looked like an odd pairing, a very strange choice for an undercover diplomatic mission – a son, out of favour, and a desk man, with no one along to protect them. He'd pointed this out, carefully, on more than one occasion, to more than one recipient, to cover himself by having it on record in more than one person's files, but nobody had seemed bothered. So there it was, and there it would be, on record. A little insurance of his own. His misgivings and their decision to proceed, all waiting to be pointed out after the dust settled.

He'd always been cautious, even when there was no double dealing involved. Bless their little slipper'd feet, they ought to have dug for more salient (their word) details from the very start, in wider, deeper circles. Bedlay or Bono or whatever his name was, nobody had anticipated him at all. Some of them were first-rate, but some weren't so clever as they thought they were. Or maybe it was a lack of motivation. It was too much like a game for some of the young ones. They didn't have responsibilities and bills to pay like his generation. He stopped on the crest of a hill, straightened the leg, circled his foot and relaxed it again. It felt a bit easier.