Carver - By Tom Cain Page 0,17

the café going and pay the rent. Then, about nine months after Freddy’s death, her lawyer had called to inform her that a life insurance policy of which he had not previously been aware had just paid out, enabling her to buy the lease outright.

Marianne was certain that there was no such policy. It seemed clear to her that Carver was the source of the money. Kursk would never have walked into the café that night had he not been looking for Carver and Alix; this was a private act of atonement, and it was accepted, graciously, without a word on either side. Had Marianne asked, Carver would of course have denied having anything to do with it. But in his own mind, this was just one of a number of debts of honour he chose to pay: no different, for example, from the two teenagers in southern Africa – the son and daughter of a man who had saved his life – whose education he was funding.

Carver had more money than he needed for himself. There was no point hiding it away in a bank if it could be useful. And it made it easier to sleep at night knowing that something he did, however tiny in the great scheme of things, was unequivocally good.

‘Sam!’ Jean-Louis said, seeing him come through the café door. ‘I thought you were going to be away for a month?’

‘Me too.’

‘So the vacation, it was not fun?’

‘It started well.’

‘But turned to shit?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You want a coffee, a cup of your English tea, a glass of wine, maybe?’

Carver was still a Royal Marine at heart. He rarely said no to a brew. ‘Tea would be good. Thanks.’

Silence descended as Carver drank and Jean-Louis busied himself with other customers. When the cup was empty, the boy came over to take it away. Carver reached for his wallet.

‘Non! Don’t be crazy … I will put it on your account,’ Jean-Louis loudly insisted. Then, as he bent forward to take the mug, he added, much more quietly, ‘There is a man at the front, by the window.’

‘Dark-blue business suit, playing with his phone, yeah, I spotted him,’ Carver murmured back.

‘I think he has not just played with his phone. I am certain he has taken a photograph of you.’

Carver nodded fractionally, then got up from his seat. ‘See you tomorrow. Give my regards to your mum,’ he said, clearly enough to be heard.

Yes, the man with the phone had looked up. And it hadn’t just been idle curiosity.

Carver gave the man a good long look on the way out, letting him know he’d been made.

The man with the phone looked right back, letting Carver know that he didn’t give a damn.

Carver walked out, feeling the man’s eyes on his back, listening for the slightest sound of movement behind him. None came.

Outside, on the street, he turned into a cobbled yard. On all four sides stood centuries-old buildings whose floors were linked by a complex web of external staircases and covered passages that wound around their walls like the endless, logic-defying stairs in a Maurits Escher drawing. Carver made the way to the top of his building and let himself in. Within seconds, his landline started ringing.

He picked it up. ‘Carver.’

‘Check your email.’

The voice was Shafik’s. Carver got out his iPhone and touched the mail icon. He had a new message with two jpeg files attached to it.

‘Open the files,’ Shafik said.

Grinding his teeth in silent irritation, Carver did as he was told. The first photo showed the body of the man he had killed on Mykonos, lying in the restaurant dumpster. The second had been taken in the café within the past five minutes. So Jean-Louis had been right.

‘And your point is?’ Carver asked.

‘I was concerned that you might have had a change of heart about our agreement. As you flew away from our meeting, you might have imagined that you were escaping my sphere of influence. I wanted to impress upon you that this was not the case. I know where to find you, Carver, and my intention remains the same as before. If you fulfil our agreement, I will reward you very handsomely. If you do not … well, I don’t like making threats. I’m sure I don’t have to.’

‘I don’t do threats, Shafik. I don’t pay any attention to the ones people throw at me, and I don’t bother making any of my own. But since you’re on the line, I remembered something while