THE BECKET APPROVAL
Duncan Falconer
© Duncan Falconer 2019
Duncan Falconer has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2019 by Lume Books.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
To my dear brother, John
‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?!’
King Henry II, referring to Thomas Becket, overheard by his knights who promptly did just that!
Chapter 1
A fawn army beret lay on a cold, stone floor, bottom up, as if begging for a coin, the cap badge a winged dagger, the words ‘Who Dares Wins’ floating across it. The walls were blocks of hewn stone, blemished by centuries of soot and blood. An ancient oubliette. A log fire crackled in an iron grate. A bulb glowed on a stand, its cable clipped to a car battery.
Shadows stretched up the walls, cast by two dozen men and three women standing around the beret. Silent people. At ease and with a shared reverence. Toughened by age and battle like ancient gladiators. Hardened hearts. Weathered masks. Eyes that would not flinch from horror. Bonded by an ancient pedigree and shared purpose.
The sound of footsteps on stone broke the silence. A man at the back eased his way between the others. Albert Peters, aged seventy-three, craggy features, gnarled hands, hardened by life.
He stopped above the beret. In his hand a crisp, white envelope. He placed it in the beret, hands slightly shaking with age, a decision made, right or wrong. He was satisfied. It was done. He made his way through the gathering to the only door into the chamber, pulled it open, hinges creaking, and closed it behind him.
The only sound was breathing, a gentle cough, the wheezing of an old man, the crackling of the fire.
Another man stepped forward, a large, powerful man in his forties. He plucked up the envelope, considered its significance and his own response and, with a final decision left the room.
His footsteps could be heard along a corridor. Before they fell silent, the others filed out of the room.
It was done.
One man remained. Jack Henderson, in his sixties and, like the others, tough and worn. He picked up the beret with reverence, folded it in half and half again and tucked it into his inside breast pocket.
He turned off the light plunging the room into darkness but for the glow from the dwindling fire and headed for the door, closing it behind him.
The latch came down with a clunk.
Chapter 2
Devon Gunnymede marched along a sterile corridor, escorted by a barrel-chested, steel-eyed corrections officer, the badge on his crisp uniform a white eagle on a globe encircled by the words ‘State of Georgia Correctional Facility’. The sound of their heels hitting the glistening concrete floor in unison echoed off the shiny grey-painted walls. Gunnymede was heading for the exit four years, eight months and twelve days after entering the place. But he had little to be pleased about.
They passed through an electronically-operated steel door into an airlock that shut behind them with a decisive clunk. A loud buzzer sounded. Another door opened. Gunnymede squinted as he stepped into sunlight onto a red brick pathway that divided a manicured lawn and led towards a squat building the other side of a gate in the outermost perimeter fencing. He was wearing jeans and a shirt, the clothes he’d arrived in, and carrying a canvas jacket. The shirt was tight in the chest and shoulders where he’d added muscle. A daily gym session and boxing training which had come in handy mitigating the occasional altercation with bully-boys when avoidance techniques failed had toughened him mentally as well as physically. Coldness and unappeasableness had combined with the bitterness and resentment he’d brought with him to form a guarded knife-edge of uneasy tolerance. Needless to say, he was not quite the same man who had entered the place.
Gunnymede walked into the reception hall where he was invited to finalise his release document. His automaton escort remained in the centre of the small hall, his large hairy arms crossed over his ample stomach.
Gunnymede took his copy of the document, tossed it in a bin, pushed his way through the glass entrance doors and stepped outside into what, for any other con, was freedom. The door closed behind him as he stared coldly ahead. A road passed along the front of the penitentiary grounds, straight as a laser. A white sedan was parked in a lay-by the other side of it. He noticed another nondescript car further down the road and, standing beside it, a tall, thin grey-haired man in a black suit looking directly at him.
The doors to the white sedan opened and two men in suits climbed out, crossed the road to Gunnymede, showed him their FBI badges and asked him to put his jacket on and turn about. As Gunnymede’s hands were cuffed behind him he saw his corrections officer behind the glass doors watching him. He was escorted to the white sedan. The man in black down the street was still watching him as they drove away.
It was late evening by the time the agents escorted Gunnymede to the doors of a British Airways Boeing 787. His handcuffs were removed and he was formally handed over to a British police officer in civilian clothes. He was handcuffed again, this time in the front, and led through the plane to a window seat near the back.
The last person to walk on board was the thin grey-haired man in black. Gunnymede watched him take a seat a few rows ahead on the other side. Gunnymede didn’t know him, but there was something familiar about his aura. And he was pretty sure he knew what it was. He couldn’t give a damn enough to wonder why the man was tagging along.
An hour into the flight, a stewardess came by with a drinks trolley and asked Gunnymede what he’d like. Gunnymede asked for a whisky which his police officer took pleasure in denying him. Bastard. Gunnymede closed his eyes and tried to shut the world out. Prison had taught him how to clear his mind and let time pass without stress but he wasn’t successful on this occasion and opted to watch a movie. A meal helped pass the time. When he finally felt like dropping off, an intercom voice announced the aircraft would soon be landing.
When the plane came to a halt in its parking bay and the passengers got to their feet, Gunnymede’s escort remained seated. They waited until everyone was off before the officer ushered him to move out. Gunnymede passed the man in black who had remained in his seat. Another plain-clothes officer was waiting for them at the end of the air bridge and the three headed through the terminal towards immigration. Before they reached it, the officers stopped at a security door and punched a code into a key pad.
A man’s voice came from behind them. ‘Excuse me, officers.’
It was the tall, thin man. He was holding out a badge for them to inspect. Gunnymede recognised it. His suspicions had been correct. The man offered them a folded paper. The security door opened and a senior uniformed officer stood in the doorway. The man in black redirected the paper to him. He read it, looked at the badge and begrudgingly nodded to his men.
‘Remove the cuffs,’ the man in black said in a
croaky voice that had the hint of a foreign accent.
They obeyed.
‘Come with me,’ he said to Gunnymede.
The officers watched them walk away as if they’d been verbally abused.
As they approached an immigration officer directing passengers into the appropriate passport queues, the tall man showed his badge again. The officer removed a barrier and invited the pair to take an empty fast track lane that led to an immigration officer in a cubicle. The badge was presented once again along with another piece of paper. Gunnymede noticed his picture on it beside an ornate Ministry of Defence logo. The immigration officer read it, glanced at the badge, at Gunnymede and nodded them through.
When they stepped outside the terminal building a vehicle was waiting for them. They climbed into the back and off it drove.
‘What’s this about?’ Gunnymede asked.
The man ignored him.
Forty-five minutes later, the car came to a stop in the backstreets of the Temple and they climbed out in front of a building a stone’s throw from the Thames that Gunnymede recognised.
‘Harlow?’ Gunnymede muttered, somewhat surprised.
His escort led the way into the building and up a flight of stairs to the first floor where Gunnymede was invited to step into a Georgian-style ante-room. Every surface was wood or leather coated, with books packed onto the shelves lining the walls.
Gunnymede recognised the secretary who managed the gateway to Harlow’s office. He couldn’t remember her name though, if he’d ever known it. She was that classic severe, mature, unattractive matronly type. Harlow didn’t permit the distraction of a female pleasing to the eye to hold that position.
It wasn’t long before the secretary opened a door and settled her gaze on Gunnymede. ‘You may go in now,’ she said.
Gunnymede got to his feet and entered. Harlow was seated behind an ornate desk scribbling something. The office hadn’t changed as far as Gunnymede could recall. All wood and leather, like the ante-room. Dark green and brown. The formal twat looked the same in his dark, expensive suit. He always reminded Gunnymede of a thin Churchill. There was even a cigar in the ashtray beside a crystal glass containing an amber liquid.
The man in black joined them and closed the door.
Harlow regarded Gunnymede with the slightest of smiles, as if he was enjoying the visitor’s discomfort. ‘Thank you, Aristotle,’ he said.
Aristotle, Gunnymede thought. Odd moniker.
‘Devon Gunnymede,’ Harlow said, savouring the name. ‘I expect you’re surprised to find yourself in here. Have those five years flown by as quickly for you as they have for me? How was your American jail time? You look very well on it.’
‘It was boring.’
‘Yes. I suppose that’s the point of these things, isn’t it? Take a seat.’
Gunnymede sat in a chair the other side of Harlow’s desk.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Harlow asked. ‘Scotch is your poison, isn’t it? Single Malt. Would you be so kind, Aristotle?’
The tall man walked over to a dresser with a large crystal decanter on it and poured a finger into a glass.
‘A touch of water,’ Harlow added, confidently.
Aristotle added the water and handed the glass to Gunnymede.
Gunnymede looked at the drink. Harlow had never offered him one before. He put the glass to his nose and savoured the aroma. Nice. He took a sip. Nectar.
‘You’re wondering what you’re doing in your old boss’s office sipping whisky when you should be awaiting transfer to one of Her Majesty’s prisons in order to complete the UK portion of your sentence. Another five years, I expect.’
Gunnymede stared at him. All of the above was correct.
‘I’ll get right to the point. Spangle’s back and the game is in play once again.’
Gunnymede shifted in his seat. There were so many implications to what had just been said it was overpowering.
‘Not a great deal has changed since you left us. We still don’t know who Spangle is. We’ve narrowed the list to Kanastov, Reeshekov, Malakov, Siskiv. Three kovs and a kiv. My money’s on Malakov. Jervis thinks it’s Siskiv. Aristotle doesn’t think it’s any of them. We’re all agreed it can’t be a woman because Spangle has to be highly connected, has to be former Russian Federation, council of ministers, a cabinet member or military intelligence and at a level that no woman has yet reached in the Russian government. We used to believe Spangle was all about heroin but it may be a lot more than just narcotics this time.’
‘So, why are you here in between jail sentences and talking about Spangle?’ Harlow continued. ‘The answer is we’re putting a new operation together and we can’t think of anyone better positioned than you to join it.’ He looked at Gunnymede for his reaction. ‘We want you to come back in.’
Gunnymede did his best to hide his shock.
‘You have many qualities that we need. You know the players. The environment. The rules. The smell. The fabric. But most importantly, even though you’re filthy dirty, you’re clean as fresh laundry for this task. Not only have you been tucked away for the last five years, everyone is expecting you to be tucked away for another five. In short, you not only have your freedom, but your old job back. What do you say to that?’
Gunnymede could only sit and watch while digesting as much as he could.
‘Of course, you’d have to play by the rules,’ Harlow added. ‘Scrutiny will be severe. Things have changed quite a bit since you left. Accountability has tightened. If you’re not a good boy, you’ll find yourself back behind bars. Let me re-phrase that. If you’re not a successful boy, you’ll be back in lock-up.’
Gunnymede finished his whisky and put the glass down. Harlow stared at him. Gunnymede appeared to be contemplating.
‘What do you say?’ Harlow asked.
Gunnymede got to his feet. ‘You can shove your job up your arse.’
Harlow chuckled. ‘You do talk a load of bollocks, Gunnymede.’
‘You don’t know me as well as you think.’
‘Oh, I think I do. Not that I have to. Even a fool would take this opportunity.’
‘Take me back to the police,’ Gunnymede said to Aristotle.
‘I don’t see the disadvantages. Give me one reason why you would refuse?’
‘It stinks. You’re setting me up.’
‘How?’
‘I can’t see it right now but it’s there.’
‘You were never this paranoid.’
‘Of course I was.’
‘This is the only chance you’ll get.’
‘Fine.’
‘Once you step into that police station you’ll be stuck in the judicial system and we won’t be able to get you out.’
‘Fine by me.’ Gunnymede headed for the door.
Harlow watched him step through it and out of sight. But he wasn’t quite finished. ‘You haven’t heard from Megan recently, have you?’
It was a long few seconds before Gunnymede looked back into the room.
‘You wouldn’t have heard of course,’ Harlow continued.
‘What?’
‘I have some bad news, I’m afraid. Megan’s in hospital.’
‘Why?’ Gunnymede asked, trying not to look too shocked but deep down he was.
‘She’s in the Hammersmith and Fulham mental health unit. She was assaulted. In a bad way I’m afraid. Would you like to see her?’
The answer was pretty obvious.
‘Aristotle will take you.’
Gunnymede left the room. Aristotle glanced at Harlow with what appeared to be a look of disapproval. Harlow waved him out.
Less than an hour later, the two men arrived at the hospital.
‘They’re expecting you,’ Aristotle said before Gunnymede got out of the car.
Gunnymede had been anxious for the entire journey. ‘What happened?’
‘The worst thing that can happen to a woman.’
Gunnymede stared at him, controlling his anger. �
��Who did it?’
‘The police have no suspect.’
Gunnymede wondered about Aristotle. What was his role? He climbed out, walked up a ramp through the main entrance and across the lobby to the reception desk where he was asked to take a seat and wait to be called. He was filled with concern.
A pair of heavy doors leading into the main hospital mechanically opened and a male nurse stepped through at a very slow pace alongside a young man who was physically and mentally challenged. An older couple sitting near Gunnymede got to their feet and, with broad, painful smiles and outstretched arms, greeted him as if he was their most precious belonging. The young man didn’t respond other than to stare at the floor as they held him, cooing softly.
Gunnymede was too engrossed to hear his name being called.
The receptionist tapped him on the shoulder. ‘You can go through, Mr Gunnymede,’ she said. ‘Turn right and Ward 6 is at the end.’
Gunnymede walked into the main block and along a corridor to a pair of doors that were electronically locked. A sign above declared it was Ward 6.
He took a moment to prepare himself. Was she badly injured? Disfigured? Was it life changing?
He pressed a button on the wall and pushed the doors inwards. It was a large room with a collection of beds, chairs and tables randomly placed. A dozen patients were in various stages of activity or inactivity. A couple of nurses hovered. A teenage boy nearby rocked from side to side on his feet making a whining sound, unaware of anyone else.
Gunnymede saw Megan the far side of the room sitting alone by a window. She was wearing a simple dress, her hands were folded on her lap. She was staring at nothing, a blank expression on her pretty face. Gunnymede’s heart ached for her.
He walked over and stood in front of her. She didn’t appear to be damaged in any way. Other than being spaced out, she looked normal. Her long, dark hair was shiny and combed. So young, so innocent, so vulnerable.
‘Megan?’ he said softly.
The Becket Approval Page 1