The Hidden Man - Charles Cumming [113]
Mark smiled at the mistaken idiom and said, ‘Yeah, no problem.’
‘But I am thinking I should introduce you to Christina at the restaurant before we meet for dinner. I am standing with her now.’
‘Christina?’
‘She would be your assistant in Hackney. It’s not possible for her to come to the West End because she is working here. Do you remember where to come?’
‘Sure.’ It did not cross Mark’s mind that he should tell Randall about the change in circumstance. Just go where Tamarov takes you. Don’t try to rush anything along. Besides, Christina might be pretty.
‘You will come by cab?’ Tamarov asked. It didn’t sound as though he cared about the answer. ‘By car?’
‘Car, probably,’ Mark replied, and used the excuse that Randall had given him. ‘Stops me drinking too much.’
Tamarov laughed enormously.
‘Then this is easy for you. The traffic is not so bad. Avoid King’s Cross with the roadworks and breakdowns. I came through Highbury Islington and got here in ten minutes. Just avoid the one-way system near the restaurant.’
‘You were speeding, Vladimir?’ Mark joked, trying to match his breezy mood.
‘Not me,’ Tamarov replied. ‘Juris. The Latvian, he drives like a maniac.’
46
Torriano Avenue curves steeply uphill, left to right, but Ian Boyle had a good view of the street from his position in the Southern Electric van. He saw Mark emerge from the house at 20.25 wearing a black coat and carrying a mobile phone. It was like catching sight of an old friend in the distance: the easy, sloping walk, the way Mark’s head bobbed from side to side as if swayed by thought or music. On a typical London evening in late winter, indistinct of colour and temperature, locals drifted into the corner shop at the foot of the hill and emerged with flimsy green plastic bags filled with cans and milk and videos. A very faint mist was visible in the glow of the streetlights as Ian dialled Taploe’s number.
‘Yes?’
‘Boss. He’s leaving now. Getting into the car.’
‘Good. Contact me again if anything changes. I’m just sitting here waiting at my desk.’
Ian started the engine as Mark started his. Sounds inaudible to one another, just two vehicles leaving the street. He let Mark reach the top of the avenue before pulling out and followed the black Saab as it slipped into a stream of cars heading south along Brecknock Road.
Ian had been listening to Jazz FM while he waited and he turned up the volume on a Billie Holiday cover of ‘Summertime’, humming the tune in the shunting traffic. The job was so routine he drove almost on autopilot, keeping the van a hundred metres back from the target, separated by three, sometimes four other cars. He knew Mark to be a decent driver, quick and liable to switch lanes smoothly in the quest for space. One time, ages ago now, back when Taploe had his suspicions, he had been tailing Mark from Heathrow and lost him at the Hogarth roundabout, just disappeared into the Chiswick streets never to be seen again. Ian thought the same thing was about to happen when he saw the Saab make an unexpected turn off York Way, the two-lane north-south artery feeding traffic into King’s Cross. He was sitting high up in the van and had a decent view of Mark’s car as it steered left towards Islington.
‘Where you going, mate?’ he muttered to himself, and had to accelerate through a changing amber to stay on Mark’s tail.
They were on Market Road now, not the route Ian would have taken to the West End but maybe Blindside knew a short-cut, a trick. After all, there were roadworks in King’s Cross until April 2047, so maybe he was doing them both a favour. Still they kept heading east, crossing Caledonian Road, then directly into the heart of Islington.
‘What’s he up to?’ Ian said again, shutting off the radio to concentrate.