Birth of a Spy

by Duncan Swindells

  Hunter threw back his shoulders and brushed off some of the filth which had accrued over the previous few days. He’d had to acknowledge there was nothing to be done about the smell, but for now he would try his best to appear like a respectable member of society. Shoppers were busily coming and going and if he timed his entrance well he might tag on the end of a group and enter the store unnoticed by the security guard. A mother and father were cajoling two reluctant teenage daughters. Hunter fell in line behind the taller of the pair as their parents activated the first pair of glass doors. The shop’s security guard continued to pace absently in the coconut-matted no man’s land between the outside world and admittance. The parents entered the shop, the father taking off with renewed purpose, but just as Hunter was about to pass through the first set of sliding doors, one of the girls stopped abruptly in her tracks and, brandishing her mobile phone, embarked on an argument with her sister. Hunter almost walked straight into the back of the girl. Feeling awkwardly conspicuous he decided to make his move past the bickering family. As he stepped out from the shadows, and nearly at the second set of doors, the guard, drawn by the sound of raised voices turned and with two calculated strides, blocked his path. He took one long, lingering look at Hunter, shook his head and wordlessly resumed his station by the sliding doors, like a bouncer at a night club. Hunter got the message. He wasn’t stupid. In fact, if the boot had been on the other foot he would probably have done the same. He sidled out past the feuding sisters and was just deciding what to do next when a huge bank of television screens which had previously been entertaining passers-by with football highlights switched over to Sky News.

  Police still hunting killer of Cambridge students

  There were photographs of Joth and Amy taken from the university’s records and then, whilst Hunter was trying to recover from the shock of seeing them again and the confirmation of their deaths, a fresh face filled the screen. This photograph had not come from the university. It was much glossier. A professional headshot, taken by a professional photographer, for a professional member of the media. Hunter looked through his glassy reflection at Alec Bell’s fresh, smiling face. He’d been shot in the university grounds and the police weren’t hesitating in connecting the three murders. Lastly, after some shaky mobile phone footage of proud runners showing off their medals, Hunter watched himself running frantically in the background and then the chaotic scenes from Hyde Park. There was an interview with the runner he had vaulted over. The man was lying in a hospital bed, his leg heavily bandaged and raised, his teary wife by his side. Hunter didn’t need to see any more. He knew what was coming next. He pulled the hoodie close over his head, turned and walked away.

  There was nothing for it. There was only one place left to turn. The money had gone, what little of it there had been and he wasn’t prepared to spend another evening begging on the streets of London. He was tired, hungry and he had the feeling that it was not going to be a dry night for the capital. Storm clouds were gathering. If he could make it as far as the shopping centre at Brent Cross he’d try to thumb a lift up the M1 from there. He had a vague idea that if he could get to the Edgware Road that would lead him up through Kilburn and eventually to the bottom of the motorway. He didn’t know how far it was, five miles maybe six? If he pressed on he should be there by early evening. The walk might give him a chance to think, although he already had a good idea what the new code would prove to be.

  ✽✽✽

  Wet and exhausted Hunter arrived at Brent Cross just as many of the shops were shutting. At Cricklewood it had started to rain and so by the time he’d navigated the North Circular, Hunter was soaked through. Near Dollis Hill he’d walked passed one electrical store after another without even bothering to gain admittance, the walk giving him precious time to think on George’s enigmatic final message and how his grandfather might possibly be involved. The car parks of Brent Cross were beginning to empty and with the prospect of another miserable night out in the cold looming, Hunter disappeared behind one of the superstores to the loading bays at their rear and found an old piece of discarded cardboard.

  Beaten and defeated, he stood at the exit to the car park, surrounded by the detritus of modern travel, a rudimentary sign in his bandaged hand. There were single sodden and muddy shoes, often children’s, washed up next to drainage covers, fast food packaging and used condoms. All things that made Hunter wonder about their previous owners. He’d simply written NORTH over and over itself, in fine, spindly biro. He would jump out of the car whenever it was convenient or the questions became too awkward. One or two drivers had slowed down and he’d thought he might be in luck, but the first had been a woman making a phone call and the second a car full of young lads who’d wound the windows down and screamed abuse at him. Another cold night under the stars was beginning to look increasingly likely.

  Then, as cars continued to leave, he saw the black BMW 6 series. It was the same car Hunter had seen parked on Danforth Road, the same car he had glimpsed as he ran from McAllister’s on the Tottenham Court Road and the same car he’d walked past on Lansdowne Terrace. With nothing to lose, he strode up to the driver’s side and rapped on the window. The tinted glass disappeared effortlessly revealing a man in his mid-sixties, impeccably dressed but clearly not to be trifled with. One look at his suit told Hunter it was hand tailored, possibly from the Savile Row, probably from somewhere a little more exclusive just off the Savile Row. His shirt was freshly ironed and pressed, his tie pure silk and probably worth more than all of Hunter’s clothes combined. A peculiar smell issued from the car’s cosseted interior, a strange mixture of tobacco and vanilla. Hunter struggled to identify it before spotting the thick e-cigarette lying near the dashboard.

  ‘Get in,’ the man said tersely before Hunter could open his mouth.

  ‘Get in,’ he repeated. ‘I’m a friend. I can take you as far as Chandler’s Cross, but after that you’re on your own.’

  The man certainly seemed to know exactly where Hunter was headed. Chandler’s Cross would leave him a walk of a couple of miles. If he knew where he was intending to go then he knew who he was and who he intended to see. He also probably knew a great deal more. Hunter was too tired, too wet and too hungry to argue. Without a word he climbed into the passenger seat.

  The BMW was a smooth ride and his driver had the heating set up just a little higher than was necessary on a spring evening. They hardly made it to the M1 before Hunter’s eyes started to close and by junction 2 he was fast asleep.

  10

  The elegantly dressed gentleman was as good as his word. Hunter woke as they slowed to turn off the M25 and dozed the remainder of the way to the sleepy little hamlet of Chandlers Cross. The car stopped at a fork in the road.

  ‘This is where we part company, Scott.’

  Something in the way the man spoke stopped Hunter from asking how he knew his name. Reticently he thought of George Wiseman and wondered if he could grab the man’s expensive silk tie, jam it through the steering wheel and force some answers from him, but the smartly dressed gent was uncompromisingly built. Hunter had had an English teacher with a similar physique and air. One lunchtime he’d watched him lift a sixth former clean off his feet and throw him from the school quads. He didn’t doubt for one moment that the man sat coolly to his right was every bit as capable, gentlemen are not always gentle-men, after all.

  ‘Thank you,’ Hunter mumbled before opening the door. As he leant back to retrieve his bag the man lit a cigarette.

  ‘Good luck, Scott,’ he said, ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’ He never turned to face Hunter, brooding into the night, the cigarette never far from his lips.

  The Sarratt Road was little more than a country lane. There was no artificial light and the tall hedgerows made it feel darker still. Briefly the lane opened out and Hunter found himself walking over the motorway he had just left. None of this was new to him, these were well-worn paths, desire lines both real and imagined, and the closer he
came to his destination the more familiar and well-worn they felt. Familiar, yet not comfortable. Leaving the M25 roaring behind him Hunter arrived on the outskirts of the village. There were two tartly isolated houses and then, finally the sign welcoming him to Sarratt and inviting him to drive carefully. Now the butterflies were beginning to mount. As he pressed on into the more residential heart of the village here and there the signs of everyday life. Radios and television sets turned up high to drown out empty lives. Couples exchanging workaday banalities, guarded precursors to love or war and cruelly, rising above the hubbub, the smell of home cooking, of shop bought curries and pizzas competing with sweated onions and garlic. Half a mile further on he saw the green. The pubs were still open but Hunter couldn’t imagine for how much longer.

  He walked past The Boot with its gnarled old trees and turned off and up the lane which ran down its side. He was close now. Horses were still out in their paddocks, loudly snorting the night air. He stopped. Was he really going to do this, was he really going to seek refuge from the one man whose deceit had caused him so much pain? His shoes crackled over the gravel as he walked up the driveway to his father’s house.

  David Hunter spent most of the evening in his garden. He slipped on a blue knitted cardigan, poured himself a glass of chilled Gewürztraminer and idly strolled around in his slippers inspecting the various shrubs. He dead headed some of the early bloomers then tried unenthusiastically to tie back a brutish clematis but with little success. Then he sat on the bench at the back of the house and listened to the blackbirds, keeping his glass topped up from the cooler by his side and enjoying the warm damp air. He’d been delighted with his work on the Anniversary clock, but much of his pleasure had been soured when the previous day had brought with it unwanted visitors bearing sad and disturbing news.

  David finished locking up for the night. He knew many of his neighbours didn’t bother but he was a Londoner at heart and liked the reassurance of latched windows and bolted doors. When he had moved out to the country he’d scoured the area for just the right property, somewhere that would afford him the level of privacy he desired. There had been a cottage in Tring, about fifteen miles away, which he’d been very taken with, but had quickly come to realise was a sum of its parts. Take away the owners’ furniture, curtains and beautiful artworks and it was nothing.

  He was rinsing a glass at the sink when he heard the first tentative knock. It was late and he was not expecting anyone. Living where he did it was most unusual to receive guests, that had been one of the reasons for moving there. He put down the wine glass and walked through into the dining room, ducking as he passed under the cottage’s low dark beams to where the finished clock sat. It seemed to be working perfectly now, under its new protective glass dome. Another knock, stronger this time, even a little insistent. It could be Jerry from up the lane. His horses did get out from time to time and David had, on one occasion, somewhat reluctantly offered him a hand. He squinted down the fisheye lens. No, not Jerry. A scruffy young man. Probably some poor sod, down on his luck, selling shammy leathers and gimmicks for the garden. David would be polite but firm and get rid of him.

  He stared at the figure on his doorstep. His clothes were filthy and damp and it was hard for David to make out his face as he wore a hood pulled tight over his head. He looked pale and thin with the beginnings of a beard framing hollow sunken eyes. In his hand a bag of sorts, like its owner, tired and dirty and David presumed, full of the wares he intended to hawk. And then the visitor pulled back his hood revealing his closely shaven head, lines and scars criss-crossing his scalp amidst the smears of dried blood.

  ‘Scott?’ David looked at his son. He’d been so desperate to see him, but he’d never wanted to see him like this.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Oh my God, Scott, come in. Let me take that,’ David said gesturing to his son’s bag, but Hunter kept it held close to him. ‘I’ve had the police looking for you. They said,’ David could hardly bring himself to say it, ‘they said that… that Amy’s dead.’

  Scott nodded silently, hardly noticing as his father led him into the sitting room.

  ‘Scott, are you all right? Dear God, what happened?’

  ‘I watched her die. I watched her die right in front of me and there was nothing I could do to save her.’

  ‘They said she’d been shot?’

  Hunter nodded.

  ‘Oh Scott. I’m so very sorry. You know I really thought...’

  ‘I know.’

  The silent years of unanswered telephone calls descended between them. Hunter knew what his father was thinking all too well.

  ‘It was my fault. It’s my fault she’s dead.’ Hunter’s large emotionless eyes stared blankly back at his father. There were no tears left, only silence.

  ‘You look shocking. Can I get you something? Something to eat, a cup of tea?’

  ‘Have you got anything stronger? Whisky?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  David disappeared into the kitchen and Hunter listened as long-abandoned cupboards were plundered and glasses and a bottle found. As he waited for his father, and with the house’s warmth slowly penetrating his body and his strength starting to return Hunter carefully took in his surroundings. Everything was much as he could remember. There had been subtle changes here and there, some of the paintings on the walls had been re-arranged, there were fresh biographies on the bookshelves and a new and expensive looking piece of hi-fi blinked lazily in its cabinet, but by and large much the same. The same overbearing oak furniture, the dresser badly scratched, the same clapped out computer, the same dining table his father had invested so much time in. And that was when he saw the clock. This was new. He crossed the room to examine it more closely. David joined him and they stood silently contemplating the magnificent domed timepiece and their drinks.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know how you take it.’

  ‘That’s all right. Neither do I.’ He knocked back a measure. ‘Nice clock.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ve just finished a little restoration work.’

  Hunter nodded at his father’s craftsmanship.

  ‘Difficult job?’

  ‘Harder than you might imagine, yes. It belonged to your mother, you know?’

  ‘I see.’ Hunter drained the last of his whisky and put the glass on the table next to the clock. How dare he mention his mother. How dare he bring her up at a time like this. The man was a liar and a cheat. Why couldn’t he just have lied about the clock too?

  ‘All I need from you is your computer. Then I’ll go.’

  ‘I understand.’ David took the glass from the table. ‘Although I’m not convinced that you do, Scott.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean by that? I know you don’t want me here in your cosy little palace.’

  David was going to ignore the comment but then changed his mind.

  ‘Why are you here exactly, Scott?’

  ‘I had nowhere else to go, I can assure you of that.’

  David was inclined to believe him. He could see the effort involved in his son’s visit and the resentment too.

  ‘You still haven’t told me why Amy was killed? People aren’t simply shot in the middle of Hyde Park for no reason. The police told me about Joth and Alec. Three people dead, Scott. You need to tell me what’s been going on.’

  ‘Four dead, actually. Old guy. Sick, probably dying, not that that matters now. Claimed to have all the answers. Killed himself.’ David flinched at mention of the suicide.

  ‘You’d better tell me everything. But first I think I’m going to need another drink.’

  Whilst his father filled their glasses Hunter emptied the contents of his bag onto the dining room table; the black and white photograph, George’s manuscript and the copy of his first book.

  ‘How long have you been drinking neat whisky?’ David asked offering him a glass.

  ‘Since I met this guy.’ Hunter turned the copy of Wiseman’s book over to show his father the publi
city shot on the back. ‘Now he’s dead, probably no thanks to me.’

  ‘I see,’ his father said looking away.

  ‘He took care of us, me and Amy.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘You know? What do you mean you know?’

  ‘He called me.’

  ‘Wiseman called you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why the hell would Wiseman call you?’

  ‘To tell me you were safe.’

  ‘He never mentioned he knew you. How do you know him?’

  ‘Like I said, there’s still a lot you don’t understand. He was a good man, Scott.’

  ‘He said he had information. Something about Papa.’

  ‘Ah. No, it wasn’t your Papa,’ David said shaking his head, ‘Your grandfather. Did you say you needed a computer?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going to need a sharp knife too.’

  ‘I’ll get you one. I think it’s about time you see something you should probably have seen years ago, Scott. You know where the PC is? Help yourself.’