by Tim Standish
‘And some people would go to any lengths to preserve the Empire,’ said Milady. ‘Murder would barely register. Terror, mayhem, disorder at certain levels would be tolerated.’
We sat in silence again for a few moments, the weight of the truth pinning us down.
Church spoke first. ‘So. What now?’
‘The directive remains extant,’ said Collier, pronouncing each word slowly and carefully. ‘We identify those involved in the conspiracy and discreetly remove them from circulation. Which means the personnel in K17 and those they engaged to carry out the acts.’
‘Did you know,’ asked Milady, ‘one of the reasons given for Sir Anthony Willard’s knighthood was his charity work with the poor of the East End?’ Church looked up at her as she continued. ‘Yes, you wouldn’t think it to meet him, but he very generously ran a free clinic for women who couldn’t afford medical care. More than a few prostitutes were numbered among his patients. I remember them making a point of it at the unveiling of his new wing. Apparently they were tested for all sorts of things.’
She said it casually, as if the connection had suddenly occurred to her, but I wondered if that were really the case. It made me think of the way when I was young, my father would sometimes sit with my brothers and I, lay out a chess puzzle from a vast book and pretend ignorance of the answer so that we would see it for ourselves and win the prize of his hearty congratulations.
‘Miss Green has been befriending his assistant and so may be able to shed some light on his current activities,’ said Collier, the life beginning to come back into his tone. ‘I will check on her progress.’
‘And put a couple of Jays on him so we can pick him up when we need to,’ said Church. ‘We need to get after our friend from Preston, the pilot and whoever else she was working with.’ He stood up and stretched out his shoulders. ‘Sterling and I should get back and see if Patience has found anything. And we need to trace the other figure in the photos we got from Richardson. Sir Anthony might have been the one doing the surgery but there was someone else there as well.’
‘One to cut them and one to mask his work,’ I said, repeating the words that Richardson had said to us in his dressing room.
‘That’s it,’ said Church, ‘some lunatic who didn’t mind hacking women about.’
A flash then in my mind: sheets soaked scarlet, a tiny broken form curled amongst them, its face battered in. ‘Someone like that might be locked away by now,’ I said, ‘in gaol if not in Bedlam.’
‘That may be the case, Sterling,’ said Milady. ‘He may be dead for all we know.’ The amber in her eyes glinted. ‘But until we know for certain let’s leave him on the list, shall we?’
A knock at the door made us look round. It opened and Milady’s bodyguard leaned inside. ‘Ma’am. Patience is here. She says she has found them.’
18. Trip
I froze.
Around me the Jays did the same, instantly paused in mid-movement; their heads were moving slightly, each man tracking around him, gun up and aimed.
By the house, Church was motionless, door handle held in mid turn, head turned towards me. Slowly, ever so slowly, he brought his other arm up away from the door and waved it towards us. The meaning was clear: move back. The Jays obeyed instantly, shifting positions in a quick burst of steady and near-silent movement and settling into whatever cover they could find. They all wore dark blue police uniforms surmounted by black, state-of-the-art bulletproof waistcoats. All carried automatic weapons of a similar kind to those carried by the men who had attacked the Map Room. I caught the eye of one of them who was crouched next to a small statue of the Venus de Milo, the upper part of this version augmented, no doubt for the sake of decency, with a strategically placed garland of flowers. The Jay next to her raised his eyebrows, tilted his head at the statue and gave me a quick grin, conscious of the incongruity of the situation. I slowly backed along the path, pistol in hand. Glancing backwards I saw that, just beyond the white gateposts at the end of the driveway, our driver – whose name I had discovered was Donaldson – was still standing by the van in his postman’s uniform, smoking a cigarette in the unhurried style of a man without a care in the world.
I looked back to Church, who was, if anything, moving even more slowly as he rotated the door handle gently back to its resting position. This done, he stepped back from the door in a series of slow, careful steps, back down the garden path towards me. As he got closer I saw that, despite the sharpness of the air, several small beads of perspiration had formed across his forehead.
‘There’s a bomb rigged to the door,’ he said in a low voice.
We’d travelled here in the back of a Royal Mail van, a brand new petrol-engined model, red paint gleaming, metal grill and headlights polished to a shine. Church and Patience had been up front in the cabin with Donaldson while I had ridden in the back with half a dozen Jays, including Mac, and a variety of equipment holders that put me in mind of cricket bags. It had taken the best part of an hour to drive from Regent Street down to Sydenham in south London, and an irresistible combination of military habit and tiredness meant I had slipped into a refreshingly dreamless sleep before we’d gone across the Thames.
The van was still by the time I had been nudged into wakefulness by a smirking Jay.
‘Good kip, boss?’ he had asked.
‘Ideal,’ I had replied, my head heavy with the grogginess of briefly snatched sleep. The ratcheting clicks of weapons being checked and readied had echoed around the van as I had shrugged myself into the ballistic protection waistcoat I was handed and belted on a side-holster and the boxy Colt self-loader that fitted neatly inside.
Two of the Jays had stayed in the back of the van. Mac and four others checked in with Church briefly, then slipped through the gate and fanned out across the front garden of a large, suburban villa. The house looked recently built. Its imposing, red-brick form, gravelled driveway and carefully tended front garden spoke of pride and confidence in the face of any comparison with its fellows on either side. There were wheel marks in the driveway but no motor carriage and, as we had advanced, I had seen no sign of curiosity from behind the latticed windows, no residents glaring at the armed men not quite managing to avoid the rose beds.
‘How do you know?’ I asked, in the same low voice that Church had spoken in.
‘Handle feels off, a little too heavy when I turned it,’ Church replied. He looked at me. ‘You any good with explosives?’
‘Just basic training,’ I said. ‘You know, stay away from them.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Mac!’ he called over to the figure crouched near the gatepost, who stood up and walked across to us, eyes glancing past us to the house as he did, his weapon held at the ready.
‘Problem?’ asked Mac.
‘I think the front door is booby-trapped. Any of your boys good with explosives?’
‘Kelly knows his stuff.’ Mac signalled to the Jay crouching next to Venus. The man darted across the lawn, keeping low to the ground.
‘What is it, Sarge?’ he asked Mac.
‘Mr Church needs to borrow you, Kelly. There’s a bomb rigged to the front door. You’ve volunteered to help him defuse it.’
Kelly gave a wry smile at the news. ‘Right you are,’ he said.
‘With me, Kelly. You too, Sterling. Keep an eye on things, Mac,’ said Church and walked back towards the house with Kelly and myself in tow while Mac moved over to where Kelly had been next to the statue.
‘Kelly?’ asked Church, receiving a silent and minimal nod by way of reply. ‘The door’s rigged, could be an anti-personnel mine, could be something heftier. We need to get inside, find out what we’re dealing with and clear it as soon as possible so we can search the place.’
‘Yes, boss,’ came the response.
‘Let’s take a look around the outside. Sterling, you too.’ I followed along behind the two of them, Church gestured me off to the left of the house while he and Kelly moved to the right-hand side where
an offshoot of the front path continued through a bright green wooden gate to the rear of the house. I looked over the two windows that I passed. Both were covered on the inside by white wooden shutters, though, leaning on the brickwork around the frame, I was able to catch small glimpses of the rooms through the small slits between them. As best as I could see there were no sign of any explosive devices attached to the windows, or on the doors to the rooms. Mahogany surfaces and the glint of cut glass made the one nearest the door a dining room while shelves of books and paperwork in the narrower room next to it seemed to suggest a study of some sort.
I followed the edge of the lawn round the house and down the side where the way was blocked by the same high wall that stretched between both sides of the house and the white, flat-rendered wall that separated this garden from its neighbours on either side. The only window I could see at ground floor level was a narrow, horizontal oblong at about head height. Probably the WC, I thought.
Suddenly I saw hands grip the top of the wall in front of me and Kelly quickly and silently heaved himself over to sit on top of the wall. Then, reaching down, he pulled Church up to join him and the two of them dropped to the lawn in front of me.
‘Anything?’ Church asked.
‘Nothing on the windows themselves, as far as I could see,’ I said.
‘Same here,’ said Church. ‘But we saw what looked like a pressure plate inside one of the windows at the back. We have to assume there may be others. Could be just an alarm system. Or maybe the whole house is rigged to blow.’ He paused and stabbed a finger at Kelly. ‘So we’ll need to keep an eye out when we go in.’
Kelly nodded soberly.
‘The two of us will go in through the dining room,’ said Church. ‘I’ll crack the window. Kelly, you’ll go in first, clear the space under the window, then I’ll follow you in and we’ll clear the room first, then the hall to the door. We defuse if we can, detour round if we can’t. I think we’re looking at a couple of tripwires rather than the whole house but you never know. Sterling, you’d better wait by the van. Wait until I signal you that it’s clear then come in. Tell Mac and his boys to stay outside and keep back from the house.’
‘Got you. I’ll let Mac know,’ I replied, and walked over to where Mac was still in position. ‘We’ll go in once Church and Kelly have given things the once-over. Stand fast for now but stay back from the house and stay out of sight.’
‘Understood,’ replied Mac. He attracted the attention of his men, raised his arm and signalled them with a few clipped movements, receiving a nod from each man in acknowledgement.
Suddenly I heard a voice call out from the street. I walked across the gate to see a small, sombrely dressed and perfectly coiffured septuagenarian walking out from a gate further down the road. Behind her walked a housemaid carrying a tray of white mugs that steamed in the cold air.
I walked through to meet the new arrivals, Donaldson looking over at me with a look of gratitude as I did so. ‘Can I help you, madam?’ I asked, as the woman and her maid got closer.
‘You can indeed, young man. But first, given the briskness of the weather today, I wondered if you and your men would like a cup of tea?’ Her voice was a little unsteady with age at the edges but this did nothing to lessen the overall tone of confidence that she exuded.
‘My men?’
‘Yes indeed. Your good self, this charming gentlemen who has failed to extinguish his cigarette in the presence of a lady and, of course, the three more that are crouching in the garden behind the hedge. I wasn’t sure if you had any more lurking in the van so I brought a few extra. Perhaps you could whistle or signal them in some way? The tea won’t stay hot for long in this weather. If it would be easier I could ask Louisa to take the tray round to them?’
‘That really won’t be necessary, madam,’ I replied, feeling like a man stepping outside his front door equipped for a light drizzle and finding himself confronted with a hurricane and for the briefest of moments defusing explosives seemed like it may have been the easier option. Next to me, meanwhile, Donaldson was hurriedly stamping the cigarette out under his shoe and pulling himself to silent attention. ‘Why doesn’t your girl put the tray on the bonnet there and we’ll help ourselves?’
‘Very well,’ she replied. ‘Louisa, why don’t you do as he says, then run along back to the house and fetch my shawl for me would you?’
‘Yes, Mrs Edwards,’ said the girl with the tray nervously. She pulled her gaze away from the holstered pistol at my side and carefully placed the tea on the bonnet of the van before giving a small curtsey and half walking, half running down the road to a house further down and on the other side of the road.
‘Now then,’ continued Mrs Edwards in the same confident tone, ‘you really ought to tell me who you are, don’t you think? I might otherwise draw all sorts of erroneous conclusions, particularly given those other two fellows of yours who seem to have disappeared inside the house. Completely illegally, I might add.’
Struggling slightly to reassert control in the face of her combination of gentility and inquisition, I reached under the bulletproof waistcoat into my pocket and pulled out my Special Branch ID. ‘My name is Detective Superintendent Sterling, madam. We are investigating the illegal activity which we think was perpetrated from this address.’
She stared carefully at the identity card for a few seconds. ‘Yes,’ she said, her tone giving the impression she had reserved judgement on my legitimacy to the title, ‘I supposed it would be something like that. Well Detective Superintendent, are you at liberty to tell me the nature of this illegal activity?’
I slipped the ID back into my pocket. ‘I am afraid not, madam. It’s a question of National Security.’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ she replied. ‘No doubt this explains why you felt the need to bring a small army along with you this morning.’ She pointed at the tray. ‘Look, why don’t you ask your man here to hand these round. I am sure that your men would hate to waste it.’
I nodded at Donaldson, who grabbed up three of the mugs and took them into the garden.
‘Now then,’ the old lady said, ‘what would you like to know about Mr Baxter?’
‘Mr Baxter?’ I said. ‘Our understanding is that the house belongs to a young woman, a Miss Mills.’ I described K17’s tapper to her.
‘Oh that’s his niece, Katie. Such a lovely girl. Always brings him flowers when she visits. No, I’ll think you’ll find that the house belongs to Mr Baxter.’
‘Has he lived here long?’ I asked.
‘He arrived just after myself and my late husband. We were the first to move in. It was, let me see, the January of ’89 just after the houses were finished and Mr Baxter moved in a few months after that.’
‘And could you tell me what line Mr Baxter was in, Mrs Edwards?’
‘Oh he was retired because of ill health. He used to be a scientist for the government, apparently, in quite a senior position, but he was involved in some sort of accident and they pensioned him off. Hence him being able to afford to live here.’
‘Could you describe him for me?’
‘Small,’ she said, ‘only a few inches taller than me. Somewhat paunchy but sprightly in his step. Short grey hair, no beard. Younger than he looked. He had a tattoo. Is that helpful? I saw it on his arm once when he was gardening. It was of a bird of sorts clutching what looked like a wheel.’
‘So you knew him very well?’ I asked.
‘Oh no, not really,’ she replied. ‘He kept himself to himself. And no wonder, the poor man,’ she said, sadly. ‘you could see that they had tried to mend his injuries but you could still see the scars on his face.’ She shook her head. ‘He was quite a lonely man, I thought, Detective Superintendent. He hardly ever left the house at all. He always had his groceries delivered and had very few visitors apart from his niece. He adored his roses. I don’t think he could really have been involved in any sort of treasonous plot or whatever other sort of wrongdoing you suspect him of. And there
is certainly no need for you to be armed. A less violent man I can’t imagine.’
‘Well Mrs Edwards, experience has taught us that we need to be careful in cases like this. This,’ I patted my gun, ‘is really here for our protection. And yours of course,’ I added.
At which point the front door exploded.
I grabbed Mrs Edwards, my back to the house, and dropped us both to the ground, relaxing my grip as the sounds of clattering debris subsided.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Edwards as the explosion faded. ‘I’m not sure this is entirely appropriate, Superintendent.’
I moved away from her. A quick glance up and down showed me she was uninjured, and, despite her levity, shocked. I stood and gently lifted her up, steadied her against the bonnet of the van.
I saw Patience leap up in her seat in the cab, pale faced and wide eyed, so I left Mrs Edwards leaning against there and pulled open the door. ‘Stay with her.’ I pointed at Mrs Edwards. Patience nodded, dazed, and began to climb down out of the cab. ‘And don’t move!’ I shouted, though I could barely hear my own voice through the ringing in my ears.
The front of the house was a mass of white smoke. Two more Jays came running from the back of the van. I beckoned them to stop and, pointing at Patience and Mrs Edwards, I shouted, ‘Look after them. Keep people back.’ They both nodded and dashed off past me. The smoke was thinning slightly as I walked through the open gate, blown open, though still on its hinges. Mac was standing over the body of one of his men, lying halfway down the path, coated with a mixture of dirt and blood. Another was being helped up by his comrade from where he lay by the hedge, hands on his ears as he tried to clear the noise from his head. The front door was gone, replaced by a haphazard scattering of wood and metal debris, some of which was embedded in the side of the man that Mac was tending to.