by Bob Cook
Paper Chase
Bob Cook
FELONY & MAYHEM PRESS • NEW YORK
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter One
CLIVE OGDEN LOCKED UP his car and swore. He had forgotten to bring his overcoat, and the wind was sharp and unforgiving. It sliced through his clothes and made his limbs quiver with cold. A younger man might have shrugged it off, but Ogden was nearly seventy and this kind of weather played havoc with his bones.
“Oh well,” he muttered. “Nothing for it, I suppose.”
He turned up his collar, popped a stick of bubble-gum into his mouth, and went through the gates of the cemetery. There were few people around, and he had little trouble in finding the place he wanted.
Ogden was a lean, gangly man, over six feet four inches tall, who walked in long, loping strides. He was totally bald, save for a few wisps of grey at the back and sides, and his face was adorned by a permanent yellow grin. These features conspired to make him look like a benevolent old skeleton, escaped from some museum of natural history.
Up ahead, he could see three men standing around a freshly filled grave. He recognised their faces: they were all contemporaries who had worked with Ogden in MI5, the British security service. Every so often, they would meet at the funeral of some colleague, chat about old times, exchange gossip, and go home. At the time of their retirement, there had been fifteen of these friends. Now, apart from Ogden, there were only three.
One was a massive, red-faced man with thick white sideboards and a foul-smelling meerschaum pipe. His name was Fergus Buchanan which had caused much confusion over the years, since he was not remotely Scottish. Despite Buchanan’s irritated denials, his colleagues had always insisted that he was really an absentee Highland landlord, and they had dubbed him the Laird.
Beside him stood an elegant, well-groomed man called Jeremy Beauchamp who wore tailored suits and a luxuriant chestnut brown hairpiece. There was much speculation about what, if anything, the toupee concealed, but nobody had ever dared to ask. Beauchamp’s Olympian dignity ruled out any such inquiries.
The third man was frail and small, and leaned on a walking stick. His name was Godfrey Croft, but he was known as the Vicar. He was not, of course, a man of the cloth: he had earned the soubriquet forty years earlier when his eager, rubicund features lent him the appearance of a jolly young clergyman. Now he looked more like a retired bishop: two watery eyes peered out from a brown old scrotum of a face, and his scalp was speckled with liver spots. But to his former colleagues, he was still the Vicar.
“Afternoon, chaps,” Ogden said briskly, as he arrived at the graveside. “Show’s over, I see. The bloody traffic held me up.”
“Not to worry, Clive,” the Vicar replied. “You didn’t miss much. We were the only ones who showed.”
“Really?” Ogden blinked. “Just the four of us?”
“Afraid so. Jumbo had no relations, apparently. At least, no close ones.”
“In that case,” Ogden said, “who’s that chap?”
“Who?”
Ogden pointed to someone standing about twenty feet away. He was a youngish man with a grimy raincoat and a cigarette in his hand.
“That fellow there,” Ogden said. “The grey eminence.”
“No idea,” said the Laird. “He didn’t join us for the service. Just lurked in the background, like he’s doing now.”
“Some kind of voyeur,” Beauchamp suggested. “You get the oddest people in cemeteries.”
“Never mind,” Ogden said. “How was the service?”
“Pretty half-hearted. The padre kept glancing at his watch.”
Ogden shook his head and looked down at the grave.
“Poor old Jumbo,” he sighed. “I only heard about it yesterday.”
“Stroke, apparently,” the Vicar said. “The hospital found our names in his address book. There was nobody else to notify.”
“Didn’t Jumbo ever have a wife?” Beauchamp asked.
“Wife?” the Laird chuckled. “Wife? You’re joking, of course. Jumbo had no use for women. I always said he was—”
“Oh, really,” Beauchamp groaned. “Just because a man’s unmarried, it doesn’t automatically follow that he’s one of the brown-hat brigade.”
“Quite right,” Ogden nodded. “After all, only two of us still have wives: Jeremy and the Vicar.”
“One,” Beauchamp corrected him. “My old girl died last year.”
“Sorry to hear it, Jeremy,” Ogden sympathised. “It’s a few years since mine passed on, but I remember it took me a while to bounce back. She went peacefully, I hope?”
“Dicky ticker,” Beauchamp shrugged. “No pain.”
“Anyway,” said the Laird, “we all were married, which is more than could be said for Jumbo Wagstaffe.”
“Doesn’t prove he was a nancy.”
“There were other pointers,” the Laird insisted. “Do you remember that chap he shared digs with? A painter or something—”
“He was a sculptor.”
“That’s the fellow,” the Laird agreed. “Now he was definitely a pillow-chewer, and I always maintained—”
“Jumbo was positively vetted on at least six occasions,” Ogden reminded him. “And that kind of thing usually comes out in the wash.”
“Does it?” said the Laird pointedly. “If you say so, Clive.”
“Well, who cares if he was a you-know-what?” said the Vicar. “He was a decent enough chap. One of the best medium-pace bowlers we ever had. I remember that match we played against Naval Intelligence in ’49—or was it ’48? Anyway, Jumbo took three for eighteen. None of your lower-order rubbish, either. Those were all prime wickets.”
“I don’t care if he was a second Larwood,” the Laird insisted. “The man was still an arse-bandit.”
He rapped his pipe emphatically against the heel of his shoe, releasing a shower of thick ash.
“It’s a bit disrespectful,” Ogden said, gazing thoughtfully at the grave.
“What is?”
“Speculating about Jumbo’s proclivities by his graveside.”
“Quite right,” Beauchamp nodded. “Let’s change the subject.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Ogden said. “I just feel it would be more appropriate to continue this conversation in a pub.”
“Good idea,” the Laird grinned.
“It’s
Jumbo I’m thinking of,” Ogden added hastily.
“Oh, naturally,” the Vicar said. “And besides, it’s raining.”
“That settles it,” Beauchamp decided. “There’s one over the road. Follow me.”
They tramped over to a dusty little public house and found nothing there except for one bored landlord, two silent darts-players, and a juke-box which played something by Nat King Cole.
“Suddenly the rain seems very attractive,” Beauchamp muttered.
“Not to worry,” Ogden said, and he ordered a round of drinks. The friends took a table by the window.
“I think I preferred the cemetery,” the Vicar said as he glanced around him. “There was more life in it.”
The Laird scowled at his glass.
“They share the same proprietor,” he decided. “This gin tastes like embalming fluid.”
“Something wrong?” inquired the landlord.
“Not at all,” Ogden said soothingly. “My friend was just praising your gin. It brings the colour back to one’s cheeks.”
The landlord grunted, and returned to his daydream.
“It’s a bit silly, really,” Beauchamp said.
“What is?”
“We only ever run into each other at funerals. Never anywhere else.”
“You’re right,” Ogden said. “We should meet more often.”
“No reason not to,” said the Vicar. “We all live in London, or near it. And I don’t know about you chaps, but my diary isn’t exactly overflowing.”
“That settles it,” the Laird said, as he filled his pipe. “We’ll organise a get-together.”
“Come to my place,” the Vicar suggested. “I’m not as mobile as I was, thanks to my hip replacement. And my wife won’t mind. Well, not much.”
“The delectable Sybil,” Ogden grinned. “How is the old girl?”
“Oh, fine, fine,” said the Vicar, with a touch of regret.
Ogden blew a large pink bubble of gum, which took his colleagues by surprise.
“What the devil’s that?” the Laird asked.
“Never seen bubble-gum before?”
“Not in your mouth.”
“I finally gave up smoking,” Ogden explained. “Tried chewing-gum to take my mind off it. It didn’t really work. This stuff’s much better.”
“Hello, hello,” Beauchamp said. “It’s the chap from the cemetery.”
“The grey eminence,” Ogden said.
The man in the raincoat bought himself a drink, and came over to their table. In most respects, he was just as nondescript as when seen from a distance: his clothes, haircut and expression were bland and uninformative. But his eyes were bleak and sardonic—like a professional torturer’s, Ogden thought—and if the man had any charm he kept it well hidden.
“Afternoon,” he said. “Mind if I join you?”
The others glanced at each other inquiringly.
“Not in the least,” Ogden said. “Pint of bitter for me.”
The man shook his head and sat down
“You don’t want another pint,” he said curtly.
“Don’t I?” Ogden blinked.
“You’re driving, Mr Ogden. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble. That’s why I’m here: to stop you and your friends from getting into trouble.”
If his remarks were intended to surprise his audience, they were entirely successful. After a pause, Ogden said, “How do you know my name?”
“I know all your names,” the man said.
He pointed to the Vicar and said, “Godfrey Croft. Age seventy-two. Served 1944 to 1979. Directorate ‘A’.”
“Guilty, my Lord,” the Vicar replied.
“Fergus Buchanan,” the man went on. “Age sixty-six. Served 1951 to 1980. Directorate ‘K’.”
He took a sip of his orange juice.
“Next there’s Mr Jeremy Beauchamp,” he said. “Age sixty-eight. Served 1946 to 1977 in Directorates ‘C’ and ‘F’, then left us to run an antique business. Currently retired.”
“Gosh,” Ogden said. “You haven’t chucked in the junk shop, have you Jeremy?”
“Two years ago,” Beauchamp nodded. “It never made any money. I couldn’t bear to sell the best pieces, you see…”
“All those Chinese vases,” the Vicar mused. “I remember you were very keen on that Oriental stuff.”
“Lastly,” the man said, “we have Mr Clive Ogden. Age seventy. Served in Directorate ‘K’ from 1944 to 1961. Transferred to SIS, and stayed there until 1970 when he returned to our lot until retirement in 1981.”
“I was homesick,” Ogden chuckled. “Anyway, dear boy, isn’t it time you introduced yourself? I take it you’re from MI5?”
“My name’s Geoff Stringer. I’m with ‘B’ Directorate. And it’s not called MI5 any more.”
“I know, I know,” Ogden sighed. “‘The Security Service’, isn’t it? I always thought MI5 was more romantic. My wife thought so too. What can we do for you, Mr Stringer?”
“Is it about the cricket match?” the Vicar asked hopefully.
“The what?”
“The cricket match. You know, the inter-service championship. MI5 versus MI6, Signals, and Naval Intelligence.”
“There’s no such thing,” Stringer said.
“You mean they’ve stopped it? Good Lord. But it was an annual fixture… Don’t you play cricket, Mr Stringer?”
Stringer took a deep breath.
“No,” he said patiently. “Football’s my game.”
“Well that’s not too bad, I suppose,” Beauchamp said. “I don’t mind a spot of rugger myself…”
“No,” Stringer said. “Football. The one with the round ball.”
The Vicar’s jaw dropped in horror.
“Good heavens,” he breathed. “Are you saying MI5 are playing football?”
Stringer’s eyes rolled upwards.
“No,” he said heavily. “The Security Service doesn’t play football. It doesn’t play any games. It just gets on with the business of protecting national security. Now, if you don’t mind—”
“But you just said—”
“I said I played it,” Stringer barked.
“Oh. I see.”
The Vicar scratched his jaw in contemplation.
“So they’ve cancelled the cricket matches. What a damned shame.”
“Fuck the cricket matches,” Stringer snarled. “Just listen to what I have to say, will you?”
The old men looked at each other in surprise. Then the Laird tugged an imaginary forelock and said, “Yes, master. Oi be listening closely, master.”
“We’re all ears,” Beauchamp said.
“Anything you say, Mr Swinger,” Ogden grinned, and he blew another pink gum-bubble.
“The name’s Stringer, and I’m here to give you characters an official warning. You know there’s been a lot of hassle recently about former members of the security services writing unauthorised memoirs and talking to the Press about their careers. Well, we’re having a crack-down. Everybody is getting a verbal caution as well as a written one from the Director-General.”
“Not me, Slinger,” Ogden said. “Nothing from the D-G in my letter-box.”
“It’s Stringer,” Stringer said irritably, “and the letters haven’t gone out yet. But get this straight: if any of you is stupid enough to think he can earn a few extra quid by telling his life-story to the newspapers, he’ll go straight to gaol.”
“Do not pass ‘go’, do not collect two hundred pounds,” the Vicar said.
“Exactly,” Stringer nodded. “So the message is: keep your traps shut. Your careers are state secrets, understand? Anything you say to anybody—however trivial the information—will land you in the slammer.”
“Don’t worry, Mr Springer,” Ogden said gently. “None of us had plans of that sort—”
“Don’t change your minds,” Stringer said. “There’ll be hell to pay if you do.”
He finished his drink and got up.
“N
ow,” he said, “if that’s understood, I’ll be on my way.”
“Off to see other colleagues?” Beauchamp inquired.
“Yeah.”
“In that case,” the Laird said, “can I offer you a tip?”
Stringer frowned.
“What is it?”
“You could try to be more polite with the others. You know, a few ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’.”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” Beauchamp agreed.
“Bollocks,” Stringer snorted. “Just do as you’re told, okay?” He walked out of the pub, leaving the old men shaking their heads in disbelief.
“What a rude man,” Beauchamp said.
“Incredible,” Ogden agreed. “Which slum did they pluck him out of?”
“A footballer,” the Vicar said bitterly, as if that explained everything.
The Laird chewed his pipe irritably.
“There was a time,” he said, “when fellows like that weren’t allowed anywhere near MI5.”
“You know,” Ogden said, “I’ve a good mind to complain to the D-G. After forty years of service, I don’t expect to be treated like a bloody criminal.”
“Damned insulting,” Beauchamp agreed. “Things have obviously changed for the worse in the old firm.”
“They certainly have,” said the Vicar. “Fancy abolishing the inter-service cricket match. It’s—it’s downright vandalism.”
“In that case,” Ogden said, “I think we should consider our response.”
“Definitely,” the Laird said.
“A formal complaint,” Beauchamp said.
“Absolutely.”
“Death to footballers,” cried the Vicar.
Chapter Two
“THREE POUNDS,” said the taxi driver as he pulled up outside the hotel.
His passenger yawned, paid the fare, and got out of the car. The Hotel Leftera seemed much like any other low-budget accommodation on Cyprus: peeling, fly-blown and shabby. But the man was not particularly bothered. In the last three days he had slept for a total of five hours, and under those circumstances the whole world looked somewhat frayed at the edges. And besides, the man had not come to Larnaca for a holiday.
He picked up his travelling-bag and introduced himself to Mr Leftera, the owner.
“I phoned from the airport,” the man said. “Name of Carter.”