arranged his brow into an exaggerated frown, continuing to cradle his bad hand. Hammer saw a broader fear in him, and wondered whether it had afflicted him his whole life. The man turned his shoulder to Hammer and brought his fists up, purpose returning to his eyes.
A key clattered in the lock and two police officers, roused no doubt by the noise, stood in the doorway and took in the scene. Then one of them addressed Hammer.
âYou. American. Here.â
Blood coursing, every sense alert, Hammer unclenched his fists, smoothed down his hair at the sides, and went, with a final look at his adversary that was not without a strange sympathy.
EIGHT
F or Hammer, running was thinking. Once a day, sometimes twice: down the hill from Hampstead in the mornings, an easy freewheel to arrive at the office with some momentum, and then back home after work with a problem that wouldnât crack, carrying it up to the top of the city until he had it broken down into pieces.
Not today. However hard he went at the hills he couldnât so much as chip it. Heâd read a story once, he forgot where, about a group of Italian resistance fighters who needed to move a massive boulder to build a shelter. It was too big whole, and for hours they hammered at it, big strong men, but it just looked back at them. Then out of the woods came an old man, the last of their party and a mason, and all the others stepped back. He walked all round the rock, ran his hands over it, found his point, and with great precision gave it a distinct but not forceful tap with a sledgehammer. Obediently the boulder fell in two. Today Hammer felt like the first group, hopelessly beating away, his own name a dim ironic taunt.
Sander had released him at seven, after four hours of dogged questioning. No charge, not yet, but he was to return to the station a week from Friday, by which time she would have gone through the haul sheâd made that afternoon. No traveling abroad in the meantime. And no talking to anyone about their conversation, unless he wanted to add perverting the course of justice to her list. That included Webster.
The day had been humid and now as he ran the rain started, big soft drops that he barely noticed. Barely noticed the road ahead, or the route that he knew so well, or the people and cars that he threaded in between. Ignored the hamstring that had been tight for days; ran through it, fast on the flatand faster up the hills. What the fuck had Ben done? The question repeated itself like a mantra. What had he done? How great was his talent for creating so much trouble to so little purpose?
Isaac Hammer sent down; the great detective behind bars. A bunch of people would like the idea. The crooks who had come his way, a handful of other investigators, at least half a dozen lawyers whose noses he had put out of joint over the years. The newspapers would have a blast. Spies, corruption, a fallâit was a good story. Heâd have been happy to write it in his day. The shame he could endure, but what he couldnât contemplate, and yet knew was certain, was that there was no way Ikertu would survive. Who wants an investigator whose boss isnât even at liberty? Clients would desert him, and his people would rightly follow. He couldnât sell the company, because without him there was nothing to sell, and even if there had been, he wasnât sure he could bring himself to do it. It was his. He had brought it into the world.
No. If this had been his doing, fine, heâd take the rap. But stand by and watch while someone else destroyed his world? Ben had to stand up. There was no other way. Heâd made the decision, heâd done the work. And the least he could fucking do, after the risks heâd so blithely taken, would be to come clean for once, without that slippery evasion he wrapped up so neatly in superiority.
What had he said, when he left? You sell hypocrisy, and value nothing but profit.
For days after their
A key clattered in the lock and two police officers, roused no doubt by the noise, stood in the doorway and took in the scene. Then one of them addressed Hammer.
âYou. American. Here.â
Blood coursing, every sense alert, Hammer unclenched his fists, smoothed down his hair at the sides, and went, with a final look at his adversary that was not without a strange sympathy.
EIGHT
F or Hammer, running was thinking. Once a day, sometimes twice: down the hill from Hampstead in the mornings, an easy freewheel to arrive at the office with some momentum, and then back home after work with a problem that wouldnât crack, carrying it up to the top of the city until he had it broken down into pieces.
Not today. However hard he went at the hills he couldnât so much as chip it. Heâd read a story once, he forgot where, about a group of Italian resistance fighters who needed to move a massive boulder to build a shelter. It was too big whole, and for hours they hammered at it, big strong men, but it just looked back at them. Then out of the woods came an old man, the last of their party and a mason, and all the others stepped back. He walked all round the rock, ran his hands over it, found his point, and with great precision gave it a distinct but not forceful tap with a sledgehammer. Obediently the boulder fell in two. Today Hammer felt like the first group, hopelessly beating away, his own name a dim ironic taunt.
Sander had released him at seven, after four hours of dogged questioning. No charge, not yet, but he was to return to the station a week from Friday, by which time she would have gone through the haul sheâd made that afternoon. No traveling abroad in the meantime. And no talking to anyone about their conversation, unless he wanted to add perverting the course of justice to her list. That included Webster.
The day had been humid and now as he ran the rain started, big soft drops that he barely noticed. Barely noticed the road ahead, or the route that he knew so well, or the people and cars that he threaded in between. Ignored the hamstring that had been tight for days; ran through it, fast on the flatand faster up the hills. What the fuck had Ben done? The question repeated itself like a mantra. What had he done? How great was his talent for creating so much trouble to so little purpose?
Isaac Hammer sent down; the great detective behind bars. A bunch of people would like the idea. The crooks who had come his way, a handful of other investigators, at least half a dozen lawyers whose noses he had put out of joint over the years. The newspapers would have a blast. Spies, corruption, a fallâit was a good story. Heâd have been happy to write it in his day. The shame he could endure, but what he couldnât contemplate, and yet knew was certain, was that there was no way Ikertu would survive. Who wants an investigator whose boss isnât even at liberty? Clients would desert him, and his people would rightly follow. He couldnât sell the company, because without him there was nothing to sell, and even if there had been, he wasnât sure he could bring himself to do it. It was his. He had brought it into the world.
No. If this had been his doing, fine, heâd take the rap. But stand by and watch while someone else destroyed his world? Ben had to stand up. There was no other way. Heâd made the decision, heâd done the work. And the least he could fucking do, after the risks heâd so blithely taken, would be to come clean for once, without that slippery evasion he wrapped up so neatly in superiority.
What had he said, when he left? You sell hypocrisy, and value nothing but profit.
For days after their
Similar Books
