What could Eyvin possibly have left in a place like this? Félix wondered as he stood at the foot of tower block L. He dragged his feet along, his stomach in knots and his lips tight – he knew the address by heart, Caliban Towers, Block L, top floor, Steve. He gazed up at the windows dotted with satellite dishes, the youths sitting on the steps, killing time if nothing else, and the pubescent graffiti all over the walls of the hall and lift. What could the young blond prodigy, snapped up by the bank, possibly have left in such a place?
Félix pressed the button for the fourteenth floor, and the lift doors closed. It took off, with Félix as pale as if he were going into outer space. Top floor. Steve had written his first name on the bell, and had left a pair of muddy trainers outside the door. You could hear his music from the stairwell. Eyvin’s secret friend didn’t appear to be very threatening so far. Perhaps he was a childhood friend. Félix rang twice.
“Who’s there?” a slightly hoarse voice called.
Félix stammered out his name. The door opened on an extremely scruffy young man.
“Eyvin gave me this address,” Félix said.
“Eyvin’s dead.”
“I know and I’m afraid that’s why I’m here. He left something for me.”
Steve beckoned him in, shut the door, and leaving him standing in the hall went off to dig around among his CDs. There were great heaps of them, decades of music, which went well with the rows of empty beer bottles arranged around the kitchen floor. The flat smelt of permanent adolescence, a life completely opposite to Eyvin’s banker’s existence. Steve came back with two CDs in boxes labelled with British groups Félix had never heard of. He took them, not asking what was in them. But he certainly knew more than Steve who gently pushed him out of the door.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t want you to stay here.”
“I understand. Were you friends for long?”
“We shared rooms for six months at the beginning of university. He called me a month ago, I hadn’t heard from him for a year. He blew in, left the discs and went off again. Then he texted me your name and that’s all.”
When Steve had heard about his death he had done nothing, moved nothing in his flat. He hadn’t sought to understand or to protect himself. “It’s a shit world,” was all he said.
There was a sweet smell of limes coming from the flat opposite. The half-open door revealed a neat interior with tablecloths and paper flowers. Félix nodded his agreement; yes, it was a shit world. He suddenly felt like some kind of stain on this landing. He had to go and leave Steve to his electric guitars, and the African family to cook their dinner. He must take Eyvin’s CDs with all the secrets and crimes they contained far away from these people’s simple lives and just leave them in peace. He said goodbye and set off down the stairs, ignoring the lift, with, in his pocket, the musicless CDs.
Back at Mark’s, Félix settled down in front of the computer. Six years of bank statements unfurled beneath his eyes. There were dates, debits, credits, strings of noughts like a row of bubbles. Millions, billions of dollars moving around the world. The crazy growth of Grind Bank was re-enacted before his eyes. And now it was foundering in the icy waters of the Faroe Islands. Félix became drunk on the figures. He had never had such a document at his fingertips before. It was a complete confession. All the gaps were filled in. This was the holy grail for any investigator: the pieces of the puzzle began to fit together, dark corners were lit up. He plunged into it, trying to decipher every line, cross-checking them with the documents he had brought from Nice, the notes taken from Louchsky’s house, Linda Stephensen’s bank statements. He lost all sense of time. Eyvin had died under torture, without talking, for the sake of these documents. Félix wanted to be worthy of him. There was one thing he was sure of: the men who had killed him were the same as those who had attacked Lira. He must find her.
The judge rang at the appointed time and, as agreed, asked vague questions, to which Félix gave anodyne answers that his superior could decode. They were quite sure they were being listened to. “The flapping ears are at work,” the judge used to say without knowing that one day they would be listening to him. They invented words, images, codes, like schoolboys, without realizing that they had now gone over to the other side – they were now the pursued, not the pursuers. When Félix said the tailor’s address he had been given had been brilliant, the judge understood that Eyvin had left behind a bombshell.
“Well, take care not to get soaked. Don’t go out without your umbrella.”
Mark came home, dressed as usual with sober elegance. He stroked the back of Félix’s neck, talking to him in the way he used to: “You OK, old fellow?” He wanted a drink and went to get one for Félix as well. Félix turned off his computer. Mark knew that he was looking for Lira, but not that his flat was now full of explosive documents. Félix watched him, listened to him cursing and laughing about his day, the delays at the building site and so on. He wanted to let himself be enveloped by the atmosphere of this splendid apartment. Their reunion had gone well the night before and there had been no grand explanations. Love seemed possible once again. But Félix found himself incapable of taking advantage of the situation. He was completely immersed in these figures and obsessed with all these secrets.
“I’ll take you to see some Russians this evening. Who knows, she might be there,” Mark said. Félix didn’t know if he was joking or if he had already had enough of hearing about this Lira.
An hour later they went into the reception rooms of one of the big hotels on Hyde Park that was frequented by powerful Russians and their entourage of admirers and confidants. All the talk was of country houses, salerooms, smart restaurants and the best schools for their children. Mark felt quite at home. He had only arrived two months earlier but had already adapted himself to the customs and language of the high-earning London expat community – even to the extent of pouring scorn on the fuddy-duddy French. He found a table and ordered two vodkas. Félix only half-listened as he told him about the latest developments on his building site. The drinks came.
“You know what these are called?” said a man at a neighbouring table, pointing at their glasses.
“No.”
“Putins!”
They all laughed. Félix looked around him. There were a few rich Arabs mingling with the Russians, and a fire blazed in the hearth even though it was still mild outdoors, but everything here was done for the sake of the decor. These prosperous men with their designer-clad wives had come to London for business and financial reasons, but also in order to enjoy a romantic splendour that had never been tainted by revolution. Félix watched these caviar immigrants, as they were known; Lira would not have been at home here, he was sure. He imagined her as a quite different type, more like an energetic terrier. Where could she possibly be? Mark, still deep in conversation with the vodka-drinker, nudged him. Félix started listening to them.
“Louchsky’s the most secretive and busy of the lot. Everybody is amazed at how fast he’s rising,” the friendly neighbour was saying. “Look, over there, that’s someone who knows him well, his lawyer – mine too – he’s called Jonas Rassmussen.”
The name rang a bell in Félix’s mind. He watched the man working the room. He seemed to know everybody. He probably acted for them all. He had a hard face and jaw, and the toned body of somebody who worked up a sweat every day in a top-of-the-range gym. Félix knew he had seen that name, maybe in one of the card indexes, perhaps a payment by Louchsky to his lawyer. Or had he seen it earlier, in one of the dossiers?… Then he remembered: the logbook. The man had been on board the Stephensen yacht, several times. He was approaching them. He came up and greeted the neighbour, his client. Félix pressed his fingers together, signalling to Mark to keep his mouth shut. Rassmussen must have sensed their stares – he looked at them long enough for the neighbour to introduce them, as two visiting Frenchmen.
“Where are you from in France?” Rassmussen asked, in French.
“Nice,” said Mark.
“What an idiot,” Félix thought. Next thing you knew he would be telling them that he worked at the law courts.
However Rassmussen seemed to think they were staying in the hotel, which would certainly exclude them from being mere civil servants, and then his phone vibrated, summoning him back to business. Félix was relieved to see him go. He could still feel the man’s penetrating, all-seeing stare – this man who must at this very moment be frantically searching for what Félix had in his possession.
University College Hospital
Night Report
7th September
Room 24
30mg morphine administered at 1.00 a.m. to patient Lira Kazan. She had become delirious in her sleep, agitated, trying to remove her bandages, shouting and confused.