Ghostwritten (34 page)

Jerome’s door was bolted from the inside. I banged it so loud that I set off a dog in another part of the building.

Jerome flung it open, pulled me in, and hissed. “Shut up!” He locked the door and ran back over to where he was packing the picture with sheets of cardboard and brown tape and string. A suitcase was already packed, lying open on the sofa. Socks, underpants, vests, cheap vodka, a Wedgwood teapot. There was an empty bottle of gin on its side in his jukebox liquor cabinet.

I stood perfectly still. What should I do? What did I want? “I’m taking the picture.”

Jerome barked a laugh. He didn’t even bother to look up. “Are you indeed?”

“Yes. I’m taking the picture. You see, it’s Rudi’s and my future.”

I don’t even think Jerome heard me. He was crouching over the package with his back to me. “Make yourself useful, my dear, and put your thumb on this bit of string while I tighten it up.”

I didn’t move. “I’m taking the picture!” When Jerome turned around to ask me again he found himself looking straight into the eye of my gun. His face lost its composure and then regained it.

“This isn’t the movies. You’re not going to use that on me. You know you’re not. Not without your puppet-master pimp to tell you what to do. You couldn’t even shoot it straight. Now be a sensible lady, and put it down.”

I had a gun. He didn’t. So. “Stand away from my picture, Jerome. Go and lock yourself in your studio and you won’t get hurt.”

Jerome looked at me gently. “My dear, what we have here is a reality gap. It’s my picture. I painted the forgery, remember. My talents have allowed us to get this far. All you did was get undressed, lie back, and open wide. Let’s face it, that’s par for the course in your line of work.”

“Nemya died.”

“Who’s Nemya?”

“Nemya! Nemya, my little cat!”

“I’m very sorry that your cat died. Truly, I’ll weep buckets for your kitty when the time comes to pay my respects, but if you will kindly put that nasty little toy away and piss off so I can finish packing my picture—do you hear me, my dear?
My
picture—and catch a plane out of your squalid, lying, violent, subzero anus of a country for which not so long ago I traded in my entire damned future—”

“I don’t know what a reality gap is. But I know what a gun is. It’s my picture. And another thing, my name is not ‘my dear.’ My name is Margarita Latunsky.”

“Evidently, my words have failed to penetrate your makeup and hairdo, you encrusted tart—” He strode towards me, hand outstretched ready to grab—

“It’s
my
picture!” banged the gun. Jerome’s head flipped back with enough force to lift him off his feet. Beautiful red blood splattered the ceiling. I heard it. Splatter. Jerome was still spinning, as though he’d slipped on a banana skin.

“Margarita Latunsky,” insisted the silence, without raising its voice.

Jerome thumped to the floor, half his face missing. Killing is a sensation, like abortion or birth, that you can never accurately imagine. Odd. What next?

“My compliments, Miss Latunsky,” said Suhbataar, shutting the kitchen door softly behind him. “Straight through his eye. Something else we have in common.”

Suhbataar?

“Where’s Rudi?”

“Nearby.” He smiled, and I saw dark gold. I hadn’t seen his teeth until now.

“Where?”

“In the kitchen.” Suhbataar jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

It’s going to be all right! Tears of relief welled up. We’ll be in Switzerland by tomorrow night! “Thank God, thank God, I—I didn’t know—I—Nemya’s dead—Mr. Suhbataar, I hope you understand about Jerome.…”

“I understand, Margarita. You did Rudi a favor, too. The English are a devious race. A nation of homosexuals, vegetarians, and third-rate spies. This one—” Suhbataar shunted Jerome’s half-head over with the tip of his boot—“was planning to sell you, me, Rudi, even Mr. Gregorski, all up the river.”

Rudi was safe! I ran to the kitchen and pushed open the door. Rudi was slumped over the kitchen table, still in his cleaning-company overalls. Drunk at a time like this! I love him with every minute of my life, but this is not a good time to hit the vodka!

“Rudi, darling, wake up now—”

I shook his shoulders, and his head tipped up and over at an
impossible angle, just like Jerome’s had. I saw his face. My jagged scream ended as abruptly as it had begun. It broke over the city. Yes, it has been falling for a long time. The rumble in my head will never die, until Earth kisses my ears and eyes shut. Frothing tapeworms of blood were wriggling free from my lover’s eyes and nostrils. White as suet, white as suet.

Suhbataar spoke from the living room in an unhurried tone. “You will have to postpone your sojourn together in Switzerland …”

Gravelly vomit had completely caked up Rudi’s mouth.

“…    permanently. I’m sorry about your boudoir, your chalet, and your children.”

Me, this … Rudi, and Suhbataar’s voice, nothing else existed.

“Rudi!” Somebody else was speaking for me.

Suhbataar’s voice shrugged. “Regrettably, Rudi was planning to sell us up the very same river. Mr. Gregorski couldn’t let that happen. He has his reputation to protect. So he called me in, to test everyone’s honesty. The results were less than satisfactory.”

“No. No.”

“Mr. Gregorski’s suspicions were aroused when your boyfriend ‘lost’ a wall of money he was laundering through a reputable Hong Kong law firm, and the only excuse he could come up with was that his contact there suddenly dropped dead of diabetes! Dishonesty coupled with a lack of invention is fatal for little crooks.”

Something crunched under my shoe. Bits of a syringe.

Hell is tiled. The fridge motor shuddered off.

Logic shrieked in. Maybe there was time. “Ambulance!”

“An ambulance isn’t going to help Rudi, Miss Latunsky. He’s dead. Not just a little bit dead. He’s extremely dead. It would seem that the embittered traitor-forger Jerome laced his celebratory heroin with rat poison.”

His dear eyes. Rudi slid, and slumped off the chair onto the floor. I heard his nose snap. I fled back into the living room, tripped over something and fell to my knees, trying to claw back to yesterday through the pattern in the carpet. It was all too horrible for tears. Something dug between my knuckles. The gun. The gun.

Suhbataar was buttoning up his long leather coat.

Jerome was lying on his back doused in his own blood, just a few paces away.

And Rudi in the kitchen, with a broken nose.

How had all this come about? Only one hour ago we were in the back of a van and I had wanted Rudi inside me.

I heard myself whimpering, like Nemya under the table.

“Don’t take it so hard,” said Suhbataar, tucking the package containing the Delacroix under his arm. Why did his voice never alter? Always the same, dry, soft, and gritty. “Your gang’s been on borrowed time for months. Rudi and Jerome were traitors. Mr. Gregorski can’t permit you to walk away. Pawns get sacrificed in endgames. Your Interpol friend Ms. Makuch and her Capital Transfer Inspectorate are too close.”

“What?”

“Innocuous name for an anti-mafia squad, isn’t it? That reminds me, I gave them an anonymous tip-off via a dead-letter box on Kirovsky Island. They’ll be here in a few minutes. Calm down. Ex-spies are an embarrassment these days, what with the IMF and trade delegations—nobody’s going to throw away the key on you for killing Jerome. The stolen pictures are irreplaceable, but nobody will believe you were the mastermind behind that. Fifteen years at most, out in ten. The prison reform lobby in Moscow is beginning to gain a little ground. Slowly.”

He walked towards the door.

“Put it down! That’s my picture! That picture belongs to Rudi and me!”

Suhbataar turned, feigning surprise. “I don’t think Rudi is going to be dealing in stolen masterpieces for a while.”

“I want it!”

“With the greatest respect, Miss Latunsky, you don’t count. You never have.”

What had he said about Tatyana? “I’ll tell the police everything about Gregorski!”

Suhbataar shook his head sadly. “You’ve become a murderer, Miss Latunsky. Your prints are on the gun, the ballistics match up … Who’s going to listen to you? The only possible corroboration
to your whistle-blowing is lying in this apartment, slumped in pools of their own innards.”

Pressing into my knuckles. I still had my gun.

“If it becomes expedient to oblige you to stop telling stories, Gregorski will know where to find you. Even in Ms. Makuch’s division, the level of corruption is startling. Mongolians long ago made corruption a national pastime, but even I’m impressed with you Russians.”

“Drop the picture now drop it now you son of a bitch or you are dead dead dead dead
dead!
Put it down slowly and put it down now! Hands in the air! You know I can use this thing!” I aimed the gun straight at where his heart should be.

A weapon men use against women is the refusal to take them seriously.

“Look at Jerome, you Mongolian fuck, that’s you in ten seconds’ time.”

Suhbataar smiled, an in-joke smile.

Fine. Fine. It will be his death mask. What’s the difference between one murder and two? I pulled the trigger.

The hammer clapped down on an empty chamber. I pulled the trigger again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

Suhbataar pulled out five golden bullets from his jacket pocket, rattled them in his cage of fingers.

I was left alone staring at the locked door.

None of this happened. None of this really happened.

MY SMIRKING HANGOVER gave me a few moments to make my last requests, and to take in the fact that whoever’s bed this was it wasn’t Poppy’s.
Whash!
Then it laid into me, armed with a road-surface shatterer. I must have groaned pretty loudly, because the woman next to me rolled over and opened her eyes.

“Good morning,” she said, pulling a sheet over her breasts. “I’ve lost an earring.”

“Hi.” I grimaced as pleasantly as I could, peering through the sheets of pain. Not a face I could imagine smiling easily. I hoped this wasn’t going to turn into one of those GuiltLine wake-ups when she tells you about her boyfriend and her dead brother and her run-over-last-month dog Michael and you end up wondering how many people are in this bed. Still. Stern, rather than neurotic. A strong profile. Late thirties. Not bad, but nothing so special. Either she had aged since last night or I was getting less and less choosy. Red hair. Quite heavily built. That’s right! I’d been at the private view on Curzon Street. Oil paintings by some artist friend of Rohan’s, Mudgeon or Pigeon or Smudgeon or something. This redhead had come up to me then, and we’d done the old quantum physics equals eastern religion bollocks. Then—a taxi—a wine bar on Shaftesbury Avenue—then another taxi—that would be most of my money gone—and then another wine bar on Upper Street. Then to here, though how was anybody’s guess. What was her name? Cathy? Katrina? It was something convent-schoolgirl-ish. I always have this problem with women’s names, once I’ve slept with them.

She found her earring and noticed the way I was looking at
her. She cleared her throat. “Katy Forbes. The personnel manager. You’re in my flat in Islington. Delighted to meet you. Again.”

“Hello. I’m—” Something was gripping my windpipe. I fought free and found my Woody Woodpecker boxer shorts.

“Marco. I know. The ‘writer.’ We did just about get to the name-swapping stage.”

So I’d played the writer card. That was valuable information. I looked around me. A single woman’s bedroom. Lacy curtains, trees bobbing in the early autumn. A framed poster of an oil painting, with a big ‘Delacroix’ written underneath it. The original was probably nice. A little nest of tissues and condoms down my side of the bed, and a bottle of red wine with almost nothing in it, but 1982 on the label. Why do the best things happen when I’m too pissed to remember them?

An Islington Saturday morning. A car alarm going off somewhere.

“Well. This is jolly …”

She watched the end of the sentence dangling for a few moments.

“I’m going to get up and have a shower.” A horsey inflection to her voice. She must have seen me as a diamond in the rough, the old Lady Chatterley complex. “If you feel as ghastly as you look there’s some fizzy hangover medicine in the first-aid box on the drinks cabinet. If you have to be sick, do try to get it all in the lavatory bowl. Help yourself to some coffee, there’s instant if you can’t figure out the percolator, but please don’t run off with the fake chandelier, it was expensive. And if you can cook I’d like some scrambled eggs on toast.”

“Never fear,” I said. “I am a casual shag to be relied upon!” This wasn’t terribly funny but I blundered on anyway. “No bread knives through the shower curtain, guaranteed.”

Her face would buckle any mere bread knife. She put on her dressing gown and went through into the bathroom. I heard the pipes in the walls judder as she switched on the shower.

I got dressed, wishing I had clean clothes. I smelt hash in a burn on my shirt, between the lipstick and a stain that I tried to ignore. My bladder felt like an inflatable camping bed. I groped out of the
bedroom and found the little toilet, where I wazzed the waz from outer space. Seriously, I was pissing for a whole fifty-five seconds. On the shelf next to the potpourri there was a picture of my hostess Katy Forbes and a baldish youngish chap in a punt under a weeping willow, and for a moment I wondered if I shouldn’t split before hubby came home, but then I fuzzily recalled Katy saying she’d been divorced. We’d agreed that joining a pyramid savings scheme is a much more stress-free way to lose all your money and wreck your life. So. A leisurely, assault-free breakfast was in order. Odd though, the only use that divorcées normally find for photographs of their ex-husbands is for dart practice. Maybe he’s her brother. I thrust out the last few drops and mopped up the spray on the rim with a clutch of toilet paper, and pulled the toilet chain, sending the previous evening’s spermatozoa to the North Sea. Three seconds later a howl came from the shower. “Don’t touch the bloody water till I’m
out!”

“Sorry!”