Jigsaw (14 page)

‘Holy shit, holy shit,' she said. She looked at Pagan, who was bending to scrutinize the point of contact. The Camaro's chrome fender was dented, the rear lights shattered, the lid of the boot creased.

‘Don't you look where you're bloody going?' Pagan asked. The licence plate was crumpled, dangling from the body of the car. He picked up shards of broken red glass and rattled them in the palm of his hand. ‘You came round the corner like …' Exasperated, he got to his feet, stared at the girl, then looked back at the Camaro. He laboured to repress his anger, thinking
It's only a bloody car, it's not a human life, it's just a conglomeration of painted metal and rubber and wires
– but he'd been attached to this vehicle for years. He'd restored it, repaired it, bestowed attention on it, all of which affection he understood was slightly ridiculous in a sense, a substitute for a genuine human fondness.
But still
.

The girl was shaking her head. ‘Look, I'm sorry, I took the corner too quickly, and I'm not used to driving on the wrong side of the goddam road anyway, I mean practically everybody else in the world drives on the right-hand side except in this country …' Her accent was American; Pagan couldn't place it exactly but guessed East Coast, Connecticut. ‘In any case, I don't see tremendous damage. A few new lights, a little work on the fender. Some minor bodywork on the lid of your trunk. My car, on the other hand,' and she gestured toward the Escort. Steam was pouring through the plastic grille, which was shattered. ‘I'd say my radiator has sprung a leak.'

Pagan moved closer to the Escort. The bonnet was buckled slightly and the radiator was emitting an ominous hissing sound. Steam, tugged by the breeze from the Thames, swirled around the vehicle.

The girl said, ‘My insurance will take care of your car. You're not going to be out of pocket, if that's what's worrying you.'

‘That's not what worries me,' he said. He looked at her, seeing her properly for the first time, even though the light was dim. She had a remarkable combination of very brown eyes and blond hair, a beguiling alliance of dark and light, a composition of opposites. The face, framed by wayward hair which she kept pushing back, had a delicate bone structure of the kind you sometimes see on ballerinas. She wore almost no make-up or if she did it had been so skilfully applied it wasn't noticeable. Her only item of jewellery was a slender silver chain around her neck.

‘I'm genuinely sorry. I am. Obviously the car means a lot to you. All I can say in my own defence is I got confused when I turned the corner. I just kind of instinctively moved into the right lane instead of the left. Typical American tourist ditz, huh? They shouldn't let us loose in the world, should they? They shouldn't issue us with passports.'

Pagan laid one hand on the side of the Camaro, the gesture of a man comforting a wounded horse. The girl moved a little closer to him, scanning the car. ‘What year? Sixty-three?'

‘Sixty-two,' Pagan said. ‘A collector's item.'

‘I'll give you my insurance details,' she said. ‘The Ford's rented, but it's fully covered. I guess we should exchange names and addresses. Is that the routine here? Or do we have to call the cops and report the accident?'

Pagan took out his wallet, showed the girl his Special Branch identity card.

‘Oh shit, no,' she said. ‘You
are
a cop. Is this where you handcuff me and drag me in for reckless driving?'

‘It's a temptation,' Pagan said.

The girl was quiet for a time, looking beyond Pagan in the direction of the river. He was drawn into her features, the slight look of worry in her eyes. She brushed a gloved hand nervously against her lower lip and turned her face back to Pagan. ‘Well? What happens next? Do I need to get myself a lawyer?'

‘A lawyer? God
forbid
,' Pagan said. Lawyers, in Pagan's scheme of things, occupied the same oily rung as politicians. ‘We do just what you said. We exchange insurance information. I'll report the accident myself.'

‘And then what?'

‘Then we let the insurance people sort it out.'

‘That's it? No arrest for dangerous driving?'

‘You made a mistake, that's all.'

‘You're being generous.'

‘Our economy needs tourists,' Pagan said, trying to make light of the situation although his attention strayed back to the creased lid of the boot, which resembled a scar. Flecks of red paint had peeled away from the undercoat. He thought: Tell yourself it's only a car, you've suffered more in your lifetime than a bloody dent in an automobile. You can restore cars; you can't resurrect people.

‘You're going to need a mechanic,' he said. ‘I don't think your car's going anywhere.'

She turned to the Escort, which was still hissing madly. She shrugged. ‘I'll phone the car hire company. They'll fix me up with a replacement, I guess.'

‘That might take some time. And this isn't exactly the safest place in town to linger. Where were you headed before you decided to ram my Camaro?'

‘I wouldn't phrase it quite like that,' she remarked. ‘I'm staying at the Hilton. Park Lane.'

‘I'll drive you.'

‘You don't have to …'

Pagan opened the door, turned the key in the ignition. The Camaro started at once. The girl locked her Escort and stepped in on the passenger side of Pagan's car and said, ‘This only makes me feel more guilty, you know. Are you usually this tolerant and kind?'

‘I'm usually a bastard,' Pagan said.

‘Yeah. Right.' She held her hands in her lap as the car started forward. ‘Are you what they call a bobby?'

‘Not exactly. I was spared the indignity of a uniform. I specialize in counter-terrorism. I track down deranged persons with bombs and sundry explosive devices. Your basic political madmen.'

‘Dangerous stuff.'

‘It has its moments.'

He turned the car into Trafalgar Square where a few drunks had clustered round Nelson's Column. They had the look of conspirators who have forgotten the basic reason for their assembly and were shuffling around aimlessly, as if in search of a lucid spokesman.

‘What's your name, by the way?' the girl asked. ‘I didn't get to read it on your somewhat imposing ID.'

‘Frank Pagan.' The interior of the car was filled with her perfume, which was fragile, a hint of cinnamon.

‘Pagan. I'm Brennan.'

‘That's your first name?'

‘It wasn't my choice. I got it at birth.'

Pagan listened to the car as he drove. He thought he detected an unusual vibration from the area of the rear axle.
Terrific. Next thing the bloody wheels will fall off
. In Park Lane he parked as close to the Hilton as he could. The girl opened her door.

‘The very least I can do is offer you a drink,' she said.

Pagan hesitated. Maybe he needed company. Maybe he needed to slough off solitude, breathe air that wasn't tainted by the stench of the tunnel.

She got out of the car and said, ‘Come on,' and Pagan followed, thinking of the unexpected twist the night had taken. He walked beside her into the lobby and they moved towards the bar. Inside, she took off her coat, scarf and gloves, and placed them on a chair. She was wearing a short black silk dress.

He sat down, looked up into the girl's face, seeing in the muted light of the bar just how perfect the architecture of her bone structure was. The delicacy he'd noticed on the Embankment was gone; she had a surprisingly strong face. He saw layers there of determination, perhaps even a sedimentary stubbornness, but these were alleviated by a quiet mocking light in the eyes.

‘What are you drinking?' she asked.

‘Are you playing waitress?'

‘I'm good at it.'

‘Scotch and soda. No ice.'

He watched her walk to the bar. She moved with a lack of self-consciousness. With grace, he thought. He wondered how old she might be. Twenty? Twenty-one? That would make her slightly less than half his age. It was a sobering consideration, the kind that made you puzzle over where the years had gone and what you'd done with your time on the planet. Other people's youthfulness could be terrifying. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him. A crumpled linen suit, a crushed blue shirt, steely hair, a face in need of a shave. He thought he probably resembled a composite picture of a bad credit risk.

She returned with two drinks. She set the scotch and soda in front of him and sat down facing him, raising her glass of vodka. ‘Cheers,' she said.

‘What brings you to London?' he asked. He was useless when it came to small-talk. He always felt clumsy with chatter. He hated parties, forced conversations.

‘It was the last stop on my itinerary. All my life I've wanted to see Europe – the Doge's Palace in Venice, Notre Dame, Monte Carlo because I like to gamble. I'm usually lucky. Then I always wanted to see London.'

‘You travel alone.'

‘Is that so strange?'

He shook his head and was quiet a moment, fidgeting with his drink. ‘You're American,' he said.

‘New York. You know it?'

‘A little.'

‘I run a catering company in Manhattan. Private parties for the most part. Bar mitzvahs. Weddings. I've got a few clients on Wall Street who still like to serve lavish lunches for their best customers. If there's a recession, they don't know about it.'

‘Chicken vol-au-vent and devilled eggs for the wealthy,' Pagan said.

‘And cocktail sausages on tiny sticks?' She laughed. It was a tuneful sound, a fragment of melody. ‘You've got it all wrong. Our customers are into American cuisine.'

‘What's that? Rattlesnake pâté? Cactus jam?'

‘Quit teasing me. The stuff we do is for health-conscious Americans. Jogger's food. If there's meat it has to be white and lean. Salads made from designer lettuces. Radicchio. Arugula. Mache. Dandelion weeds are a big favourite. The good old iceberg has had its day. Why are you smiling? Does my occupation amuse you, Frank Pagan?'

Pagan shrugged. ‘I don't see you in a kitchen slicing greens. I can't imagine you in an apron, up to your elbows in stalks and leaves.'

‘Why not?'

‘I'm not absolutely sure. The lovely young lady in the black silk dress at the tables in Monte Carlo, the woman in the apron. I don't know. Maybe it's the contrast.'

She looked at him for a time, as if she were trying to classify him. ‘Let me see if I understand. You're an old-fashioned guy who likes easy categories, is that it? The kind of woman who's at home in a kitchen shouldn't be hanging out in European cities on her own, right?'

‘I didn't say that.'

‘Then I'm not sure what you
are
saying, Frank.'

‘Maybe I'm just surprised.'

‘Surprised by what? I work, I play.'

Pagan looked at her face and realized he was being quietly teased for his failure to fathom her. Dear God, he thought. Has my imagination atrophied after six weeks of my own company? What the hell is wrong with me anyway? An old-fashioned kind of a guy: he wasn't like that. That implied premature senility, an arthritis of attitude. You need to get out more, Pagan. You need to live.

She looked down into her drink. ‘Anyway. I'm probably keeping you from something. You were probably rushing home when I smacked into you. Do you want to phone anyone?'

Pagan shook his head. ‘There's nobody,' he remarked. He paused a second, then – without knowing why he felt the need to say more – added, ‘My wife's dead.'

‘Oh. I'm sorry.'

‘It was a long time ago. I don't dwell on it.' He wondered if he'd carried off the lie. Lately, for reasons he didn't understand, he'd been thinking more and more of Roxanne. Maybe grief was something you never overcame; it was a lifelong series of absences that kept stalking you.

‘I'm sorry I asked, Frank.'

He sipped his drink. ‘She was killed near Harrods. A terrorist bomb. An IRA gift on Christmas Eve.'

‘Jesus,' she said. The depth of sadness in her voice touched him.

He said, ‘It comes with the business of living. You take what comes along. Bad, good, whatever. Things happen. You can't do much about them. Life goes on … after a fashion.'

She turned her face to one side. He couldn't see her expression. When she looked back at him her eyes were damp.

‘I didn't mean to upset you,' he said.

‘It's just,' and she broke off her sentence, raised her glass to her mouth, sipped. ‘I have a sentimental streak
this
wide. I hate tragedies. I hate to hear about people dying for no reason. I go to weepie movies armed with wads of Kleenex and I cry when I hear the lines of certain songs. Call it a character flaw.'

‘I don't see it as a flaw,' he said.

‘Don't you?'

He shook his head and said, ‘There are enough hard characters in the world. What's so terrible about being sentimental?'

‘Some people might consider it a weakness, that's all.' She reached across the table and touched the back of his hand. ‘I'm sorry about your wife.' The contact of skin lasted only a second but long enough for him to experience the vibrancy of unexpected intimacy. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had touched him. His passage through the world in recent years had been a solitary one. There had been a couple of liaisons, none entirely satisfactory in the end; it was as if each of these affairs, if that was the word, had contained the source of its own destruction from the very beginning.

She finished her drink. ‘Do you want a refill?'

‘I really ought to be going,' he said. He didn't have any great conviction in his voice and he wondered if she noticed. He was suddenly reluctant to be on his own; melancholy was rolling like a fog toward him. He looked at the girl, who was gazing at him. The connection of eyes seemed to diminish the physical space between them. He stared down into his drink, and the connection was broken.