by Oliver Tidy
‘Oh dear,’ she said, looking truly wretched. ‘I’m very sorry, Miss Manson. I really couldn’t see any other way than to let you two meet on your own terms.’ The woman was frozen with obvious fear, not struggling, just supporting herself. ‘Acer will now remove his hand. Please do not scream. You have my word that you are in no danger.’
Slowly, Sansom did as instructed, keeping his eyes firmly on the woman in front of him. He stepped away from her as far as the confined space would allow. She looked as though she wanted to speak, to shout, to scream, to lash out, but she did none of these things. It was as though her ability to make any of these basic human reactions had deserted her, as though a temporary paralysis had overcome her. Sansom was glad of it. He had no desire to strong-arm her again. That would not ingratiate them with their host or help their cause.
The old woman saw the calm before the inevitable storm as an opportunity. She spoke quickly and quietly. ‘Yes, this is Acer Sansom – the ‘cop-killer’. Only he is not a cop-killer. He did not kill my son. He did not kill the two police officers in the London house. He did not kill the intelligence officer at the motorway services. And he did not kill your ex-husband. He is the victim of a scandalous plot being carried out by a corrupt politician and his army of thugs. I repeat – he will not harm you. He is here to talk to you. He is here to give you the story of your life. We are here for your help. Listen to him. Give him a chance. That’s all we ask. You know who I am. Do you think I would be helping someone who was guilty of murdering my son in cold blood? Remember too that I buried my son today. Why would I be here with this man today of all days if I were not telling you the truth?’
For the first time since Sansom had forced his way in, the woman’s eyes left his face. She stared at Tallis’s mother for a long silent moment and they let her. Her eyes came back to Sansom and locked with his.
‘Prove it,’ she said. Her voice was soft, under control, educated, but there was firmness too. ‘Give me the gun.’ The colour was spreading back into her skin along with the confidence of her manner. She had recovered quicker than either of them could have anticipated. That could be a good thing. It could indicate strength. Strength was something that she would need.
Sansom hesitated briefly and then reversed the weapon in his hand and passed it to her. The way that she took the pistol, two of them believed that she could have put a bullet through his chest.
She turned back to Tallis’s mother. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me?’ Still controlled, she was clearly and understandably angry. She had trusted. That trust had been betrayed. Her home had been invaded. She had been handled, threatened.
‘There wasn’t time. I’m truly sorry for the shock and for abusing your trust. I know that you will not forgive me for that and I don’t blame you. But there are more important things here than our feelings. If you hear us out, you will realise that. You will understand. Besides, you might have said no.’
‘Of course, I bloody well would have said no.’ She was collecting her wits before them. The shock was receding. She wasn’t about to invite them fully into her home. ‘Why me?’
For answer Sansom felt in the top pocket of his shirt and removed the page of newspaper he had torn from the broadsheet in Eda’s uncle’s home. He unfolded it and held it up for her to see. ‘Because of this,’ he said. She stiffened, remembering her article and how she had portrayed Sansom, how she had advocated the reintroduction of the death penalty for ‘sociopathic scum’ like him. ‘I need you,’ he said. ‘If I can convince you – my greatest public critic – of my innocence in all this and then I can convince you to tell the truth to the world I might stand a chance of living and we can all see the people responsible brought to account.’
The reporter looked again from one to the other of them. Her confusion was obvious. But already her inquisitiveness had shown itself. She no longer looked like she was about to scream for the police. Her brow wrinkled as the questions pinged around in her mind. The journalistic instinct, the addiction to news, the pursuit of the holy grail of the scoop was sidling back to the forefront of her thinking. She looked then at the gun in her hand as though she had no idea of how it had got there. Then she looked up again at Sansom.
‘Is this loaded?’ she said.
He looked hard into her eyes and lied. ‘Yes.’
‘Then for God’s sake put it somewhere safe.’
He put out his hand and waited for her to pass it to him. Slowly, she did.
‘You think that I won’t be able to refuse you, I suppose?’ she said.
‘If you’re half the journalist I believe you are, you won’t,’ said Tallis’s mother.
‘Is that supposed to be flattery will get you everywhere?’ She was staring again at the old woman. There was no indication yet that it would on this occasion.
‘No. That’s my objective assessment of you as an investigative reporter, which is based on the work you did covering the scandal in government grants to local councils; your reporting on insider trading and your exposure of corrupt officials in the justice system.’
The woman smiled a little tired smile then. ‘So you’ve read up on me.’
‘No. I read you. There’s a difference. Until this afternoon I had no idea that I was going to be calling on you. Until this afternoon I hadn’t even met Acer Sansom.’
‘So what’s the rush?’
Mrs Tallis breathed in and out deeply. ‘I’m well aware that this is your home, Miss Manson, and that we are currently unwelcome intruders. But if we are to continue this conversation in the hallway could I possibly prevail upon you to provide me with a chair. It’s been rather an exhausting day.’
There was no obvious outward softening of the reporter’s demeanour, no hint of compassion for the old woman’s obvious truth; rather, she understood that Mrs Tallis was giving her a decision to make – was she interested in this, or not? Of course she was. Journalism was her life and Phillip Hatcher had once been her husband.
‘I mean it,’ she said, ‘I do not want to see that gun again.’ Sansom nodded. ‘You had better both come through.’
Tallis’s mother stood aside to let her pass. As she did so, the old woman lifted her eyes to meet the soldier’s. He detected a genuine sadness and tiredness in them and his admiration and compassion for her increased. He imagined that the look she was giving him was saying, she’d got them in, she’d given them a chance, now it was up to him. He picked up his box and followed them in.
It was a sparsely and contemporarily furnished room. It suggested money and thought, good taste and discomfort. Subtle lighting illuminated a workspace cluttered with papers and a laptop. The journalist indicated seats that looked expensive and uncomfortable. Sansom put his box on the floor beside one and sat. Mrs Tallis lowered herself gratefully and released a small sigh.
‘Would you like some water, or something?’ said the journalist, still standing. She was looking at the old woman and there was now a trace of concern on her features.
‘Water would be very welcome. Thank you. I have pills I should take.’
Sansom noticed the slight raising of one eyebrow before the reporter moved away and through to the kitchen area. She hadn’t asked him.
They waited in silence until she returned with a single glass of water. From her handbag Mrs Tallis had taken two small white tablets. She threw them back quickly and washed them down. The journalist turned the chair around from her workstation and sat opposite them.
‘If you’re not responsible for the deaths of those people, who is?’
‘Wait,’ said Sansom. He raised a hand to underline his interruption. ‘You have to know something first. We both have strong personal reasons to be looking for exposure and justice for these people. We also both know the risks and are prepared to accept them. You do not and you should before you become any part of it. You have to know that if you get involved with this, with me, in any way; if they even get a sniff that you, a journalist of all people, have spoken to me you’ll beco
me a target for them. They murdered the two police officers just because they were there – to increase public pressure on me. The intelligence officer was killed because he was going to be my contact when I returned to the UK to testify against them. They made it look like I did it so that they had a reason to initiate a shoot-to-kill order on me. Stan Tallis was shot dead in front of me because he was involved. He knew about them. He was there to help me. They murdered him and blamed me for it. The point I’m trying to make is that they have no regard for human life. They will think nothing of removing you, or anyone else if it comes to it, and I’m sure they’ll make it look like I did it. They’ve invested too much violence in preserving their position to stop now.’ He gave her a long moment for the brutal point he was making to fully sink in.
‘Right now, you have a choice. You don’t know anything and it can stay that way. We can leave and for your sake we can all pretend that this never happened. That’s not a threat from me, by the way. It would be the reality of your situation as far as they would be concerned.’ He leaned forward, his forearms on his knees, to emphasise what he was about to say. ‘It’s not about being a certain kind of journalist; it’s about being a certain kind of person. If I haven’t made it clear enough – you will be risking your life if you get involved. And please, understand that for me this cuts both ways; it’s not just about you. I don’t want to die, just yet. And I would not want your death on my conscience; there isn’t room. If you cannot convince me that you won’t be a liability for me then I’ll walk away before you’ve sharpened your pencil. There will be no shame for you, no arguments or complaints from me if you say you want nothing to do with this. You need to be honest about your capabilities, your courage and your resolve. Honest with yourself and honest with us. Please, don’t be tempted to inflate your opinion of yourself. It wouldn’t help.’
The room was very quiet for several seconds.
‘I think that perhaps I need a drink of something stronger than water,’ said the journalist.
‘No,’ said Sansom. ‘You don’t. Not until you’ve made your choice.’
‘Before I do that, tell me, what do you think is going to put a stop to them? You paint a very dark picture. If I do get involved, how could it end well?’
‘Through high-profile media exposure. It’s why we’re here. Once they are exposed they will be finished. There would be no point in any more deaths. It’s either that or I kill them all.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘About killing them?’ She nodded. ‘If it’s all that’s left to me.’
‘So why not just do it then?’
‘Because I want my life back. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days hiding from British justice. And because killing them would be too easy on them.’
‘Have you killed anyone in this?’ She suddenly needed to know.
‘Yes. The two men that killed Stan Tallis. They’re holding hands in a shallow grave that they had earmarked for me.’
‘And what about my ex-husband?’
The surprise question only delayed him for a moment. ‘I didn’t kill him. I didn’t know whose house it was when I was taken there. They killed him and made it look like I did it.’
‘And the other one, before Phillip?’
‘Harper? Self-defence. He fired first.’
She turned to Mrs Tallis. ‘You mentioned a politician is behind this?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know?’
‘My son confided everything in me.’
‘I also have some audio tapes,’ said Sansom, nudging his box with his foot.
‘Does anyone else know you are here?’
‘Not a soul,’ said Sansom. ‘It’s not even something that could be guessed.’
The reporter took her time. She stood. She put her hands together as though in prayer and rested her chin on the tips of her fingers. She walked a few steps backwards and forwards. Stopped and turned to face them both. ‘I want to do it,’ she said.
‘Good,’ said Mrs Tallis.
‘What about you?’ she said, looking at Sansom.
‘If you’re sure, I had already made up my mind.’
In the natural pause, Mrs Tallis said, ‘Right. I must get something from the car. It could be very important.’
Sansom shot her a confused look. ‘Let me go,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
‘No. I will go, thank you. We can’t risk you being seen. Give me the keys.’
He handed them over and Mrs Tallis heaved herself out of her seat with obvious effort, picked up her handbag and made for the door.
‘Would you like me to come down with you? Help you?’ said the journalist.
‘No, thank you. I’ll just be a minute.’
When she had gone the journalist said, ‘I can have that drink now?’
‘Sorry. Yes, of course.’
‘It’s scotch. Do you want one?’
‘Thanks.’
‘What’s wrong?’ she said, catching the look on his face.
‘Her. I don’t know what she’s got in the car that could be so important. She didn’t mention anything.’
‘Well we’ll soon find out.’
She poured and said, ‘Phillip was a fine investigative journalist. An award-winner. Impossible as a husband. What a horrible way to die. In his own home, too. Why did they kill him?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps you’ll be able to ask them.’
‘You were there, though. Your fingerprints were found.’
‘Yes, I was there. They set me up. It was why they got me there. So they could blame me for it.’
A phone began to ring.
‘That’s not mine,’ she said.
She followed the noise to where he had been sitting and held up the old woman’s mobile. Recognising it and realising that it must have dropped out of his pocket, Sansom put out his hand for it. It was the daughter’s caller ID again. He answered.
‘Hello, Acer. I’ve taken the car and I’m heading home. It’s for the best.’
‘What? Why? That’s madness.’
‘Actually, it’s not when you think about it. We both know that they might come looking for me. I need to be true to the story that I’ll be telling them – I took my son-in-law’s car and decided to drive home. I was distressed. If I don’t go home, or I have a long unexplained break in my journey, they’ll have reason to suspect me.’
‘You’re making a mistake.’
‘No, I’m not. I’ve been as useful as I could. I got you in. Now I would just be in the way. The car has to be back on the road. I can always say that I got lost for a while if it comes to it. Good luck, Acer. Do it for Stanley. Do it for all of them.’
***
16
Sansom worked roughly at his face.
‘What is it?’ she said, unable to keep the anxiety out of her voice.
He came out from behind his fist. ‘Mrs Tallis. She’s left.’
‘What do you mean?’
The woman’s unease at being stuck with a stranger who just happened to be the country’s most wanted man – coupled with her confusion at the news that their chaperone had disappeared – combined to distort her features and show something of her age and suspicion for the situation forced upon her. Sansom met her eye and exhaled despondently. He was suddenly burdened with immense tiredness.
‘This afternoon that old woman helped me escape the police. She hid me in the boot of her car and blustered her way through a roadblock on the strength of her being the mother of Detective Inspector Tallis and on her way back from his funeral. But they are bound to find out that she was in the area. They will be looking for connections, no matter how tenuous, to explain how I got away and this isn’t going to look tenuous to the right, informed pair of eyes. Someone, sometime soon, if they haven’t already, will make that connection and realise that the only way that I could have got out of that spot was if I was helped by someone with transport.’ The woman had adopted a puzzled expression. ‘The pe
ople who we are up against knew that Stan Tallis was part of the plot against them,’ he went on. ‘That’s why they had him killed. We have to assume that they will understand that Mrs Tallis also knows – either through her son or through an approach by me or both – and that she has helped me. If they get that far then they’ll be looking for her with some awkward questions.’
‘I’m sorry; I still don’t quite get it.’
‘That’s my fault. I’m not explaining things very well.’ He took another deep breath in preparation to try again. ‘She is supposed to be heading home to Norfolk. She feels that she must continue with her journey and with as little delay as possible so that when they catch up with her the timings of her trip will not be skewed.’
‘Well, that makes sense, but it leaves you here with no transport.’
She was still thinking of herself and not the bigger picture.
‘That’s not what worries me,’ he said.
‘What is?’
‘Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve told you about them?’ He sounded more tired than argumentative. ‘They aren’t going to send a friendly local WPC to ask her questions over tea and biscuits. They’ll send vicious trained thugs who won’t care that she’s an old woman.’
‘Can’t we stop her?’
‘No. I don’t know where she is or where she’s going. I have no idea of her address. And we can’t exactly phone up the police, can we?’
After a long pause, she said, ‘Look, I’m sorry to come over all selfish, but if they do work it out and they find her...’
‘Will she tell them about this?’ She nodded and he could see clearly the concern on her face. Maybe she had been listening after all. ‘No. I have no concerns there. She’s risked her own liberty getting the two of us together. And now she’s put herself in harm’s way so that I can have a chance of success. She won’t be about to jeopardise that. I doubt that this was a spur of the moment decision for her.’
‘How can you be so sure about her? She said that you two only met this afternoon.’
He accepted her point with the merest inclination of his head. ‘She lost her son to them and her granddaughter. She’s been seething about it in impotent silence ever since because she always knew that they were responsible for it. She is a tough and determined old bird and she wants justice for them. When I came along she saw a way to get it.’ He switched his focus back to the journalist’s position. ‘Look, I understand if this changes things for you. If you don’t share my confidence, if you want me to leave, I will. No problem.’