matter. I’m not saying anything she doesn’t already know I know.’
‘What exactly are you saying?’
‘Kantor isn’t the story. Kantor’s an agent. Chazia’s agent. Chazia’s the one moving all the pieces.’
‘Can you prove it? Are you sure?’ Lom listened for indignation. Disbelief. But there was only guarded interest in Krogh’s voice. ‘Is there proof, Lom? Certain proof I can take to the Novozhd?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Lom. ‘I’ve got a bag full of proof. Her own files. Her own handwriting all over them. But she knows I’ve got them.’
‘I see.’
‘And if she is listening to your calls – and if I were you I wouldn’t bet my life she’s not – she knows I’ve told you. Of course, even if she doesn’t listen to your calls, she’ll assume I’ve told you anyway.’
‘Ah. I see. Yes.’ Pause. ‘And how did you come by these sensitive papers?’
‘I broke into her private archive and took them.’
‘Did you, indeed? You’ve exceeded my expectations, Investigator.’
‘And now you know, and she knows you know. So you have to do something about it. Action this day, Under Secretary. Action this hour.’
‘What exactly did you have in mind?’
‘You’re her boss. Roll her up. Reel her in. Have her killed. I don’t know – it doesn’t matter – just get her, and do it now. Get her and you get Kantor too.’
‘I’ll need the proof. I’ll need the papers.’
‘There’s no time for that. You need to move now. And I’d take care of your private secretary as well, if I were you.’
‘That’s wild talk, Lom.’
‘Chazia had my personal file, Krogh. She had it from your office less than an hour after we met. Referred to her by your private secretary. He even signed the fucking thing out to her. They’re running rings round you. They’re so confident they don’t even try to hide their tracks.’
‘I still need to show the Novozhd the proof.’
Krogh sounded old and tired. The fatigue was seeping down the line. Lom remembered the big office. The plain neat desk. The windows. Quiet traffic noise. Long corridors. This wasn’t going to work.
‘I’ll get the files to you, Krogh. But you can’t wait for that. You need to act.’
‘When can you bring me the files?’
‘Soon. Soon. I’m not saying any more on this line.’
‘Investigator Lom. Be calm. You’re asking me to risk a huge amount – everything – on—’
‘A telephone call from a junior policeman from Podchornok. Your rules, Under Secretary. You got me into this.’
‘I did.’
‘Oh, and there’s one other thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘There’s an angel in the forest somewhere beyond Vig. It’s alive.’
‘That’s preposterous.’
‘Chazia and Kantor – mainly Kantor, I think – are in communication with it. I just thought you should know.’
Lom hung up.
The porter brought a tray with a glass of black tea, a plate of rye bread and a length of dark purple sausage.
‘The dining room is closed. You can take it here. Or there is the garden.’
‘Forget it,’ said Lom. ‘You have it.’
There was half an hour yet till the tram to Pelican Quay. Back at the tram halt, Lom sat alone under the canopy, sick and dispirited. His clothes and skin stank of hopelessness and self-disgust and other people’s blood.
Image: Safran killing the old woman in the street.
Image: Chazia overturning Vishnik’s flat and finding the file. Image: Vishnik dead.
All caused by him. His responsibility. His fault. Because every step he’d taken had been wrong. Because he’d been a blundering, halfhearted, self-indulgent, piss-poor idea of a detective, and now he wasn’t even that. He was loose. He was alone.
It would take him hours to retrieve the file and get it to Krogh, even if it was still there. He had no confidence that Krogh would move against Chazia before he had the file in his hands, or even when he did have it. Lom had done what he could, but it hadn’t been good enough. It hadn’t been good at all. It had been shit.
The sky had grown dark and livid. Fat cold drops of rain began to explode on the ground, bursting at first like fallen overripe fruits but then like bullets from a mitrailleuse, rapid and hard and shattering, mixed with shards of ice. Over the sea a storm was coming.
Out in the Sound a high tide had been building. The two broken fragments of moon tugged at the weight of water, dragging its dark bulk shouldering against the land. A twisting black surge of foam-flecked ocean forced its way in through the Seagate towards the