by Phil Rowan
‘You’ve completely bowled me over,’ I tell Ingrid when we’ve sipped at some cocoa in Islington and finally made it to my bedroom at the top of the house.’
‘So you will come to Newcastle to see my exhibition?’
Of course. I’ve already Googled the gallery, but Ingrid wants to probe a little.
We’re down to our most basic underwear and I’m overly excited by the incredible proximity of a Norwegian goddess.
‘Your great grandmother, Róisín,’ she says as our chests come together. ‘What drove her to become a Fenian rebel?’
It’s difficult to concentrate. Ingrid’s aura is overwhelming as she caresses my back and buttocks. We need to embrace and go through a physical and emotional tsunami.
‘But first I want to know about Róisín, Rudy.’
Titanium controls. That’s what I need as I try to shift my brain back a hundred years while ignoring the incredible carnality of Ingrid’s almost naked presence.
‘She loved this Protestant,’ I stammer. ‘And I imagine that it was an intensely physical and mutually agreeable relationship.’
I can see it happening as I speak. Róisín and Piers embracing by the lake at Ballyalla. They’re in love and they don’t care about what other people think. Protestant Piers’ land-owning father, Sir Robert, has other ideas however. He’ll not have his son and heir canoodling with a Catholic.
The boy is packed off to oversee sheep-farming interests in Australia and Róisín is distraught. She falls into the welcoming arms of Fenian nationalists, and while she’s preparing for a rising against His Majesty, a vibrant rebel leader appears. He’s handsome and courageous. They fall in love, but her man is then ambushed and shot. Róisín’s ailing husband, Pat, has died and now her emotional star has disappeared. What is she to do? Well, the civil war is over in Ireland. The rebels have to rebuild their country. They’ll need strong men and women like Róisín … only that’s another story.
‘The thing is though,’ I say to Ingrid. ‘I see Róisín’s daughter, Joanie, as a follow-up heroine. ‘She’s with SOE in France during World War 2. She’s got all of her mother’s passion. She saves lives and thwarts the Germans. It could go either way. But she survives the war and is decorated by the King in London on VE day.’
‘Oh my god!’ Ingrid’s pulling me in close and I’m thinking passionate mermaids with a cheeky fin locked around my throbbing calves.’
‘I love these stories, Rudi … is there another?’
Maybe – possibly; if I can get my head into it. I can’t concentrate though. I’m totally overwhelmed. Ingrid’s taking me to another planet. The journey’s exciting beyond my wildest dreams, and when we finally arrive, I’m waiting for the good lord and mother Mary to step down from a celestial cloud.
* * * * *
I’m thinking log cabins and loveable Nordic children when the dawn comes up, followed by a hint of sunshine. It’s perfect, but my mobile’s ringing on the bedroom floor.
‘Rudi?’
Holy Jesus – it’s Carla Hirsch!
‘What do you want?’
‘We’re outside your house, and we want you to join us.’
But it’s six in the morning. The birds have only just woken up.
‘Now – please … immediately!’
Did something go wrong with Fiona Adler? Am I about to get an indignant earful from a spurned and disappointed lover? I write a note for Ingrid and leave it on the pillow beside her fragrant blonde hair. ‘I’ve been called away, honey …but see you soonest.’
Earl’s people carrier with the smoked glass windows is parked under a drooping robinia tree just outside my front door. Robson’s beside him in the front and Carla Hirsch is on her mobile in the back.
‘We’re going to see Jeremy Wagstaff,’ she tells me as Earl leaves Crowndale Square. She’s wearing an expensive looking scarf around her slender neck, and as she turns, I think I’m catching what looks like a small bruise: The remains perhaps of a passionate bite. We’re heading into unfamiliar territory. There are Turkish stores on the Green Lanes, and it’s a little edgy until we cut off towards Muswell Hill and Alexandra Palace. Someone I know lives here and he says he’s got psychiatric analysts on either side of his Edwardian home.
Carla’s preoccupied with text messages and voice mails while Earl and Robson concentrate on the built in sat nav screen. We’re entering a quiet tree-lined street when I’m aware of anonymous vans parked at intervals outside the houses.
‘Surprise is crucial here,’ Earl explains. ‘We’ve had surveillance vehicles in place during the night and it seems that Wagstaff’s wife, Annalise, has just left the house.’
‘She was wearing slippers and a cardigan,’ one of the observers reports. ‘So she could just have popped out to get something.’
‘Very good,’ Carla says, snapping the lid shut on her mobile. ‘We’ll go straight in and see what happens.’
So – what about me? I ask. Shall I wait here? That would be my preference. I could maybe listen to the radio or experiment with the sat nav. Carla’s not amused by my flippancy, however.
‘Listen,’ she says, homing in for a moment like I’m a pathetically inadequate encumbrance. ‘We need to go in hard with this asshole – and we don’t leave until we have a result. So try to keep your wits about you, Rudi. Maybe think of it as the assignment that makes or breaks your career. Only the stakes are higher … because if we don’t get lucky with this guy, a lot of people could die.’
I’m suitably chastened. We’ve got a D-Day situation and Commander Hirsch is in the lead landing-craft. A few curtains twitch as we disembark and Earl presses a bell on the door of a fading villa that was built – according to a plaque on the gatepost – in 1911. There’s no one else out on the street, but Robson’s fondling the holster under his left arm when we hear footsteps in the hallway.
‘Jeremy Wagstaff?’ Earl asks formally when the glass-panelled front door opens.
‘Yes – ’
‘We’re police officers, and we have a warrant to search your house, sir.’
‘But you’re a …’ He stumbles, pointing at me as Earl waves his ID card and a warrant. Three more plain clothes officers have now slipped out of a surveillance vehicle and Wagstaff, who’s only wearing a dressing gown, is being backed down the hallway.
‘We’ll start in the attic,’ Earl tells the anonymous officers while Carla Hirsch disconnects a house phone and beckons Wagstaff into a large living area that leads through an open plan kitchen to a sad, rather abandoned garden.
The place has potential, I’m thinking. But I don’t see too many signs of a happy family live as Wagstaff protests.
‘You can’t just come barging in here for no apparent reason … England’s not a police state yet you know. And just what precisely might I ask are you hoping to find in our house? We don’t smoke or drink or take drugs.’
‘Sit down and shut up!’ Carla commands, pushing him towards a sofa.
There’s a shocked look in Wagstaff’s righteous eyes. He’s never been spoken to like this before. It’s outrageous, and he’s gearing up for a second objection when there’s a commotion in the hallway.
‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ Annalise Wagstaff cries. ‘You’re welcome to the television, but I can assure you we don’t have anything else of any value!’
She calms down when she sees the police ID cards and two Anti-Terrorist officers escort her into the sitting room. She’s a dowdy, listless woman with spectacles and she clearly stopped thinking seriously about her appearance a while back.
‘Come in, honey,’ Carla says cheerily.
‘This is preposterous … we’re not criminals!’ Annalise shouts when she’s taken in her husband’s dressing gown on the sofa.
‘No, of course not,’ Carla concedes. ‘But I think your guy’s been playing away from home, babe.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well – this is kind of personal, ma’am … but can you honestly
say that Jeremy here has really satisfied you in every way … and I mean emotionally as well as physically?’
This seems to be a subject that Annalise Wagstaff could talk about with the right person for some time. As it is though, she’s feeling both hard done by and furious.
‘Who are you?’ she screams, advancing on Carla. ‘You’re not British … you’re an intruder in my home … and I know someone who works for a national newspaper.’
My controller is quite enjoying being upbraided in this way, but as Wagstaff attempts to get up from the sofa she pushes him back down into the cushions. His wife then intervenes with flaying fists. It’s a brave gesture, but as she advances, Carla slaps her hard across the face, twice.
‘Sit down – and shut the fuck up, lady!’
‘But – ’
‘Believe me. By the time we’re finished with you this morning, you’re not going to want to talk to anyone … and you know why?’
Annalise shakes her bedraggled hair and bites her lower lip. She has definitely misjudged Miss Hirsch’s capacity for assertiveness. Her hands are shaking and she’s glancing anxiously at her husband’s ankles when Earl appears with two Anti-Terrorist officers.
‘Jeez – there’s so much fucking junk in that attic,’ he says to Carla, ‘but I think we’ve found something interesting.’
His colleagues are carrying large boxes. One has a label that says, Sociology – pre- Thatcher while the other has a Recent Russian Politics sticker. Each box is filled with postcard-sized photographs, most of which have been stuffed into unlabelled envelopes. Wagstaff has suddenly become very pale and his dressing gown has slipped to reveal an unflattering view of definitely untoned thighs. His wife, Annalise, is staring fixedly at an ugly pattern on her stained slippers. Carla Hirsch smiles at both of them as she spreads photographs from the Sociology – pre-Thatcher box across a glass-topped IKEA coffee table.
‘Well … hot dickety, Jeremy!’ she exclaims. ‘And I think we could be speaking almost literally here, because you do seem to be unusually well endowed. Although, to be honest, if I had just met you socially for the first time, I’d probably have put you in the not too interesting – possibly under five inches category.’
Wagstaff is embarrassed and concerned. The situation is serious, and as his wife looks at him with a puzzled expression, he’s doing his best to avoid eye contact with her.
‘What are you talking about?’ she asks apprehensively. ‘And what are these photographs?’
‘I hate to break it to you this way,’ Carla says when she’s fanned out a few graphic images on the coffee table. ‘But your husband’s been a very naughty boy. In fact, I think he’s been a real prick, Annalise, because he doesn’t seem to have included you in any of the fun he’s been having.’
The guy in the dock is cornered, irrational and foolhardy when he gets up and charges towards me. ‘You fucking cunt!’ he yells.
I’m retreating, but I get kicked hard between my legs before Wagstaff is manhandled back into the sofa by Earl’s Anti-Terrorist officers. His wife, Annalise, is meanwhile gazing in horror at the photographs of her husband’s organ being sucked, licked and accommodated anally by three different Thai boys, who in turn are satisfied by Jeremy.
‘You absolute fucking shit!’ she exclaims, kicking her husband mercilessly on his unprotected shins. ‘And presumably this all happened while you were representing the University?’
For it seems that the King’s Cross Academy had a reciprocal arrangement with a Bangkok polytechnic, which meant that Jeremy Wagstaff got to visit Thailand a couple of times a year to facilitate the transfer of UK degree schemes in sociology and political studies.
My testicles are numb, but Wagstaff has been fired up by the assault.
‘All right …big deal!’ he shouts. ‘So what the fuck do you want?’
‘I think we’ve got quite a little treasure trove here, Jeremy,’ Carla says. ‘And that’s without even opening the second box or going through the rest of your house, which of course we will.’
‘What do you mean?’ Wagstaff asks nonchalantly. ‘They’re just photographs. It was all a bit of fun … it’s not a big deal.’
‘Oh, but it is, honey,’ Carla says. ‘First off – you could … no – would lose your job if your Principal saw what you’ve been up to. They couldn’t afford to keep you on, sugar … and I don’t think anyone else would want to employ you, which could be tricky. Because my understanding is that you have a large mortgage on this house … and I don’t think your wife works, do you babe?’
Their marriage may be on the rocks. But whether they stay together or split up, their income requirements are important.
‘All right …what do you want?’ Wagstaff asks. His tone is petulant, but Carla’s cool.
‘There is an al-Qaeda cell operating here in London,’ she says matter-of-factly, almost like it’s no big deal. ‘We think they’re going to do something really silly, which could have a nuclear dimension … and we’d like you to help us stop them, Jeremy.’
Suddenly, it’s gone from sex with minors to conspiracy, treason and radiation. It’s big time stuff, and it could be jail for life.
‘I don’t know anything about these people,’ Wagstaff protests and there’s a red flush creeping up from his neck to his face.
‘But you are friendly with some fundamentalists,’ Carla says.
OK – he might put his hand up to this. He is after all a liberal, lefty academic in a multicultural institution. Talking to people with pro-Muslim views is part of his job.
‘It is a free country you know,’ he answers snootily. ‘People are permitted to have views and opinions … we’re not all die-hard neo-con supporters.’
I’m impressed by the way he’s standing up to my Controller even though my fragile nuts are still numb from the bastard’s kick. I think their marriage has had it. I can’t see Annalise ever forgiving her hubby for the way he romped around with the Thai boys. Only the plates are moving. Miss Hirsch has had enough fooling around. Her expression has hardened, and she wants results. I can sense it in the way her eyes and mouth are moving. It’s Guantanamo time for the Wagstaffs. Earl’s standing well back towards the door. He and his wife have just put down a sizeable deposit on a holiday home in Jamaica. He doesn’t want to jeopardise anything, but his mouth opens when Carla takes a Glock pistol and a small camera from her calf skin designer bag.
‘Fill that basin,’ she tells one of the Anti-Terrorist officers. He hesitates for a moment, but then goes to turn on a tap in the kitchen sink.
‘Now, Annalise – come here!’ she commands.
‘No … what do you want?’
‘Move your fucking ass, bitch!’
The cops are all up against the back wall and I’m feeling uneasy when my controller slips the safety catch on the Glock.
‘Take off your shirt,’ she says to Annalise.
‘No – I won’t!’
A single shot from the Glock goes through a Cuban lampshade in the ceiling. And as Annalise screams, Agent Hirsch rips her blouse apart. I can’t collude with any more of this. Wagstaff’s just soiled his pants, but it’s the sink full of water I’m worried about. It looks like water-boarding with extraordinary rendition in Muswell Hill. I’m moving forward when my controller glowers and fires her Glock again. A shot goes over my head; another shatters the remains of the Cuban lampshade and she’s pointing the pistol at Wagstaff’s slavering wife when the polyversity tutor vomits onto their Persian carpet.
‘No – please!’ he cries. ‘I’ll do whatever I can to help you …but no more of this … it’s not necessary!’
‘OK – ’ my controller says as her suspects kneel and shake amidst the debris in their sitting room. ‘But if you fuck with me any more, I’ll take some photographs of you, Annalise, pleasuring your asshole husband. We’ll then enhance the shots and incorporate them with that stuff on the table.’
I can see the results selling around the world. Any tabloid editor wi
th a flair for leverage would find Wagstaff’s errant youths in Thailand. They would of course be suitably pampered and rewarded. After which, they would deliver graphic accounts of how they had been maltreated and abused by the visiting tutor from the King’s Cross Academy.
None of that will now be necessary, however. Agent Hirsch has made her point. A woman police constable has been called in to take care of Annalise while an Anti-Terrorist officer escorts Wagstaff to the bathroom. We’re having a break before the interrogation begins and Earl has volunteered to make tea.
Chapter 15
I’m still concerned about the sink full of water in the kitchen. It’s quite big and I can see a suspect’s head and neck being submerged. ‘This may not be Guantanamo in South Cuba, or Abu Ghraib in Iraq … but we can get whatever you have, fellah, simply by holding your head down under until you deliver for us.’
Wagstaff is subdued and respectful when he returns with clean trousers and underwear. Carla’s sitting at a large table in the kitchen. She motions her target to sit opposite her and Earl pulls out a chair between the two of them.
‘I think we’d better start with Mohammed Sharif, Jeremy … he has sent you some money, right?’
For most of the past twenty years, Wagstaff has hated the Americans and everything they stand for. He feels we are responsible for most of the world’s problems, and have been for almost a hundred years. It’s therefore difficult for him to sit down with US Homeland Security Agent Hirsch and to start negating everything he believes in. The kitchen sink full of water, however, and the Glock pistol in my controller’s bag are scary reminders of what lies in store for him if he doesn’t co-operate.
‘There is a lot of anger in Muslim communities just now,’ he says and Carla Hirsch nods. ‘Of course …we know all about that, babe. We’ve been taking serious stick from you Brits and liberals everywhere since the war in Vietnam …we’re used to it.’