Free Hidden Man by Charles Cumming Page A

is.’
    ‘D’Erlanger? He’s Belgian,’ Taploe corrected. ‘Anyway, he left the company to run a restaurant.’
    ‘Well, I was merely trying to help.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘So call Mark yourself,’ Keen suggested. ‘It’s obviously the next step.’ He felt no ordinary moral reason why he should not hand his son over to MI5. He was anxious to leave for dinner, and Mark would at least be able to help with the investigation. ‘To be honest, I’ve become bored playing the middleman,’ he said. ‘There’s something rather demeaning about it.’

12
    Why had he bothered coming?
    The pub in Edwardes Square stank generally of sweat and spilled pints, and specifically of stale sick in the area where Ben was sitting. He was halfway through a pint of Guinness, talking to an earnest financial journalist from the Evening Standard who wanted to know how he found the motivation to get up every morning and paint in his studio and ‘wasn’t there a temptation when you’re working from home just to fuckoff and spend the whole afternoon in the cinema?’
    ‘Sometimes,’ Ben told him.
    ‘Well, I really admire you, man,’ he said. ‘No, I really do.’
    Alice was at the bar, surrounded by five drooling male colleagues making wise cracks and pulling rank. She had phoned at the last moment and all but demanded that Ben join her for a drink. Come on. We never see each other. You never want to meet my friends . He had been forced to abandon workon the picture of Jenny, but now that he was here Alice was scarcely giving him the time of day. Ben was thinking about leaving as soon as he had finished his pint and going backto workin the studio.
    ‘So how much do you charge for a portrait?’ the journalist was asking.
    ‘What’s that?’ Ben had heard the question, but wanted to suggest with his eyes that he thought it was none of his business.
    ‘I said how much do you -‘
    ‘It depends.’
    ‘Oh, right. What on, man? I mean, how do you rate it? By the hour?’
    The conversation went on like this for fifteen minutes. But can you make any real money as a painter? Don’t you get bored and lonely? Ben couldn’t get away. The constant opening and closing of the street door fed muffled traffic noise into the pub. Ben found himself explaining why he hated the cocktail-party circuit of art exhibitions and gallery openings, all that air-kissing and people with too much money buying paintings just to match a sofa. The journalist was laughing, agreeing with everything Ben said, even offering to buy him a pint and introduce him to a City financier who was collecting art and ‘really knew what was right and wrong’.
    ‘You know, man. Not shark tanks and elephant shit. Paintings . He really likes oils and watercolours. Give me your number and I’ll text you his details.’
    That was when Mark walked into the pub.
    He was stopped by Alice almost immediately among the jam of bodies at the bar. She squealed and put her arms around his waist, looking over in Ben’s direction. Was this more than coincidence? Ben wasso pleased to see him that he dismissed the thought immediately. He stood up, said, ‘Back in a moment,’ and walked towards the bar.
    ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
    ‘Hello, brother. Had a meeting next door. Just popped in for a pint.’
    ‘Isn’t it amazing?’ Alice was saying, putting her hand on Mark’s back. ‘Of all the places.’
    There were introductions, rounds of drinks. For half an hour they talked at the bar, Mark telling stories about Libra and Moscow, Alice involving everybody in the conversation and making sure to laugh at the news editor’s jokes. A frustrating evening became suddenly enjoyable for Ben, the easy slip of Guinness and close family. And as Alice’s colleagues left the pub one by one, it was easy for Mark to pull him away into a private huddle and to deal with the taskin hand.
    ‘Listen,’ he said, putting a grip on Ben’s arm. ‘It’s good we’ve run into each other.