Blind Spot Page 3

  She sipped. The wine was too sweet for her taste, but she was counting on it to ease the knots of tension that wracked her shoulders. Sara tried to appear relaxed as she asked, ‘Did anything interesting happen today?’

  Jo, the forty-something social worker who had founded the charity, laughed. ‘Just take a look at this lady!’ she said. ‘Gone for one single day, and she can’t bear to be away from the excitement.’

  The others chuckled. Sara began to breathe a little easier; Jo’s good humour suggested there were no recent complaints from self-righteous hipsters.

  ‘No one asked for me?’ she said more pointedly.

  ‘Were you expecting someone to?’

  Sara shook her head and tried to relax. Wilson had not contacted the office.

  Over the next couple of drinks, a rambling discussion developed about career choices. A fellow counsellor named Rohini asked, ‘What about you, Sara? What made you decide to be a psychiatrist?’

  Previously, Rohini had been a corporate psychologist with an international firm of accountants. Sara had never discovered what specific eddies of life had made this go-getting young woman drift away from such a big-time career towards the far less remunerative role of mental health counsellor.

  ‘In what way?’ Sara asked.

  ‘You were a medical doctor first, is that so?’ Rohini asked.

  Sara nodded. ‘You have to be, if you want to be a psychiatrist,’ she replied.

  ‘Is that something a lot of doctors want to do?’

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ Sara laughed. ‘Most medical students wouldn’t talk to a psychiatrist, let alone become one.’

  Ellen, the staff solicitor, leaned in. The move brought a waft of the day’s cigarettes and traces of White Linen perfume. ‘So, you’re some sort of medical maverick? Eager to buck the trend?’

  Sara smiled. There were reasons she had chosen her profession, but none she wanted to explain. ‘That’s me,’ she said, ‘a right rebel.’

  ‘Oh, we like rebels,’ chuckled Sara’s boss. Sara noticed Jo’s Nigerian accent had grown thicker over the course of the conversation – something that happened when she drank. Jo added in a loud whisper, ‘We especially like rebels whose salaries are paid by someone else!’

  Sara raised her wine glass. ‘Then please let me offer a toast to my benefactors, Andrew Turner & Associates,’ she said. ‘Long may they cover my salary!’

  Everyone drank to Andy and his charitable largesse. Ellen took orders for another round of drinks, and the conversation drifted away from Sara. She sipped her wine and pretended to listen to the meandering current of words, all the while thinking about Tim Wilson.

  Wilson may not have complained today, Sara thought, but it was no guarantee that he wouldn’t do so tomorrow or the next day. Her best insurance against that, Sara decided, was the very thing she had taken pains to keep hidden – the livid mottling under her scarf. Wilson, after all, had attacked her. Complaining about Sara would force him to admit to what he’d done.

  Ironically, Wilson’s violence may be the one protection she now had.

  Jo set the dregs of her rum and coke on the table and stood. She had to leave, she said – she and her wife had tickets to a show. Ellen and Rohini took that as their cue to gather up their things as well. As Jo and Ellen made a quick last trip to the ladies’ room, Rohini looked at Sara curiously and said, ‘Sometimes I count the number of frowns I see in a day.’

  Sara smiled. ‘That’s an odd hobby.’

  ‘Today,’ Rohini continued, ‘yours makes forty-six.’ Sara shrugged apologetically. She hadn’t realised her gloomy thoughts were so obvious. ‘I have a headache,’ she said.

  Sara realised that this was true. The wine had done little to lessen her stress. She focused attention on her spine and tried to lengthen it, the way her Alexander Technique teacher had once taught her.

  ‘You do seem sad,’ Rohini persisted.

  Sara feigned surprise. ‘Really?’

  Rohini studied her with professional speculation. ‘May I ask a personal question?’

  Sara blew air from her cheeks – an exaggerated reaction to lighten Rohini’s tone. ‘Oh, go on, then,’ she said.

  ‘Do you take antidepressants?’

  When Sara blinked, Rohini blushed. ‘That was too personal, wasn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Sara said. She emptied the last swirl of wine from her glass. ‘Frankly, I don’t know many psychiatrists who haven’t taken them at one time or another.’

  ‘You’re not taking them now?’

  Sara shook her head.

  Rohini let the silence between them express her concern. She laid a hand on Sara’s wrist. ‘Maybe you should,’ she said.

  Sara drove from London Fields to Islington, and parked in a tranquil square nestled just behind Upper Street. She stared through the windscreen at the brown brick house that had once belonged to her brother. Sara recalled Rhoddo introducing her to the place not long after his promotion to CEO, and still giddy with his good fortune. ‘Over two million quid I’ve paid for this,’ he’d said with a chuckle. ‘Can you bloody imagine?’

  It would have made more sense to have bought something down on the Surrey-Hampshire border – an executive home closer to company headquarters. But Rhodri had said he liked the buzz around The Angel, with its cool-but-casual restaurants, and its cinemas and clubs.

  Not to mention, Sara had thought, all those brothels clustered around Holloway.

  By the time Rhodri died, the value of the place had more than doubled. As his only beneficiary, Sara could have moved in here with her partner Jamie, or used the profits to buy somewhere more to their taste. Instead, she’d sold the house quickly, giving a large chunk of the money to the family of Maja Bosco, the young woman Rhodri had murdered. Right up there on the first floor.

  Sara recalled that night vividly – how she’d leapt from an Uber taxi on this very spot, and let herself through that glossy door. Even now, she could relive the growing trepidation she had felt as she crept up the stairs. Her brother was still alive when she found him, bleeding heavily from his wrists. Rhoddo had changed his mind about dying. He begged Sara to use whatever medical skill or magic she possessed to save his life. Instead, Dr Sara Jones had chosen to let her brother die – a choice spurred by one of her first-ever psychic visions, of Rhodri murdering their parents when they were both only teenagers.

  On four occasions since then, Sara had foreseen grisly deaths that would be brought about by strangers she had encountered on the street. A homeless man who would one day commit deadly arson. An alcoholic mother who would kill her child. A troubled young man who would plough his car into oncoming traffic. Sara’s psychic mentor, Eldon Carson, would have killed each of them before they could commit their crimes. Sara, however, had intervened by offering these strangers free counselling at her mental health charity.

  In all three cases, Sara’s trances had told her she’d changed the future. It was as if each upcoming act of murder had been erased.

  She was hoping to do the same with Client Number Four, Tim Wilson – because in eight months’ time, without Sara’s intervention, Tim would commit a bloody murder. That fatal outcome would be set in motion a few days from now, when Wilson would visit a bar in Hackney for a first date with the new love of his life: a kindly older man named Philip Berger. Berger had only recently swapped his wife, kids and home in Chingford for an East End bedsit and liberation. Next September, he would move into Wilson’s flat, and in the winter Tim Wilson would fall into a violent rage and beat the man to death.

  Sara might have failed to foresee Wilson squeezing her throat this morning, but she was more than certain about the pulpy mess he would make of Philip Berger. She knew she must convince that bulk of tattooed rage to see her professionally.

  Sara was disturbed by a rapping on the Mini’s glass. She started, and looked up. A traffic warden peered down at her. Sara lowered the window.

  ‘Sorry, madam,’ the woman said.
‘This street is permits-only. Do you live here?’

  ‘I could have,’ Sara said quietly.

  The woman gurned uncomprehendingly and Sara turned the ignition key. ‘Never mind.’

  She was ready to go, anyway. She realised she had brought herself here to relive these sobering memories, and to ponder what they suggested about her next moves. But now, she had pondered as much as she could. Sara had let her brother die because he was irredeemable – just as she had later helped three potential killers who could be saved. But what if Client Number Four didn’t want to be helped? Could Sara bring herself to ignore Tim Wilson’s bloody future, and in the process let Philip Berger die? She didn’t know the answer.

  But she had a pretty clear idea of what Eldon Carson would have said.

  THREE

  In a well-appointed flat in Mayfair, Gerrit Vos stared out of the leaded windowpanes at the red brick and white stone Edwardian buildings that lined the road. Green Street was a straight, narrow thoroughfare that ran off Park Lane. It had once been the centre of a small Roman town that had been abandoned in favour of land closer to the river. Later a bastion of the British aristocracy, the street and surrounding area were now a second home to wealthy transnationals, and a base for upmarket retail outlets and corporate headquarters. For Thorndike Aerospace, Green Street was a place to house visiting dignitaries. For Gerrit Vos, it was a silent spot for private meetings.

  Squinting through the drizzle, Vos noted how the black iron railings in front of every building reflected off the wet grey pavements. It made each straight rail look like a legionnaire’s spear, protruding from the body of sand and gravel from which London rose. Vos hoped the man he was waiting for had the nous to arrive in a taxi. Vos disliked the musty animal pong of rain-damp wool. Sheep smell was bad enough, but cashmere was even worse. He didn’t want this lovely little room to stink like a wet goat.

  He checked his Breitling Chronomat – a gift from the same Saudi prince who leased this flat to Thorndike on the cheap, as part of a complicated barter. The time was 11:51. At least Rootenberg wasn’t late. Vos pulled out his phone. ‘Yeah, it’s me,’ he told his partner’s voicemail. ‘I’m in town. We’re due at that guy’s flat in Brixton for a stupidly early dinner. Sorry about that – we’ll dash as soon as we can. Where will you be? I’ll pick you up.’

  His reluctant tone was a sop to Nicole. She could not have been looking forward to eating with potential business associates of his – especially when neither of them knew Jamie Harding or his partner. But from what Vos had seen so far, he approved of this ex-police inspector. The guy reminded Vos of himself, years ago – before a whole shit-storm of change had bowled him over. On the whole, that change had been for the best. Still, there was no denying it – when he’d picked himself back up, Vos had found he was a different man.

  As he rang off, the flat’s buzzer sounded. His guest was early. The guy’s eager, he thought. Maybe a tad too desperate to jump back in the saddle.

  ‘Top floor,’ he muttered into the intercom, and wondered whether Rootenberg would climb the stairs or take the lift. And whether he’d be stinking-wet when he got here.

  Levi Rootenberg was a small-time arms broker. In that sprawling, deadly community known as the International Arms Trade, no one really agreed on the specifics of such a job title. There were simply too many variables. Some brokers were no more than middlemen who negotiated deals: this much ammunition from China to Iraq, so many AK-47s from Russia to the Afghan Kush. Others offered ancillary services, from finding transport to haggling over insurance. The more countries involved, the bigger the cat’s cradle of legislation and mandatory paperwork.

  That is, if a broker obeyed the law, or tried for the permits. That was another difference between arms middlemen: most went by the book, but a few were downright dodgy. Always, transgressors formed the minority; punishments were harsh and human rights groups kept a righteous eye on global arms traffic. But for those willing to slip through the shadows, remuneration could be high – and some discreet principality or other would always shield the broker’s darkly drawn wealth.

  This was the world that Levi Rootenberg aspired to join: a society in which devil-may-care rogues traversed the globe, raking in illicit fortunes. To that end, he had once held a valid Trade Control Licence, which made him a broker in the UK, plus a South African dealer’s licence and several other bona fides. However, he had also said yes to assignments for which no permits could be obtained. Some were in violation of UN embargoes, others involved recipients frowned upon by Western governments. Levi Rootenberg had never had the luxury of being picky. Truth be told, he’d been at the trade for less than five years, and, so far, wealth had eluded him.

  Vos opened the flat’s glossy white door and heard heavy trudging. Rootenberg was taking the stairs. Impressive, for such a pudgy little guy. Rootenberg arrived at the top of the stairs panting, but mercifully dry.

  ‘Lee,’ Vos said noncommittally.

  Rootenberg pumped his hand. ‘Gerrit!’

  Vos hung up the man’s jacket, and they talked about old times as he mixed drinks. With a gin and tonic in hand, Rootenberg settled his back into the sofa cushion. ‘This is nice,’ he sighed contentedly. ‘We haven’t spoken since you saved my arse.’

  The deal that undid Levi Rootenberg had not involved Thorndike Aerospace; it was far too piffling for Vos even to have heard of, until Rootenberg rang him in distress. Rootenberg had been caught brokering a shipment of Zastava handguns that had been meant to travel from the Balkans to Libya. By the time he turned to Vos for help, the arms broker had already lost his UK licence, and was staring down some serious prison time. Although those ex-Yugoslav service weapons had never touched British soil, the deal had been part-negotiated in London, and that was enough to lead to Rootenberg’s arrest. When lawyer’s fees had eaten through much of the cash stashed in his Lichtenstein account, Rootenberg turned to the one acquaintance who had the funds, political contacts, and sheer underhanded fuckery to get his case dismissed.

  ‘I’m really grateful for everything you did,’ Rootenberg told Vos.

  ‘Yes, I got that batch of Scotch,’ Vos said. ‘Twenty-one-year-old Macallan. Not bad.’

  The truth, Vos reflected, was that he would rather Rootenberg had kept the Scotch and left him the hell alone in the first place.

  Rootenberg ran a hand over his bald scalp. ‘Next time, I hope be able to afford better,’ he said.

  Vos raised an eyebrow. ‘Next time you’re in prison?’

  ‘Next time I have cause to thank you.’

  Vos smiled sardonically. Levi Rootenberg had never been a subtle man. He stood and wandered to the window. Opening it an inch, Vos felt a wet breeze blow in. Several floors below, a Burberry umbrella swayed and bobbed down the street. ‘What exactly do you hope to thank me for?’ he asked, his back to his old acquaintance.

  ‘I’ve had a thought.’

  Vos turned around. The arms dealer was smiling slyly. It made him look like a coy baby.

  ‘I imagined you had,’ Vos said. ‘You’re looking for some sort of payday.’

  ‘My lawyers were expensive,’ Rootenberg conceded. ‘They were useless pieces of shit, too. You accomplished everything they couldn’t.’

  Vos returned to his seat, drained his G&T and mixed himself another. ‘Lee, Thorndike is a global company,’ he began. ‘We’ve got so many eyes on us, careful doesn’t begin to describe what we need to be. What are we supposed to do with an unlicensed broker?’

  ‘Oh, come on, man,’ Rootenberg said. ‘You must already have some deals flying under the radar.’

  ‘Nothing I can talk about,’ Vos said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘You play your cards close to the chest,’ Rootenberg observed, ‘but you and I both know I’m most valuable in the deals they want to keep quiet.’ He smiled. ‘After all, it’s how we met.’

  Vos could feel his eyes narrowing as he stared at Rootenberg. Even when trying to be obvious, there were certa
in things a person should shut the fuck up about. Vos was beginning to regret agreeing to see this old acquaintance … but then again, their mutual past was precisely why he had said yes. Vos didn’t want to piss the man off. The only way he could trust him to keep his mouth shut was if that mouth continued to be fed.

  ‘What we did in South Africa was for Thorndike Aerospace,’ Rootenberg went on. ‘Are you telling me Rhodri Jones didn’t know about it?’

  ‘Not the details, I’m fairly certain.’

  ‘He promoted you.’

  ‘I got results.’

  ‘We got results,’ Rootenberg corrected.

  ‘Look,’ Vos said, ‘Mr Jones did not want to know what we did. That’s the point. He was pleased by the outcome, and paid you well for your services.’

  ‘I’m not disagreeing with that,’ Rootenberg said. ‘What I’m saying is, compared to that, the business I want to propose today will be a walk in the park.’

  Vos shook his head wearily. A single arms deal could involve the Ministry of Defence, the Department for International Trade, the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, and sometimes even the office of the Prime Minister. That was a lot of bureaucracy to sneak by.

  Rootenberg gulped his drink, then set the empty glass on the coffee table. ‘In the short term, the risk is almost non-existent,’ he said, ‘and long term, it could lead to a relationship that would be very profitable for Thorndike Aerospace. Probably even legal – in time.’

  Vos exhaled heavily. This shitty conversation was all part of the deal. He was having to listen to it as payment for the deeds of his past. Vos’s years in business had taught him that trusting someone was never a one-time thing. Once you had crossed a line with another person, neither of you forgot it. The very act presumed a new state of intimacy – not to mention complicity – that lasted far into the future. You became each other’s responsibilities.

  ‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘I’m not making any promises, but I’ll listen to whatever you’re suggesting.’