Evil in the Land Without

by Colin Cotterill

  "What do you mean?"

  "What's the last thing you can remember?"

  John was impressed. "Don't tell me the Secret Service can erase memory."

  "You'd be surprised how easy it is with short-term memory. The skill is in judging the amount you're supposed to forget. It's a relatively new drug, and we aren't too sure what the long-term effects will be."

  "Nice."

  "Eventually I believe it will be possible to remove certain days or events. Sorry you had to lose a whole week."

  "You couldn't wipe out the past five years could you?"

  "Yes, quite. We've been following you pretty closely since you wrote. It must be a tricky period for you."

  Tricky wasn't the word John would have used to describe it. "He's killing me bit by bit."

  "And he is?"

  "I thought you've been following this. The Paw. He's got the better of me."

  "Ah. The Paw. But you see, The Paw isn't a he."

  "Eh?"

  "It's a place."

  "A place. . . ? Where?"

  "It's in the northeast of Burma, or Myanmar as the junta would have us call it."

  John was speechless. The man reached down beside his chair and picked up a large, folded map. To John's surprise, he then got on his knees and started to unfold it on the rug between them. "It's here exactly. Thirty miles from Pa-an, just about there."

  John joined him on the floor.

  "This is a terrible transliteration. Very confusing. You pronounce it 'Tay'—rhymes with May—Pao. Karen language. It's not too far from the border of Thailand, see?"

  To John, these were just marks on a map of an area he knew nothing about.

  "It's also highly significant as far as you're concerned, as it's the last place we heard of your father being alive."

  "My father?"

  That was an unexpected connection. The man who had been tormenting his life and was now nameless, and his unknown father. They had suddenly united in a bizarre turn of events. This was already more than enough to take in, but the man hadn't finished.

  "We were shocked when we found the reference to The Paw in your files. You understand of course, we had to run a check on you after your silly stunt the other day. You seem to have done very well in Kenya."

  John didn't feel a need to say thank you.

  "You've also done a very fine job of hiding your sister and her child. I trust they're safe."

  That was a feather in Maud's cap: outsmarting the spooks.

  "They're safe. What happened to my father?"

  "He died. As to the events leading up to his death, we have no idea."

  "What did he die of?"

  "Cyanide."

  "He was poisoned?"

  "We assume he administered it himself."

  "What?"

  "It was standard issue at the time. Particularly for agents in hostile territory. If our people can't see any other way out of a mess, they can end it."

  "What was he working on?"

  "Can't really give you any details I'm afraid. Except to say that he was on the side of the minority groups who were then, and are still, fighting the Burmese military government. The world doesn't appear to have come alive to the atrocities the Burmese have been committing for the past thirty years. We tend to notice only the atrocities that suit us."

  John looked down at the map as if he were mentally flying over the countryside. "So. This was a covert operation in a hostile country. I assume Her Majesty would have denied all knowledge of him if he'd been caught."

  "Absolutely." He left the map where it was and climbed back into the leather chair. "All of our people know the risks."

  "Did you know him?"

  "Not well. I worked with him on a couple of missions. We were on pretty much the same rung of the ladder."

  John looked into the grey eyes. "Did you like him?"

  The man looked for his dancing fingers but couldn't find them. At last he said, "I won't pretend he was a loveable character. He was immensely efficient and dedicated, but he didn't let himself really like anyone. You couldn't get close to him. That said, there wasn't a man or woman in the service who didn't trust him with their lives completely. He was the ultimate professional, married to the job."

  "So why did the Service leave his body to rot in Burma?"

  "Pardon?"

  "You knew he'd died of cyanide poisoning, so there had to have been an autopsy. To do an autopsy properly, you need a body. Mother was told he was missing in action somewhere in Asia. If you had a body, why the hell didn't you fly it home and allow the poor bugger his plot in Berkshire?"

  The man looked embarrassed by the question. He nodded his head to show that he understood it, then shook it in such a way as to show that it was impossible. "The widow . . . your mother, would have had the legal right to view the body. We couldn't take that chance."

  "Why? What was wrong with it?"

  "Let's just say that it wasn't in a state an insurance man would expect to be found in." There was a pause that John brought to an end with his stare. "It was quite horribly mutilated."

  Every new fact blew holes in John's perceptions of his father. "Are you quite sure it happened—"

  "After the suicide. . . ? Yes. No question about it. Whoever left the body in that condition, did so long after the poison had taken effect. Cyanide is quite instantaneous. So, in fact, it was an act of gratuitous vandalism. Which may bring us back around to your Paw. . . Te Pao chap."

  "You think he's getting back at me for something my dad did?" It was a bizarre idea, but at last it was an answer of sorts where before there had been none.

  "It's quite possible. The person haunting you right now is obsessive. He's quite mad, but frighteningly clever. That's a combination we could do without."

  John levered himself to his feet, walked around to the back of the seat, and leaned on it. "And you really have no idea who he is."

  "None whatsoever."

  "So. What do we do now?"

  "We?"

  "I assume you've been sharing this all with me so I can help you with the case."

  The man chuckled slightly but checked himself. "So you can help. . . ? Mr. Jessel, there is no case. The Service's connection to this matter ended with the demise of your father in Thailand. When this meeting finishes, there will be no further dialogue."

  "Oh no. You lot aren't getting out of it as easily as that. You're the cause of all this."

  "Technically not, young fellow. Whatever happened to Jim Jessel had nothing to do with the Service. We could find no connection between his work and his death."

  "You mean he just stumbled into a life-threatening situation on his day off?"

  "Pretty much, yes."

  John looked deep into the grey eyes and saw no hope of co-operation.

  "I suppose you've considered that I could go to the newspapers with this and blow the story wide open?"

  "Yes."

  "What's to stop me?"

  "Firstly, the press aren't going to be terribly interested in a twenty-year-old spy story that can't be verified. Espionage takes a distant back seat to boy bands in today's media. And, secondly. . . ." The man reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a folded document, which he held out to John. . . .

  "This."

  John walked over to the man's chair and took the paper from him. He unfolded it, read the title, and laughed. "You aren't serious. The Official bloody Secrets Act? You've already told me all the secrets. You're supposed to make me sign it first. Why on earth would I do so now?"

  The man seemed to be searching desperately for a non-cliched response. "Because it's the least barbaric way of guaranteeing your co-operation." He was obviously sorry to have had to say it, but there were no indications that it was merely a threat.

  John had already experienced Service 'hospitality.'

  He dropped back into his armchair, put his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes.

  The man waited patiently.

 
; When John's eyes opened at last, he had made a decision. "What's your name. . . ? 'M' or 'Q' or ‘C’ or something like that?"

  "Commander Doyle."

  "That's original. Well, here's the deal—"

  "The deal? I don't—"

  "I realize you may think I have nothing to deal with. But I know from experience what it takes to get blood out of a carpet, especially a beautiful Persian like this one. So I'm sure you'd prefer to end it all with a pen rather than a bullet. I know you'd rather we were civilized about it all. I'll sign your document and make it all neat, if you give me a contact from my old man's last mission."

  "It's all still classified."

  "I'm about to sign the Official Secrets Act, aren't I? Surely we can add a couple of other little secrets to the deal. Make it worth my while."

  "How far do you intend to take this investigation, Mr. Jessel?"

  "You seem to forget, Commander Doyle. This isn't an investigation. This is a fight for survival. It's life and death. My family can't live a normal life until I remove The Paw . . . Te Pao from it."

  "And what resources do you have at your disposal?"

  John laughed and fell back into the leather. "Resources? That's a good one. Well, let's see. I don't have the Surrey police force because Burma’s slightly beyond their jurisdiction. I don't have the Secret Service because the case has passed its use-by date. I suppose all I have is two months' accrued leave and chronic cravings for alcohol. Do you think that’ll be enough?"

  The man indicated to the paper. "Sign it."

  He did, and handed it back. "There. Now what's your name?"

  The commander smiled. "Woods."

  "How do you do, Commander Woods? I bet the men call you 'Woody,' right?"

  *

  On the pavement outside, John looked back up at the brick terrace. He considered it something of an achievement to have made it out the door alive and with a memory. He gazed up at the third floor and wondered how there managed to be windows outside but none inside. But then a lot of wondrous things had taken place inside the IIC. His world had expanded there. His father had been re-born there. And a reason for his affair with the devil had been established there. It was a truly magical place. But nobody passing there in the damp street knew how special it was.

  And he couldn’t tell anyone.

  When John arrived back at his flat, still dizzy from Kensington and the day's exertions, his phone was ringing. He didn't hurry to open the front door or get inside to answer it because he was sure it would stop just as he picked it up. But it didn't.

  "Mr. Jessel?"

  "Yup."

  "Mr. John Jessel?"

  "Right. I know. I get one more question correct and I win a year's supply of Viagra."

  "Mr. Jessel. I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. My name is WPC Helen Thompstone and I'm calling from WC1 Police Station. I'm terribly sorry, but I have to tell you that your mother passed away this afternoon."

  20

  If the truth were to be told, the old lady hadn't passed at all. She'd been sent: dispatched without mercy or respect. She'd had her throat cut. She had opened the door to her apartment to a stranger, but the reason for that had accompanied her to the morgue. The assailant had swiped a naked blade across her throat with such accuracy that her vocal cords had been severed but the bone was untouched.

  John considered the situation. It would have taken her some time to die, and she had carefully chosen to bleed to death on the hall rug. Despite the apparent concern for the furnishings, she had been unable to prevent the blood from spilling over onto the parquet. That would now have to be replaced, and it was so expensive to get an exact match for the original.

  He felt no guilt at parodying Coletta. These were the irreverent thoughts that passed through his mind as he stood outside the front door, cordoned out of things by the police tape.

  He had been interviewed but wasn’t yet allowed inside. That was still a place for only the actors of the forensic theatre in their baggy pajamas and smog masks. He watched their anal pottering through his mother's things.

  With this second murder, The Paw—or Te Pao—phenomenon would now become a serious investigation. An inquiry team would be set up, on to which—given his involvement—they would draft John. The irony was that the most pertinent piece of evidence, his father's role, he was not at liberty to disclose to the investigators.

  He wasn’t a murder detective, but in the past four months John had been involved in ten murder cases. Two of those involved people he had known; one that he liked. It was a fact: he had no love for his mother, and she had refused protection outright, so he’d resigned himself to the fact that she was a very likely candidate for what she got. Stubborn old witch.

  But seen from the doorway, the apartment seemed to be missing its mistress. The place had housed her since the marriage to his father. She’d rather grown into it, like a tree root that grows into the wall of a cottage. He knew he should have felt more deeply about her death, but the recent events had exhausted his already limited supply of emotions. All he could muster was guilt, but even that, he could now shift on to his father's shoulders. He could see himself now as a victim of something that happened when he was too young to do anything about it.

  One of the detectives came over to him and handed him his mobile phone. "Jessel, it's for you."

  "For me? Who’d. . .?" He took hold of the plastic handset. It was an annoyingly small thing that didn't reach from his ear to his mouth. He held it gingerly. "Jessel." He was shocked by the strength of the signal that came back at him.

  "Inspector Jessel? Hold on please. I have a call for you."

  John walked away into the carpeted hallway and stood by the large window. Commander Wood's voice surprised him.

  "John. I really am very sorry." He spoke softly.

  "Thank you. It's nice to know you're still keeping an eye out for me. Is this a reminder of that bit of paper in your office?"

  "Partly, yes."

  "You'll have to start trusting me eventually."

  "I will, John, but traumatic events often cause us to do irrational things."

  John felt even more guilty that he wasn't traumatized.

  "I was hoping you could come and see me when you're feeling better."

  "Feeling better. Right. I could come tomorrow."

  "So soon? Are you sure you'll be up to it?"

  "Yes. It will help me, er . . . forget. You know?"

  "I understand completely. I'll see you tomorrow then. About eleven?"

  "Fine. Oh wait. You don't suppose I could get my mother's suitcase back then, do you?"

  "Her suitcase?"

  "Yes. Your boys lifted it from my place while I was in the hospital."

  "No. I don't believe they did."

  "What?"

  "We didn't actually remove anything. There was no suitcase."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I was there."

  "Shit."

  The phone buzzed and fell silent, and he felt ridiculous holding it. The ominous presence of Te Pao returned to occupy his mind. If the Secret Service hadn't removed the case, he was sure it had to be him. He had been in John's place while he was away. It seemed he could come and go as he pleased. John found him easier to hate now. Te Pao was no longer an enigma to be feared. He was a man, probably Burmese, and he was driven by revenge. Such motivation often led to mistakes.

  He delayed going straight back to his place, but he knew eventually he’d have to. It was 1:00 a.m. when he silently turned the key in his lock. He checked the two rooms and the closet, then night-bolted the door. For safe measure he wedged a chair under the handle, even though he knew it would have no effect on a determined housebreaker. He stood for several minutes with his arms around the bottles on the fridge. It was a scrum with old friends, but they didn't want to be hugged. They wanted to be drunk, and he wanted to oblige.

  "One more night," he said. "One more night."

  He lay on the bed fully dressed in
the darkness. It wasn't particularly cold, so when he started to tremble he knew it was from something inside him. A vague image forced its way into his mind. It was dull and fuzzy, like a photo taken with an old box camera. It was the image of two small children playing in the sand on Brighton Beach. In the background, a slim ballerina swathed in pinks and purples hid under an enormous umbrella. She wore sunglasses that made her look glamorous, and high-heeled shoes that she’d refused to remove before her walk across the sand to the deckchairs.

  "Smile, and don't fidget. These photograph people charge the earth as it is."

  It was the only holiday they had taken together. The old lady had complained bitterly the whole time about the weather and the prices and the musty bed-and-breakfast place they stayed at. She had smacked the children more often than usual in her frustration. But to John and Susan it had been a marvelous excursion that even the bruises couldn't spoil.

  As he thought about it, the shivering turned to spasms and he wept himself to sleep for the dead woman who had spared the time to give him birth, but not a life.

  21

  It took John two hours to get to Kensington. It normally took one, but he had to assume he was being followed. His route was convoluted and he was especially vigilant. His physical condition made every move, every thought hurt. The troupe had finished their search for clues at his mother's, so he stopped off there first to look around. He had a spare key.

  Forensics had got a lot neater since he first started in the force. Apart from the massive stain on the floor, they'd left the place looking very tidy. Perhaps the old lady's ghost had been bullying them. He walked around shaking his head at the apartment's fussiness. She'd always insisted on them calling it an apartment, never a flat. He looked into the room that had once been a nursery, then a den, then a vacation room for when the youngsters came home from boarding school.

  It was now a sewing and withdrawing room, the way she'd always wanted it. It had become overgrown by her knick-knackery, like some small hut repossessed by the jungle. There was no evidence in there of himself or Susan.