The Hidden Man - Charles Cumming [56]
‘It’s in your desk diary?’
‘Palmtop, probably. Why?’
They were facing each other across a tile-topped table, laughter echoing in the mall. Taploe preferred to make a target ‘conscious’ of his identity at an early juncture in any conversation of this kind.
‘Let me come clean right away,’ he said. ‘It was necessary to employ a little subterfuge to lure you here today. I don’t workfor British Telecom. I’m actually an officer with the Security Service.’
Taploe waited for an appropriate reaction, but Mark’s response unnerved him. He simply said, ‘OK,’ and removed his corduroy jacket.
‘I workfor MI5,’ Taploe explained, as if he had failed to understand.
‘I’d gathered that,’ Mark said. ‘And you’re investigating my father’s murder?’
‘Among other things, yes.’
Their waitress, a tired-looking eastern European woman wearing thick black eyeliner, set two bottles of lager on the table and walked off. Mark’s eyes followed her and then came backto the table.
‘Other things?’ he said.
Taploe poured the lager carefully into his glass and made an effort to compose himself. He felt that he had already lost ground.
‘What do you know about my organization?’ he asked.
‘Back of a stamp,’ Mark replied, rubbing two days of stubble on his jaw. Taploe was worried that he looked bored.
‘Right.’ He pushed up his sleeves. His arms were creamy and hairless and dotted with pale red freckles. He pushed them backdown again. ‘Our taskis to root out criminal organizations working in the United Kingdom. Excise fraud, human trafficking, prostitution. We go after drugs smugglers, money launderers, football hooligans, any individual or group of individuals who may pose a threat to national security.’
‘You must be busy then,’ Mark joked and, like a ghost, Taploe caught a family resemblance in the grin that flashed across his eyes.
‘Very,’ he replied.
‘So how does my father fit in?’
‘Well, why don’t we order first?’ By delaying his response, Taploe hoped to generate a little suspense. This, after all, was the part of the job he most enjoyed: the power afforded by privileged information. Let him feel that he is about to become involved in something beyond the commonplace. Let him sense that he is at the edge of his father’s secret trade. Over time, Paul Quinn had been able to build up a comprehensive profile of Mark Keen, a psychology that suggested he would comply with today’s pitch. Where Keen had been stubborn, Mark was biddable and kind; where the father had been haughty, the son was more modest and conscientious. Taploe also knew, from recent phone and email intercepts, of the ongoing argument with Ben. The two brothers had not spoken for days. Mark would be anxious to prove, if only to himself, that he had been affected by their father’s murder. What better way to prove that than to worktowards tracking down his killer? A song began playing out of a speaker above his head and Taploe felt rejuvenated, more able to control his adrenalin. Beckoning the waitress over he ordered extensively from the menu, while Mark opted for the set lunch. When she was out of earshot, he continued.
‘You want to know how your father fits in.’ Mark bobbed his head. ‘Well, before I answer that question directly, it would be useful if I could make some enquiries of my own.’
‘Go right ahead.’
‘First of all, at what point did your father tell you about his workfor SIS?’
Mark again rubbed his jaw - it was becoming a reflex - and picked a fork up from the table.
‘After about two or three months.’
‘And he asked you to keep that information a secret?’
‘Sure.’
‘And did you tell anybody?’
‘I did, yeah.’
‘How many people?’
‘Just one.’
‘Your brother?’
‘My brother.’
Taploe was about to say ‘Benjamin’ but he thought better of it.
‘Nobody else?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Not even a friend, Mark?’
‘Not even a friend.’ Mark looked annoyed. ‘What are you getting at?’
Steeling himself, Taploe bounced his moustache into a smile.
‘Nothing unsavoury, I assure you. But you must have found it difficult keeping that sort