by Guy Adams
‘Steady,’ said Jennings. ‘You’re in no fit state to—’
‘Where’s August?’ Toby insisted, pushing past him before taking two more steps and stumbling to the ground.
‘Christ Almighty,’ said Jennings, stooping to pick him up.
‘August!’ Toby screamed, his voice as delirious as that of a drunk.
April heard him. ‘Oh Lord,’ she sighed. ‘Toby.’
She got up and went to him, waving Jennings back as she took Toby by the shoulders.
‘I’m sorry, Toby,’ she said. ‘August is gone.’
‘Gone where?’ Toby asked, looking around as if he might see him. ‘My head…’ he moaned touching it with his good hand.
‘He’s dead my love,’ she told him and held him as tightly as she dared as first he stared, shaking his head, then gave in to the tears.
FORTY-FOUR
The last time they had been in the company of Pleasance Bellevue, she had been performing a marriage ceremony. Now it was a funeral.
‘We honour the memory of a great man,’ she said. ‘Someone who worked tirelessly to make this world a better, safer place. His heart was as big as his brain and he leaves behind a memory greater even than both. If the world only knew what a gift he had given it over the years, there wouldn’t be a room big enough to fit those wishing to offer goodwill and thanks.’ She looked up at the three mourners, Toby, Tamar and April. ‘As it is, his work was done in secret. He neither wanted or needed the acknowledgment of others to endorse what he did. Like all truly great men he gave all and expected nothing. He will be missed.’
She looked to Toby. ‘Did you want to say something?’
‘No,’ he replied and continued to stare at the wooden crate of ashes on the table in front of them. ‘What’s the point? A few words for the dead? I haven’t got any big enough.’
Tamar squeezed his hand.
Pleasance nodded. ‘We don’t need words to remember him. Or thank him.’ She patted the box. ‘And alive or dead, he will always be shining.’
Outside, they filed into the car, April holding the ashes. Toby had wanted to but, with his arm in a sling, he was convinced he would drop them. Besides, he still sometimes found his balance giving out, even now, five days after the accident. The doctor insisted he’d be fine in time.
‘Just take it easy for a bit,’ he’d advised, popping a piece of nicotine gum into his mouth and grinning with the cheeky pleasure of it all.
Toby had seen no problem with that as a piece of advice. After all, it wasn’t as if he had a job to occupy him.
‘You can’t just quit!’ April begged him after they’d returned to the Section 37 office.
‘Why not? asked Toby. ‘It’s only a matter of time before the department’s closed anyway. Section 37 was August, you know that. They’ve wanted to close him down for years. Now they can. I’m surprised I haven’t had the relocation paperwork through already. It’s probably delayed because they can’t figure out anywhere pointless enough to dump me.’
He got up from his desk, scattering the papers he’d been shuffling.
‘It’s all just waiting for the shredder isn’t it?’ he said, watching it float to the carpet around him. ‘Probably for the best.’
‘That’s August’s life,’ April pointed out, not unkindly.
‘No it isn’t,’ he replied. ‘It’s just paper. August’s life bled out of him while I wasn’t there to help him.’
‘There was nothing you could have done.’
‘Of course there was. I should have been there, watching his back. But, as always, it doesn’t pay to rely on Toby Greene.’
‘Then it doesn’t pay to rely on April Shining either,’ and this time there was venom in her voice. ‘Think how I bloody feel for a minute before you completely sink into self-pity. I wasn’t there either and everything that happened when that… that thing…’ Her words petered out.
They hadn’t talked about the atrocities the Higher Power had committed while in possession of April’s body. None of them quite knew what to say on the subject. They knew it was hardly her fault – and, deep inside, so did she – but it was too big to face for now. It was a conversation that could only burn once ignited.
‘Sorry,’ Toby said, realising he’d been being selfish. ‘I just can’t be doing with any of it. Not right now. We still don’t understand half of what happened. How Tamar and I got out of the car, why Fisher wanted to set August up…’
‘I think we can guess it wasn’t really Fisher,’ said April.
‘Probably not. But what about Fratfield? What suddenly made him come back here? Was it him that killed August? We know he was there but why…?’
‘Only one way to find it out,’ said Tamar.
Toby nodded. ‘And that’s my only priority now. Just as it has been for the last few weeks. We need to find Fratfield and get some answers. I can only hope I can get it done before every penny of the budget is snatched back.’
As if on cue, the phone rang. Toby stared at it for a moment, knowing it would be a call he didn’t want to take. April and Tamar stared at him, neither wanting to do it for him.
He snatched it up.
‘Dark Spectre Publishing,’ he said.
The two women watched as his face turned even more sour.
‘Fine,’ he said after a few moments. ‘I’ll be there.’
He hung up.
‘Looks like the axe has finally dropped,’ he said. ‘Sir Robin. Wants me to meet him at Cornwell’s right away.’ He shrugged. ‘Whatever, the sooner it’s started the sooner it’s finished. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.’
He walked out of the office.
April looked to Tamar who shook her head gently. ‘He will get better,’ she said.
‘Good for him,’ April replied. ‘I wonder if I will?’
‘Thanks for coming Greene,’ said Sir Robin, half rising from his armchair. This was almost a sign of politeness from the indolent bastard but Toby didn’t let it dent his hatred for him.
‘I didn’t imagine I had much choice,’ he replied, sitting down in the chair opposite.
A man in evening dress hovered by him.
‘Drink?’ asked Sir Robin, indicating the well-dressed man. ‘Algernon would quite like to know.’
‘Algernon can bring me a single malt,’ said Toby. ‘A really large, really nice one.’ He stared at Sir Robin. ‘I may as well make one last dent in the budget after all.’
Sir Robin ignored the comment. ‘My condolences on the death of August,’ he said, with a half-measure of sincerity. ‘We were all very shocked to hear.’
‘I assume that’s why nobody attended the funeral? Hung over from the party perhaps?’
‘Now, Greene, there’s no need to be like that. I know I haven’t always been the staunchest defender of Section 37 but I still respected Shining’s talents. I told Bertie as much when he mentioned his silly investigation.’
‘Silly investigation.’ The words came out of Toby with difficulty. He was getting angrier by the moment and he needed to try and swallow some of it. For all he may have no future in his current line of work, a prosecution for attacking a peer of the realm would do him no favours, however enjoyable it might feel at the time.
‘Very silly,’ Sir Robin continued. ‘I can only assume work was getting to him. You heard of course? He committed suicide on the same night that Shining was killed.’
‘I heard.’ Though Toby thought it unlikely it had been a simple case of suicide.
‘And then there’s poor Clive, of course,’ said Sir Robin. ‘Shot in the middle of Finsbury Park. We still can’t get to the bottom of that. It makes no sense at all…’
‘If only you had a department that specialised in unusual cases,’ Toby replied, taking the scotch from the silver tray Algernon was poking under his nose.
‘Oh, I don’t think it’s necessarily in your line,’ said Sir Robin. ‘I dare say there’s a rational explanation. We’ll dig it out in the end. We usual
ly do.’
‘Besides,’ said Toby, ‘my line is about to draw to a close, isn’t it?’
He took a mouthful of the scotch. Algernon had done well – it was very large and very nice indeed.
‘I don’t quite follow you.’
‘Oh, come on, Sir Robin, let’s not beat around the bush. I’m really not in the mood. When does my new job title get flung at me?’
‘Well, as you bring the subject up, obviously we did think this was an ideal time for a restructure.’
‘A restructure. That’s what we’re calling it, is it?’
‘A rethink, perhaps. Sounds more cerebral. The PM does like it when things sound cerebral. God knows why, maybe it’s brain envy.’
‘When?’ Toby asked again.
‘The paperwork’s being dealt with as I speak.’
‘Fine, then you can add to it. I resign.’
For the first time in their conversation, Sir Robin actually appeared ruffled. ‘Resign? What do you think this is, McDonalds? You can’t just resign.’
Toby laughed. ‘You know, it’s funny. When I was first sent to Section 37, my old section chief suggested I should work there. Maybe it’s time I gave in to the inevitable.’
‘But if you leave, who the hell am I going to find to run the section?’
Toby stopped smiling. ‘What?’
‘Section 37. There’s no other bugger I can give it to, after all, is there? Nobody would want it.’
Toby stared at him. ‘You’re not closing it down?’
‘Ah… I see we’ve been talking from a position of some confusion. No, I have no intention of closing it down.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘You think I should? I must confess I’m surprised to hear you say that.’
‘Of course I don’t think you should, I just assumed…’
‘Well, yes, I have been somewhat antagonistic towards it at times, I admit. I can see why you might think I would take this opportunity to… well, yes. But, after the Lufford Hall business, you built quite the following, you know. Mostly thanks to dear old Clive, of course. He was very pleased with you.’
‘We did save his life.’
‘I’m sure he was grateful, for as long as said life lasted. Oh dear.’ Sir Robin made a show of embarrassment. ‘How insensitive of me. Anyway, the point is, it has been decided that perhaps your section does serve a valuable purpose within the Intelligence community. In these times of economic awareness and the vital need to ensure that all departments are achieving a solid balance between expenditure and…’
‘We’re cheap.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘And so we look good on paper.’
‘You do.’
Toby laughed and took another mouthful of his drink. ‘Unbelievable. Section 37 lives on because at least its books balance.’
‘Well, actually you turned a vague profit. Something to do with a novel about lesbian vampires, I believe. Though why people want to read about those, I have no idea. It all sounds terribly oral.’
‘Lesbian vampires?’ Toby had to think for a moment. ‘You’re talking about Dark Spectre? But that’s just a cover.’
‘And people have been judging you by it!’ laughed Sir Robin, proud of his little joke. ‘One of the titles it published has been optioned by some ghastly American in Los Angeles. No doubt he means to turn into something starring Joanna Scarlet or whatever she’s called. The one with all the lips.’
‘You can’t just keep us going because we’ve got a movie deal!’
‘Naturally not. We also deeply respect the work you do. Deeply. But it was pointed out in very vociferous tones that it would be counter-productive, what with all the necessary cuts in public spending, to ditch a section that actually brought in money.’
Toby finished his drink and waved at Algernon. ‘I’ll have another one,’ he shouted, causing several members of the club to turn around and stare at him in geriatric disgust. Or perhaps it was wind.
‘Steady on,’ said Sir Robin. ‘Bit early for a party.’
‘You can afford it. So you’re keeping it on and you want me to run it.’
‘Nutshell.’
‘I withdraw my resignation.’
‘Quite right too. Pleased to hear it. Naturally it comes with a promotion.’
‘And increase in salary.’
‘You’re all about the money, aren’t you, Greene? I had no idea you were so venal.’
‘I have an expensive honeymoon to pay for.’
‘Ah yes, the good lady. We’re having her vetted, you know.’
‘Good luck with that.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine, they pass anybody these days as long as they don’t throw things at royalty. Naturally it would be lovely if we could take this opportunity to, how shall I put it, get things on a more even keel.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Well, as you rightly point out, my relationship with Mr Shining — God rest, etcetera, etcetera — was, at times somewhat strained. Perhaps, with some young blood in the driving seat, we might welcome in a new era of inter-departmental harmony.’
Algernon appeared with Toby’s drink. He hadn’t bothered with the tray this time. Toby wondered whether he’d simply tip the bottle in his lap if he shouted a second time.
‘You’re hoping,’ he said, knocking the drink back, ‘that I’ll be much easier to handle than August was.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite so aggressively. But yes.’
‘Not much chance of that.’
Toby put the glass down on the table and got up. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, Section 37 has a few loose ends to tie up.’
‘Would one of them be Bill Fratfield?’ Sir Robin asked as Toby made to leave.
Toby halted and turned to look at him. ‘It would.’
‘Well now, I heard something quite fascinating concerning our poisonous Mr Fratfield just before I came to meet you.’ Sir Robin smiled. Toby thought he looked like a python who had just been offered a wriggling hamster. ‘It’s quite the most bizarre thing…’
Bill Fratfield — though, like any he used, that was not his real name — stood next to the ancient watchtower and gazed across the Spanish cove below. From up here, he looked down on the entire resort. In the distance there was the town, its winding streets leading back from the beach and its cafes. The church steeple jutted up, its ancient bell ready to toll at the slightest provocation. Beyond that, the vineyards and their row after row of stunted vines.
Directly beneath him, the old port, its exclusive, slender beach and the over-priced restaurant that served those who tanned themselves on it. He had eaten a large bowl of mussels there not half an hour ago. That and the copious quantities of bread and wine it had come with being precisely what he had hoped this march up the cliff would work off.
Out to sea he saw a couple of large liners making their way towards the port of Denia, a few miles north. People about their normal business. None of that for him. For now he was having a holiday.
‘Señor?’ a strained voice shouted. ‘Pleases señor?’
He looked back towards the cliff path to see the young waiter from the restaurant running towards him. He was waving something in his left hand.
‘What is it?’ Fratfield asked, immediately on edge. He disliked being the focus of anyone’s attention. The waiter came up to him, wheezing with breathlessness.
‘This is yours, señor,’ he said after a moment, proffering the thing he’d been carrying. It was a manila envelope.
Fratfield tapped the breast of his jacket and found it was empty. That envelope contained his passport — fake naturally, but important while in use — and a rather large quantity of cash. It had been in his jacket throughout lunch. How could he have dropped it and not noticed?
He snatched it from the waiter, still unable to get his head around how he could have misplaced it. Realising from the look on the waiter’s face that this abruptness was not quite the reward he had hoped for,
he smiled with as much sincerity as he could. ‘Sorry, don’t mean to be rude. Thanks a lot.’ He took a ten euro note out of his pocket and gave it to the man. That improved the look on his face.
‘It is no problem, señor,’ the waiter said, heading back down the path. ‘The other English gentleman gave it to me. He said you’d be pleased to have it back.’
Fratfield watched him go, a chill feeling of suspicion creeping over him.
English gentleman?
He opened the envelope. His passport was there but no money, just a sheet of note paper wrapped around a folded paper napkin.
He opened the note:
Mr Fratfield,
You’ll forgive me not coming over and chatting in person, I’m sure. I don’t think my company would have helped your digestion.
You’ll also forgive me taking your money. After all, it was originally mine. Not that I question the job you did to earn it. You followed my instructions to the letter. Still, I need it more than you, given your current circumstances. I’m afraid I’ve also refunded the transfer for the balance. In fact, your bank account is now rather empty. Awful of me, I know, but you pick up the odd trick in my line of work. Old line of work, that is, I’m pleased to say I’ve retired, in no small part thanks to your kind, financial contribution.
As it would have been terribly rude of me to leave you with nothing, I do enclose a small gift. Something I believe was once yours which it is my pleasure to return. Its previous owners are better off without it. I did try and give it to you earlier but I’m afraid you’re a hard man to pin down.
Yours,
A.S.
‘A.S.?’ Fratfield muttered, running to the edge of the cliff and looking down at the restaurant below. Standing between the tables looking up at him was a well-dressed man in sunglasses and a Panama hat. As Fratfield watched, he raised the hat at him in greeting.
It couldn’t be! It was impossible!
Around him, a wind was beginning to build, whipping at the long, Spanish grass and whistling through the holes in the ancient brick of the watchtower.
Fratfield searched through the envelope. His passport fell to the ground, landing open. He saw his own photo, and next to it, like a bookmark, a small piece of paper with ancient markings scrawled on it. As the wind caught it, it fluttered into the air, sailing up beyond the edge of the cliff.