The Last Darkness by Campbell Armstrong Page A

don’t remember what he looked like. Once a month he and Mr Lindsay had dinner at La Lanterna.’
    â€˜You know this guy, Lou?’ Scullion asked.
    Perlman said, ‘Unless there’s another Artie Wexler I never heard of.’
    Scullion was quiet a moment, then he looked at Billie Houston and said, ‘I’d like you to keep our conversation completely confidential, Miss Houston. For the time being at least.’
    â€˜I will. Don’t worry.’
    Artie Wexler , Perlman thought, and remembered the man’s smile as he’d escorted Miriam out of the reception area at the Cedars and into the corridor beyond. That smirk. No, Lou, you only imagined it that way. It was a straightforward smile, maybe even sympathetic: Sorry about your brother, Lou . You could read all you liked into an expression. And quite often you read the wrong things – especially, it seemed, when it came to Miriam.
    Forget her. Think of something else.
    This new coat, say. Bloody brilliant. It suits me. I feel well-dressed. Raised in class and status. Spend a great wad of money and it uplifts you.
    Scullion’s mobile rang and he fished it out of his pocket, answered it. ‘For you, Lou.’
    Perlman took the phone and heard Miriam’s voice. ‘I don’t mean to disturb you, Lou. Can we meet later?’
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜Is seven suitable? Outside the Art School?’
    â€˜I’ll be there.’ He was about to ask the purpose of the invitation, but she’d hung up. He gave the phone back to Sandy Scullion and thought: What does she want with me?
    What did that question matter?
    She could have asked for a meeting in an igloo in Greenland or an assignation on a dying space station and he’d have gone anyway, with or without explanation.

16
    Marak saw the blonde woman step out of the building, but as he prepared to cross the street and squeeze through traffic he realized she had company. Two men, one tall and straight-backed with hair the colour of sand, the other bespectacled and a little round-shouldered, escorted her along the pavement. They stood on either side of her like guardians. Marak had a feeling about these two, that they represented some branch of officialdom – lawyers, perhaps, tax or immigration inspectors, policemen, he wasn’t sure. They had a certain air, almost a watchfulness, such as he’d seen on the faces of bodyguards.
    They all stopped on a corner and exchanged a few words, and then the woman walked away. She was alone now. He watched the men continue to move along Bath Street.
    The woman went south into West Campbell Street and Marak hurried between slow traffic lest he lose sight of her. She walked about ten yards in front of him. There were no Christmas decorations along this street. She turned a corner, and Marak went after her and saw her step into a building with the letter P outside. P, Parking, yes , of course, she was going to fetch her car. He moved behind her, closing the distance, aware on the edges of his perception that there were no pedestrians, only a few cars coming down the exit ramp, and there was nobody waiting outside the lift where the woman had paused.
    She pressed the call button and Marak noticed she wore pink fingernail varnish. The lift hissed in the shaft and the door opened and the woman stepped inside. Marak entered behind her. The door slid shut. The lift began to climb.
    Marak said, ‘I don’t intend to hurt you.’
    The woman looked at him. ‘Hurt me? What the hell are you talking about?’
    â€˜Tell me what I want to know, and I will leave you alone. You’ll never see me again.’
    â€˜And what could I possibly know that you’d like to hear, you creep?’
    â€˜Where to find Joseph Lindsay.’
    â€˜Wait a minute. You phoned today, didn’t you? I remember your accent.’
    â€˜Just tell me where he is.’
    â€˜Why don’t you piss off,’ she said.