went downstairs. On the first-floor landing outside the caretaker’s flat there were two men.
‘Pardon me, sir,’ said one of the men. I thought at first they were waiting for the caretaker, but as I tried to pass one of them stood in the way. The other spoke again. ‘There have been a lot of break-ins here lately, sir.’
‘So?’
‘We’re from the security company who look after this block.’ It was the taller of the two men who’d spoken. He was wearing a short suede overcoat with a sheepskin lining. The sort of coat a man needed if he spent a lot of time in doorways. ‘Are you a tenant here, sir?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said.
The taller man buttoned the collar of his coat. It seemed like an excuse to keep his hands near my throat. ‘Would you mind producing some identification, sir?’
I counted ten, but before I was past five the shorter of the men had pressed the caretaker’s buzzer. ‘What is it now?’
‘This one of your tenants?’ said the tall man.
‘I’m from number eighteen,’ I prompted.
‘Never seen him before,’ said the man.
‘You’re not the caretaker,’ I said. ‘Charlie Short is the caretaker.’
‘Charlie Short used to come over here now and again to give me a break for a couple of hours …’
‘Don’t give me that,’ I said. ‘Charlie is the caretaker. I’ve never seen you before.’
‘A bloody con man,’ said the man from the caretaker’s flat.
‘I’ve lived here for five years,’ I protested.
‘Get on,’ said the man. ‘Never seen him before.’ He smiled as if amused at my gall. ‘The gentleman in number eighteen has lived here for five years but he’s much older than this bloke – bigger, taller – this one would pass for him in a crowd, but not in this light.’
‘I don’t know what you’re up to …’ I said. ‘I can prove …’ Unreasonably my anger centred on the man who said he was the caretaker. One of the security men took my arm. ‘Now then, sir, we don’t want any rough stuff, do we?’
‘I’m going back to “War and Peace”,’ said the man. He closed the door forcefully enough to discourage further interruption.
‘I never had that Albert figured for a reader,’ said the taller man.
‘On the telly, he means,’ said the other one. ‘So –’ he turned to me, ‘you’d better come and identify yourself properly.’
‘That’s not the caretaker,’ I said.
‘I’m afraid you’re wrong, sir.’
‘I’m not wrong.’
‘It won’t take more than ten minutes, sir.’
I walked down the flight of stairs that led to the street. Outside there was my taxi. Screw them all. I opened the cab door and had one foot on the ledge when I saw the third man. He was sitting well back in the far corner of the rear seat. I froze. ‘Do get in, sir,’ he said. It should have been a mini-cab, this was a taxi. I didn’t like it at all.
One of my hands was in my pocket. I stood upright and pointed a finger through my coat. ‘Come out,’ I said with a suitable hint of menace. ‘Come out very slowly.’ He didn’t move.
‘Don’t be silly, sir. We know you are not armed.’
I extended my free hand and flipped the fingers up to beckon him. The seated man sighed. ‘There are three of us, sir. Either we all get in as we are, or we all get in bruised, but either way we all get in.’
I glanced to one side. There was another man standing beside the doorway. The driver hadn’t moved.
‘We won’t delay you long, sir,’ said the seated man.
I got into the cab. ‘What is this?’ I asked.
‘You know that flat is no longer yours, sir.’ He shook his head. The driver checked that the door was closed and drove off with us, along Cromwell Road. The man said, ‘Whatever made you trespass there, at this time of night? It’s brought all three of us out of a bridge game.’ The taller man was sitting on the jump seat. He unbuttoned his sheepskin coat.
‘That really reassures me,’ I told them. ‘Cops playing poker might frame you. Cops playing pontoon might beat you to death. But who could get worried about cops who play bridge?’
‘You should know better,’ said the tall man mildly. ‘You know how security has tightened since last year.’
‘You people talk to me like we are all related. I’ve never seen you before. You don’t work with me. Who the hell are you, dial-a-cop?’
‘You can’t be that naïve, sir.’
‘You mean the phone has always been tapped?’
‘Monitored.’
‘Every call?’
‘That’s an empty flat, sir.’
‘You mean – “Anyone do a Gloucester Road to Fulham with fifty pence on the clock” was your people?’
‘Barry was so near to winning the rubber,’ said the second man.
‘I just went in to use the phone.’
‘And I believe you,’ said the cop.
The cab stopped. It was dark. We had driven across Hammersmith Bridge and were in some godforsaken hole in Barnes. On the left there was a large piece of open common, and the wind howled through the trees and buffeted the cab so that it rocked gently. There was very little traffic, but in the distance lights, and sometimes a double-decker bus, moved through the trees. I guessed that that might be Upper Richmond Road.
‘What are we waiting for?’
‘We won’t delay you long, sir. Cigarette?’
‘No, thanks,’ I said.
A black Ford Executive came past, drew in and parked ahead of us. Two men got out and walked back. The man with the sheepskin coat wound down the window. A man from the other car put a flashlight beam on my face. ‘Yes, that’s him.’
‘Is that you, Mason?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mason was the one who did the weather print-outs and got himself photographed with strangers wearing my clothes.
‘Are you in on this, then?’ I said.
‘In on what?’ said Mason.
‘Don’t bullshit me, you little creep,’ I said.
‘Yes,
