Crocodile Tears (14 page)

There was a newsstand opposite the apartment with a display showing the morning headlines. “Journalist Killed.” He couldn’t help smiling as he read the words. He wondered if it was somebody he knew, probably taking a bullet in Afghanistan or somewhere else in the Middle East. He had often tried to get himself sent abroad (“. . . our man, Harry Bulman, entrenched with the allied forces in Iraq . . .”), but none of the editors had been interested. Well, serves the guy right, whoever he was. Probably some stupid amateur who didn’t know when to duck.

He was about to cross the road and buy the paper when he remembered that he had used the last of his change down at the pub the night before. He’d been drinking with a couple of freelance journalists and somehow they’d all ended up around the slot machine, shoveling coins in. At one stage he’d won more than twenty-five dollars, but of course he’d put it all back in again and lost it. That was his problem. He never knew when to stop. He took out his wallet and opened it. All he had was a couple of credit cards. He had no money at all.

The nearest cash machine was at the traffic lights on the other side of Camden Market. Bulman thought about walking, but as luck would have it, a bus appeared at that exact moment, rumbling toward him down the hill. At least he had his pass . . . it was valid for any subway or bus in London. He hurried over to the bus stop, arriving just as the driver pulled in and the doors hissed open. A couple of people got on ahead of him, but then it was his turn. He pressed his card against the scanner. The machine made a discouraging sound.

“I’m sorry, mate,” the driver said. “You’ve got nothing left on your card.”

“That’s not possible,” Bulman replied. “I took the subway last night and I had about thirty dollars left on it.”

“Well, it’s showing zero now.” The driver pointed at the screen.

“Your machine must be broken.”

“It worked for everyone else.”

Bulman held his card against the screen for a second time—but with the same result. He glanced around. The bus was crowded with people waiting to move off. They were all watching him impatiently. “All right.” He scowled. “I’ll give you the cash.”

But even as he reached into his pocket, he remembered that he didn’t have any cash. The driver was glaring at him now. Bulman gave up. The bank was only a quick walk away. The sun was shining. “Forget it,” he muttered. “I’ll walk.”

He stepped back onto the sidewalk. The doors closed and the bus moved off. Bulman was still holding his travel pass. He glared at it. When he had a spare minute, he would send a letter to Transport for London to complain. Maybe he would even write a newspaper article about his experience. Idiots. Why couldn’t they get the technology to work?

It took him ten minutes to walk down to the bank, by which time it was almost nine o’clock. All around him, the shops were opening. People were hurrying out of the coffee shops, clutching their oversized cups, then disappearing into their offices . . . another busy London day. Propping his briefcase under his arm, Bulman selected a debit card and fed it into the machine. He needed money for breakfast, to pick up a few groceries—and later on, he might treat himself to a taxi over to Chelsea. He punched in his PIN, touched the box for $50, and waited.

The screen went black. Then a message came up.

Bulman stared at the screen, then punched the Cancel button to get his card back. Nothing happened. Not only was the machine refusing to give him any money, it had decided to keep his card! There was nothing wrong with the account, he was sure of it. The last time he’d looked, he’d had over four hundred dollars in it. Someone must have vandalized the ATM, some lout who’d had too much to drink.

He’d have to find another cash machine and use his credit card for a cash advance. He walked only a block before finding one. Very cautiously, he typed in his PIN, taking care not to make any mistakes.

The same thing happened. A blank screen. A stark white message. His card was swallowed up.

He swore. A couple of people had lined up to use the same machine and they were looking at him with a sort of pity, as if they imagined that he was broke, that there was nothing in his account. What was he to do now? He was angry, humiliated, and hungry—he needed breakfast. He had no money and no way to travel.

Unless, of course, he used his car. Bulman had a secondhand Volkswagen parked around the corner from his apartment. He didn’t often use it during the day—there was far too much traffic in London for his taste—but he sometimes drove it at night, and he kept a spare twenty-dollar bill in the glove compartment for emergencies. That wouldn’t buy him much, but it was better than nothing and he could use it for breakfast while he waited for the bank to open. He’d feel better with a bit of food inside him. Then he’d go in to the bank and shout at the silly fat girl behind the teller’s desk. (In his experience, bank tellers were always silly and fat.) And once it was sorted, he would get on with his day.

He found the side street and strolled down to the spot where he’d parked.

The car wasn’t there.

Bulman stood on the sidewalk, blinking. He had the beginnings of a headache. He had definitely parked in this spot. He might have had a few too many drinks that evening—and, yes, he was probably well over the limit—but he was certain this was where he had left it. Now there was a blue Volvo in his space. He looked up and down the road. There was no sign of his Volkswagen. He forced himself to think. Dinner, pub, slot machine, one last drink, then home around midnight. The car had to be here.

And yet it wasn’t.

It had been stolen! Cars were always being taken in this part of town! A lot of the residents had those clumsy-looking locks that fit over the steering wheel . . . but he had never bought one.

He shook his head. What a day this was turning into! He’d be in a bad mood when he caught up with Alex Rider later this afternoon. It would be their first session together—but even so, he was going to give the boy a hard time.

First things first. Bulman took out his mobile phone to call the police. He wondered what number to use. This wasn’t really an emergency, but he decided to call 911 anyway. He thumbed the buttons and held the phone to his ear.

Nothing.

It wasn’t ringing. There wasn’t even a dial tone. Bulman brought the phone down—it was a brand-new BlackBerry—and examined it.

This was ridiculous. He was in the middle of the city. There was always a signal here. He walked a few paces up the sidewalk, held the phone up, tried it at a different angle. The message remained the same. He squeezed the phone so tightly that he was almost crushing it.

He forced himself to calm down. There was an old-fashioned telephone booth at the end of the road. He wouldn’t need coins to make a 911 call. He would contact the police from there.

He retraced his steps and entered the phone booth. It was plastered with advertisements for models and smelled of cigarette smoke and urine. At least the phone itself seemed to be working. He balanced his briefcase against the glass and made the call.

“Which service do you require?” the operator asked him.

“My car has been stolen,” Bulman said. He was almost relieved to hear another human voice. “I need to speak to the police.”

There was a pause and he was put through.

“I’d like to report a stolen car,” he said. “I parked it on Chilton Street last night and now it’s gone.”

“Can I have the license plate number?” It was a woman’s voice. She didn’t sound very concerned. She also spoke with a foreign accent, making him wonder if he’d been rerouted to a call center abroad.

Forcing himself not to lose his temper, he gave the license number. “KL06NZG.”

“KL06NZG?”

“Yes.”

“Is that a green Mercedes SLR Coupe?”

“No!” Bulman shut his eyes. His headache was getting worse. “It’s a silver Volkswagen Golf.”

“Can you give me the license number again?”

Bulman repeated it, pausing between each digit. Whoever was at the other end of the line obviously didn’t have much skill with computers.

“I’m sorry, sir.” The woman was adamant. “That number is registered to a Mercedes. Can I take your name?”

“It’s Bulman. Harold Edward Bulman.”

“And your address?”

He told her.

“Could you hold a moment?” There was another silence, longer this time. Bulman was about to hang up when the woman came back on the line. “Mr. Bulman, how long have you had this car?”

“I bought it two years ago.”

“I’m afraid we have no record of that name or that address on our files.”

This was the end. Bulman lost his temper. “Are you telling me that I don’t know where I live and that I’ve forgotten the make and the color of my own car? I’m telling you, my car has been stolen. I left it here last night, and now it’s gone.”

“I’m sorry, sir. The license number you’ve given us doesn’t match up with the information I have here.”

“Well, your information is wrong.” Bulman slammed the phone down. His head was throbbing.

He needed money. He felt naked without cash and he wanted to eat. He looked at his watch. At least that was still working. Half past nine. The banks would have opened by now. Bulman had plenty of ID on him, and he’d feel better once he had a full wallet. He could deal with the car later.

He turned and walked back the way he had come. Ten minutes later, he found himself in the local branch of his bank, talking to one of the managers who had a desk in the main hall. The manager was a young man, Asian, dressed in a suit, with a neat beard. He was clearly alarmed as this new customer came striding up to him, and Bulman realized that, what with all the tramping back and forth, trying to deal with all the events that seemed to have ganged up on him in the past hour, he must look half crazed. He no longer cared.

“I need to withdraw some money,” he said. “And your machine doesn’t seem to be working.”

The manager frowned. “We haven’t had any complaints.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to use the machine. I want to withdraw some money from you.”

“Do you have a card, sir?” Bulman handed over his last remaining credit card and watched as the manager brought up his details on the computer. He gazed at the screen, perplexed. “I’m very sorry, sir . . .”

“Are you saying I don’t have an account with you?” Bulman’s voice was quavering.

“No, sir. You used to have an account. But you closed it down a year ago. You can see for yourself.” He swiveled the computer around and there it was, a row of zeroes at the bottom of his account. Every last penny had been removed exactly twelve months before.

“I never closed my account,” Bulman said.

“Would you like me to talk to the head office? . . .”

Yet Bulman was already gone, spinning out of the chair and making his way through the main door, out into the fresh air. What the hell was going on? His travel pass, then the bank cards, his mobile phone, his car, now his accounts . . . it was as if his identity was being taken from him one piece at a time. He leaned against the corner of the building, steadying himself, and as he stood there, a commuter hurried past, throwing a copy of his newspaper into a bin right in front of him, almost as if he wanted Bulman to see what was on the front page.

It was a photograph of himself.

Bulman gazed at it in horror, remembering the headline that he had seen as he came out of his apartment. “Journalist Killed.” He was looking at the same headline now. He felt the sidewalk lurching underneath him as he stepped forward and plucked the newspaper out. The story was very short.