– he would wait another five minutes and then he’d –
Across the street a large car stopped and a man in a dark blue overcoat climbed out and disappeared up some steps into a building.
‘Mr Black?’
Lorimer turned to confront a diminutive, portly man, smiling warmly. He seemed top-heavy, all chest and gut and gave the impression of teetering forward, on the edge of losing his balance. He had thick sandy hair combed back in a rock ‘n’ roller’s tidy quiff. He must have been in his sixties, his face worn and weather-beaten despite his apple cheeks and wobbly jowls. A green loden-coat and brown trilby he’d raised from his head in greeting sat oddly on him, as if he’d borrowed them from some other man.
‘Freeze your b-b-balls off,’ the little man said, jocularly replacing his hat and extending his hand. ‘Dirk van Meer.’
‘How do you do?’ Lorimer said, very surprised. Oddly enough, the accent sounded more Irish than South African.
‘I wanted to meet you myself,’ he said, ‘in order to underline the importance of what I’m going to say. Didn’t want an intermediary, you see.’
‘Oh?’
‘My associates have already spoken to your friend Mr Wiles and he’s been most co-operative.’
‘As I keep saying to people: I simply don’t understand what’s going on.’
‘Ah, but you’re an intelligent young fellow and soon you’ll be able to add up two and two. I wanted to talk to you before you figured out it was four.’
‘Look, Wiles couldn’t tell me anything.’
‘The trouble is, Mr Black, you know more than you think. Sheer bad luck.’
Sheer Achimota, Lorimer thought, for some reason. Powerful ju-ju.
‘It’s terribly simple,’ van Meer went on, genially. All I require of you is your silence and your promise to remain silent.’
‘You have my promise,’ Lorimer said at once. ‘Unequivocally’ He would promise this jolly, smiling gnome anything. Somehow the complete absence of threat in his voice and manner was terrifying, spoke of awesome power.
‘Good,’ van Meer said, taking his arm and turning him so that he faced up St James’s. He pointed at a building. ‘You know that club there? Yes, there. Go inside and ask for Sir Simon Sherriffmuir. He’ll have some interesting news for you.’ He gave Lorimer a little pat on the shoulder. ‘I’m so glad we understand each other. Mum’s the word.’ He theatrically put his finger to his lips, and backed away, adding with no trace of threat in his voice at all, ‘I will hold you to your unequivocal promise, Mr Black. Be assured.’
Lorimer found this remark more distressing and gut-churning than a cut-throat razor waved in his face and felt his mouth dry and his gorge contract. Van Meer gave a wheezy chortle, a wave and wandered off along Pall Mall.
The uniformed porter took Lorimer’s coat and with an elegant gesture of the arm indicated the bar.
‘You’ll find Sir Simon in there, sir.’
Lorimer looked about him: early evening and the place was quiet. Through a door he caught a glimpse of a large room with armchairs set around round polished tables and large, undistinguished nineteenth-century portraits. As he moved to the bar he saw green baize noticeboards, staff walking briskly and quietly to and fro. The feel was institutional rather than clubby – as he imagined the officers’ mess of a grand regiment might be in time of peace, or the committee rooms of some venerable philanthropic society. His feeling of not belonging was acute and destabilizing.
Sir Simon was standing at the bar, Hogg beside him, darkly and greyly suited, hair oiled back. A smarter Hogg than the one he knew, more menacing somehow, and greeting him with no smile, though Sir Simon was affability itself, asking him what he would drink, recommending a special brand of Scotch – a suggestion backed up with a swift and pointed anecdote – steering him to a corner table where the three of them sat down in scarred leather armchairs. Hogg lit one of his filterless cigarettes, and Sir Simon offered a small black cheroot (politely declined). Smoking material was ignited, smoke soon dominated the atmosphere, and there was some conversation about the severity of the weather and hopelessness of seeking for signs of spring. Lorimer dutifully agreed with everything that was said, and waited.
‘You spoke to Dirk,’ Sir Simon observed, finally. ‘He particularly wanted to meet you.’
‘I can’t think why.’
‘You understood what he – what we – are asking of you?’
‘Discretion?’
‘Absolutely. Absolute discretion.’
Lorimer could not help but look over at Hogg, who was leaning back in his chair,