Ernie Derbyshire sucked on his cigarette as the escalator whisked him up from the platform and into the bedlam that was Penn Station. Rush hour was in full swing and the waiting area was packed with commuters scanning the overhead monitors for their trains home, briefcases tightly gripped, hands hovering over hidden wallets, feet ready for the dash down to the train so that they could be sure of a seat. Penn Station at rush hour. Hell on earth.
Short-skirted hookers prowled through the crowds, cruising for after-work action like sharks looking for food, hips swaying, lips parted and breasts pointing like anti-aircraft guns at any likely target willing to pay fifty bucks for half an hour of illicit sexual contact. Pimps in jeans and bomber jackets watched from the sidelines like trainers waiting for their horses to perform, one eye looking for possible Johns, the other on the lookout for the transport police. Pickpockets were out in force, singly and in groups, watching for the tourists and out-oftowners who lacked the street smarts of native New Yorkers. The less subtle practitioners of theft, the muggers and handbag snatchers, loitered by the toilets with the patience of spiders.
No one gave Derbyshire a second look. Not the hookers, not the pickpockets, not the muggers. He blended into the crowd like a chameleon: too tired to want sex, too down-at-heel to have a wallet full of cash, too nondescript to be remembered. He passed through the main concourse like a shadow, his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes shifting from right to left, his cigarette held tightly between his lips.
Commuters burst into action as the announcer gave details of the next Metroliner to Washington, DC. They poured down the stairs to the platform, eager to get home. Derbyshire hunched his shoulders in anticipation of the chill wind that he knew would be waiting to greet him outside the station. Unlike the fleeing commuters, he had no wish to escape the city. It was his home, and despite the daily murders, rapes and muggings, he felt safer in New York than he did anywhere else in the world. He turned to look at a station clock and licked his lips. Time for a drink, he thought, and then maybe a cheeseburger and a night in front of the TV. He remembered the cheque that Nelson had given him.
It was Friday. He mentally cursed himself for not asking for cash.
He wouldn't be able to deposit it until Monday, and until he did, it was nothing more than a piece of paper. It wasn't that he was short of money – he had several bank accounts, both in the US and in Switzerland – it was more that he hated loose ends, and an uncashed cheque was the worst sort of loose end. He was so busy thinking about the piece of paper in his inside pocket that he didn't see the two men until they were upon him, one on either side, gripping his arms with hands as strong as pincers, smiling as if they were long-lost friends.
'Smile, you piece of fucking shit,' said the one on his left, a bruising linebacker of a man with a dark wool overcoat and a thick red scarf around his neck. The man's left hand was thrust deep into his pocket.
The man on Derbyshire's right was a slightly smaller man with an unkempt moustache and orange-peel skin. His hair was slicked back and he had a shaving burn where his neck met his chin. His right hand was also hidden in the pocket of his raincoat.
He stepped closer to Derbyshire and pressed whatever it was he was hiding against Derbyshire's groin. 'You're not smiling, shitforbrains,' he whispered, an insane grin on his face, his voice a nasal New Jersey whine. 'Smile or I'll blow your nuts off.'
Derbyshire smiled weakly. Orange Peel nodded. 'Good,' he said. 'Now, let's go for a ride.'
Derbyshire started to protest but the gun was pressed against his groin once more and he did as they wanted. He knew there was nothing he could say: they were just messengers, come to bring the bad news. He knew too that there was no point in struggling. They were professionals, bigger, stronger and faster than he was. He shuddered and the two pincers tightened as if the movement was a prelude to an escape attempt. 'Okay, okay,' he muttered.
The two heavyweights gently frogmarched him out of the station and towards a taxi rank where the drivers of yellow cabs waited with ill humour. A black Towncar pulled up with a squeal of brakes and Derbyshire was hustled into the back seat. Four hands patted him down as the Towncar accelerated away from the kerb. 'I'm not carrying,' he said.
'We'll check for ourselves, if you don't mind,' Orange Peel said.
. The driver, a bull-necked giant wearing Ray Bans, gave a quick look over his shoulder as he powered through an amber light. 'Got him, then?' he asked redundantly.
The two heavyweights ignored the driver. Red Scarf thrust his left hand into the pockets of Derbyshire's pants and pulled out his wallet. Derbyshire said nothing. This wasn't a mugging.
Red Scarf flicked through the credit cards and driving licence, and sneered at the few banknotes the wallet contained. 'Times tough, are they?' he said, slipping the wallet inside his overcoat.
He checked the pockets of Derbyshire's jacket and pulled out the envelope containing Nelson's cheque. Derbyshire's face remained impassive. He was in deep shit, no doubt about it, but he didn't want to give the messengers any idea of how worried he was.
Red Scarf flipped the envelope open with one hand and slid the cheque out with his thumb. He whistled theatrically and showed it to Orange Peel. 'Business must be looking up,' he said.
The body-search over, the two men sat in silence, their guns still hidden in their coats. Derbyshire put his head back and stared at the roof of the car, wondering if he'd be able to put together any sort of workable cover story, and if he'd get the chance to tell it.
The car headed for the Lincoln Tunnel, joining the converging ranks of cars and trucks fleeing Manhattan. Derbyshire looked surreptitiously out of the side windows, half hoping that he'd see a police car, but knowing that even if he did there'd be nothing he could do. Before he'd have time to react, he'd have a fist in his groin at best, a bullet at worst, and the Towncar was as soundproofed as a brass coffin. The homebound commuters were all on automatic pilot, their eyes staring blankly ahead, listening to their car stereos or talking on their cellular phones or picking at their various orifices. A normal Friday rush hour.
Freeman knocked on his daughter's door. 'Mersiha?' he called.
There was no answer, but Freeman didn't open the door. Ever since she'd first arrived in his home he'd known how important it was that she have her own space, a sanctuary where she could hide from the world, if that was what she wanted.
He never entered her bedroom without her permission. He knocked again.
'Come in,' she said, her voice slurred with sleep.
He pushed open the door. 'Are you decent?' he said, knowing that she would be. He'd never seen her naked. Even before she began to develop the physical signs of womanhood she was shy, and he had always respected her desire for privacy. She had the quilt pulled up to her chin when he looked in. She was squinting at her bedside clock. 'What time is it?' she asked.
'It's late,' he said. 'Almost eight o'clock.'
Mersiha groaned. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I forgot to set the alarm.'
'That's okay – I haven't had breakfast yet. You get ready, I'll put the coffee on. Do you want anything to eat?'
'A high-cholesterol, low-fibre Scottish fry-up?' she said.
'Your request is my command, Oh mistress,' he said. 'Get a move on,' She giggled but kept the quilt under her chin as he closed the door.
Freeman was frying eggs, using a spatula to splash hot fat on the yolks, when she appeared in the kitchen. She was dressed for sailing – black Levis, Reeboks, a baggy white pullover and her hair tied back with a red bow.
'Get the orange juice, pumpkin,' Freeman said, sliding the eggs on to their plates. From the grill he added bacon, sausage and halved tomatoes and put the plates on to the table with hot toast and butter. Mersiha filled glasses with fresh orange juice from the automatic juicer and sat down opposite him.
She picked up her knife and fork and set to with a vengeance.
Freeman watched her, amazed at the speed with which she tackled food. She always finished everything on her plate as if she never knew where her next meal was coming from. It didn't take a psychiatrist to understand why she ate the way she did. It wasn't too many years ago when she'd been close to starvation.
'What?' she said.
'What do you mean?' he asked.
'You're staring at me,' she said, her eyes shining.
'You're so pretty. I can't believe I have such a pretty daughter.'
Mersiha tutted and raised her eyebrows, but she was clearly pleased by the compliment. 'I bet you say that to all your daughters,' she said.
'Only the pretty ones.' Freeman started eating his breakfast, but he was only halfway through by the time Mersiha had finished. 'Get the sandwiches – they're in the fridge,' he said.
'Grab some cans of Coke too.'
'You made sandwiches?' she said, impressed. 'You'll make someone a great wife.'
'Watch it,' Freeman laughed. Mersiha picked up his duffel bag and put it in the boot of the Lumina while he finished eating. She was in the passenger seat when he came out, her seat belt already in place.
'Did you say goodbye to Katherine?' Freeman asked.*¦ 'She was asleep,' Mersiha said quickly. Freeman looked at her. There was something in her tone which suggested that she hadn't tried to say goodbye. She turned away and looked out of the window. 'This is going to be a great day for sailing,' she said.
'Look at the tops of those trees.'
Freeman smiled despite himself. Mersiha had Katherine's knack of changing the subject. He started the car and headed down the driveway. In his driving mirror he caught sight of Katherine watching from the bedroom window. He waved his arm out of the window but he didn't see her wave back.
The drive to Annapolis took less than an hour. Mersiha chatted happily, about school, about sailing, about her fast approaching birthday. Freeman had suggested that they arrange a party for all her friends, but Mersiha kept insisting that she'd rather have a quiet dinner. 'Just you and me,' she said.
'And Katherine,' Freeman said.
'Yeah. Of course.' Her voice had gone suddenly cold at the mention of Katherine. Freeman didn't ask her what the problem was, and within seconds she'd changed the subject again, asking him when the boat was due to be lifted out of the water for its anti-fouling treatment. Art Brown's file on Mersiha had emphasised how pointless it was to confront her directly. She would react by dodging the line of argument, and if pressed she'd withdraw into herself and simply stop talking. Freeman had noticed that himself, of course, but seeing it written down on medical reports made it appear to be a genuine mental problem and not just shyness.