by Martina Cole
Richard walked into the room with a tray of coffee and sandwiches. He placed it on the coffee table and spoke. ‘I couldn’t help hearing your conversation.’
Maura and Terry both looked at him as if they didn’t know who he was. They’d forgotten him.
‘I work for the papers. You know that, Maura. From what I’ve just heard, I think that while you have access to journalists you’re safe as houses.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Think about it. Maura knows all the people who are on her payroll. While you’re alive, Maura, the police dare not touch you.’
‘They were going to kill them all. Every one of them. At Fenn Farm tonight.’ Terry’s voice was flat.
‘If you’ll forgive me, I guessed as much for myself. What you must do, Maura, is leave the country. Go somewhere where they can’t get to you.’
‘They would!’
‘No, let me finish. You must write down everything you know about the people who are on your payroll then you must leave it with someone, to be opened only on your death. That way you will live a very long time, believe me.’
Maura and Terry stared at him. As fantastic as it sounded, it held the ring of truth.
‘I know plenty of journos who’d commit murder for a story like this. It’s got everything a journalist needs.’
‘He’s got a point, you know.’ Terry’s voice was excited.
Richard spoke again. ‘Honestly, Maura, I know what I’m talking about. Look at Profumo. Christ, that still gets dragged up every so often. People like to think that the rich people who run big businesses and the people in government are in cahoots with shadier people. It makes them feel better about their own lives. There’s nothing the British like more than to tear someone apart, preferably someone they created or voted in in the first place. The gutter press makes its money doing it, whether it’s the Westland affair, the Profumo scandal or a judge who’s into pornography. As long as it’s someone with plenty of money or a high profile, the British Public loves it.’
The more Richard spoke, the more sense he made to Maura.
‘But where could I go?’
‘Anywhere you wanted to, really. While you’re alive and kicking and able to open your mouth, you and your brothers are as safe as houses.’
She slumped back on to the settee. ‘Let me think about it. I can’t concentrate . . .’
‘Drink your coffee and have a sandwich. We’ll think of something, don’t you worry.’
Maura was beginning to understand what Michael had seen in Richard. He wasn’t just a pretty face.
Chapter Thirty-five
Marsh was worried. Very worried. It seemed that Maura Ryan had gone on the missing list. From information he had received, it seemed the only person at her house was William Templeton. Lord Templeton. Three of her brothers were at their mother’s and the other brother, Roy, was at his own house in Chigwell. Maura Ryan had not appeared at any of her clubs or other businesses. He had put a call out to watch for her car but didn’t hold out much hope there. He was dealing with a dangerous lady, a woman with the means of destroying numerous people, himself included. And to top it all, she now had the championship of Terry Petherick!
He sighed and lit one of his cigars, looking up as the door of his office opened.
It was Superintendent Ackland of the Special Investigations Branch. Ackland was notorious in the force for his violent and disruptive personality. He was one of those men who should by rights have chosen a life of crime. Brought up in the Gorbals, he had an animal cunning and an empathy with the criminal mind that was out of place in the world of the police. Or so Marsh had thought until he had read the names of seemingly respectable men on Maura Ryan’s payroll.
Like many Scotsmen, James Ackland was quite small, with a muscular body and the high forehead and erratic hair of his ancestors. He had tiny blue eyes that seemed to be permanently on the move, darting around his head as if he was frightened that by the act of relaxing his gaze he would miss something important. Even after twenty years in London, his Scottish accent was as pronounced as ever.
‘You’ve read the files, I take it?’ Marsh’s voice was low.
‘Aye. I have that.’ Ackland laughed. ‘Well, there’s one thing for sure . . . she’s a canny lass. The way I see it, there’s not a lot we can do to her. Or her family, come to that.’
His face seemed to straighten, as if wiped clean with a blackboard rubber. ‘But I’ll think of something. Though myself, I think the people on the take should be brought to book. But you know and I know they won’t be.’
Marsh nodded and puffed on his cigar.
Ackland picked his rather bulbous nose, making Marsh feel sick.
‘The only way out is to annihilate the bitch. Usual code of conduct, of course. We find her, then we have what the papers euphemistically call a “shoot out”. It’s odds on that she’s carrying a firearm. Christ, man, from what I read in the file, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was carrying a tactical nuclear missile!’
His voice was jocular again. ‘I don’t like covering up for people, especially people who should know better, but there you are. We’re all under orders.’
Ackland helped himself from the bottle of Famous Grouse that Marsh had on his desk, pouring the dregs from a coffee cup into a waste paper basket and filling it nearly full.
‘We have to find her first.’ Marsh’s voice sounded as if that would be an impossible task.
Ackland sniffed. ‘No one can hide forever, Marsh.’
Maura was writing furiously. She was making a document which, if it got into the wrong hands, would bring the country to its knees. Her brain was working overtime, remembering every little detail she could about the people she had dealt with. Unknown to her there were people named in her account who had not appeared in Geoffrey’s. She was concentrating on the ‘biggies’, as Richard had called the cabinet ministers and the Bank officials. She also listed every large developer and industry chairman who had at one time or another dealt with either herself or Michael.
Terry watched her as she worked, reading each page as she finished it and realising with each word just how corrupt and evil the establishment had become.
William Templeton was worried. Very worried. Like Marsh he was wondering where on earth Maura had got to. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly two in the morning and still no word. He looked around Maura’s lounge at the family pictures that abounded. On top of the television cabinet were photographs of Carla. From a small child to a grown woman, her life was lovingly documented. On the occasional tables were photos of Maura and her brothers, mainly Michael.
He got up from his chair and went to the kitchen to make himself yet another coffee. As he poured hot water over the coffee granules there was a knock on the door. Banging the kettle down on the worktop he answered it, his heart in his mouth.
A man was standing outside the porch. He was holding a police badge in his hand. Slowly, William opened the door.
‘Sorry to disturb you at this time of night, sir.’ The man had a pronounced Scottish accent. ‘I am Superintendent Ackland of the Special Investigations Branch. Could I please talk to you for a moment?’
The man smiled and William saw that he had tobacco-stained teeth. He held the door open and gestured for the man to come inside.
Please God, don’t let her be dead. William was convinced that it was bad news of some kind. It was not until Ackland told him that he was going to be arrested and charged with certain offences, including conspiracy to murder and armed robbery, that he realised just how bad.
‘Do you realise who I am?’ His voice was outraged.
‘Aye, I do. But you see, Lord William, I couldn’t care less if you were the Prince Regent himself. If you don’t do what I tell you, I’ll drag you to the police station so fast you’ll burn a hole in the pavement! Outside this house is an army of policemen, with guns, just waiting for a word from me. You’re going to be the bait that tempts the big fish. The big fish being Maura Ryan.’
‘Maybe not, but it’s odds on you’ll be able to find out. Now, shall we have a nice cup of tea and a chat?’
Ackland’s voice was friendly and for some reason this worried William more than anything.
Maura was in deep trouble and he guessed that he was going to be asked to double cross her. This Scottish lout had as good as already said that. What was worrying William was the fact that, as much as he cared about Maura, his own skin would always come first. It always had.
At two-thirty Maura took a rest from her writing to have a cup of coffee. Richard had produced a photocopier that he kept for when he worked from home. He was busy in the bedroom copying all that Maura had written so far. Richard had wanted to be a ‘real’ journalist all his adult life. He realised that in his hands he had the scoop of the century and that he could never use it. As he read what Maura had written his eyes goggled. He would bet his last pound that the Secretary of State for the Environment was probably sitting at home and sweating like a pig. He must have been told all that was going on. The same could be said for the Home Secretary.
As he read, Richard had the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind.
In the lounge Terry and Maura drank their coffee in silence.
‘What do you think the outcome will be?’ she asked.
Terry shook his head.
‘I really don’t know, Maura. I feel responsible for it all.’
‘That’s not surprising, is it? Considering you are! You and my mother.’ Her voice was bitter.
‘I don’t blame you for being upset with me but I am trying to help you now. Surely that says something?’ Terry was desperate to reassure her of his backing.
‘You’re trying to help me now because the people that you worked for . . . the people that you revered and tried to emulate . . . turned out to be more bent than I am. That’s why you’re trying to help now. You said yourself that you knew before you even went to Fenn Farm that the so-called “biggies” who were on the take would walk. I don’t need you, Terry Petherick. I never needed you.’
‘You did need me once, Maura.’ His voice was quiet and earnest.
She lit a cigarette and looked into his face.
‘Oh, yeah? And when was that?’
‘When you were pregnant. When you had the abortion. When you were lying in hospital desperately ill. Your mother told me all about it.’
He sounded calm and caring.
Maura snorted. ‘So, mouth almighty told you that as well, did she? What else did she tell you? Did she tell you that she once accused me of sleeping with Michael? Did she tell you that? Did she tell you that for all our faults, real and imagined, she took the money that was sent to her every week?’ She was quiet for a few seconds. Then, her voice low, she spoke again.
‘I never needed you then, Terry, so don’t flatter yourself. I was young and naïve and the only mistake I made, as I see it, was getting involved with someone like you. Even then you wanted to change the world. Michael told me what happened to you. We had enough plants in the force, even then. You were pulled over the carpet for your association with Michael Ryan’s sister and you dumped me. You had a choice, me or the force, and your precious police force won. Then, when my mother gave you Geoffrey’s papers, you couldn’t wait to run to your superiors with them. Terry Petherick, the Vine Street Marvel, uncovers the biggest case of corruption this century. Only you didn’t realise then that what you actually had was something the government and the police would rather hush up than expose. You struck out, mate.’
‘I’ve lost everything. My job . . .’
‘Oh, sod your job!’ Maura was shouting. ‘I don’t give a toss about you or your stupid job!’
‘Whatever you think now, Maura, I loved you. But we were so young then. What about the night we spent together after Benny died? You told me then that you still loved me.’ He pointed at her. ‘You told me to go the next morning. It was your decision.’
He felt an urge to weep. He had inadvertently brought her nothing but grief from the day they met.
‘I sent you away because I wanted to.’
‘Oh no you didn’t! I won’t have you saying that. You sent me away because you were in too deep with Michael. It was for that reason and that reason only.’
Maura watched his handsome face and admitted the truth of what he was saying to herself.
‘Shall I tell you something? Shall I tell you the real truth of my life?’
‘Yes. Please tell me.’
‘When I met you in 1966, I felt something I had never felt before. Or since.’ She stared at a spot on the carpet, afraid to look at his face. ‘I wanted you so badly I could taste it. Do you remember when you told me you were a policeman? I nearly had a heart attack!’
She laughed softly. ‘I sneaked around for months to meet you, lying to my mother and father and my brothers. Then, when I got pregnant and went to your flat to tell you, you finished with me. I had that baby scraped out of me by a dirty little Paki. I can still smell that flat sometimes. I can still see the baby lying in the bottom of a washing up bowl. Perfectly formed and dead.
‘And do you know what the ironic part of it is? I never wanted to be anything other than a wife and mother. I know that the feminists would crucify me if they heard me speaking like this but it was all I ever wanted: a husband, a home, and children. A houseful of children. Then when I had the abortion and it went wrong, I came out of the hospital and all that had been taken away from me. I had nothing to give to a husband or a lover. I was empty inside. I nearly died, you know. And for a long time that’s exactly what I prayed for. Then I had the idea of working for Michael. He never really wanted me to work in the family business but I forced him. I knew that he felt responsible for what had happened to me and I used that to get the ice cream and hot dogs from him. After that, I gradually took over from poor Geoffrey.
‘If I hadn’t gone into the business then, Geoffrey and Michael would have stayed together as a team. Though Michael never really had a lot of time for him, I must admit that. And somehow, all that happened over the years built up and built up . . . until this. I’m the most wanted woman in England now and all I ever wanted was to be Mrs Average. That child would be twenty-one now. Grown up and going out into the world. Instead it was flushed down a toilet in a multi-storey tower block in Peckham, and I’m being hunted by armed police . . .’
Her voice trailed away and Terry knew that silent tears were falling from her eyes. For the first time he realised just how much he had really hurt this woman. He asked himself for the hundredth time since Mrs Ryan had told him about the abortion, whether he would have stayed with her had he known. And being an honest person he knew that he could not answer that question so many years later. All he was sure of was that he had wrecked Maura’s life. That she had always been inside him somewhere, like a piece of a puzzle that was gradually being put together.
He put an arm around her hesitantly, afraid that she would push him away, but she didn’t. Instead she held on to him tightly, pulling his body against her own as if trying to crawl under his skin. And he held her while she cried and was not surprised to feel his own tears fall as they both healed a breach that spanned twenty years.
Richard had heard what had been said and being a tactful person coughed loudly before he went into the lounge. Maura and Terry pulled away from one another and Richard acted as if he could not see they were both very upset. Instead he smiled brightly and sat on the floor in front of them.
‘I have the most amazing idea. I think that you’ll love it.’
Maura wiped her eyes, grateful for the intervention. He was going up more in her estimation with every hour that passed.
‘What is it?’
‘I’ve been reading what you’ve written down and I think that you have more than enough to do a deal.’
‘What kind of deal?’ Maura’s voice was more alert now.
‘I think that if our friend here . .
.’ he pointed at Terry . . . ‘goes to see his superiors with a copy of what you have written, and tells them that there are numerous other copies in the hands of unscrupulous people, then they’ll be more than ready to come across.’
‘They’ll never do a deal.’
‘How can you be so sure, Terry? I think that the Secretary of State for the Environment will have the last say on what happens. After all, there are some pretty heavy heads on the chopping block.’
‘But who will we give the copies to?’
‘Let me worry about that, Maura.’
‘I know one person who would be glad to help us.’
‘And who’s that?’
Maura looked at Terry. ‘Patrick Kelly.’
‘What, the IRA man?’ Terry’s voice was shocked.
‘Yeah. He’s an old friend of mine. We go back years. Plus he owes me one.’ She thought of Michael as she spoke.
‘Wouldn’t he use it, though?’
‘Only to his own advantage. The British Government are in closer contact with the Irish than people think. They trade information with each other when necessary. The government know who the real leaders behind Sinn Fein are. Gerry Adams is just the media go-between. The real leaders are never mentioned.’
‘Rich and important men, I suppose?’
‘No, Terry, not all of them. I know that the IRA get a bad press but the majority of them are fighting for a cause that they believe in. Like any society they have all sorts, from the lower end of the scale to the top of it. Kelly is at the top of the scale and I know I can trust him.’
‘So that’s one person. Can you think of any more?’ Richard was loving every second of this now. It was the most exciting night of his life. For the first time he was involved in something that was really important, and even though he would never be able to boast about it, he would know inside that he had been a part of it. Had helped to mastermind it.