Blind Spot Page 4

  ‘That’s all I ask,’ Rootenberg said eagerly. He waved a hand towards his glass. ‘That, and maybe another drink.’

  Later, Gerrit Vos’s Porsche roared and sputtered through Fitzrovia towards the East End. There, Nicole had been meeting with one of the suppliers to her online shop, and now waited for her partner to take her to a dull dinner in Brixton. As he pushed through the stop-start judder of Central London traffic, Vos thought about Zimbabwe. Fucking Zimbabwe, Rootenberg’s home turf, and an unwelcome distraction from Vos’s day-to-day routine. Rootenberg’s argument had gone like this: at the moment, UN, European and UK sanctions were leaving Zimbabwe’s defence market open to non-Western competitors, especially the Russians. However, it was Rootenberg’s assessment that the shifting sands of international diplomacy – not to mention the inevitable deaths of several elderly African strongmen – would one day reopen the country for business.

  At that time, one of two things would happen: either the Russians and Chinese would continue to enjoy their trade monopoly, or the British government would step in and win big-money contracts for the major players in the UK defence industry. As things stood, however, Thorndike Aerospace was unlikely to be among them. The company may benefit from subcontracting certain jobs, as it had always done, but it would not be considered as a prime contractor.

  That is, unless it already had a personal relationship with, and track record of sales, to factions within the Zimbabwean military. Fortunately, Rootenberg said, he was on good terms with an element within that very military, who would welcome the chance to purchase much-needed British supplies. ‘What I’m offering today is long-term geopolitical insurance,’ he had said.

  Rootenberg’s plan was to start small by brokering some minor arms deals with Zimbabwe, selling items that, he assured Vos, he could get into the country under anyone’s radar. This would earn the trust of his friends in a certain faction of the military, and form the basis of a longer-term relationship. ‘Thorndike wants to be a prime contractor,’ he had said. ‘And – correct me if I’m wrong – I think you harbour a secret ambition to be CEO. Well, I’m offering a chance to take steps towards both ambitions.’

  Vos had said he would consider the proposal. What else could he do, until he had decided how to deal with Rootenberg longer-term? But he felt in his bones that the man’s plan was stupid. Vos doubted that even Rootenberg believed in it. Most likely, he was financially strapped, and grappling to rustle up some short-term cash. The whole sordid business depressed Vos, but he had a job to do. He knew Thorndike’s best interests lay not with desperate arms brokers and their pie-in-the-sky schemes, but in lobbying Westminster, and working to be allowed to bid as prime contractor on both government and foreign jobs. Make it all perfectly legal – or at least, keep things morally sketchy in precisely the way Whitehall mandarins approved of. The way that allowed cabinet ministers to go to bat for good old British bombs.

  On the windscreen, rivulets of rain were being shoved aside by the metronome-sweep of the Porsche’s wipers. Peering through the shifting view, Vos could make out Nicole, standing under the awning of Aldgate tube station. He pulled up and tapped his horn. The poor girl must be dreading the next couple hours of inane chatter, he thought. Certainly Vos was. As Nicole climbed in and pecked him on the cheek, Vos told himself to look on the bright side. There may well be some way to use the young ex-copper whom fate and Andy Turner had dropped into his lap.

  Sara emerged from the bedroom, freshly showered and changed into a blouse and some trousers she hoped looked casual. The smell of onion overpowered the aromas of baking chicken and – was that vinegar?

  ‘When are they coming?’ she called towards the galley kitchen.

  ‘Any time now,’ Jamie called back.

  ‘Everything ready?’

  ‘Dinner is. I don’t know about me.’

  Sara nudged back the net curtains and struggled to raise the large sash window. The old painted wood creaked, but the window wouldn’t budge. Suddenly, a damp tea towel thumped onto the sill in front of her, and Jamie appeared at her side.

  ‘Why are you opening the window?’ he asked with mock offence. ‘Don’t like the smell of my cooking?’

  ‘Who cooks chicken with vinegar?’

  ‘It’s for the sauce,’ he said, and shoved open the window. A wet March breeze blew in, and he grinned wide in triumph.

  ‘What are you going to tell him?’ Sara asked.

  ‘About Andy’s job offer? I don’t know. I’ll listen to what he has to say.’

  ‘You don’t need the work.’

  ‘Actually,’ Jamie countered, ‘I do. I haven’t made any money since I quit the Met.’

  ‘We’ve been through all this,’ Sara sighed. ‘I can pay for both of us. And that includes your university fees.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be great if you didn’t have to, though?’ Jamie said. ‘I don’t like you having to pay my way.’

  ‘It’s only temporary,’ Sara reminded him. ‘When you’re a lawyer, maybe I’ll take some time off, and you can support me.’

  Jamie laughed. ‘Maybe you’d try to take a break – for about a week,’ he said. ‘Then you’d be opening another office on Harley Street.’

  ‘Look Jamie, if you want a job, go get one. But why does it have to be in the arms industry?’

  Jamie looked at her quizzically. Sara knew she was about to darken the tone of the conversation, but pressed on. ‘The weapons that companies like Thorndike make lead directly to death, maiming, and rape all over the world,’ she stated. ‘Governments turn British-made arms against their own people. The thought of you being involved in that is depressing.’

  ‘Rhodri was involved,’ Jamie noted. ‘Did you ever say any of this to him?’

  Sara huffed. ‘You couldn’t say anything to Rhodri – and he wouldn’t have understood it if I had. The difference is, you do understand. You want to work in human rights law, for goodness’ sake! Don’t you see a contradiction there?’

  Through the open window came the sound of approaching voices, the murmured conclusion of a conversation started in the car. ‘Perhaps this is a discussion for another time,’ Jamie said quietly.

  Sara silenced herself and listened to the rustle of their guests as they neared the front door and pushed the buzzer. It failed to ring, and by the time Gerrit Vos announced their arrival with a couple of sharp thumps on the door, Jamie had already bustled into the hallway. He ushered his maybe-client and plus-one into the flat.

  As he entered, Vos asked, ‘Will my car be safe out there?’

  ‘Depends,’ Jamie replied. ‘What make is it?’

  ‘Porsche,’ Vos said. ‘Boxster Spyder.’

  ‘Oh, that'll be fine,’ Jamie said with a grin. ‘No one in Brixton's going to touch a car like that. They'd worry it belongs to a gangster.’

  Vos introduced Jamie and Sara to his partner, Nicole, a thin, elegant woman in her late twenties with high cheekbones and bright, appraising eyes. Her hair was plaited into perfect cornrows. She could easily have been a model, but Sara thought it likelier she had once been Vos’s personal assistant.

  Jamie disappeared into the kitchen for wine. As Vos’s eyes flicked over the tattered leather sofa suite, Nicole lit on Sara’s collection of Aboriginal art. ‘Look at these, Gerrit,’ she said. ‘Aren’t they incredible?’

  Vos squinted at the wall and called to Jamie. ‘You collect this stuff? Who's your dealer?’

  Jamie came through the archway with glasses of Chardonnay and followed Vos’s glance. ‘Oh, the paintings and masks.’ He shrugged. ‘Not my department, I’m afraid.’

  Expectantly, Vos looked to Sara. She tugged at her spiky hair. ‘To be honest, I haven’t bought in years,’ she said. ‘I used to use several galleries. There's a good one in Fulham, and there used to be one in Richmond.’

  ‘They’re so interesting,’ Nicole said.

  Vos shrugged. ‘You want a mask? I’ll get you a mask.’

  ‘Collecting can be a challeng
e,’ Sara said to him. ‘It's important to find out how the works were sourced.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s the only way to collect with a conscience,’ Sara replied, emphasising the word conscience, and shooting an arch glance towards Jamie. ‘For example, you should check whether the gallery has ties to the artists themselves. Maybe through an Aboriginal cooperative.’

  ‘You want to make sure you're not being duped,’ Vos said.

  Nicole chuckled affectionately. ‘She wants to make sure the artists aren’t being duped.’

  Vos shrugged and grunted.

  Jamie began to lay the table. ‘Would you like to eat right away,’ he asked, ‘or should we relax first?’

  ‘Let's eat,’ Sara said.

  ‘Hang on,’ Vos said, squinting at a small, framed print of a woodcut, hanging low on the wall. ‘This picture isn’t like the others.’

  Jamie glanced over from the table. ‘Oh, I bought that for her when we were first going out,’ he said. ‘It’s a plate from an old book.’

  The picture Vos stared at was a crude etching of a winged figure surrounded by locusts. ‘It’s Abaddon,’ Sara explained. ‘He’s an angel of death.’

  ‘Like the Grim Reaper?’

  ‘In a sense, yes.’

  Vos grimaced. ‘Odd gift,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think Jamie even knew what it was when he bought it,’ Sara laughed. ‘He just knew I studied some weird things. He thought I’d like it.’

  Vos glanced again at the woodcut. ‘And do you?’

  ‘Like it?’ Sara said. ‘Yes, I do.’

  Vos shrugged dismissively. ‘No accounting for taste,’ he said.

  They took their seats, and Jamie carved the chicken. ‘Andy Turner's only given me the barest sketch of how we'll work together,’ he began. ‘I'm intrigued.’

  The Thorndike executive appeared not to hear. Jamie offered him the plate and Vos served Nicole and himself, spooning buerre blanc from a gravy boat. He reached for the broad beans. ‘There's a really good executive restaurant at Thorndike’s campus,’ he murmured, and glanced at Sara. ‘You must know it.’

  It was Vos’s first reference to Sara's relationship with his former chief executive, her brother Rhodri.

  ‘I've had a few meals there,’ she acknowledged.

  ‘Probably more than me,’ Vos said. ‘I never eat at work unless I'm forced to. Gives me heartburn.’ He glanced at Jamie. ‘Let's ease my digestion and leave business talk till tomorrow.’

  Jamie raised his eyebrows. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Come down to Surrey in the morning. We’ll talk shop then, OK?’

  Jamie's disappointment showed, though he tried to mask it. ‘Of course.’

  There was an awkward lull in the conversation. Nicole topped up Vos’s wine glass, and he took a deep sip.

  ‘What do you do, Nicole?’ Sara asked.

  ‘I used to work at Thorndike with Gerrit,’ Nicole said. ‘Now I run my own business.’

  Sara smiled. ‘How wonderful.’ She’d been right, she thought – an office affair. ‘What business are you in?’ she asked.

  ‘I market surveillance equipment online.’

  Jamie cocked his head. ‘What, you mean spy toys?’

  ‘Oh, they’re not toys,’ Nicole said.

  ‘Nicole used to work in Intelligence at Thorndike,’ Vos said proudly.

  ‘I market to the general consumer,’ Nicole said, ‘rather than law enforcement or private security. Some companies trade in specialised equipment.’ She smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘On the other hand, I sell the kind of product you’d expect – covert recorders, that sort of thing.’

  ‘So your customers are trying to catch cheating partners?’ Jamie asked.

  Nicole nodded politely. ‘That’s part of the market.’

  With effortless grace, Nicole soon shifted the conversation away from her, and onto more general topics. Over the next hour the two couples discussed house prices and London neighbourhoods. If Sara and Jamie planned to stay in South London, they all agreed, East Dulwich was always a good bet. For an up-and-coming area, they might look further south, towards Tulse Hill or even Streatham. By the time they were drinking coffee, London’s favourite conversation – itself – had been exhausted, and Vos brought the subject back around to Rhodri.

  ‘Did your brother ever speak with you about his work?’ he asked Sara.

  ‘Occasionally,’ she answered. ‘The question is, did I ever listen? Aerospace isn’t really my thing.’

  ‘I think it’s fascinating,’ Jamie said, and Sara frowned at him.

  ‘It is fascinating,’ Vos agreed.

  Sara forced herself to smile. She could not imagine that her brother would have got on well with the man sitting across from her, who seemed to be made up of little more than sharp angles and braggadocio. ‘Remember that for most of the time Rhodri was with the company, it was a fairly minor subcontractor,’ she told Vos. ‘I’m not sure he had all that much to tell me.’

  Vos snorted. ‘Don’t bet on it.’

  Sara smiled thinly, and looked at Vos’s deep-set eyes. He was trying to read her. But for what? For some kind of insight into her brother? Rhoddo had been a monster, that was indisputable – but his villainy had come from weakness. It had been a feeling of powerlessness, combined with an inability to expiate old sins or prevent new ones, that had drawn Rhodri Jones towards people who were gentle and kind. People he could trust, and maybe also exploit.

  And what about Vos? He was nothing like her brother. And yet, Sara could not help placing the man in a similar mental category. In Vos, she sensed a depth of something like sadness, or maybe regret – but edged with certain sharper emotions. It was a combination that, she felt, might draw Vos towards the same kind of vulnerability that had attracted Rhodri to his victims.

  Was Jamie a potential victim?

  And what did that even mean?

  Soon, they had finished dinner, and their chatter had grown fragmented and forced. Sara noticed that Vos had not topped up his wine glass again. She smiled and offered coffee and cake. Both Vos and Nicole declined politely, saying they had a long drive home.

  Sara and Jamie expressed regret that they wouldn’t stay longer. Perhaps Jamie meant it – but Sara felt nothing but relief.

  FOUR

  Dirty plates and empty wine glasses still littered the table. Jamie and Sara listened to Vos’s Boxster roar down the street towards Brixton Hill. Its growl folded into the white noise of South London. Sara carried dishes into the kitchen; Jamie took them and loaded the dishwasher.

  ‘Will you meet him tomorrow?’ Sara asked.

  ‘It looks like I’ll have to,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t say no when I had the chance. And, besides, Andy went to all the trouble to introduce us.’

  ‘Andy will go along with whatever you decide.’ Sara frowned, and carried on more harshly than she had intended to. ‘For goodness’ sake, Jamie, if you’re going to go, at least do it because you want to.’

  Jamie set down a plate. ‘I really didn’t know you felt this strongly about the defence industry.’

  ‘It’s not even about that,’ Sara countered. ‘I’m just not sure about this guy!’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘He’s a bit direct, I’ll give you that, but we’ve no reason not to trust him.’

  Sara returned to the kitchen and gathered up cutlery. Maybe I’m overreacting, she thought. Maybe my opinion of Rhodri since his death has coloured everything I think about Thorndike Aerospace and those associated with it.

  But not everything, she realised. She still cared for Andy, and Andy trusted Gerrit Vos. If it were simply Vos’s personality she was reacting against, Sara might have over-ridden her concerns. She might have been able to overlook his calling attention to her bruises on Monday. That had embarrassed her, certainly, but it was no reason to stop Jamie from accepting work. What gave Sara pause were the
deep pangs of sadness and regret she felt emanating from this man. It was this true self that he covered with bravado. Deep down. Sara sensed Vos was a man who felt guilty – a man who condemned himself. But for what?

  Whatever the real reason was, Sara wasn’t going to change Jamie’s mind about seeing Vos in Surrey tomorrow. But she felt she needed to know more about his potential new colleague.

  ‘I think I’m getting a migraine,’ Sara said.

  Jamie looked at her with concern. ‘You haven’t had one in ages,’ he said. ‘Do you have your medication?’

  ‘I don’t know where it is. But it doesn’t matter; it will pass.’ She gestured towards the table. ‘Do you mind clearing up by yourself? I’d like to lie down.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jamie said quickly. ‘Go to bed.’

  Sara kissed him lightly and moved towards the bedroom. Although she had lied about the headache, she did feel a pressing need to lie down quietly. She turned off the lights, undressed and hung up her clothes quietly in the dark. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, she fumbled deep into a drawer of the bedside table, withdrawing the papier mâché pendant she kept hidden there. The disk, which hung on a leather thong, displayed a delicately painted image of an all-seeing eye set inside scales of justice.

  It had been made by Sara’s mentor, a young psychic named Eldon Carson, during her troubling days in Aberystwyth. Sara had not always been able to peer into the past or foresee the future. She had been trained nearly three years earlier by Carson, who had an ability to see the terrible acts that people would commit before they happened. Carson’s response – arrived at through a combination of youthful self-belief and testosterone – had been to murder each of those individuals before they could carry out their awful crimes. This rash solution led to Carson’s status as a hunted serial killer, and ultimately to his death – but not before he had passed on his gift to Sara.

  The symbol had once been used by Carson as a kind of signature; he would draw it on the bodies of the victims he had killed in order to prevent their future crimes. To Sara, it represented her own psychic powers, and the careful deliberation she needed to use them wisely – more wisely, perhaps, than Carson had. In the days after Sara had left Aberystwyth and joined Jamie in London, she had worn it under her clothing often. Soon she realised what an awkward conversation its discovery might lead to. Now, she kept it secreted away, to be taken out only on occasions such as this.