Nobody Walks (20 page)

For some reason it felt like just the two of them now. Bettany knew Boo Berryman was weighing him up, drawing mental diagrams showing arrows and tipping points and the loose trajectories of unintentional bullets, but he also knew that any move Boo Berryman made, he might as well send Flea Pointer in front waving a red flag. Boo thought he was match-fit, but he didn’t worry Bettany.

He said, “Is that usual?”

“Is that your second question?”

“Call it a follow-up.”

Driscoll gave the slightest of nods, as if this were a perfectly reasonable request in a perfectly reasonable conversation.

“It happens. Lots of companies release free product.”

“Usually because they plan to make money off it some other way. Which you don’t, apparently.”

Driscoll retreated inside himself a little way, then came back. He removed his glasses. Without their tinted lenses, his face seemed paler.

He said, “Okay, if it means so much to you. And because you’re holding a gun. I’m giving it away because it’s old news.
Shades
made money because it was a good idea. It appealed to the conspiracy theorist inside every gamer. They all think there’s something being kept from us, so giving them a game which played on this was bound to be a winner. So the second one was bound to be a winner too, because the same people were always going to buy it, even if they didn’t like it as much. Gamers are completists. But a third … I wrote
Shades 3,
Mr. Bettany, because I couldn’t find a way not to. Because I hate to leave a story unfinished. But I’m giving it away because it’ll never make money anyway. Its moment has passed.”

“So what are your marketing people for? Window dressing?”

Disconcertingly, Driscoll laughed.

“I supposed they are, really. All of this …”

He indicated the building they stood in.

“It makes for a good show. And the team, they do their best. They’re very … 
involved.
Except it turns out that playing games is easier than inventing them.”

“But not for you.”

Driscoll said, “I got lucky. Why did you want to know all that?”

“Because I’ve asked before. And nobody answered.”

“You must live life in a very straight line.”

“I’m not the only one. I presume the reason nobody answered is you’re keeping it quiet for now. Why’s that?”

“Another follow-up?”

“Mmm-hm.”

Driscoll said, “It’s not going to be popular with the shareholders.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Not that they can stop me. I own fifty-five per cent of the company. But I’m not sure it’s entirely secret. There’s been a bit of gossip.”

He didn’t look Flea’s way saying this, but Bettany suspected that took effort.

Driscoll said, “So what was your second question?”

“What?”

“You said you had two questions. What was the second?”

“Oh, right,” said Bettany. “Second question. What happens when I do this?”

Pointing the gun towards Driscoll, he pulled the trigger.

Dame Ingrid
was on walkabout.

She’d circled the hub, Ops territory, and bearded Diana Taverner in her den—Taverner Second-Desked Ops, and could turn a 360 loop without ever taking her eyes off Dame Ingrid’s job. Dropping in unexpectedly, which Tearney did every third or fourth time the thought occurred to her (it was important to keep these events random), was a way of reminding Lady Di whose shadow she walked in. After that she’d been touring the hallways, buttonholing the odd virgin (“
And what is it you do?
”, the monarchical phrasing only partly satirical) and generally playing up to the image, when the mobile in her pocket whined like an incoming doodlebug.

CALL ME
the text read. Since when was she issued instructions?

There was a slight fraying on her right cuff. Since then, maybe. Since cuffs started to fray.

She took the lift further down, below the streets, below the daylight.

More than half of London was underground. Another city shadowing the first. A lot of what happened in this secret city quite rightly took place out of sight of the sun, from little sins in the subways to the sometimes quite frightening events triggered in the vast network of corridors and rooms beneath Whitehall. And here under Regent’s Park, some floors below the one at which she alighted now, various events had occurred in recent years which it was occasionally her duty to deny had ever taken place.
Not on English soil
was her preferred phrase. Such things—the treatment of suspects, the over-rigorous pursuit of testimony—
did not take place on English soil
, as she had stated more than once to more than one committee. And this remained the legal truth of the matter, as the things in question were taking place some distance below that.

No matter now. Instead, the level at which she emerged housed Strategy, sometimes called the Zoo, because strategy wonks were frequently nocturnal, often unsocialised, and usually in need of a shower. But for obvious reasons, they also had the most secure offices.

“I need to make a call,” she informed the really quite attractive young man with a Security laminate who was posted by the lifts.

“Of course, Dame Ingrid.”

He led her along the corridor to an empty room which buzzed a little, a white-static fizz that acted like a mosquito net, though it sounded like a mosquito. It was an audible security blanket, indicating that the room was unbugged, unbuggable.

She thanked him, said that was all, and he left.

There was a white phone—rotary dial—on an otherwise bare table, desk height, and she picked this up and rang a number from memory.

“It’s me.”

“He’s made his move.”

“Good.”

“Not entirely.”

She said, “Choose your words carefully.”

“Plan A didn’t happen.”

She thought about this, and the voice down the line went quiet while she did so.

Thinking about it, though, wasn’t going to get anyone far. There’d only ever been two plans, A and B. A had been for Tom Bettany to put a bullet in Vincent Driscoll’s head. B was messier, but would get the job done.

“All right,” she said. “You know what to do.”

He hung up without replying, as she’d known he would. He wasn’t a joe but he had a joe’s bones, using few words and leaving few traces. And knew there was no point discussing what was, when you came down to it, an order.

She recradled the receiver, a small part of her brain enjoying the old-fashionedness of the action, once an everyday occurrence, but increasingly retro. Mostly, though, she was shuffling cards in her head. Plan B was now plan A. Proceed accordingly, she told herself. Wiping all trace of plan A from her mind, she left the room to find the really quite attractive young man with a Security laminate waiting.

Behind her, the room carried on quietly buzzing.

The shot set the
lightbulbs humming.

Boo Berryman, give him credit, leaped forward. If he’d rung a bell first, he couldn’t have given more warning. Stepping aside, Bettany cracked his head with the gun as he passed. Boo hit the floor with a thud that shook more plaster from the fresh hole in the wall.

Flea’s short sharp cry added a higher pitch to the mix.

Ignoring Bettany, Vincent Driscoll stepped forward and knelt by Boo’s side.

“Did you have to do that?”

“Instinct,” said Bettany.

Partly true, but he didn’t like being jumped at.

The noises shivered away.

Berryman groaned.

“I don’t know what to do,” Vincent said.

He was looking at Flea.

“There’s a first aid kit downstairs.”

“He’ll be okay,” Bettany said. “It was only a tap.”

A further groan from Boo suggested a second opinion.

“Make him sit up.”

Vincent struggled with the recumbent Boo, and Flea came forward to help.

Bettany stepped aside, looking towards the window again. Whatever had flashed earlier wasn’t flashing now. Either it or the sun had moved.

“Why did you shoot?”

“Mmm?”

“For God’s sake … You could have killed someone.”

“I wanted to know what would happen.”

He was distracted, focused on what was—or wasn’t—going on through the window. Then he snapped back to himself.

“Sit him up against the wall.”

“He’s bleeding.”

“It’s just a scrape. He’ll be fine.”

“I think he’s concussed.”

“He’ll be fine.”

Vincent rose. For the first time in Bettany’s experience, he seemed totally present. He said, “What just happened?”

“I pointed a gun at you. Fired it. In full view of that window.”

“And what did that tell you?”

“That someone wants you dead,” said Bettany.

Vincent wore
much the expression he adopted when faced with a programming problem. It spoke of enjoyable puzzlement.

“How does firing a gun at me prove that?”

“It tells me that nobody’s looking out for you.”

From the floor, Boo Berryman groaned.

“Okay, Tarzan did his best. But I was warned off you by some serious people, and they knew the warning didn’t take.
If it had, I’d be long gone.” He paused. “London isn’t a healthy place for me.”

“He’s a spy,” Flea said.

“Used to be. But the point is, if my former employers really wanted to keep you safe, they’d have someone watching your back. And the moment I raised a gun in full view of that window, I’d have been dead.”

Vincent looked towards the window, as if it offered proof of this assertion. But the proof was a negative. There were clear angles of sight through the windows to the rooftops opposite, where no marksmen waited, keeping an eye on Vincent Driscoll.

“There was someone there,” Bettany said. “On a rooftop, other side of the canal. They’re gone now. But they were watching to see what happened. And the fact that they didn’t try to stop me means they wanted me to do it.”

“Shoot me.”

Bettany nodded.

Flea said, “Warned you off how?”

Bettany’s reply was directed at Vincent. “I was told you had nothing to do with Liam’s death. Which meant one of two things.”

From the floor, Boo Berryman spoke. “That he had nothing to do with Liam’s death,” he said. “Or else he had everything to do with it.”

“Told you he’d be okay,” Bettany said.

“Bastard,” Boo said.

He was slurring, but not badly. The graze on his temple looked nasty though, a rough red slice of skin.

Vincent said, “Someone told you I was innocent to make you think the opposite?”

“Like pinning a target on your back.”

“So someone set me up.”

“Set us both up. Me to kill you. You to be dead.”

“Why?”

“There’s a question. Who’ve you upset lately?”

Vincent said, “I don’t go round upsetting people.”

“Really? What about your shareholders?”

Flea said, “Oh, God.”

“Brand new product, long-awaited by all your fans. Part three in a successful series. And you’re planning on giving it away like something in a cereal box.”

Bettany put the gun back in his pocket.

He said, “You can see how that might make some people tetchy.”

“I’ve explained that. It’s not like—”

“You’re missing the point. What happens if you die?”

Vincent said, “I’ve not really given it any thought.”

Still sitting, Boo said, “He means to the company. To Lunchbox.”

“My shares will be sold. Current shareholders get preferential rates …”

“And plans will change,” said Bettany. “Specifically, the one involving giving your product away.”

“Oh …”

“Yeah. Oh. You might want to give that some thought.” He turned to leave.

Flea said, “Hey!”

“What?”

“You can’t just go!”

He hesitated. “Do you trust me?”

“What?”

“Do you trust me?”

“… I don’t know.”

“Well do,” he said, and left.

Boo said,
“Could someone get me a glass of water?”

Bettany’s footsteps had faded away.

“Please?”

“I’ll go,” Flea said.

She headed off down to the kitchen area.

Once she’d gone, Boo said, “Vincent?”

“It’s coming. She’s gone for some water.”

“He’s right, you know,” Boo said.

“About what?”

“You’re in danger. Somebody wants you dead because you’re planning on giving away a fortune.”

Vincent said, “There’s not going to be a fortune.”

“Yeah, but—”

“It’d sell a few thousand copies at best. To completists. The thing is, Boo, it’s really not very good.”

“Will you shut up a second?”

Vincent frowned.

Boo heaved himself upright, and rubbed the ugly mark on his temple. Then he shook his head, as if having trouble focusing. He said, “God, that’s gonna hurt tomorrow. Hurts today, if you want to know the truth.”

“There’s a first aid kit somewhere. Flea will find it.”

Boo gripped Vincent’s elbow.

“Listen to me. It doesn’t matter what
Shades 3
’s like, it’s still going to make somebody a fortune if they can stop you giving it away. If you die, that plan’s buried with you. And let’s face it, you being dead’ll make pretty good publicity.”

Vincent said, “Could you let go of my elbow please?”

“Sorry.”

“I know you’re looking out for me. I’m just finding all this a little hard to believe.”

“That guy shot at you. Here. In your office. And you’re still having trouble believing something’s up?”

“His son died. He’s upset.”

“So am I. He hit me, you probably noticed. But he’s not the one we need to be worrying about, Vincent. He’s not the one who wants you dead.”

Then Boo paused.

He said, “Did you hear that?”

Oskar Kask entered through
the towpath door, having crossed the canal by the arching brick bridge. The rooftop from which he’d been watching events inside Lunchbox was the garden of an apartment block, not two hundred yards distant, and he suspected Bettany had seen him there, or seen something. A sunflash off his binoculars, his own sudden movement. He hadn’t told Dame Spook this. She would have wondered whether it had skewed the result, becoming the reason why Bettany buried the bullet in the wall instead of in Driscoll’s head.