Dan checked his watch. It was well past eight in the evening. He had been hovering for quite a while outside the entrance to the Apple Store in Covent Garden, where the man on the phone had told him to wait. People came, people went. The store seemed to be a popular rendezvous point. But there was no sign of the man – the younger man, Mickey’s so-called friend, who said his name was Hassan. Dan searched the faces around him, but other than a dark-skinned teenage boy in a navy-blue anorak, who glanced at him suspiciously before going inside the shop, nobody made eye contact. They were all doing their own thing, having fun, window-shopping, drinking and eating and not remotely interested in him. He felt like some sort of sad loser on a blind date standing there, and he was freezing, water seeping up from the cobbles through the soles of his boots where the leather had worn thin. There were so many people milling around, he wondered how Hassan was going to spot him. He ought to be wearing a green carnation pinned to his lapel, or have a copy of Time Out magazine tucked into his jacket pocket, or something similar. But in broken English Hassan had said it wasn’t necessary, that he would find him. He said Mickey had shown him a photo of Dan on the 4Justice website. All Dan had to do was to keep his phone switched on and to come alone. Dan had been nervous about going there, knowing that it was probably a stupid thing to do. He ought to call the police and leave it to them. But something about Hassan’s voice, in particular the way he said ‘I am very sad’, sounded genuine. He kept replaying the sentences over and over again in his mind, trying to hear a flaw or a false note, but there was none. He should trust his instincts, he kept telling himself. If the man really had been Mickey’s friend, they should talk. There might be a simple explanation why he had Mickey’s phone and maybe he knew something that could be of help.
In spite of the bitter wind and the recent rain, the piazza was crowded and the restaurants and bars were full with people waiting to sit down. A jazz band played loudly somewhere inside the covered market and a fire-eater was entertaining a large crowd in the middle of the square, beside a twenty-foot Christmas tree. A giant silver reindeer stood in front of the entrance to the market, rearing up on a sleigh filled with a heap of shiny presents, its throat outstretched as though calling to its friends in the sky. It was covered head to toe in white lights, with a sparkling red collar of bells around its neck, and looked like something from a Disney film. All that was missing was snow and a posse of elves coming around the corner singing.
The air was filled with wave upon wave of food smells, pizza, some sort of pungent, spicy, mulled wine, mixing with roasting chestnuts and fried onions, which conjured up burgers and hot dogs and other delicious things. He hadn’t had much to eat since breakfast and was hungry as hell, but it would have to wait. He checked his watch again, as if somehow it would speed things up. Hassan was now a full twenty minutes late. He tried calling Mickey’s number but it went straight to voicemail. Maybe he never meant to come. Perhaps it was some sort of wind-up, or a sick joke. He’d give him five more minutes then, sod it, he’d get something to eat and go home. He watched as a couple met up and passionately embraced just a couple of feet away. As they pulled apart momentarily and looked longingly into each other’s eyes, he felt a sudden pang of loneliness.
His phone was ringing. He pulled it out and saw Mickey’s name on the screen.
‘Hello?’
Silence.
‘Hello? This is Dan Cooper.’
More silence. He pressed it hard to his ear, trying to block out the noise around him, but he heard nothing. Had they hung up? He looked at the screen. The call was still connected.
‘Hello? Are you still there?’ he asked.
‘Are you alone?’ a man asked. It was the deeper, older voice, not the younger man who called himself Hassan, who had claimed to be Mickey’s friend.
‘Yes. I’m alone. Who is this?’
There was a pause, then the man said, ‘You can call me Nasser. Do you have money on you?’
‘What for?’
‘I sell you Mickey’s phone.’
Dan hesitated. Was this what it was all about, just some cheap ploy to extract cash? If so, he would call the police. ‘I don’t want to buy Mickey’s phone. I just want to talk to your friend. The one who says he knows Mickey. Is he with you?’
‘I want five hundred pounds and I bring you to him.’
‘No. I want to meet him first and then I will think about giving you some money.’
There was a long pause. Dan heard familiar sounds echoing in the background, more or less the same sounds he was hearing through his own ears. Nasser must be somewhere nearby, no doubt watching him. He looked quickly around, scanning the crowd of people and met the stare of a youngish, dark-skinned man dressed in a silver-grey bomber jacket. He was looking straight at him but as he met Dan’s eye, he looked away. There was no phone in his hand. Maybe he was wearing a headset. He then raised his hand to his mouth, took a large bite of something in a wrapper and turned his back on Dan.
‘Hello?’ Dan said. ‘Are you still there?’
The man had been joined by a pretty, red-haired woman. She was laughing and saying something to him. They both seemed happy and relaxed and normal. He was imagining things. He looked around again, but there were so many people, it was impossible to single out anybody in particular.
‘Hello?’ Dan bellowed into the phone. ‘Are you still there?’
‘I’m here,’ Nasser said. The voices in the background grew suddenly louder, as did the jazz. He must have moved inside the covered market. ‘You tell anyone you come here?’
‘No. What are you worried about?’
‘I call you back.’
‘I want to speak to your friend.’ But the call had been cut.
Dan walked through the throng into the market. It was a dazzling sea of brightness and colour, with two more Christmas trees, one at each end amongst the crowded restaurant tables. The huge atrium was lit by thousands of small white lights. Evergreen garlands decked the railings of the first-floor balcony and giant sparkling silver and red baubles hung amongst the eighteenth-century lanterns from the high, vaulted ceiling. Music and voices, and the clatter of china and cutlery reverberated deafeningly around the space. He stood still for a moment, taking it all in, looking for any face turned momentarily towards his. But he saw nothing out of place. Nobody. He was about to give up when the phone in his hand vibrated. He looked down and saw it was ringing. Mickey’s number again. He answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Walk out the market.’
‘Which way?’
‘Go to the church. I see you there.’
‘See me where?’ he shouted. But Nasser had hung up again.
The church. He must mean the one on the west side of the market, a large stone-faced classical box of a thing, with a rather brutish classical portico and columns at the front. He threaded his way as fast as he could in and out of the tables and shoppers and went outside into the busy piazza, where another huge, glittering Christmas tree stood in the centre. The church was almost directly opposite. A number of people were gathered in front of it, but nobody made eye contact. The clock on the portico above struck the hour. He waited for a moment, hands in his pockets, wondering what to do, then glanced back across the square towards the market. As he scanned the faces, he caught sight of the boy in the navy anorak again, standing beside the Christmas tree, looking straight at him. As Dan half-raised his hand, the boy turned abruptly away and disappeared into the crowd.
Dan was about to follow him when he felt a tug at his sleeve and a man brushed past with the words: ‘Follow me.’ It was the same deep voice as on the phone. Nasser was short – maybe five feet six at most – and thickset, dressed in a black ski-jacket and jeans. Dan didn’t see his face clearly, but he had the impression of a band of tanned skin and dark eyes in between the beanie pulled down low on his head and the thick scarf wrapped around his neck. Like a skater on ice, he moved fluidly and fast, weaving his way expertly in and out of the people milling about, ducking around the little groups gathered around street entertainers, heading south towards the Strand. All Dan could see was the black hat bobbing up and down, turning this way and that, and he had a struggle to keep him in view. He was aware that he was being led away from the lights and the crowds. Again, he had the feeling that it was a set-up, but he would have to take a chance. He couldn’t risk losing this one connection with Mickey.
There was a bellow up ahead, a deep bass voice, and the sudden shifting movement of people to left and right. He lost sight of Nasser’s head in the melee. More shouting. Some sort of scuffle. Pickpockets, maybe. A heavily built man ran at full pelt into the piazza from the right and the crowd parted in front of him like long grass blown by the wind. Dan heard footsteps thundering up behind him. Another person ran past, knocking aside a female shopper who fell to the ground, bags spilling onto the pavement. More shouts, this time female and angry. There was the blast of a car horn and the screech of brakes in the street ahead, followed by a piercing scream. The crowds of people surged forward and he followed them, but it was impossible to see what was going on. He had lost sight of Nasser.
As he stood, wondering what had happened and what he should do, he felt somebody firmly take hold of his arm. He turned around and saw the pretty, red-haired woman from before.
‘Dan Cooper. I’m DC Kelly. I need you to come with me.’ She wasn’t smiling now.