The Hidden Man. Charles Cumming
Читать онлайн книгу.
left hand and held it up for inspection.
‘That’s where it’s supposed to go, right? The “pinky”? Is that what it’s called?’
‘I believe so.’ Keen cleared his throat. ‘I don’t suppose they’re really the fashion these days among the nightclub classes, but you can always give it a go.’
‘I’m really touched. Thank you.’
And now he played the ace.
‘I wonder how Ben would feel if I were to do the same for him.’
From the direction of the kitchen there was the sound of a plate smashing on stone. Silence briefly engulfed the restaurant before conversations resumed.
‘I’m not following you.’ Mark looked slightly worried.
‘There are two signet rings in the family,’ Keen explained. ‘One belonged to your grandfather, the other to his brother. As you may know, Bobby died without producing any children. I’ve always thought his ring should be passed on …’
‘So you thought you’d wait twenty-five years and get me to do it for you?’
Keen acknowledged the slight with just a tilt of his head. He was determined that the plan should succeed.
‘Point taken,’ he said. ‘But would you be prepared to have a word with your brother, to perhaps sound him out?’
Mark ground his chair a foot back from the table.
‘Haven’t we just had this discussion?’
‘It’s just that I feel we’ve never really given Benjamin a chance to come forward, to give his side of the story.’
‘To come forward?’
Keen pushed his glass to one side, as if making a clear channel through which any request could not realistically be turned down.
‘I apologize,’ he said. ‘I’m obviously not making myself clear. Call it a symptom of my frustration. You have always presented Ben’s reluctance to talk to me as a fait accompli. The idea that he might change his mind has simply never been tabled. Well, I propose that we should give it a shot, ask him straight out what exactly it is that he’s afraid of.’
‘Brother’s not afraid of anything. I’ve told you that …’
‘Then let’s at least clear the air. I would rather have the opportunity of being castigated face-to-face than endure this rather childish stand off.’
‘Well, you see, that’s just the problem. Ben doesn’t really care what you think.’
Mark’s candour had the effect of silencing his father. Like a man who has suffered a losing hand at poker, he fell back in his chair, as if conscious of the hopelessness of his position. It was the first time that Mark had ever observed any trace of defeat in his father’s face. And it worked.
‘Look, I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.
‘Would you really?’ Keen’s eyes lit up with hope. ‘I think it would be in everyone’s best interests. Imagine if we could all just get along, make a fresh start. You, me, Benjamin, Alice. I’d like to get to know her, too.’
‘I’m sure you would,’ Mark muttered.
‘I mean, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could get this thing knocked on the head by Christmas?’
Mark was simply amazed by his attitude. It was as if his father had an assumed right of access, an inherent belief that the past should be ignored in the interests of his own peace of mind. Nevertheless, he felt a duty at least to make an effort.
‘Leave it to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to him and see what I can do.’
And that was enough to satisfy Keen. His work done, he closed the briefcase, cleaned his hands with the napkin and within moments had asked for the bill.
9
Stephen Taploe moved gradually along the aisles, filling his trolley with foods. It was a nothing moment. Once a week, he ventured to the Clapham Junction branch of Asda and bought enough provisions to last him for exactly seven days. Taploe was frugal, although, as a single man earning £41,500 a year, he did not have to be. Armed with reward points and a fistful of vouchers, he would attempt to check out for less than twenty-five pounds, but it was difficult with London prices and sometimes he would treat himself to an extra bottle of mediumdry white wine, or a tub of ice cream in his favourite flavour, vanilla. Taploe lived alone and had, on average, eight meals to cater for each week: two lunches (Saturday and Sunday), as well as six evenings at home. On Thursdays he was always sure to join his colleagues at a tapas bar in Victoria that was popular with D-Branch personnel: promotion, he assumed, would come quicker if he could develop and sustain relationships with senior management outside of office hours.
The supermarket was noticeably less salubrious than the branch of Marks and Spencer’s in nearby St John’s Road, and lacked the international range and flair of products available at Sainsbury’s. Nevertheless, Taploe preferred Asda, largely because it was cheaper and closer to home. He eschewed fancy microwave meals, preferring to cook from scratch; indeed, he would derive a certain satisfaction from making a single item last for several days. He could, for example, let a medium-sized battery chicken suffice for three meals: roasted first, then curried, and finally cold. Every week he bought a packet of six Porkinson’s sausages (two meals), three fillets of salmon (one of which he would habitually freeze) and a ribeye steak with oven chips for Sunday lunch. He ignored the aisles given over to juices and did not buy food in tins. For something sweet, Taploe allowed himself ice cream, a single packet of Penguins and a punnet of Elsanta strawberries.
It was a Friday evening, the pre-weekend crowd, and thankfully there were precious few children screaming at the hips of single mothers. Week after week Taploe watched them bumping trolleys into shelves and walls, spilling bottles of Sunny Delight in egg-yolk pools on the floor. But he could move with comparative ease tonight, through fruit and veg to wines, and would be home within ten or fifteen minutes, depending on the queue at the tills.
Just before seven thirty his mobile rang.
‘Mr Taploe?’
It was Katy, a low-level researcher less than six months out of college with a degree in media studies from Exeter University. He liked the fact that she sounded nervous on the phone and made a point of calling him ‘Mr Taploe’.
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Well, I’ve been looking into Juris Duchev as you instructed, sir, and I’ve been advised by Paul Quinn to contact you directly with some information that I think you might find of interest.’
Taploe was standing beside a bored shelf-stacker. He moved towards the tills.
‘Go on.’
‘I’ve spoken to Interpol, sir, and they suspect that Duchev has been involved in at least two recent incidents still under investigation by the relevant lawenforcement authorities in those areas. The first was in Monaco three years ago, the shooting of a French investment banker with links to the Kukushkin organization. He was shot in his car waiting at traffic lights on the lower of the connecting roads between Monaco and Nice. The second took place in a Moscow suburb back in 1995.’ Katy breathed in quickly. It sounded as though she was searching through notes. ‘Again, that was a motorcyclist with a passenger riding pillion shooting directly into a vehicle. We suspect that if there’s razborka – the Russian term for the settling of a mafia dispute – then Juris Duchev is the individual who would carry it out on the mainland on behalf of the Kukushkin syndicate.’
Taploe didn’t say ‘Thank you’ or ‘Well done’, simply: ‘Is there any record of arrest?’
‘None, sir. Not on the files. And nothing from RIA.’
‘So your point is?’
It