Shadow Box (20 page)

“Promotion?” I asked.

“Well, yes,” Anna admitted. “But this is turning into a bigger, more complex affair than we imagined when you first went to see Tommy.”

“You’re telling me,” I said. “I thought it was a missing persons thing, but until now the last thing on anyone’s mind seems to have been finding Sophie Kelly.”

“I’m sure Tony told you it was never simply about finding Sophie. The promise of finding her is the only thing that gives us leverage with Tommy. In the meantime, we get on with the job of finding who he’s dealing with … or who’s trying to turn him over while he’s inside.”

The lack of importance placed on Sophie’s whereabouts rankled me; as well as being Tommy’s motivation, it was my own. I wanted her back.

“A visitor. How lovely,” Tommy Kelly said, chirpy. “Hello, stranger. What do I call you these days? Kieran?”

I stood up and we shook hands, his grasp dry and warm as I had remembered, the visiting room at Belmarsh as stark and institutional as ever.

“You look well,” I said. He did. He had a light tan and his hair had been recently cut.

“I am,” he smiled. “I’ve been outside, doing a bit of gardening. Privileges for my immaculate behaviour.” He laughed. “Grown some tomatoes.”

“You’ve had a haircut.”

“One of the nonces used to work for Vidal Sassoon,” he said, brushing a palm across his hair. “Before he chopped up a fifteen-year-old rent boy.” He laughed again. “I wouldn’t buy a pie off him.” He appeared in good spirits. “So what’s new, old son?”

“Not much,” I said. “Or not much I can tell you.”

“I shouldn’t worry on that score,” he said. “I tend to keep abreast of current affairs.”

“I brought you a present,” I said. I lifted a heavy art book:
Contemporary Art, 2000–2015.
It had already been heavily vetted by prison security and was found not to contain a file, gun or length of rope.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading, and a bit of painting myself. I’m big on Lucian Freud at the minute. I can knock out a fair copy. Maybe you can sell them to some Russians for me?” He smiled at his own joke. “I didn’t think much of him when he was alive, but in here I’ve had time to have a proper look. Fantastic flesh tones. He doesn’t do likenesses as such, but really gets at the soul of his sitters, like he’s looking under their skin.” I nodded my agreement. “Apart from the one he did of the Queen. Made her look like a blind cobbler’s thumb.”

“I haven’t had much time for culture,” I said. “But this is a great book. I’ve been getting into Gerhard Richter a bit.”

“Photo-derived stuff.” He curled his lip.

“Yes, like surveillance photos, video-based work … there’s an interesting one on page 236.”

He flicked through the book, stopping to look at things that held appeal until he arrived at the designated page. I leant over.

“This is one of his New York pieces.”

I pointed at the picture on the page. It was the photo of Sophie in New York, which had been carefully Photoshopped and printed onto a false page, the typography and paper quality identical to the rest of the book.

“Nice work,” he said.

“Yes, it was part of a series taken in New York department stores, using surveillance cameras. Read the bumf, it’s interesting.”

Tommy ran his finger over the small print buried within the art-speak:
Miss S Kelly, Barneys Department Store, New York.

It was dated a week before. Failed to mention the name of the second girl, who had been cropped from the picture.

“You sure?” he said. He looked up at me, eyes locked on mine.

“Sure as we can be,” I said. “It’s from a good source.”

“Hair’s confusing,” he said. He looked closely at the photo. “But I think it’s right.”

He used the language he would use to describe a real painting over a fake, and could not conceal a smile at the thought that his daughter was alive and apparently free in New York.

“I think it’s right,” I said.

“Good work,” Tommy said. “So what are you waiting for?”

Sharpie’s objection to me going to New York was stronger than his objection to me visiting Tommy. Although he was my case officer, Anna seemed to have engineered my visit to Tommy and was encouraging the possibility of my going to the States. I couldn’t work out why she was apparently working against Sharp’s wishes. Did I detect the guiding hand of Tony Morris somewhere in the background? Whatever the case, Sharp was having none of it.

“You’re diving in too quickly,” he said crossly. “You don’t know what sort of hot water you might be jumping into.”

“It’s never stopped anyone throwing me in at the deep end before,” I protested.

“Yes, well, I wasn’t your case officer then.”

“You have been recently,” I said sniffily, “and I’ve been in some pretty deep water in the last week or so.”

“New York is a different kettle of fish,” he said. “It’s a big place, we have few leads. I’m not sending you off on a blind Sophie-hunt.”

“I thought you had CIA links,” I said, getting smart.

“We do,” Sharp snapped. “And that information is a bit above your pay grade.”

It was a phrase I’d heard from Ian Baylis, Sharpie’s and my former superior. It stung to hear Sharpie use it – I considered him a mate. He could see I was hurt, and softened a little.

“Listen, Eddie, as your case officer I do also have your safety in mind. You’ve done great work digging up links here, stuff that has already had repercussions. We have to digest some of that before we even think of making a transatlantic link. My feeling is that it does join up, but we don’t know how, exactly; Anna’s still working on it. You’ve just been roughed up pretty thoroughly and I think you could do with a rest. When we’re exhausted we make rash decisions, our focus isn’t as clear and neither are our judgements. That’s why we all need someone above us making sure we’re taking the right steps.”

I began to concede defeat. Maybe he was right. After my ordeal, my adrenaline was running on reserve, but it had also given me a manic energy to continue. My meeting with Tommy Kelly had geed me up too. I had left Belmarsh fired up to go looking for Sophie. Maybe Tommy had cranked me up a bit.

“OK,” I said. “But don’t treat me like some wet-behind-the-ears kid.”

“That’s the last thing I’d do, Eddie. For your age, you are one of the most experienced operatives we have. I’ve been doing this a few years longer than you, with some good results, but I have never been in some of the tight spots that you have. I respect that.”

I was surprisingly buoyed up by the compliment.

“It’s just that I have a broad overview of this situation that’s taken me months, or longer, to assemble. I don’t want to wreck things by jumping the gun.”

“OK, Sharpie,” I said. “I’ll hang fire.”

“Don’t take it personally,” he said.

“I won’t,” I said. But I did.

I had a drink in the bar with Anna after work.

We stood on the balcony overlooking the Thames so she could smoke while she drank a large glass of white. I watched a couple of Thames luggers making their slow progress up the river. I was a bit moody.

“He might be right,” Anna said. “You could be wallowing around in New York looking for a needle in a haystack. It’s a big place.”

“So’s London,” I argued, sulkily waving at the cityscape. “But you lot still managed to wheedle Hannah Connolly out and involve me in that mess.”

“But we’re on the ground here, Eddie. Our intel is instant. Over there we’re relying on second-hand information. There’s no one more secretive than American intelligence agencies. We’re lucky to get a man on the ground over there at all. We often don’t let the Yanks know what we’re up to, because if we asked permission they’d say no. We’re stupidly grateful if they pass on a phone number, let alone surveillance pictures.”

“So how did you get the pics of Sophie?”

“I have a friend in the NYPD.”

“There you go,” I said. “You could put me in touch with your friend.”

Anna took a sip of wine and gave me a sideways glance.

“I don’t think it’s the kind of friendship you would be able to maintain,” she said. Unconsciously, she smoothed her skirt and I got the message.

“Do you sleep with everyone to get them to do what you want?” I asked. My voice sounded cold and dry in my mouth, and my tone was petulant.

“Harsh,” she said, cool. “And I think you’ve overstepped the mark.”

“Sorry.”

“I know what you think,” she said. “But I’m also fucking good at my job – and whatever else, I’ve looked after you and got you out of quite a few difficult situations.”

It was true. She’d come and found me when I was out of my depth with Tommy Kelly and Bashmakov in Croatia. She’d got to me first when I’d been shot by Donnie Mulvaney, and saved my life. She’d flown me out of Spain when my cock was on the block.

“Look, I’m sorry…”

She hadn’t finished. “So don’t give me your petty moralizing, Eddie. Of course I have associates, colleagues, people I get close to; people I
have
to get close to. You know the score. It goes with the territory.”

I was beginning to feel ashamed of myself. I remembered staying in her flat when I was down and insecure, how she had looked after me.

“I’m sorry, Anna, I’m out of line.”

“Bang out of order.” She stared out across the river, avoiding my eyes. I felt awful now. She was as tired of it all as I was.

“Anna, can I get you another drink, and then maybe we can go and eat?”

“Sure,” she said, finally. As I left for the bar I thought I saw her wipe a tear from her eye before lighting another cigarette.

I woke up to sun streaming through the window. I could smell freshly laundered sheets, and my head sank deep into a feathery pillow. I turned to see Anna’s chestnut hair spread across the next pillow. I looked at her face, beautiful, thick-lashed and relaxed in sleep, as the night before came back to me.

It had been a release of tension for both of us, and Anna wasn’t one to hold a grudge. We’d drunk some more wine and eaten in an intimate Japanese restaurant near Hyde Park, then piled into a cab, laughing and tipsy, recounting old times. I’d felt the pressure of Anna’s leg against mine in the cab and remembered what I’d been missing, then we’d kissed until the cabbie muttered something about getting a room.

We’d tumbled out into the square in Stockwell. There was no question of my taking the cab back to my flat.

There were more drinks, and some music. I had the feeling that Anna hadn’t let her hair down like this for a long time. Neither had I, and I barely remembered jumping into bed in the early hours with a night’s booze on our breath and Anna’s smooth, warm body against mine.

Well, I remembered a bit.

“Morning.” She opened an eye as I brought her tea and put it by the bed. “What time is it?”

“Seven-fifteen,” I said.

Anna picked up her phone.

“Working from home this morning. In after lunch,” she dictated to herself.

I slipped back into bed beside her, sipping my tea, then felt Anna’s arm stray across the bed, lazily stroking my stomach. I put down my tea and rolled towards her again, inhaling a baby powder and slightly sweaty bed smell as I put my face into her neck.

We sat drinking coffee at eleven, a couple more hours’ sleep making us feel more human.

“I’m sorry, Anna,” I said suddenly.

“What for? Never explain, never complain.”

“I just feel…”

“What?”

“That maybe we use each other.”

“Hmm,” she considered. “Nice, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes.”

“So what’s there to be sorry for? We’re not cheating on anyone, are we? We’re grown-ups. Sometimes we need simple human contact with someone familiar.”

“I guess so,” I said. “We always have a good time.”

“And we’re a long time dead.”

We kissed again, but within the hour Anna was back into work mode, firing off emails and texts, checking her phone, showering and drying her hair with brisk efficiency. Fun over.

“I’d better be going,” I said.

“No hurry.” But it was clear from Anna’s tone that our respite was finished and she had to be back on the case.

“I was thinking,” she said, looking up for a moment. “Instead of knocking around here, why don’t you go back to your mum’s for a couple of days?”