by Angus McLean
He saw a girl walk past towards the office, her black leggings leaving nothing to the imagination. She was long and lean and tanned, with flowing brown hair and high cheekbones which belied her Scandinavian/Slovakian heritage. She caught his eye as she opened the office door and he gave her a short nod. Lana was Wizzle’s girlfriend, and despite her beauty she was not somebody to be overly familiar with. She gave him a cool smile in return and closed the door behind her.
He was getting a drink when he saw the door open again and Wizzle approached. He was average height and average build, a few years older than Moore. There was not an ounce of fat on his body, which was heavily tattooed and straining at his T shirt.
‘Alright Kiwi?’
Moore wiped his face on his towel and nodded, still getting his breath back. ‘All good mate.’ He ran an eye over the gym owner. ‘Looking a bit tubby, Wizz. Slacked off a bit?’
Wizzle grinned. ‘Yeah, but I’ll never get as soft as you, pal.’ He waited while Moore took another draught of water. ‘How’s your boozing?’
Moore swallowed and considered his answer. It wasn’t like Wizzle to ask after his members’ welfare. ‘Fine, why?’
Wizzle shrugged his rock-like shoulders. ‘Just askin’. I heard you had a run in down the Red Lion the other week.’
It was Moore’s turn to shrug. ‘Storm in a tea cup mate, just some pissed idiot who thought he was all that. I can’t even remember what the guy looks like now.’
Wizzle nodded. ‘Unfortunately, he remembers you.’
Moore looked at him warily. ‘Mate of yours, is he?’
Wizzle gave a snort. ‘Not ‘alf.’ His face was giving nothing away. ‘They call him Romper, as in Romper Stomper. He’s a crazy little fuck, but he’s stupid. Does stupid shit like trying to step out guys bigger and better than him.’
Moore nodded silently. That much was true.
‘But, if you turn your back or he gets you down, he’ll fuckin’ ’ave ya. I know of two guys he’s knifed in the back, and at least a dozen he’s kicked the shit out of on the deck.’ Wizzle rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. ‘Like I say, he’s a crazy little shit. But ’is bruvver, he’s a different story. He’ll just stab ya in the face. Jimmy the Blade, they call him.’
‘Because Mack the Knife was already taken?’
‘Do I look like I’m laughin’, Kiwi? Know what they call Jimmy’s boys? The Cuttin’ Crew.’
An 80’s pop song by the band of the same name popped into Moore’s head, but he kept it to himself. Now didn’t seem like the time for jokes. Instead he nodded and tossed the towel over his shoulder.
‘Thanks for the heads up,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘I know these boys, Kiwi,’ Wizzle said, his voice low. ‘If you want, I can fix it.’
Moore knew exactly how he would fix it, and he shook his head. ‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll play it as it comes.’
Wizzle considered him for a moment before nodding slowly. ‘Your call, mate.’ He leaned in closer, his voice low again. ‘But remember what I said. The offer stands.’
Moore nodded his thanks and turned away, feeling a weight on his shoulders. The last thing he needed right now was this shit.
Chapter Four
An hour later he unlocked the front door to his flat and shut the world behind him.
He had to admit to himself that despite his bravado to Wizzle, he’d been more cautious than normal on the way home, checking for a tail and feeling like a pussy for doing it. Still, it was better than getting a switchblade between the ribs.
He locked the door and kicked off his sneakers in the entrance vestibule. He had a momentary flashback to an incident a year or so ago when he had been confronted by Archer, waiting for him when he got home. His colleague had held a suppressed Sig on him, in the mistaken belief that Moore was a traitor. He had genuinely believed it was about to be lights out. It wasn’t a pleasant memory.
He made his way up the carpeted stairs to his small flat, dropping his bag on the floor and taking his purchases into the kitchen. He’d stopped at an off licence and a curry house on the way home.
First things first though.
After a brisk shower he dressed, took the curry from the oven and the beer from the freezer and sat on the couch to watch the news. The chicken tikka masala was spicy and good, the naan was perfectly garlicky and the Kingfisher that washed it all down was ice cold and smooth. He wondered if he was turning into a Pom.
The news included coverage of the day’s developments in Turkey and he saw protests with plenty of chanting and flag waving and anger. Russian jets bombed Syria and politicians talked rhetoric.
Moore flicked it off and stared out the window at the darkness beyond.
A number of thoughts tumbled through his head; the buzz of anticipation that came with a new task, the envy he felt for Vince and Nga, the need for action. He wondered what Archer was up to now – obviously something, given Ingoe’s vague response.
Despite not knowing what Archer was involved in, Moore was even envious of that, regardless of how stupid the notion was. He felt like the last kid waiting to get selected for a team, when all the cool kids had already been picked.
Not the first time recently, he wondered what the hell he was doing.
Chapter Five
The flat formed the top floor of a converted house, and Moore’s landlady lived downstairs. She was a retired house wife and lived alone, her Special Branch husband having been killed by a terrorist bomb in County Armagh some years ago.
She was a sprightly old bird and kept the gardens picture perfect, and never missed a trick. Moore was convinced she was on the books for MI5, having been referred to the flat by a contact in that service.
It didn’t bother him; she was a good landlady who often gave him baking or leftovers, and didn’t mind his comings and goings at odd times. She also parked her little Toyota sewing machine on the street and let him use the single garage to house the Jag.
At six am Moore closed the garage door and rolled out onto the road. He wore his sharp Hugo Boss navy blue pinstripe with a crisp white shirt, the deep red silk tie knotted with a double Windsor.
The 4.2 litre six cylinder engine gave a throaty purr as he accelerated away and aimed for the A501.
He was soon heading south west, the sleek black Jag attracting the odd envious look as it moved easily through the traffic to the A219 and down to the southbound A3. The Jag was a 1970 E-Type Series 2 open two-seater and as far as Moore was concerned it was pure sex on wheels.
The Series 2 had wider bucket seats than the earlier models, which suited his frame, and the 4 speed gearbox – although not as economical as a 5 speed conversion – was as smooth as anything else he’d ever driven. He’d bought the car from a deceased estate not long after arriving in England, and had had some work done to restore it almost to its original glory.
He had his iPod shuffling through a ‘70’s Brit rock play list, hits and misses from The Kinks, Status Quo, the Faces and other classics of that era.
He hit traffic near Putney and crawled for a while before turning off to a greasy spoon he’d been to before in New Malden.
He sat alone against the wall and took his time over a reasonable full English, mopping the sauce and juices up with his toast and washing it all down with a pot of strong tea. Feeling re-energised he got some fresh air outside before he hit the road again.
By the time he finally crossed over the M25 into the Guildford borough the iPod had moved on to an 80’s glam rock collection and he could almost feel the hair spray and smell the bourbon emanating from the speakers as Cinderella, Bon Jovi, Night Ranger and Van Halen rocked out. The road was good now and the Jag took a left onto the A25 before dropping down towards the tiny picturesque village of Shere.
Moore had been here last year with Danni, enjoying a fantastic pub lunch when she visited for the four days her mother had allowed. He had been excited because a movie had been filmed there some years ago with Kate Winsl
et. He liked Kate Winslet. Danni thought she was “quite pretty for an older lady.”
Following the directions on his GPS he bypassed the village itself and carried on to a narrow country lane flanked by high hedgerows, slowing down as he made his way half a mile further before a wide gap opened on his right to reveal a long driveway.
He turned in and saw a sprawling property before him, wide green fields with a three storey ivy-covered country house straight ahead and a large pond to the left. Horse stables could be seen past the house and a wooded area further on. It all seemed to be contained within one property – just the sort of place that he imagined an eccentric wealthy squire lived with some domestic staff and a trusty dog, shooting pheasants, riding and fishing for wild brown trout in the nearby Tillingbourne river.
Moore eased the Jag to a stop in the turning circle at the front of the house, the tyres crunching on the pebbles as he pulled up. A fountain statue dominated a circular garden in the eye of the turning circle. A silver Range Rover was parked off to the side. It looked like this year’s model, maybe last year’s. Beside it was a red Ferrari 458 Speciale. Moore couldn’t pick the year, but it didn’t matter – it was a goddamn Ferrari.
As he was getting out of the Jag he was met by a smiling young man in a brown moleskin jacket and casual chinos. His black hair was slicked down and his face was unblemished and soft.
‘You must be the bloke from Haymarket,’ he said, gripping Moore’s hand and pumping it too hard. ‘Tristan Stevens is the name.’
Moore squeezed back and the younger guy quickly let go. ‘Rob,’ he said. He didn’t feel the need to explain that it was his name.
Tristan tossed a glance at the Jag. ‘E-Type,’ he said appreciatively. ‘I prefer it in red myself.’
Moore glanced at the car and then back at Tristan, his head cocked inquisitively to the side. He didn’t say anything.
‘Come this way, the Minister’s waiting to see you.’ He rolled back his cuff, checking what looked to be a new Rolex. ‘You’re in good time, well done.’
Moore wondered if he was aware of how condescending he sounded. Tristan looked to be on the good side of thirty, with the smooth good looks of a city trader and the cocky attitude to go with it.
‘What’s your role here?’ Moore asked as he was led into the ground floor entrance way and up a broad set of stairs. The wall beside them was dotted with oil paintings of country scenes and men with bad hair.
‘I’m an adviser to the Minister,’ Tristan said blandly. He paused at the top of the stairs and turned to Moore. ‘Now, sorry to have to ask, but are you armed?’
Moore was faintly amused. ‘No.’
Tristan started to reach towards him. ‘I know what you secret squirrel types are like, and I don’t mean to be offensive…’
‘Then don’t be.’ Moore locked eyes with him. ‘I said no.’
Tristan hesitated then withdrew his hand. A slight flush coloured his cheeks. ‘It’s just I have to take the Minister’s security very seriously, that’s all. I’m sure you understand.’
Moore gave a curt nod. ‘I do.’
Without further discussion Tristan turned and led him into a spacious drawing room. Matching suits of armour flanked the mantelpiece, where a log fire flickered. More oil paintings adorned the walls, the drapes were heavy and rich and the furniture all appeared to be mahogany.
A middle aged man was approaching them, his hand extended and a politician’s smile on his face. He was lean and healthy looking and had a full head of salt and pepper. He was in casual country attire that probably cost more than Moore’s Ones.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he said, shaking Moore’s hand briefly. ‘Paul Oldham.’
‘Rob.’
Oldham nodded and gestured towards a horse shoe of antique couches arranged around a coffee table near the fire. Moore removed his jacket and put it down beside him. Tristan disappeared and Oldham took the couch opposite Moore.
‘Great house,’ Moore commented, looking around.
‘Thank you.’ Oldham leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands together. ‘It’s been in the family for years and one of my cousins looks after it. I get to use it when I’m over here, which is regrettably not as often as I would like.’ He shrugged and gave a look of chagrin. ‘Such is the life of a politician, I guess. Always working.’
Moore kept his thoughts to himself. ‘It must be difficult,’ he said politely.
Tristan arrived with a tray and laid out plunged coffee and oat biscuits.
‘Thank you Tristan.’ Oldham smiled and waited for him to leave before pouring the coffee. ‘Milk?’
‘A little, thanks.’ Moore took his cup and a biscuit. He wondered if it would be uncouth to dunk his biscuit. The Minister wasn’t, so he held fire and took a dry bite instead. The biscuit tasted fresh baked, and he wondered if baking was one of Tristan’s duties as well. ‘So, I understand you have some concerns about your daughter Natalie,’ he said.
Oldham took a sip of his coffee and nodded. He put his cup down and looked at the floor, the weight of the world seemingly on his shoulders. Moore suppressed an eye roll and waited.
‘Natalie is what you could call something of a free spirit, I guess,’ Oldham said eventually. ‘She’s always had a very innocent view of life, naïve even. Always sees the best in people. She had a pretty normal upbringing, as normal as it can get with a career politician for a father anyway.’ He gave a small smile. ‘She had the best we could provide for her, and once her mother passed away I did the best I could for her, with the able assistance of a nanny. She had the best schools, overseas trips…pretty normal, really.’
Not quite the normal Moore had known growing up, but again he kept his thoughts to himself.
‘When she left school she went to Auckland University and studied history, did well enough and then ended up on her OE.’ He spread his hands. ‘As far as I know everything was good over here, she seemed to be enjoying herself and doing all the normal things young people do on their OE. She’s got good friends here, they’re all very concerned – I’ve been in touch with them.’
Moore nodded and sipped his coffee. The biscuit was gone but he wasn’t sure on the social etiquette of helping himself to another.
‘When did you last hear from her?’ he asked.
‘She posted on Facebook while she was in Istanbul, I saw that. I spoke to her last before she left, but I have to confess I didn’t actually know she was going over there.’ He shook his head, frustration etched on his face. ‘By Christ, if I’d known I would’ve said no. The place is in turmoil and the Russians of course have been bombing the blazes out of Syria next door. It’s too bloody dangerous over there for a young girl.’
Moore was silent. The man seemed genuinely pained, and Moore wondered how he would have felt himself if it was he and Danni in their shoes. It was too horrible to contemplate.
‘Who did she go with?’ he asked instead.
Paul Oldham shook his head. ‘I don’t know. As far as I know she went on her own, I asked her friends and nobody seemed to know.’
‘Do you have an itinerary or know where she was staying, what she was doing, anything like that?’
Oldham shook his head again. ‘No.’
‘Has she been formally reported missing to the Police?’
‘No, good Lord no.’ Oldham was emphatic. ‘Can you imagine the media trolls with that?’
Moore said nothing. He finished his coffee and put the cup down.
‘Do you have her address here? Any contact details for her friends?’
‘Of course. I’ll have Tristan email them to you. You’ll need to go over there, of course, and start looking for her.’ He slapped the back of one hand into the palm of his other, holding Moore’s eyes for emphasis. ‘We need to find my little girl, Rob. We need to get boots on the ground and start turning over rocks, get people talking to us. In my experience someone will know where she is, and they will talk to us…given the right approach. A ro
bust approach.’ He slapped his hands together again, in case Moore hadn’t got the message that he was deadly serious. ‘We need to find her, and we need to bring her home.’
Moore said nothing, just gave a slight nod. He’d noticed how common it was for white-collar workers, particularly politicians, to spout militaristic phrases in such situations. He blamed TV. Oldham sat back now, watching him.
‘Did you hear what I said, Rob?’ Oldham’s tone was sharp. ‘Or am I talking to myself?’
‘I heard you perfectly clearly, sir,’ Moore replied.
Oldham pursed his lips and took a slow breath. He seemed to be struggling. ‘You don’t say much, do you?’ he said.
Moore considered his answer. ‘I’m more about just doing it,’ he said carefully.
‘No need to talk about it,’ Oldham said.
Moore gave a slight shrug. ‘Not usually.’
Oldham was silent for a few moments, studying him. ‘What are you?’ he asked. ‘I presume you’re some kind of intelligence operator? A spy?’
‘I am.’
Oldham nodded. ‘Have you done this sort of thing before? Found people?’
‘I have.’
‘And you’ve been to these sorts of places before? Hot spots and the like? You’ve…operated…in places like this before?’
‘Yes.’
Oldham nodded again, absorbing the information. He paused, as if debating his next question. ‘Are you good?’ he asked. His tone was softer now; this was the father speaking, not the politician.
Moore considered his answer. He knew the man wanted some kind of reassurance, an undertaking that he was going to go and find his daughter and everything would be just dandy and normal life – his kind of normal, anyway – would just resume. But he also needed to be honest.
He met the Minister’s eyes. They were anxious, emotional.
‘I am,’ he said. Oldham’s eyes took on a gleam, a hopeful glimmer. Moore deliberately crushed it with his next words. ‘If she’s there, I’ve got every chance of finding her. But you need to be prepared for the worst.’ Oldham visibly flinched. ‘She may be dead.’