by Mick Herron
So that was Benny Manors, and that became his career: housebreaking a speciality, but with an eye for the unusual item. Careers have been built on lesser talents—soap stars, presidents, novelists—and he might have happily continued his course without interruption had he not come to the attention of a Service talent spotter. Every so often Regent’s Park found itself in need of an amateur, largely to avoid any fallout should the situation at issue turn unexpectedly professional. So, Benny Manors having dropped onto its radar as a snapper-up of unconsidered truffles, the Service pressganged him into carrying out an after-hours excursion into the premises of a certain Eastern European gentleman resident in Knightsbridge, whose diplomatic status technically put him off-limits, but whose private life remained of surpassing interest regardless. Anyway, long story short, the situation did in fact turn unexpectedly professional, with the result that Benny Manors, in what turned out to be the briefest Secret Service career since George Lazenby’s, rather than acquiring any useful information acquired a permanent limp instead, courtesy of the Eastern European gentleman’s domestic help, which was rather more energetic than the average Knightsbridge household required. Benny, and what remained of his left leg, were deposited in a dumpster just outside the postcode. This was felt by Regent’s Park to be coincidence rather than deliberate slight, but who knew?
Anyway, never let it be said that the Service turns its back on those wounded in its employ, even when the employ is unofficial, and especially when the wounded suggests appealing to the court of public opinion, or Twitter, as it’s now known. Which is how Benny Manors came to be on John Bachelor’s books: not exactly a retiree, and not exactly a shining example of one who’s given all for his nation’s benefit, but a man with a limp nevertheless, which he hadn’t had before the Service came into his life. It took all sorts, John supposed.
And that first meeting had been at a pub near King’s Cross, he thought—he remembered the occasion, but it wasn’t like he’d be treasuring it on his deathbed or anything. So let’s say King’s Cross, and let’s say the usual dark panelling and Fuller’s beer-mats, the usual door to the gents as easy to negotiate as a tiger trap. Benny let John buy the drinks, because that was the way of the world. And Benny let John explain what their relationship was going to be before sinking that ship before it left harbour.
“Once a month? No no no. No no no no.”
Seven nos. Even allowing for the double negative, he was definitely giving this the thumbs down.
At this time Benny would have been late forties. No longer as lithe as he’d been in his youth—who is?—but given that much of his particular youth had been spent worming through windows technically too small for him, he’d had a higher bar to fall from than most. So he wasn’t in terrible shape, damaged leg apart—it had required metal pins, several of them; he was a special case at airports, Benny Manors—but all in all, he wasn’t too bad a picture of a late-forties man, also allowing for this being his choice of meeting place, mid-afternoon. Homo saloon-barensis. He had wiry gingerish hair and a two-day stubble. And his suit was classier than the pub they were in, not to mention the beer he was drinking—Newcastle Brown Ale? John hadn’t been aware anyone actually drank that. He thought the bottles were just kept handy in case a fight broke out.
He followed up his Lear-like string of negatives with an unnecessary clarification. “Once a month isn’t going to work for me.”
“I don’t make the rules.”
“See, that’s the sort of thing that gets said by people who spend their sorry little lives doing exactly what they’re told.”
John Bachelor’s life at the time wasn’t as sorry as it would become—he was still on a full-time salary—and he didn’t enjoy the description.
“What exactly is your problem, Benny? What makes it such a chore to have a quick face-to-face round about pay day?”
“Did I say it was a chore?”
“You’re not making it sound like a pleasure.”
Benny was drinking straight from the bottle. He took a good long pull without taking his eyes off John, then said, “This leg I’m carrying round. I didn’t break it climbing out a window. I had it shattered, bespoke-like. By two bastards doing an impression of a pair of brick walls.”
His accent was plain and unvarnished, but bastards had a flatness to it. His file hadn’t included deep background—Benny Manors was evidently unforthcoming with his personal information, possibly an occupational wariness—and he hadn’t been important enough to warrant legwork, if you didn’t include the job carried out on his actual limb. So John didn’t know but wondered if Manors wasn’t city-born at all, but hailed from up country. Would explain his choice of drink. But he was still talking:
“So the way I see it is this. You pay the compensation as agreed, and you stay out of my line of sight. That clear enough?”
“If I don’t see you, you don’t get the money, Benny. It’s as simple as that.”
“Yeah, right, but, that’s not actually simple at all, is it? What that is is downright complicated. Because I don’t plan to spend the rest of my natural being wherever you want me to be once a month simply to collect what’s owing to me. The dosh goes straight into my account, right? It’s not like you’re carrying round an envelope full of fivers.”
There had been a time when that was precisely what milkmen did—carried round bags of money. But this way of doing things, reliant as it was on the honesty of all parties, had been brought to an end back when Michael Jackson was King of Pop.
“So there’s no actual reason for me to have to be anywhere, is there?”
John Bachelor wasn’t used to this attitude. Most of his clients were glad of the company: a friendly face, some kind words. The opportunity to talk about the old days, when they’d done whatever they’d done that had brought them into his ambit. Mostly, this had involved acts of courage rather than petty burglary. Mostly, they were better men and women than Benny Manors. Snap judgement, but this didn’t seem an uphill battle.
It occurred to him that he didn’t want to spend the rest of his own natural having this conversation once a month.
“So what I suggest,” Benny was saying, “is that you just turn in your monthly report saying yes, all’s well, Benny’s fine. And instead of us actually having a meeting, you can have a lie-in. How does that sound?”
“Again, Benny, what’s your problem? It’s ten minutes out of your busy schedule. Which, let’s face it, must have gaps in it these days. I mean, it’s put a crimp in your burglary career, right? Having a leg like an overcooked noodle.”
When he got up from the floor the barman was already in Benny’s face, telling him to bugger off sharpish, no mistake. Benny was shaking his head, not disputing the marching orders, but ruing the punch he’d delivered. A little more precision, John’s teeth might have made a pretty necklace. As it was, he simply had a bloodied nose.
“Misunderstanding,” said John. “Just a misunderstanding.” He made to pick up his stool.
“Don’t you worry, sir, I’ll see to that.”
He cleaned himself up in the gents, assured the barman there was no need to trouble the police, and left. It was brighter outside than he’d been expecting, or maybe that was just his head ringing unnecessary changes. When was the last time he’d been hit? Must have been at school. On the other hand the next time might be on the cards already, because here was Benny Manors again. But he had his palms showing, indicating he wasn’t about to throw another punch. The limpy git.
“You asked for that,” was what he said.
Actually, he might have had a point.
“But I’ll tell you how I plan to make it up.”
And he did.
“So tell me, John, where’s our Benny? And what’s our Benny up to?”
“Well,” John said, and toyed with the possibility of leaving it at that. Looked at philosophically, while Edward’s
questions remained unanswered, the possibility of John’s being able to answer them remained alive, as did John’s future and, indeed, John himself. Not that he seriously thought these two were going to kill him. On the other hand, if Edward didn’t look precisely like someone who’d killed people before, he did look like someone who’d received news of other people having been killed with perfect equanimity. Which was enough of a prompt to allow John to get to the end of a sentence: “Well, he moves around a bit.”
“He does, does he? I’m assuming you mean residentially speaking, John. Because the information I have regarding Benny Manors is that his mobility is seriously compromised. Not about to launch into a rumba without warning, is he?”
“He doesn’t like to be tied down,” said John. “Feels the need for flexibility.”
“Again, I would cite the construction work done on his leg. Except I suspect you’re going to tell me you’re speaking metaphorically, aren’t you? You’re going to tell me Benny Manors fancies himself a free spirit, just one Volkswagen camper van short of a trip to Kathmandu.”
“Well . . .”
“Or put another way, what you’re telling me, John, is that the address currently on file for Benny Manors—the file you’re in charge of keeping up to date, I don’t need to remind you, except it seems I do—that address is not actually his address, which would explain why he’s not there now, and hasn’t been for some considerable time. Would I be right in summing up the situation in that fashion, John?”
“. . . Yes.”
Edward sighed.
John said, “It’s a delicate business, looking after the Service’s old-timers. I have to take into account their needs, their situations, their psychological—”
“Bullshit.”
Well, precisely, thought John. Their psychological bullshit.
“Benny Manors isn’t some traumatised asset still having nightmares about his weeks behind the Wall. He’s a small-time housebreaker and blackmail artiste who, if he hadn’t had his leg smashed up on a one-night stand for the Park, would almost certainly have had his dick caught in someone else’s mousetrap by now, except that way we wouldn’t be paying for his cornflakes. So when he told you about his needs, you should have told him about his obligations. Among which was keeping the Service informed of his whereabouts. And that would be you, John. In this very minor instance, you represent the Service.”
From over by the door, a snorting noise reminded John that Richard was still in the room.
“And yet, you have fucked up. Fucked up, John. And while that is nothing new in your long and unillustrious career, it puts me in an embarrassing situation, and that, let me make clear, is something new. And to make it even more humiliating, I now find myself in the demeaning position of looking to you to extricate myself from this embarrassment.”
“. . . Yes.”
“You still haven’t got the hang of this, have you? That wasn’t a question.”
Edward leaned back, which struck John as mildly dangerous. These chairs weren’t made for cavalier posturing. But mostly what he was thinking was, this wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. If he was required to do something, that meant being allowed to walk out of this room in order to do it. Moreover, whatever this was about, it wasn’t about Solly. It wasn’t about him living in dead Solly’s Service flat, which—the shock of a dawn collection notwithstanding—was far more crucial to John’s well-being than any minor fuck-up he might have made regarding Benny bloody Manors. Because if the Solly business came up he not only wouldn’t have the flat any more, he wouldn’t have a job either. And this wasn’t a world waiting with open arms to find future prospects for John Bachelors. It was a world waiting to crush them under its unforgiving heel.
“So, let’s start with the confession. Because there’s always a confession, John, we both know that. Let’s start with why you let Benny Manors wander away like a kid at a fairground, without ever putting it on a report.”
He could have lied, but John Bachelor had told enough lies in his life to know when one was likely to haul him out of the mud and when one would step on his head. So he told the truth: about that first meeting in King’s Cross, which had ended with Benny punching him in the face and him falling off his stool with a bloody nose. And about what Benny had said when he’d joined him outside in the sunshine; about how he planned to make it up.
“And this would be money, wouldn’t it, John?”
“Yes.”
“Because it always comes down to money with a certain type of citizen.”
John couldn’t immediately tell whether the type in question was Benny or himself. He supposed, though, that it didn’t really matter in the circumstances.
What Benny had suggested was that they arrive at a little understanding. The understanding would be in the nature of fifty quid a month, payable the day after Benny’s monthly stipend reached his bank account.
“I’m getting paid to keep quiet, when it comes down to it,” Benny had said. “And now you’re being paid for exactly the same thing. And this way I get to keep my privacy intact. More secure, see? And as you’re in charge of my welfare, that should suit you down to the ground.”
“I’m supposed to file a report.”
“Well, there’s nothing to stop you doing that, is there? I mean, how detailed do these reports get?”
Details, well. John had details down to a fine art. “Nothing to report” was a not uncommon entry.
“Can’t stand here all day, John.”
And so he’d said yes, and that was how it started, and pretty much how it finished too. Going to need your bank details, John. Not like I’ll be turning up on your doorstep once a month with the cash. Whole idea is, I get to do my own thing here.
Edward was shaking his head in disbelief by the time it got to this part. “John Bachelor,” he said. “John Bachelor. You would have lasted exactly two seconds in the field. Any field. Walk into a fucking cornfield, you’d last two seconds.”
Richard spoke for the first time. “He made one payment only, didn’t he?”
John nodded, then remembered his instructions. “Yes.”
“And then you were on record as having received money from him, and after that he didn’t have to pay you sod all.”
“The art of the bribe, John,” Edward said. “Once you’ve made your catch, you can keep the rest of the bait for yourself. And you’re telling us you’ve had no contact with Benny Manors since?”
“. . . That’s right.”
Another sigh.
He could hear traffic building up; cars and taxis ferrying people to their places of work. The cafés up and down the High Street would be welcoming breakfast customers, and the homeless in the doorways would be stirring, knowing they’d be moved on soon. The day, which was going to be a hot one, was starting to flex its muscles. John had forgotten what he’d had planned for the day ahead. Everything looked different now.
Edward was staring at him, and he had the sense that there was unspoken communication going on between him and Richard. As if they were checking cues, awaiting a prompt. Whether it arrived John couldn’t tell, but Edward began talking at last, and it went on for a while.
“Now, I’m going to explain the facts of life to you, John. I’m aware that some of them may have come to your attention in the past, but it’s always good to have a refresher, isn’t it? And the important thing you have to remember is, your balls are in a vice. And I’m operating the vice, John. And if I ever decide to take a rest from operating that vice, which I won’t, but if I ever do, young Richard there is going to step in for me while I do whatever it is I’ve decided is more important than operating the vice in which your balls are trapped, and he is going to operate that vice in my stead, and let me tell you something about Richard, John, Richard is a disappointed man. About ten minutes ago in our terms, which translates to half a year or so in young Richard
’s, he was very much the rising star. Diana Taverner’s favourite son type of thing. Man most likely to. Instead of which he found himself stepping into the most enormous pile of shit, as a result of which he is no longer anybody’s favourite son, and is in fact as popular at Regent’s Park as a red-headed orphan. This close to Slough House he came. This close.” The helpful gesture illustrating this was a thumb and a finger, so close to touching no daylight slipped through. “The only reason he was spared that fate is Lady Di wanted to deny Jackson Lamb the fun of dismembering him. But that lucky escape aside, Richard’s disappointment is a real and living thing, John. What you might call organic. So Richard finds himself in the position of having to feed that disappointment, John, feed it so that it doesn’t devour him instead, and what he likes to feed it is anybody he can. Which right here and right now, John, would be you. Let me know that you’re keeping up.”
“. . . Yes.”
“Good. So this is what’s going to happen, John. You are going to find Benny Manors for us, and you’re going to hold him in place until we come and collect him, and that is going to happen swiftly. Otherwise you are going to discover what a vice round your balls feels like, and you’re not going to be discovering that while hiding away in a cosy little flat off the Edgware, John. Because yes, John, we’re aware you’ve been living in a dead man’s trousers. Using a dead man’s electricity and gas and water, and for all we know hocking a dead man’s treasures in order to satisfy whatever unnatural cravings keep you awake at night. Porn or booze, John, I don’t care which. All I care about is you finding Benny Manors, failure to do which will turn my full attention to the clamping properties of this vice we’re discussing. For example, I might decide to take a closer look at whatever caused Solomon Dortmund to have a heart attack last winter, and without wanting to give away spoilers, John, I’m very likely to decide that it was you. I mean, it’s the old cui bono, isn’t it? Who profited from Solomon’s demise? That would be the man who’s taken over his life and trappings.”