Deep Black - Andy McNab [29]
‘Hi, I’m calling from Kane Doyle, Chrysler dealership in Buffalo, New York. We got a vehicle recall problem with some 2001 Jeep Cherokees, and I have an ownership issue I hope you can help me with. See, we have a customer just moved from Buffalo to DC and I’m trying to work out if the recall is our responsibility or DC’s. I’ll give you his address, if you could just verify ownership?’
‘I need some sort of—’
‘No problem, I’ll give you the number here, Kane Doyle, Delaware Avenue, and you can call us back?’
‘No, that’s OK, I guess. What’re the details?’ Nothing like the threat of extra workload to get a civil servant to change his mind.
I gave him Jerry’s name and address. He hit a few keys. ‘Yeah, Jeep Cherokee.’
‘Year of registration?’
‘2001.’
‘That’s right. Tell me, is he still on Buffalo plates, or has he reregistered for DC? If he’s switched plates I’ll get the DC guys to deal with it.’
‘Still on Buffalo plates.’
‘Ah, well, guess it’s my baby, then. Look, thanks for your help.’
It was that simple. Jerry’s car checked out.
I sat back and took a long gulp of monkey. The next part of the session was going to be very interesting and quite a lot dirtier.
21
Seven twenty. It would be dark soon. For once it was going to be an advantage that I hadn’t done any washing in ages.
I picked my keys and cell off the kitchen worktop. As I turned towards the window and caught sight of his office on the other side of the Potomac, I thought about Ezra.
I thumbed in his voicemail, my very own 911 number he’d given me in case I needed some emergency shrinkage. I couldn’t be arsed to go into the living room for the landline, and that, I thought, was a good sign of normality returning. If I’d still been his patient, he would have been proud of me.
Still looking out over the river, I pictured him doing the business with yet another in the long line of George’s fruits, going through the same fucking pantomime. ‘We must have complete trust between us. Blah-blah-fucking-blah.’
The voicemail gave me about a hundred options before I could talk. ‘It’s Nick. You probably know this already – George will explain if you don’t – but I won’t be coming any more. You’re right about the suicide thing. I won’t be taking the pills and jumping off the bridge, so no need to worry. And thanks, I suppose.’
I wasn’t too sure how that felt but, fuck it, no more Ezra.
Thirty minutes later I was on the Metro, heading back to Chevy Chase. In a carrier-bag I had a pair of washing-up gloves and a torch.
The road was just as busy when I got out as it had been when Jerry waved me off, but now it was dark. The street-lights glinted on the slowly moving traffic. Washington’s worker-bees had their heads down determinedly as they made their way home. Most of them just wanted to close the front door, get the telly on and throw something into the microwave. It was etched in their faces.
Jerry’s apartment block was easy to find. Just before I got to it I took a turning to the left that brought me round the back, into their communal garden. I sat on a bench as if I belonged there, a resident taking some air before the microwave went ping. I looked along the line of windows on the first floor. Two had no blinds or curtains, very bright white walls and a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. I could even see Chloë’s mobile turning just above the window-ledge.
The door into the hallway was open. There was no movement. I minced round the rear of the building and found the unlit admin area, where the entire apartment block’s garbage was stored in big dumpsters, awaiting collection.
I put on the rubber gloves and switched on the torch. It had been years since I’d done any dumpster diving. I always got out of one of these things smelling like shit, sometimes real shit, but it was worth it for what you could learn about a target if you were prepared to delve among the banana peel, coffee