TWENTY-ONE

LONDON

THE BRITISH HOME SECRETARY, ARTHUR WESKER, DID NOT LIKE THE American Ambassador. This hostility was rooted in the relationship between Britain and the United States; while the former had shrunk in worldly significance, Wesker thought the latter imagined itself a strutting global policeman, the planet’s bully-boy. The Home Secretary, a man with a Lancashire accent and horn-rimmed glasses, tried to suppress an assortment of resentments. His working-class background, the way he pronounced his vowels, the fact he felt drab in contrast to the well-dressed William Caan – these matters grieved him.

George Nimmo, who sat facing the two men at a table in the Home Secretary’s club – an oak-panelled room festooned with artless oil paintings of former members who’d achieved some kind of fame, notoriety, or total obscurity – seemed totally at ease with the Ambassador, a fact Wesker ascribed rather grudgingly to Nimmo’s expensive education. George would be comfortable around men of power, of course. It was a class thing.

The Home Secretary scratched his head and flakes of dandruff showered the shoulders of his jacket. His suit was creased, another source of rancour, because Caan was fastidious in appearance, looking as if he were freshly shaved and showered. The American’s thick silver hair had been blow-dried. He wore a gold wrist watch, which the Home Secretary considered brassy.

Caan had an easy kind of charm, though. You had to give him that. He spoke very gently, and without any visible evidence of annoyance. ‘It’s my understanding,’ he said, ‘that your police had questions to ask of Al Quarterman.’

The Home Secretary, passing the leaden buck, looked at Nimmo. Nimmo said, ‘As part of the ongoing investigation into the explosion – yes.’

‘And this ongoing investigation is a licence for your man Pagan to kick down the door of Bryce Harcourt’s apartment and rummage among the dead man’s effects?’

Nimmo had known nothing of doors being kicked down. The information rattled him. He said, ‘Pagan is sometimes a little crude, I’m afraid.’

Caan smiled. ‘I am not criticizing you personally, Mr Nimmo. George, isn’t it? Do you mind? Call me William. God knows, cops can be overenthusiastic at times, George. Zealous. They have a difficult job to do. Our own policemen sometimes act with too much fervour. It’s a common fact, undeniable. I’m thinking of certain events that were videotaped in Los Angeles not so long ago. These things happen in the heat of the moment. And you can’t always oversee the behaviour of those under you.’ Caan adjusted his shirt cuffs, and more gold glinted.

The Home Secretary looked at George Nimmo. First-name terms already, George and William. Wesker felt as if he were the non-member here, when in fact George and William were his guests at his club. ‘I think the Ambassador is being very agreeable, George.’

‘And why not? Allies shouldn’t squabble,’ Caan remarked amiably. He looked at George Nimmo. ‘I simply wonder why it was necessary to question Quarterman. Al had already gone to see your man Pagan to say that he thought Harcourt was killed in the miserable Tube business. The next thing, Pagan goes over to Hampstead, enters Harcourt’s apartment without a warrant, then arranges a meeting with Al. The tragic outcome …’ The Ambassador lit a small black cheroot. ‘Anyone mind?’

Nobody minded. The Ambassador could have rolled himself a joint of Acapulco Gold and nobody would have minded. He sucked in smoke, exhaled a pale blue stream.

Nimmo said, ‘Pagan suspected Harcourt was involved in some kind of abnormal activity.’

‘Abnormal. Do you mean Bryce was trying to solicit sexual favours in the men’s room at Victoria Station? Or do you mean his tastes ran to bondage and handcuffs?’

The Home Secretary smiled dutifully. Nimmo laughed in the brayingly jolly way he sometimes used.

‘By abnormal, of course you mean illegal?’ Caan asked.

‘Illegal, yes.’

‘What laws did Bryce break?’

‘I’m not absolutely sure. I don’t presume to intrude on my senior officers’ investigations. Frank Pagan obviously had a reason for thinking Bryce Harcourt had been involved in illegal activity. I have faith in his judgement, although I often question his approach. But in general, I do not disrupt the inquiries of any senior officer.’

The Home Secretary looked away. Nimmo was amazing when it came to barefaced lying. A waiter glided past with a silver tray and the Home Secretary ordered three glasses of port.

Caan smoked his cheroot. ‘Gentlemen, look,’ he said. ‘It is not within my jurisdiction to interfere with the operations of the British police. Quite the opposite. I simply represent my country’s interests in the UK. That’s as far as I go. That’s my job description. But when it comes to my own personnel, clearly I have an obligation. I’ll look into Harcourt’s affairs in the office. If I find anything, I’ll let you know.’

The Home Secretary leaned forward, took out his shabby old briar pipe, and filled it with tobacco. Shreds from the leather pouch spilled across his trousers. He’d begun to feel detached from the situation around him. His motto in life was to sit back and let other people take care of business. Nimmo and Caan could deal with this between themselves. They seemed to talk each other’s language. Besides, he wouldn’t have been here in the first place if it hadn’t been for the fact that Her Majesty’s Government took a dim view of dead American diplomats. He wished he was back in Lancashire walking his labradors on the moors, throwing sticks for them to fetch, which was his favourite mode of recreation.

Nimmo looked at the Ambassador. ‘I propose that we keep you informed of any further investigation that might involve Embassy personnel. With the Home Secretary’s permission, of course.’

‘Permission granted,’ said Wesker. ‘No question.’

‘The spirit of co-operation,’ Caan said.

‘Exactly.’ Nimmo stared down into his glass of port a moment. ‘When our interests trespass on yours, you’ll be the first to know. You’ll have advance warning.’

‘That’s all I want to hear,’ the Ambassador said. ‘Now my mind’s at rest. I can enjoy this fine port. Cheers.’ He sipped from his glass; the port was utterly wretched, but he swallowed it anyway. He set the drink down and gazed at Nimmo. ‘As a matter of interest, how is the investigation going?’

Nimmo said, ‘We know the kind of explosive used. And a certain name has popped up in connection with the incident, but there’s no certainty.’

‘May I ask what name?’ Caan stubbed out his cheroot. ‘Or am I out of line?’

‘Carlotta,’ Nimmo said quietly.

Caan looked off into the middle distance in a slightly glazed manner. ‘Carlotta? Are you sure? She hasn’t surfaced in years.’

Nimmo said, ‘Maybe Pagan’s barking up the wrong tree. I don’t know.’

‘Carlotta belongs to the era of bell-bottom jeans and hashish and toke pipes,’ said Caan. He forced a little smile that seemed to Wesker – who wondered what a toke pipe was and decided it had to be a form of American slang – altogether insincere. ‘I think of Carlotta and I smell incense.’

‘I think of Carlotta,’ said the Home Secretary, ‘and I smell blood.’

Caan was quiet for a time. He looked at his watch, then stood up. ‘Well, gentlemen. Sorry this had to be so brief. I must run.’ He shook Wesker’s hand, and then Nimmo’s and said, ‘We’ll talk again soon, George.’

‘Of course,’ Nimmo agreed.

When Caan had gone, Wesker said, ‘Bugger didn’t finish his port. Oh, well,’ and he reached for Caan’s glass, wiped the rim with a paper napkin, and drained the drink himself. ‘Waste not want not, George.’