HOGG: Think back to the interview. One answer you gave swung it.
ME: I can’t remember.
HOGG: I remember. It was like an ice-water enema. I thought, this boy’s got what it takes, he’s got co-johns
ME: Cojones. It’s Spanish.
HOGG: Nonsense, it’s Belgian. It’s a Belgian expression. Flemish for ‘guts’.
ME: It’s not pronounced ‘co-johns’, Mr Hogg.
HOGG: I don’t give a gerbil’s dick how it’s pronounced. I’m trying to tell you, matey, how you wound up in this public house sharing a libation with me. I asked you a question right at the end of the interview, remember?
ME: Oh, yes. Remind me, Mr Hogg.
HOGG: I said: what’s your biggest fault? And what did you say?
ME: I don’t recall. I made it up, probably.
HOGG: You said – and I’ll never forget this – you said, ‘I’ve got a violent temper.’
ME: Did I?
HOGG: (musing) That impressed me, that did. That’s why I brought you into the family, into GGH. We all have faults, Lorimer – even I have faults – but not many of us will own up to them.
The Book of Transfiguration
‘Slobodan, this is Torquil. Torquil, Slobodan.’
‘Call me Lobby. Everyone else does, ‘cept for Milo here.’
‘Milo?’ Torquil looked at Lorimer curiously.
‘Family nickname,’ Lorimer said, keeping his voice low. Slobodan couldn’t hear, anyway, he was round the other side of the Cortina, kicking the tyres.
‘Welcome aboard, Torquil,’ Slobodan said. ‘You’re insured, completely covered. Clean driving licence, willing to work all hours. You’ve saved our bacon in our eleventh hour of need.’
‘Likewise, ah, Lobby,’ Torquil said, shaking his proffered hand. They were standing outside Slobodan’s house, a faint sun spangling off the Cortina’s chrome, a gentle burbling noise of melting snow in the gutters.
‘I believe I owe you a fee,’ Torquil said, offering Slobodan a cigarette. The two men lit up.
‘Forty quid a week for the radio. In advance.’
Torquil turned to Lorimer, who gave him forty pounds, which he handed to Slobodan.
‘Ta very much, Torquil.’
‘I’ll probably need extra for petrol,’ Torquil said, ‘and meals.’
Lorimer gave him another forty. He didn’t care, he was happy.
‘Come and meet my associate, Mr Beazley,’ Slobodan said. ‘We’ll get your first job set up.’
‘I’ve got my A to Z,’ Torquil said, hauling Lorimer’s street map out of his pocket.
‘That’s all you need for this job. And a car. What do you normally drive?’
‘I had a Volvo. Estate.’
‘Nice motor.’
‘But it was repossessed.’
‘Shit happens, Tork. It happens to the best of us.’
‘I’ll see you two later,’ Lorimer said. ‘Good luck.’
He looked back at the two men as they headed for the office, cigarettes on the go, both of an age, both solidly built, both overweight, one with short hair wearing a pinstripe suit, one with a grey ponytail wearing an ex-W ehrmacht combat jacket. For some reason Lorimer had an odd premonition that they would get along. He had been uneasy about bringing Torquil so close to his family but the absolute need to terminate the continued presence and pressure of the man in his life had demanded swift action and this was the only feasible solution available. All he had said to Slobodan was that people called him ‘Lorimer’ at work, Milomre being hard to pronounce. Slobodan had barely paid attention. In the event, Lorimer thought, the less said the better – they were both resolutely incurious types, nothing much seemed to surprise them at all. Anyway, he had more complex problems on his hands, such as impending insolvency. He was still rattled from his lunch with Hogg, the man’s suspicions fuelling his paranoia, deepening, if that were possible, his utter ruthlessness. But how was he meant to solve the Gale-Harlequin conundrum quickly? He might have a better chance now his life was comparatively Torquil-free.
He was on the point of ringing the bell to the family flat when the door opened and Drava appeared, her arms full of folders.
‘How’s Dad?’ Lorimer asked. ‘Did the doctor come?’
‘He’s fine. Fast asleep. The doctor couldn’t tell what was wrong. Gave him some antibiotics and something to help him sleep.’
‘Sleep? Surely that’s the last thing Dad needs.’
‘Sometimes he doesn’t sleep for days. You go into his room at night and there he is laying there, eyes wide open. Excuse me, Milo, can’t stand here talking all day.’
So it runs in the family, Lorimer thought, as he drove back to the City In my father’s genes, this light-sleeper business. He wondered if he should put another night in at the Institute – because it was so sleep-orientated he always