The Rhythm Section. Mark Burnell

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      ‘I always wanted to be blonde. When I was younger, you know …’

      ‘And now?’

      ‘It makes it easier to believe I’m someone else.’

      ‘I thought you were getting past that.’

      Stephanie stubbed out her final cigarette. ‘I’m never going to get past that.’

      Later, Stephanie came across Proctor in the bathroom. He was lying on the floor, beneath the sink, unfastening the panel at the end of the bath.

      ‘Is there a leak?’ she asked him.

      He grinned. ‘I certainly hope not. Not after this kind of precaution.’

      She saw that there were three computer floppy-disks on the floor beside him. ‘What are you doing?’

      ‘A bit of home security. This is where I keep the important stuff. The floppy-disks and my lap-top. There’s nothing on my desk-top of any significance – I back up information down a phone-line and then erase it – and I don’t keep any good material on paper. The juicy bits are here.’

      ‘Isn’t that rather primitive?’

      ‘Primitive is sometimes best.’

      ‘Why don’t you just get an alarm or something?’

      ‘In a place like this? Are you kidding? That’d be an invitation to a burglar.’

      He put the three disks in an airtight plastic pouch already containing four. Then he re-sealed the pouch and replaced it, taping it to the underside of the bath. The lap-top, which was in a protective cover, was inserted between two filthy floorboards. Finally, he re-secured the panel with a screwdriver.

      It was a soulless place, catering for the rush-hour trade in Victoria. There were fruit-machines along one wall, Sky Sport on a vast TV suspended over the bar and a sound system that played at a deafening volume. Proctor bought himself half a pint of Guinness and ordered a Coke for Stephanie. They sat at a small circular table with a good view of the bar.

      Proctor wriggled out of a leather coat which he folded and placed on the bench beside Stephanie. He wore a denim shirt. The ironing creases were still sharp on the sleeves. Stephanie wore what she wore almost every day; faded jeans and a sweatshirt over a varying number of short- and long-sleeved T-shirts. Her blonde hair was scraped back and gathered by a clasp, which was a new look for her. Before, her face had been too gaunt to justify it. She wore no make-up, which was also a departure for her and one with which she felt increasingly comfortable.

      Proctor said, ‘You see the guy on the stool, the one with the half-moon glasses and the charcoal jacket?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘That’s who he’s coming to see. I don’t think Bradfield usually comes here but the man on the stool likes it because it’s crowded and noisy, good for anonymity.’

      ‘Who is Bradfield?’

      Proctor took a sip from his glass and then wiped the thin line of cream from his upper lip with the back of his hand. ‘I told you. He’s a document-forger.’

      ‘I know. But why’s he important?’

      ‘It’s possible he forged a passport for our man. There’s this guy in Whitechapel – Ismail Qadiq – he’s an Egyptian T-shirt importer. His brothers run the manufacturing end of the business in Cairo and Qadiq brings the product over here and sells wholesale. But that’s not the only thing he’s importing. He brings in stolen documents for reprocessing, or brand-new documents, ready for use.’

      ‘Brand-new?’

      Proctor nodded. ‘Genuine passports or driving licences from Syria, Iran, Iraq, Egypt, Algeria. Anywhere. They get stolen over there – or bought on the sly – and then they’re distributed all over Europe. There are dozens of ways into this country. Qadiq is just one. The point is, he may have actually seen our man, but he’s not sure. At least, that’s what he says but then he’s a compulsive liar. An intermediary brought a stranger to his Whitechapel warehouse – the place where he stores all his merchandise – and asked Qadiq to help process some documents as quickly as possible, including one Israeli passport and another in the name of Mustafa Sela. Money was no object. Qadiq says he never saw the stranger fully, that he was lurking in the background, but he told me that he organized it for the two men to meet Cyril Bradfield.’

      ‘So why do we need the man on the stool?’

      ‘Because Cyril Bradfield’s number isn’t in the phone-book. Because no one seems to be sure what he looks like or where he lives. Because Cyril Bradfield’s name probably isn’t even Cyril Bradfield.’

      Stephanie sipped some Coke. ‘And he’s some kind of sympathizer, is he?’

      ‘Bradfield? No. He’s non-political. He’s not even in it for the money. Apparently, he’s in it for the love of it. For him, it’s art. And a question of quality. So naturally, he draws attention from the worst kind of people.’

      ‘How does the man at the bar fit into this?’

      ‘He’s a go-between for some low-life in Birmingham who reprocesses passports for the criminal fraternity and who prefers to have the artwork done down here. The go-between ensures Bradfield and his client never have to meet, which is better for all concerned.’

      ‘How did you discover this?’

      Proctor smiled. ‘Slowly.’ He drained his half-pint glass and rose to his feet. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

      Stephanie thought about Barry Green and his sideline in altering the PIN codes on stolen credit cards. It felt as though she had borrowed the memory from someone else.

      ‘Straying a little, ain’t you?’

      She looked up. The man before her had emerged from the sea of boozing suits, from the waves of accountants, local government officials and cut-price travel-agents. She checked Bradfield’s contact; he was still perched on his bar-stool, nursing a pale gold pint and a slim cigar.

      She said, ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’

      ‘You’re straying a little.’

      He wore a suit as badly-fitting as any other she could see; tight trousers eating into a medicine-ball gut, a jacket with spare room at the shoulders, sleeves that ended inches short of the wrist. His face was pink and his neck was coated in shaving rash.

      ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.’

      ‘Nah. At first, I thought I might’ve – you look different with your kit on – but not now. I couldn’t place your face and then it clicked. You work up west, not down here. Brewer Street, top floor, near the Raymond Revuebar. Right?’

      Stephanie was reintroduced to one of her least favourite sensations as her stomach turned to lead and seemed to seep through her bowels, through the floorboards and deep into the earth below. Mentally, she reached for the mask; the hardness in the eyes, СКАЧАТЬ