The Becket Approval

by Falconer, Duncan

  He hoped she’d look up at him, spring to her feet and with a broad smile leap into his arms as she so often did. He could taste her soft lips, feel her fingers in his hair, look into those big brown eyes. But she didn’t move. Not a stir. As if she was locked into position.

  ‘It’s Devon,’ he said, pulling a chair around to sit in front of her.

  There was no response. Her eyes were open. It was as if she’d been switched off or he wasn’t even there. He took a hold of her hand. Her fingers were warm and limp. Lifeless, like her eyes.

  Gunnymede was startled by sudden loud voices. They were the amplified drones of a soap opera coming from a television high on a wall. A nurse headed across the room, took the remote control from a patient and turned it down.

  Megan hadn’t flinched, as if she were deaf. Gunnymede kissed her hand and placed it against his cheek. He’d never felt so helpless in his life.

  When he eventually left the ward, Aristotle was waiting for him in the reception hall. Gunnymede stopped beside him without looking at him, still in a mild state of shock. ‘Stuporous catatonia with mutism, according to the nurse,’ Gunnymede said. ‘Probably permanent. She’ll never be normal again.’ He walked away, lost in thought, out of the building.

  A man climbed out of a car as Gunnymede walked past it. ‘Gunny,’ he called out.

  Gunnymede didn’t hear him. The man called out again, jogged over and grabbed his shoulder. Gunnymede spun around, pushing the man’s hand away, his face locked in a menacing grimace, fists ready to strike.

  ‘Easy, Gunny!’ the man exclaimed, putting his hands in the air in a sign of non-aggression. ‘It’s Charlie. Charlie Gibson.’

  It took a few seconds before Gunnymede recognised him.

  ‘We used to work together,’ Charlie said. ‘Down at the Fort. I was with 22 back then.’

  Gunnymede put the name and face together. ‘Right. Charlie. Sorry. I was somewhere else.’

  Charlie seemed to understand. ‘That’s alright, mate.’

  ‘This isn’t a great time.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry about Megan.’

  ‘You knew Megan?’

  ‘Before you,’ Charlie said. ‘Not in the same way a’course. Her dad, Jack, was my sergeant major in ‘G’ squadron. I’m a civvy now. Got out a few years ago.’

  Gunnymede looked past Charlie to a lump of a man he recognised climbing out of a car.

  Charlie followed his gaze. ‘You remember Boris the bull. One of your lot.’

  Gunnymede knew of Boris. Beyond his Neanderthal physique, an unimpressive man.

  ‘You and Boris’ve got somethin’ in common,’ Charlie said with a smirk. ‘He was also kicked out for a little extra curricular while on task.’

  Gunnymede remembered the story. Boris learned of a cash shipment flying into Kabul International bound for the United Nations HQ while he was assigned to the British Embassy in Afghanistan. A couple of hundred thousand US dollars. He tossed CS into the vehicle while it was passing through the city and grabbed the money box. What Boris didn’t know was that it was standard procedure to include a tracker in amongst the bills. Boris was a thick twat. When the transit team reported the robbery, UN security sent up a tracking drone and they found the money inside the British embassy where Boris had hidden it. He got three years.

  ‘He couldn’t resist the insider knowledge either. Not in your class a’course,’ Charlie added with a cheeky wink.

  ‘What do you want?’ Gunnymede asked.

  ‘Is there somewhere we can ’ave a chat?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Not a good time,’ Gunnymede said.

  Charlie could sense Gunnymede’s irritation. ‘Look, I appreciate your situation but I just wanted to chat about something.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude but I do have to get going.’

  ‘I’ll get to the point. Don’t you want to see it put right?’

  ‘What put right?’

  ‘This. What happened to Megan.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Gunnymede said, his irritation increasing.

  ‘No-one’s paid the price.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Charlie had to take a moment. ‘What happened to Megan. The rape. I ’eard a rumour the police know who did it but they’re not doing anything about it.’

  Gunnymede could only stare at Charlie, disturbed by everything he was hearing.

  ‘What would you do if that was true?’ Charlie asked. ‘If you knew who did it?’

  Gunnymede continued to stare at him.

  ‘Did you hear me? It’s a simple enough question, Gunny – what would Megan want?’

  Gunnymede became suddenly angry and took an aggressive step towards Charlie. ‘If you and that retard go anywhere near Megan, I’ll rip both your faces off. Do you understand me?’

  Boris took an aggressive step towards them. Charlie held out his hand, commanding Boris to stay. Charlie stood his ground, not the type to back away from an aggression. ‘Alright. Bad timing. But whatever happens, it isn’t up to you. Get in touch with Jack. Alright. Something needs to be done.’

  Charlie walked back to the car, climbed in with Boris and they drove away.

  Aristotle joined Gunnymede, who sighed heavily as he fought to unravel his brain. ‘I can’t think right now,’ Gunnymede said.

  Aristotle watched the car drive away and put it out of his thoughts as he held out a phone to Gunnymede. ‘I’m in the contacts,’ he said. ‘Take a walk. Think about things. You don’t have much time. Jail or the game. Decide which one you want.’

  Gunnymede put the phone in his pocket. ‘You got any money?’

  Aristotle took out his wallet and handed Gunnymede a few twenties. ‘Harlow must know by this evening. Things are moving quickly.’

  ‘That quickly?’ Gunnymede asked, wondering what things.

  ‘Yes.’

  Gunnymede wondered who the man was. He nodded and walked away.

  Gunnymede made his way aimlessly through the City, crossing roads barely mindful of traffic. The sun was setting when he finally came to a decisive halt in a busy commercial street and, for the first time since leaving the hospital, wondered exactly where he was. Nothing looked familiar. Not that he cared.

  He saw a pub sign hanging from a building part way down a narrow side-street: The King’s Head. It looked on the rough side, a grimy black painted exterior in need of a fresh coat and some filler. But a drink was a drink and he needed one.

  Pushing open the doors, he entered an atmosphere of stale beer and cooking oil. Undeterred, he weaved between tables occupied mostly by hardened labourer types to arrive at the bar where an obese geezer plastered in moronic tattoos was cleaning glasses. The man looked at Gunnymede with an unwelcoming, gormless gaze that served as a request for his libation. Gunnymede pointed at one of the beer pulls, a random choice since he recognised none of them, and the bartender did the honours.

  A lone barstool beckoned and Gunnymede sat on it. The pint was placed in front of him. He handed over a note and had a sip. It tasted good.

  His mind was swirling with thoughts of Megan, her rape, his conversation with Harlow, prison, what it all meant. Several pints, a couple of whiskies and a greasy burger and chips left Gunnymede feeling carcinogenic. It was time to go. He dug the phone out of his pocket, placed it on the bar and searched for the contacts.

  Three large men entered the pub, dressed in expensive street and bling, and made their way to the bar. Judging by the evasive moves from patrons, the men were not to be trifled with. They stood either side of Gunnymede while the bartender prepared their drinks without an exchange. The leader looked down on Gunnymede through dark sunglasses perched on a nose that had been broken more than once and allowed to heal without an attempt to straighten it. When Gunnymede ignored him, he removed his glasses and moved his face closer to emphasise his presence. To his dismay, Gunnymede remained blissfully unaware. The thug leaned heavily onto the bar and dropped his key fob down in order to pick up
Gunnymede’s phone.

  ‘Ain’t seen one of these before,’ he said.

  Gunnymede looked at him and remained unfazed by the intimidation. ‘It’s a mobile phone.’

  The thug didn’t miss the disrespect but chose to ignore it. ‘I like the case. Very nice.’

  Gunnymede pushed a fiver and change towards the bartender. ‘Thank you for your service, kind sir, and please take this as a tip,’ he said as he got to his feet. ‘I’m leaving,’ he said to the thug who continued to inspect his phone.

  ‘Fuck off then,’ the thug replied, tapping the phone on the bar to test the casing.

  ‘My phone,’ Gunnymede said.

  ‘I like it,’ the thug said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It’s not mine to give,’ Gunnymede said.

  ‘If it ain’t yours, then you won’t miss it, will ya?’

  Gunnymede glanced at the other two thugs who were looking at him coldly. The bartender wore a slight smile, enjoying the moment. Gunnymede took back his tip. ‘Mind it doesn’t bite you,’ he said to the thug as he eased himself out from between them and headed away.

  Gunnymede stepped outside and took a moment to get his bearings. To his surprise, Aristotle was standing a few metres away looking at him.

  Gunnymede smiled. ‘Socrates,’ he called out, heading over to him. ‘I was just thinking about you. Fancy a drink?’

  ‘I don’t drink.’

  ‘That’s okay. I just need your funding. I’ve spent my allowance. Where shall we go?’

  ‘That’s what I’m here to find out.’

  ‘Of course you are. Well, let’s just say for the time being I’ve decided to return to the fold.’

  Aristotle nodded.

  ‘Lead on,’ Gunnymede said, swinging himself round in the opposite direction to the one Aristotle headed.

  ‘We should celebrate,’ Gunnymede said jovially, catching him up. ‘There’s a pub I used to frequent just off the King’s Road. You can tell me all about the business these days and how you ended up with old Harlow.’

  Back in the bar, the thug was playing with Gunnymede’s phone when the screen flashed brightly enough to startle him. A second later a picture of his face filled the screen with a message stating THIS IS NOT YOUR PHONE! It was followed by a clock counting down from ten seconds. The thug dropped it onto the bar as if it might explode. When it reached zero the screen image crackled and went blank. As he stared at it he realised something was missing. ‘Where’s my car key?’

  The thugs ran for the doors.

  Aristotle and Gunnymede reached the top of the street where the MoD car was waiting. Aristotle felt a vibration in his pocket and took out his phone. The thug’s face filled the screen.

  ‘You know this person?’ Aristotle asked, showing it to Gunnymede.

  ‘Nope,’ Gunnymede replied as looked at the thug’s car fob in his hand. He pushed a button and a shrill double beep came from behind them. They turned to see a shiny, fully loaded Range Rover, its lights flashing, parked on a double red line below a sign that strictly forbade it.

  Aristotle climbed into the back of the MoD car. Gunnymede got in beside him and as he closed the door he saw the thugs jogging up the street. He slid down the window and held out the car fob. The thug leader saw him. As the MoD car pulled away, Gunnymede released it.

  The thug arrived at the kerb out of breath and looked down to see a drain and no fob.

  His henchman took a photo of the departing car using his phone. ‘I got the plate, boss,’ he said, checking the image.

  The leader’s expression contorted into a one of hatred. ‘Get me an address,’ he growled. ‘We’ll pay that bastard a visit.’

  Gunnymede sat back with a sigh. ‘I can’t say I’ve missed London. Where we headed?’

  ‘Syria.’

  Gunnymede looked at him as if he’d grown another head. ‘Did you say Syria?’

  ‘You, not me.’

  Gunnymede had his full attention. ‘What the fuck am I doing in Syria?’

  ‘First you’ll go to Dubai for some training.’

  ‘Training? Training for what?’

  ‘Before going into the field.’

  ‘Field?! What field?’

  ‘You were brought back to find Spangle.’

  ‘To help find Spangle. Be a part of the team.’

  ‘There is no team.’

  ‘What do you mean there is no team?’

  ‘You are the team.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Spangle will reach out to you. You’re a crook. A thief. You stole from him.’

  ‘What if he just wants to kill me?’

  ‘Harlow thinks Spangle will want to use you, not kill you.’

  ‘Don’t you think he’ll wonder why I’m not in prison? More than that, why I’m back with the firm?’

  ‘That can be explained.’

  ‘I look forward to hearing it.’

  ‘It’s more than just about heroin for Spangle. There’s something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We don’t know exactly.’

  Gunnymede contemplated the update. ‘Why Syria?’

  ‘We think Spangle has made contact with someone there. We cannot miss an opportunity to chase a contact with Spangle.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A member of ISIS.’

  ‘ISIS?’

  ‘His name is Saleem.’

  ‘Saleem?’ Gunnymede checked.

  ‘He’s British.’

  ‘What has Spangle got to do with ISIS?’

  ‘That’s what you’re going to find out. It’s also an opportunity to let Spangle know you’re back.’

  Gunnymede looked out of the window at the shops flying by. Pedestrians going about their daily lives. ‘I want to go back to prison.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ Aristotle said with certainty.

  He was right.

  Chapter 3

  Pandi Lako joined the Albanian Policia Kufitare, the border police, when he was twenty years old. His older brother and one of his uncles were already members and pretty much paved the way for his entry. Nepotism went a long way in the Albanian Policia Kufitare, in the Debar region at least, which was where Pandi was to spend his career, short-lived though it was.

  Pandi had no skills to speak of. He’d successfully avoided popular apprenticeships such as plumbing and carpentry despite his mother’s efforts. His brother and uncle were the ones who kept on at him about joining up. There were benefits for them too. Having family members in the force was always useful. In Albania, blood was trusted above all else. And the border police wasn’t such a bad career. It was easy if one didn’t push for promotion and it would always put food on the table. While there were borders, men would be required to police them. That was true of the Balkans at least.

  The Lladomerice road to the Debar border crossing ran parallel to the Albanian-Macedonian border on the Albanian side for several kilometres. It was this geographical characteristic that made the border at that point popular with smugglers; anyone in fact who needed to cross to avoid the authorities. There was one minor disadvantage and that was that no roads along that stretch headed inland other than to local farms. A large range of hills created an imposing obstacle. A smuggler had to head some miles north or south in order to go west. This provided the border police with an advantage.

  It was a fresh, early winter’s morning when Pandi and the eleven other members of his patrol, designated K-17, arrived at Dontrav Pikë Kontrolli, a semi-permanent checkpoint, to take over from the men of K-23 who’d completed a twenty-four hour posting. It was one of the more popular locations with the patrols in winter because it had a cabin with a wood burner and room for everyone to cram inside, just about.

  K-17 had three vehicles, two cars and a flatbed pick-up truck. The patrol was lightly armed, each man responsible for a Beretta pistol and an AK47 assault rifle. A PKM belt-fed machine gun fixed onto a post on the truck bed directly behind the cab was the unit’s heavy fire
power if such force should be required.

  The road was rarely a busy one, the traffic mostly local with many of the vehicles and drivers familiar to the officers. It was estimated on average there were three illegal crossings per week along that particular stretch of border and more could be done by the border police to reduce this.

  Apart from an ugly situation involving a United Nations lawyer and his bodyguard early on in the year, there’d not been a situation in a while where a gun had been used other than to fire warning shots at u-turners or to bag a piece of venison that happened to wander within sight. The incident involving the UN lawyer was an unfortunate day for his bodyguard. Pandi had no participation in the incident but saw much of it from outside the log cabin where he’d been cleaning his rifle. He saw the car stop and the driver approached. The passenger and driver got out. A few minutes later he heard raised voices and then a gunshot. The UN lawyer, a Brazilian, accused the border police of brutality and one in particular, Storen, of cold-blooded murder. The officers supported their colleague by claiming the bodyguard had been aggressive and, after assaulting Storen, reached for a concealed weapon whereupon Storen drew his pistol and shot the man in self-defence. In a bar some weeks later, while consuming two bottles of Rakia, Storen bragged that he hadn’t liked the bodyguard and so he killed him. But with so many police statements providing evidence in Storen’s favour, the incident would never go to trial. Pandi had submitted one of those statements after being coerced by his brother and uncle.

  On this particular day, when the team arrived at the checkpoint, the sun was out and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Pandi was leaning back against the cabin having a cigarette when an old BMW series 7 with dark tinted windows came into view. No-one recognised it and so it immediately dropped into the category of suspicious. Pandi’s uncle was on stopping duty and walked into the road and signalled it to pull over.

  The BMW came to a stop and the driver lowered his window.

  Pandi’s uncle leaned down to look inside. The driver was a heavy set man with a full head of black hair, well dressed and in his fifties. The woman beside him was of a similar age and looking pensive. Someone was in the back but Pandi couldn’t make out much detail through the darkened windows.