Since they worked for the same newspaper, it was natural for Tanner and Leon not to recognize each other on the flight to the Malmö airport of Sturup. The newspaper world is like that. Leon had written about sport for the Daily Effort for fifteen years, and he had known altogether only eighteen colleagues by sight. Five had been sacked, and two had collapsed heroically at their desks during the World Cup in 1998 endeavouring to meet the first edition, so now he knew eleven. Leon loved the buzz and even the heartlessness of journalism. When his own time came to die, he cheerfully expected to be checked into heaven with Fleet Street’s highest hallelujah, ‘Copy fits, no queries.’
However, since he and Tanner sat beside each other on three separate occasions that Monday morning in March – first in the City Airport’s café eating damp croissants, then in the departure lounge (both scanning the Effort with a professional eye and making ‘Tsk’ noises), and finally on the plane – it was odd that it took quite so long for them to speak.
Leon, for his part, was lost in thought. Four weeks had passed since Maggie sent him away, but he had dwelt on it ever since. He had become a changed man – as his eleven close colleagues would tell you. His reports from all round the globe were now peppered with strange words (removed by the subs) like anal and penile. He washed his hair more often. He began one 600-word report from a UEFA Cup match with the words ‘We forget sometimes that many quite intelligent people aren’t remotely interested in football’, and had found next day to his astonishment that his philosophical musings were reduced to a functional photo caption.
Oh, Maggie. He would lie awake at night in Budapest or Monaco, remembering the way she sighed and huffed whenever he spoke. She was so exotic, and spoke with such fabulous vowels. He was quite sure he’d once seen her in something, even though she’d told him it was impossible if he never went to the theatre. When he felt like cheering himself up, he would just remember that surprising moment when she kissed him rather violently in the car and whispered, ‘Come and stay the night.’ (Maggie had characteristically forgotten her own leading role in the seduction.)
Meanwhile Tanner’s reasons for not speaking to Leon were even more prosaic. He was asleep. To return to the Stefan Johansson story was a bore, especially by comparison with the intervening month, which had been spent deputizing on Fashion. He’d had a wonderful time. When the fashion editor finally returned refreshed (and a bit green) from a French seaweed-therapy health farm, she discovered that in her absence the Effort had seriously commended men to wear pinstripe sarongs to the office, and that the editor had sent a memo to everybody in Features saying, ‘More stuff like this, please.’
Jago had been impressed, not to say wildly jealous, and took the first opportunity to dispatch Tanner to Sweden, even though his passion for the clone theory had burned out long ago. No, sending Tanner to Malmö was now more a means of removing the young turk temporarily from the office. It is not unknown for people in Jago’s position to arrive at work one day and find a Tanner in their chair. To find a Tanner in his chair in a sarong, however, would be more than Jago Ripley could stand.
So, whereas last week he’d been in Paris hobnobbing with tomorrow’s designers (also known as today’s bedwetters), now Tanner was heading for Malmö to meet a madwoman. No wonder, then, that bored by his demeaning mission and peeved that he’d been refused an upgrade by the airline, he no sooner settled into his seat than he produced a YSL-monogrammed satin blindfold, donned it, and started snoring.
Maggie, why? thought Leon, as the plane taxied to the runway. He tossed aside his Swedish basketball magazine, and squirmed between the punitive arm-rests, which dug into his hips. A man of his size was bound to dislike air travel. His enormous body was now squeezed awkwardly into the restricting window-seat, while the long, spindly Tanner alongside could loll with space to spare.
What did I do wrong? he continued. For the umpteenth time he rehearsed all the events of his wooing routine: it was driving him crazy. The fluffy racing car, the generous show of affection, the bottle of Cognac. Over in Oshbosh, he’d confided his interest in Maggie to a tabloid colleague called Jeff, who had advised him brilliantly, telling him to appear all the things he wasn’t: i.e. thoughtful, sexually self-confident and enormously entertaining. ‘You’re not exactly a self-starter, are you?’ Jeff had guessed, rather woundingly. ‘More of a human waterbed. Well, women don’t like that. Especially actresses. They like you to show fire and initiative and a decent profile.’
Since Jeff had been married three times, once to a lady wrestler, Leon assumed he knew what he was talking about. The trouble with Leon was that, being (indeed) no self-starter, he always took advice if he considered it well meant, regardless of whether it was any cop.
So he had burst into Maggie’s flat as Mister Personality – and look what happened. Maggie had virtually thrown him out. But perhaps she hadn’t liked him in the first place, either. Recollecting that night at Jago’s, he was forced to remember he’d ignored the golden rule of social chitchat – that to be interested in motor-racing you must first own a pair of testicles. Also, he had told Maggie with some confidence that Rembrandt was not a household name, which now made him squirm to remember. It’s always the same when you’re categorical. Since making this silly statement, he had, of course, seen Rembrandt toothpaste in every corner of the globe.
‘She’s in love with that Swede, that’s the real trouble,’ he told himself. And no sooner had he formed this ridiculous, petulant theory than memories rushed to corroborate it. My God, here was the answer – at long last! In the car home after Jago’s, what had Maggie talked about? Stefan. At dinner, with whom had she swapped private jokes? Stefan. And in her bedroom – how blind can a broadsheet sports correspondent be? – whose picture did she have in an elaborate frame surrounded by fairy-lights? Well, it wasn’t Damon Hill. Maggie was in love with the Swede who talked funny. Who’d solemnly informed Maggie in front of everybody that she had been ‘the absolute dog’s bollocks’ in a play he’d seen. Leon shivered at the thought of him, this man who had captivated Maggie with his silvery tongue. Who was, moreover, a slim, blond, exotic academic; the very antithesis of a bulky, swarthy hack who was also a human novelty mattress.
Tanner snored in his seat, annoyingly. Leon had taken care to reserve a position by the aisle, but had arrived to find Tanner already asleep in it, with all his paperwork piled beside him. Clambering over the gangly boy to the window, he’d had to move all the papers on to the floor. Now that the cabin staff were serving food and drink, should he attempt to wake this annoying man? Sleeping on such a short flight was preposterous. He’d taken off his shoes and everything.
‘Rolls, mate,’ he said companionably, in Tanner’s ear. By dint of weary experience he was an expert on airline food. ‘One roll with egg mayonnaise, and one roll with a slice of unidentifiable grey meat. And, seeing as it’s northern Europe, a small square of chocolate.’
Tanner slept on.
‘Coffee, mate. Lukewarm coffee in a cup with a silly handle you can’t hold without sticking your elbow out so that it jabs into people.’
Nothing. The plane tilted violently to the left, as it always will when liquid refreshment is served.
‘Coffee and rolls, mate. Whoopsadaisy. Nearly got some on your skirt.’
But Tanner slept on, so Leon ate two lots of rolls and drank two lots of coffee, and was just fiddling under the seat for his laptop when a file of Tanner’s caught his eye. He blinked with astonishment. It had the name ‘Stefan Johansson’ on it – surely the name of Maggie’s preferred lover!
He gasped. Could it be the same Stefan Johansson? No, no. There would be millions of them in Sweden. Millions. There were three, at least, in the national basketball team, a fact that had caused famous confusion on several occasions.
Yet he couldn’t help it. He picked up the file, to examine it closer. And what he saw was:
Stefan Johansson, the Full Story
of a Cunning Clone
or The Wild Goose Chase of the Century
by Michael St John Tanner
chief investigative reporter of the Daily Effort
Leon frowned and gulped so hard that some of his egg mayonnaise came back. A cunning clone? What did that mean? A clone was a sheep, wasn’t it? Blimey, if Stefan was a sheep, he was very cunning indeed.
Surreptitiously, still awkwardly bending to reach the floor, he opened the file and found that it was virtually empty. No dossier as such; certainly no manuscript. In fact, it had just three dog-eared items in it, which Leon – unable to control himself – memorized. The first was the address of a secure unit in Malmö’s university hospital, with the note ‘Ingrid J, Tues, 2.30’. The second was Laurie Spink’s home phone number scribbled on the back of Jago’s business card, with the note ‘Ring any time, we’re paying plenty.’ And the third was a sheet torn from a notebook, with ‘cookie’ and ‘nuts’ written on it in appalling shorthand. Leon perused all three items and grimaced.
That he had never heard of Laurie Spink goes without saying. Leon was unashamedly ignorant of everything except sport. Once, at the time of a Northern Ireland summit, he had spotted the headline ‘Adams in talks’, and had been genuinely disappointed when the Adams in question turned out not to be Tony, the Arsenal and England defender, renegotiating his contract. So until genetic modification became an issue in Chinese swimming (a development not too far off, actually), he wouldn’t know the first thing about the subject that had been filling features pages for the last five years.
As the plane banked and the seatbelt sign was illuminated, all Leon knew for certain was that he didn’t trust the Swede. Was he a cookie? Was he nuts? It would explain a lot. Beside him, Tanner removed his eyemask, folded it neatly, and placed it in his inside pocket. ‘Ah,’ he said airily, when he realized Leon was looking at him. ‘See you’re admiring my sarong.’
He looked very young, Leon thought. Son of a successful father, no doubt. The sort of arrogant Oxbridge tyro who overtakes you professionally the same way Michael Schumacher overtakes people on the race-track – by ramming into them, sailing past, and getting away with it.
‘Excruciatingly uncomfortable,’ Tanner said, stretching his arms.
‘Mm,’ agreed Leon.
‘Idiots wouldn’t give me an upgrade.’
‘Right. You going into town?’ said Leon. ‘We could share a cab and get two receipts.’
Tanner put his head on one side and thought about this proposal for about fifteen seconds – proof positive that he had been in journalism no more than a couple of months. ‘All right.’ He extended his hand, so that Leon could notice his bespoke cufflinks. ‘Tanner of the Effort, pleased to meet you.’
Leon shook his hand enthusiastically. ‘Are you Tanner? That’s marvellous!’ he cried.
‘Why?’
‘I’m with the Effort as well. Jago asked me to look out for you in Malmö. And here you are all along!’
The Armadale Road job was proving extremely easy for Linda. In short, she loved it here. Belinda’s life had so many vacuums, all of which Linda was very, very glad to abhor. No wonder Belinda continued not to recognize her as a malevolent double like the ones in books, even when Linda posed for author photographs, liaised with a new agent, and signed a deal with a toy manufacturer. Except for those rather alarming wah-wah occasions when she threatened to walk out, Linda was a diligent, selfless, trouble-free sweetheart with a talent for home-making. Also she didn’t charge much, which was astonishing when you consider the extra-mural commitments. Had Mrs Holdsworth ever been asked to effect an impersonation of Belinda on the Late Review, double-time would have been mentioned almost at once.
Only six weeks had passed since Linda’s arrival. It seemed hardly possible, when so much had happened. Linda continued to rustle up smoked haddock in filo pastry, also to shop and to clean. But she had been stupendous on television, which no one could have predicted. Smart as a whip, with an infectious giggle, and no swank – she was spotted at once as a natural. The producer was impressed: he mentioned the possibility of a documentary about literary doubles, to help promote the book. To top it all, he even invited the Johanssons to dinner; and what a night that was for everybody. Stefan looked breathtakingly gorgeous in a blue suit Linda bought in Bond Street. Linda had her hair cut by Nicky Clarke. And while her dear, wonderful ambassadors were engaged in their selfless mission on her behalf, Belinda worked contentedly all evening, amazed by her own good fortune.
To be honest, Belinda did a rather wicked thing that night. When she heard her envoys return home by taxi at two a.m., laughing and drunk, she used her two-way listening device to eavesdrop. It was underhand, and reprehensible. But she was desperate to hear what (albeit vicariously) Belinda Johansson had been up to.
‘When Alan Yentob turned up, I thought I’d die!’ exploded Linda, filling a kettle.
‘But you were brilliant,’ said Stefan. ‘He thought you were great. And the Marquess of Bath wanting you for a wifelet! Wait till Belinda hears.’
As Belinda now sat happily, day after day, at her lovely new desk, the only fly in her ointment was a niggling sensation of guilt connected with the quality of work she was producing. Because perhaps it was not enough, finally, to get your hands on Virginia Woolf’s pure and rounded pearls. Perhaps you needed a smidgen of Virginia Woolf’s talent as well. You had to be able to dash off The Waves, or Mrs Dalloway, or something. Sometimes she wished she could knock off another Verity book, to boost her confidence. She had ideas for Verity continually. But she took Linda’s point that she must stop churning them out. Linda was organizing a new uniform edition of her backlist, and had everything in hand.
But this doubles book, how good was it really? What if it were second-rate tosh? What if duality were too complex a subject for her to reduce to seven types? Asking other people to sacrifice themselves in the cause of a bad book was an awful imposition. How would Linda feel when she found out she’d dedicated herself to such a hollow cause? How would Stefan feel, after suffering all those celebrity dinners with television controllers and the master of Longleat? It didn’t bear thinking about.
Oh well. For now, it was terrific. Except for lavatory breaks, Belinda had scarcely left her first-floor office for the last six weeks. She had not left the house at all, or been downstairs, and had mostly kept the thick curtains drawn all day to exclude draughts. Mother was right that she was putting on weight: since Linda had started thoughtfully supplying crisps and Twixes, she had thickened at the middle, but it was a development that did not much alarm her. Bodily things were such an irrelevance. Besides, everyone says that when you write a book, you put on a stone or two, in the way women formerly lost a tooth for each baby they bore. Her burgeoning waistline was a badge of her intellectual fecundity, therefore. It meant she was ‘with book’, which was lovely.
Talking ad nauseam about the ex-cleaning lady was not what Dermot had envisaged when he first seduced Viv; and to be honest, it was a bit like being married to her, which wasn’t the idea. But he certainly sat up and took notice on the afternoon when – as the adulterous pair sat in flowery dressing-gowns at the kitchen table one day in March – she finally explained to him why losing Linda had been such a phenomenal blow.
‘The thing is, she was doing my job at the hospital,’ Viv confessed, sobbing.
‘What?’ In his alarm, Dermot poured coffee down his front, leapt up and stubbed his toe. ‘What?’
‘I don’t know how it happened. It’s just that I didn’t really need a cleaning lady. I liked doing all the things in the house myself. I’m good at cooking and shopping and tidying. I gave her the credit and everyone believed me. I stencilled the bathroom and said it was her. I even made all the Roman blinds!’ The thought of such abject domesticity reduced Viv to a further outburst of tears.
‘Jago doesn’t know,’ she added. ‘He must never know.’
Dermot reeled with shock. He gripped the edge of the table. His toe throbbed horribly. ‘This is outrageous, Viv. For God’s sake, is Linda medically qualified?’
Viv shook her head and blew her nose. She couldn’t speak.
‘Viv, she might have killed people.’
‘I know.’
‘Just so that you could sit at home joining bits of chintz!’
‘There’s a lot more to Roman blinds than that, Dermot!’
‘Viv, listen to yourself!’ He jumped up and started striding about.
‘I know, I’m sorry. I know.’
‘What you did was criminal.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I know.’
Viv made him another cup of coffee. She was glad her secret was finally out, but at the same time rather shocked to discover she’d forgotten quite the magnitude of it. Human beings can become habituated to the most horrible and unnatural things. Custom, as the Czech people so rightly aver, takes the taste from the most savoury dishes. So, by the same de-seasoning process, it had become normal in Viv’s life to watch her cleaning lady take the car to the Royal Southwark four times a week, wave to her as she joined the traffic on the South Circular, and not think much about it beyond ‘Time to get the sewing-machine out, hurrah.’
After all, Linda evidently did a marvellous job in Viv’s place. She had been twice promoted. Surgeons regularly commended her, and told her she had far outstripped their expectations. The only difficult part of the arrangement was that when Viv gave dinner parties, Linda had to hang around until midnight pretending to work, and take credit for the puddings, when she had early appointments next day at the hospital.
However, if Viv was used to the idea, Dermot (as yet) was not. In fact, he was clearly horrified. ‘But how could she do it? How did she know what to do?’
‘Well, she took an interest, you see. She’s like that – she listens and learns. And she admired my medical ability. It didn’t just happen overnight. She asked me lots of questions, and really got very expert on the subject before—’ Viv stopped.
‘Before what?’
‘Before sticking a needle in someone.’
Dermot clutched his head in anguish.
‘Don’t you have colleagues, Viv? Isn’t medicine quite a small world? How could she pass herself off as you?’
‘Well, it all worked out very neatly. The day I got the interview for the Royal Southwark, one of the boys needed a costume for school, and I didn’t want Linda to make it, even though she was very happy to. It was a Viking, with a horned helmet, and I just wanted to do it myself, and not have Sam tell his friends that his mum was too busy. So Linda attended the interview instead, just as a lark. But then, when she got the job, we thought, why not go for it?’
‘Why not go for it?’ Dermot repeated, slowly. For an intelligent man, he was taking a long time to accept quite a simple proposition.
‘We expected to be found out sooner or later, of course. I was ready for that. I knew I’d be struck off, possibly imprisoned. And Linda – well, the thing about Linda is that she is completely without ego. She genuinely lives to serve. So everyone was happy, you see. Linda and I could discuss cases. I could maintain an interest in the professional sphere without having to go to work every day and face all those decisions. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, honestly.’
This wasn’t how Viv had anticipated this discussion. She thought Dermot might feel sorry for her, or agree to help her persuade Linda to come back. Instead of which, he remained obstinately horrified.
‘Don’t look at me like that, Dermot. Women are in a very strange transitional state at the moment. We’re feeling our way. “Having it all” sounds excellent in theory, but it turns out to be utterly ghastly. The choices are getting impossible to make. And some of us career women just can’t stand to watch other people having all the fun with the rufflette and the spice rack.’
Dermot closed his eyes. ‘I’ve got to be somewhere else,’ he said, and left the room, Viv following him upstairs.
‘Don’t hate me,’ begged Viv. ‘Nobody got hurt. I’m only telling you so that you’ll see it’s happening again. She’s taking over Belinda now. Mrs Holdsworth says Belinda is never seen any more. Linda is taking things further than ever. Dermot, she went for Belinda’s smear test!’
Dermot, sitting on the bed and buttoning his shirt, said nothing. He was staring at the wall, thinking. ‘How long did you say Linda was at the Royal Southwark?’
‘Two years.’
‘I knew it.’
Dermot had turned white. ‘You know my appendectomy?’
‘I do.’
‘That bloody impostor gave me my pre-med. I knew I’d seen her before.’
How Stefan fitted into Belinda’s life of monastic seclusion (or didn’t) was awkward because she loved him more than she loved her book. That blue suit made him so handsome that when he popped in to say, ‘How’s this for a glamour-puss?’ she nearly swooned with longing.
Loving Stefan was so easy. Belinda loved even all the little pits and scars he’d picked up (so he said) at his dangerously progressive kindergarten in Sweden. When first they were naked together, she had swarmed over his body finding the little dents, until she knew them so well she could draw a map. There was a place in Stefan’s left buttock where you could insert your finger or your tongue – it was the most intimate thing she’d ever known.
‘Did Ingrid do this?’ she asked once, out of the blue. She meant, of course, ‘Did Ingrid stroke you this way?’ but it was a tricky moment before Stefan latched on.
‘Forget Ingrid,’ he said. But how could she do that, when he made mention of her so often in his sleep?
‘Ingrid, no!’ was the usual nocturnal shout. ‘No, Ingrid!’
Since Belinda’s idea of Ingrid was of a doe-eyed neurotic who cried a lot and finally sank into depression, she was stung by these cries. It was no use telling herself that being retrospectively jealous of such a poor, broken person was an unworthy emotion. ‘Stefan is bound to love his first wife still, it’s only natural,’ Maggie advised, memorably. ‘You’re very selfish, Belinda. You want everything.’
But she was still upset, she couldn’t help it. The first wife had been Swedish, for a start. Whatever happened in the rest of their lives, they would always have Hoola Bandoola.
So she assumed that in those bloodcurdling cries of ‘Ingrid, no!’ Stefan called to his poor lost wife as she slipped into madness, the way Orpheus called to Eurydice as Hades reclaimed her. She could have no idea that in fact the cry was accompanied by nightmare images of a dumpy psychopath advancing with a scalpel.
‘You still love Ingrid, don’t you?’ she asked him, the morning after his confession to Linda. He’d made love to her in an unusually urgent way, and when she caressed his dimpled buttock with a fingernail, he screamed.
‘Why on earth do you say that?’
‘You ought to go and see her.’
‘You really are going loco, Belinda. Ingrid is history. I have put up the shutters and, when the chips are down, drawn a line in the sand.’
‘Malmö’s not far.’
Stefan snorted. ‘You have no idea where Malmö is, Belinda. It’s one of the things I love about you.’
‘She must miss you so much, Stefan.’
Stefan shrugged. ‘I’m sure she does,’ he said darkly. ‘But look at it from her point of view. She’ll always have a little piece of me.’ With which enigmatic comment he left for college.
So now Belinda was alone with the second-rate book of tosh, uneasy about her work and uneasy about Stefan’s cruel streak, when for all the world it was obvious that her cleaning lady was taking her life. Dostoevsky would have noticed it at once. But Belinda – well, Belinda was a woman with a shaky ego and took a different view. Having a double to do telly appearances on your behalf entailed no existential terror, it was absolutely marvellous. She looked at her Virginia Woolf postcard with quite different eyes since Linda came. She had pearls, pearls and more pearls, thanks to Linda.
And take the way Linda dealt with Mother. It was miraculous. Initially suspicious of Linda, Mother was now in love with her! She called her, rather pointedly, ‘the daughter I never had’. Linda was pretty and well groomed. In Selfridges, she didn’t sigh and drag her feet while Mother browsed: she grabbed the sleeves of smart suits and said things like ‘What lovely buttons.’ Linda modelled clothes beautifully, accepted gifts graciously, and best of all, never asked, ‘Something up?’
Linda came to remove the filo haddock plate, which had been scraped clean, as usual, in the lavatory.
‘No anchovy sauce these days?’ said Belinda, brightly.
‘No,’ agreed Linda, unconsciously rubbing her elbow. ‘No, I’ve gone off anchovies.’
‘You never talk about yourself, Linda.’
‘Have you ever asked?’
‘I suppose not.’
Belinda wondered whether this was an invitation. But if it was, it was soon revoked.
‘Do you need any Mars bars?’
‘Well, I can’t pretend another dozen wouldn’t be nice.’
‘I’ll pop out later. Did I tell you I’m seeing Maggie? She rang up again. I said I’d meet her for coffee at the Adelphi. It’s a friends thing,’ she added, noticing Belinda’s puzzled expression.
‘You don’t have to do that, Linda. After all, she’s my friend.’
‘Nonsense. I’d be glad to. You’ve got all those justified sinners to worry about. And I’m collecting the photos of your birthday tea.’
‘Great. Oh, look, sorry I missed that tea, Linda. I got so absorbed—’
‘No, it was fine. We had a lovely time. I shall be like Paddington Bear, having two birthdays.’
‘Maggie doesn’t mind about today, I suppose?’ There was something odd about Linda supplanting her with her oldest friend, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Such issues were very confusing, these days.
‘Would you prefer to go instead?’ Linda offered.
‘Right this minute?’ Belinda was only half dressed, despite the late hour. She hadn’t worn make-up in a month. There was chocolate on her jumper. ‘No. Look. Give her my love, or something. It’s just that you shouldn’t do everything!’ she urged, at last. As a protest, it was transparently feeble.
‘But I want to,’ said Linda. ‘And you don’t. That’s why we’re made for each other, isn’t it?’
At the hospital in Malmö, Ingrid whimpered in her strait-jacket. She had been trying to gather genetic material from the other patients again, though luckily only with the aid of plastic cutlery.
‘I’m so unhappy,’ she told the young nurse in Swedish.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ replied the nurse, bored.
‘Stefan loved me,’ she said. ‘He was always unlucky!’
‘You can say that again.’
Ingrid squirmed in the jacket and yelled, ‘Stefan! Stefan! They tell me you are dead! What wickedness this is!’
‘He is dead, Ingrid. You saw him die.’
‘No, no! I’m so unhappy.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘He’s not dead.’
‘Yes he is.’
It was dreary in Malmö when Leon and Tanner got their taxi into town. And the wind was piercing, like being lanced by icicles. As a seasoned sportswriter, Leon had judiciously worn a warm coat and thick boots; meanwhile the fine leather soles on Tanner’s hand-made shoes sent him skidding into a bank of trolleys the moment they stepped on to the ice outside the arrivals hall.
‘I’m getting my own column, you know,’ said Tanner, in the gloom of the cab.
Leon could believe it.
Grey functional Malmö buildings flashed past. The radio played Euro music, and the driver tapped the wheel in rhythm.
‘Sweden,’ said Tanner, ‘Nothing ever happens here, does it?’
‘Well, it did in Stockholm in 1992, of course,’ said Leon. ‘European Football Championships. England lost two-one. “Swedes two, Turnips one” – you must have heard that? It was Gary Lineker’s last international appearance and Graham Taylor took him off. The fans trashed the place afterwards.’
Tanner looked at him with contempt. ‘Do you really retain trivia, or do you look it up?’
‘I was here. I remember it.’
‘Good heavens.’
‘So you’re here to visit mad Mrs Johansson, is that right?’ Leon asked, airily. ‘Need me to come along? What’s the story?’
He held his breath in the dark, wondering whether Tanner would trust his friendly tone. He did. ‘Look, Ripley thinks Johansson is a clone.’
‘A what?’
‘A double. You know. The original Johansson died in a fire in Sweden yet here he is in London, pretending to have an academic post. So Ripley puts two and two together – or one and one together, if you see what I mean. This Johansson was an expert on cloning, you see, and a madman. Bits of pulsating human genetic material found all over his lab and house when he died. Signs of unethical practice. Bodies under the floor, I don’t know. The wife went mad, and that’s all there is to it, except – you’ll like this bit – that the so-called clone is married to … Well, guess. He’s married to one of Ripley’s best friends.’
From the way he spat out the last couple of words, Tanner evidently disapproved of nepotism in Fleet Street. Which was a little hypocritical of him, in the circumstances.
‘Can you believe it?’ said Tanner, nonchalantly tapping his passport on his leg. ‘Nonsense. Utter bosh. This man is not a clone, there’s just a mix-up. Do you know how many Stefan Johanssons there are in Sweden?’
‘How many?’
‘Well,’ stalled Tanner, who hadn’t checked, ‘just say it’s better to ask how many Swedes aren’t called Stefan Johansson. Ripley’s not too bright, that’s all. It’s my opinion that this Johansson declined the offer to write in his idiotic genetics supp, and the only explanation Jago finds plausible for such behaviour is that the man isn’t human.’
Much as he instinctively disliked and distrusted the stuck-up boy, Leon was still impressed by such a fine grasp of Jago’s personality.
‘Do you like basketball?’ he asked. It was a shot in the dark.
‘Yes, actually,’ said Tanner. ‘Adore it. You don’t play, surely?’
Leon ignored the way Tanner was looking him up and down. ‘No, I don’t play. But I’m here to cover it. Malmö Meerkats and Cincinnati Sidewinders. A slightly uneven contest. But Sweden’s mad for basketball. It will be a good event.’
‘The Cincinnati Sidewinders?’ Tanner’s eyes opened wide, and for the first time he dropped his world-weary act. In the cab, the music changed to Abba’s ‘Waterloo’. At the thought of the famous Sidewinders, Tanner suddenly looked twelve years old.
Leon hid his smile by looking out of the window. Sports journalism was such an odd job. Half the people in the world thought sport was an utter irrelevance, and the other half wanted to climb into your suitcase. Either they looked at you blankly and backed off a pace or two, or were so jealous they burst into tears. With Tanner, it could have gone either way.
‘The Winders?’ Tanner repeated. ‘The Winders are in Malmö? With Jericho Jones?’
‘I can get you to the press conference, if you like.’
‘No!’
Leon pretended to check in his file for the time of the press conference, but he already knew it. ‘It’s tomorrow at two thirty. Are you free?’
‘Yes!’ Then Tanner’s face crumpled. ‘No! No, I’m not! Damn, damn, damn.’
‘What’s up?’
‘That’s precisely when I meet Stefan Johansson’s mad old lady.’
‘What a shame. Your one chance to meet Jericho Jones.’
Tanner agonized. Leon watched him with considerable enjoyment. It was going to be simple to reach Mrs Mad Johansson before Tanner. When the time came, it would be a simple matter of swapping roles.
As the cab drew up at their cheap hotel and the driver charged them the three hundred kronor Leon had agreed at the airport, Leon felt optimistic for the first time in weeks. Maggie was pining not only for a married man but some sort of undead person! He could rescue her from this terrible delusion. And then the rest would be easy. How could he put it, in a poetic metaphor she would understand? He could slam-dunk her heart, he thought. He could slam-dunk her heart, while sky-walking.