Читать книгу The Insider - Ava McCarthy - Страница 5

2

Leon Ritch hadn’t heard from the Prophet in over eight years, and had hoped to Christ he’d never hear from him again. He scratched his two-day-old stubble and read the email again.

Maybe it was a hoax. After all, anyone could sign himself ‘The Prophet’. He checked the sender’s address. It was different from the last time, but just as obscure: an763398@anon.obfusc.com. He thought about trying to trace it but knew it wouldn’t do any good. They’d tracked the Prophet’s last address to some anonymous re-mailer system. A dead end. Whoever he was, he knew how to conceal his identity.

Apart from himself, only three other people knew about the Prophet. One of those was in prison and another was dead. That just left Ralph.

Leon dialled a number he hadn’t used in a long time.

‘It’s me,’ he said.

‘Sorry, who’s this?’

Leon could hear the rumble of men’s voices in the background. Ralph was probably in a meeting with the bank VIPs, fighting for elbowroom at the corporate party. It was a world he’d once thrived in himself.

‘Don’t be a prick, Ralphy.’

The men’s laughter roared in his ear, and then grew gradually fainter until there was just an echoing hollowness. Sounded like Ralphy-Boy had moved into the gents.

‘Comfy now?’ Leon said.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Just looking up old pals. Seems to be a day for calls from the past.’

‘What are you talking about? I told you never to call me.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know. Listen Ralphy-Boy, are you near your office?’

‘I’m in the middle of a board meeting and I don’t –’

‘Good. I’m sending an email to your private account. Go and read it.’

‘What? Are you out of your mind?’

‘Just do it. I’ll call back in five minutes.’

Leon hung up and turned back to his PC. He brought up the email again and forwarded it to Ralph’s alias address.

He swivelled his chair to stare out the window at the bottle banks and wheelie bins that lined the small car park behind his office. Directly opposite him was the grimy back wall of the local Chinese takeaway, the Golden Tigress. A classy name for a seedy health hazard.

A young Chinese man in white overalls trudged out of the back door and flung a bag of God knew what kind of crap into the wheelie bin beneath Leon’s window. He wrinkled his nose at the stench of garlic and his gut clenched. Most of the shopkeepers around here gave off the same rank smell, filling Leon’s tiny office with it when they came in with their accounts. His ulcer bit into him.

‘Leon-the-Ritch’, people used to call him. He’d worked sixteen-hour days and managed all the big deals. He’d been a real player then, with millions in the bank and a glitzy wife on his arm. Now his twenty-year-old marriage was down the toilet, right there alongside his reputation and his bank balance.

Leon squeezed his eyes shut. Thinking about his marriage made him think about his son, and that was worse than the ulcer. He focused on the searing pain in his belly, trying to obliterate the image of Richard at the train station that morning. It was the first time he’d seen his son in almost a year.

He’d been up all night at a poker game and had travelled to his office on the train, vacuum-packed with the city’s commuters. Their looks of disgust had told him what he already knew: that his eyes were red-rimmed, his breath stank, and the bacteria in his armpits had metabolized up a storm.

His carriage had pulled up alongside a knot of schoolboys on the platform at Blackrock. He’d stared idly at them through the window. Then his breath had caught in his throat. Dark hair, round eyes, freckles like mud splats. Richard. Passengers pushed in front of Leon, but he elbowed them out of his way, straining for another glimpse of his son. A head taller than the other boys, Richard was easy to spot. He’d grown. Leon felt his chest swell. The boy would be tall like his mother, not squat like him.

Leon had pressed closer to the door. The first of Richard’s friends pushed through into the carriage, and up close Leon recognized the crest of Blackrock College on his jumper. He frowned. Maura hadn’t said anything about changing schools. But then they hadn’t talked in a long time. He wondered who was paying the fees.

Richard was at the door. Leon half raised his arm, ready to catch his attention. He heard the well-bred accents of Richard’s friends. At the same time, he became aware of the sourness of his own clothes, of his stained anorak and unshaven face. His hand faltered, suspended in mid air.

‘Richard!’

The boy snapped his head around to look back at the station platform. Leon yanked his arm down and peered out the window. A blond man in his forties was jogging towards the train. He wore a dark wool overcoat and carried a red sports bag in one hand. He held the bag out to Richard, and ruffled the boy’s hair. Leon saw the wide grin that spread across his son’s face, and felt a jagged twinge in his stomach, as though he’d swallowed broken glass. Slowly, Leon had turned and shuffled through the crowd until he’d reached the other end of the carriage. And there he’d stayed, hidden, until he was sure his son was gone.

The clink of bottles made Leon jump. Outside in the car park, the young Chinese man was back, this time firing glass jars into the bottle bank. Leon rubbed his face again and took a deep breath, trying to clear the curdling in his stomach. Maybe tomorrow he’d get cleaned up. Maybe he’d go and see Richard.

He checked his watch. Time to call Ralphy-Boy again. He cleared his throat and dialled.

‘Did you read it?’ he said, when Ralph picked up.

‘Is this some kind of sick joke?’

‘Took the words right out of my mouth.’

‘You think I sent this? I don’t want anything to do with it.’ Ralph’s mouth sounded dry.

‘What’s wrong, Ralphy? You scared?’

‘Of course I’m bloody scared. I’ve a lot to lose, even if you haven’t.’

Leon tightened his grip on the phone. ‘It’s down to me you didn’t lose it all eight years ago, let’s not forget that, okay?’

Ralph sighed. ‘What exactly do you want, Leon? More money?’

Good question. At first he’d just wanted to make sure Ralph hadn’t sent the email, but now another idea was uncurling itself.

‘You read the email, didn’t you?’ Leon said.

‘Yes, he says the girl has it. So what?’

‘Well, maybe I want it back.’

‘You think she’s just going to hand it over? And what if he’s wrong?’

‘The Prophet’s never been wrong about anything before,’ Leon said. ‘Says he has proof.’

‘What’s the matter with you? Do you want us both to go to jail?’

Leon gazed out the window again. Maybe hearing from the Prophet wasn’t such a bad thing, after all. Maybe this was his way back.

‘There’s this fella I know,’ Leon said. ‘I’ve used him before. He’ll take care of it.’

‘I don’t like this.’

‘You don’t have to, Ralphy.’

Leon slammed the phone down and looked out the window again. This time he didn’t see the graffiti on the walls or the overflowing wheelie bins. He saw himself clean-shaven and twenty pounds lighter, wearing an Italian suit and seated at the head of a boardroom table. He saw himself dressed in a smart wool overcoat, cheering Richard on as he played rugby for his school. Leon ground his teeth and curled his fingers into fists.

This girl had something that belonged to him and he wanted it back.