The Vengeance Man

by John Macrae

  "Gooley grabber?"

  "Yes. Remember that paedophile who killed the girl and got off?"

  I looked blank. "You remember, she committed suicide, and the father went to jail for attacking him? About a month ago? Well, some maniac castrated him"

  "Castrated him?"

  "Yes, the press was full of it a week or so back. It was a real nine days wonder. They reckon it's some Scottish gang. They did a pretty slick job of it, too."

  I registered surprise and approval to match his. "That's different. Anything else?"

  "No, that's the most interesting thing that's happened during your leave. Now, I've some work to do..."

  Inwardly I heaved a sigh of relief and turned to the files. As soon as I had absorbed the red flagged 'Please come and see the Director at 1400 on Monday' signed by the Chief of Staff, I dumped all the files with rivetting papers asking for comments on "Use of Special Forces in Out of Area or Peacekeeping Operations" and similar drivel in the out tray. They were what I needed to escape from, I reckoned. Then I read the press sheets.

  We get copies of a daily media summary and I arranged them in date order from the day I left UK. Then I retraced the impact of my little bit of private cosmetic surgery, while the foul office coffee started my first headache of the day.

  Being a season with little news, Spicer's come-uppance had been manna to the bored journalists. The tabloids had gone in for stark headlines - 'REVENGE' screamed one, and 'CASTRATED!’ was in others, while the broadsheet heavies had played up the illegality of my revenge. Under a headline, 'Police Fear Vigilante Attacks', the Times talked about 'The mutilation of Mr Albert Spicer by unknown assailants yesterday has given rise to police fears of a series of vigilante attacks on those suspected - but acquitted - of serious crimes exciting keen public interest.' The piece moralised on in elegant prose in the same vein. I logged on to our crappy old computer and crawled through the news reports on line. There was no shortage of coverage.

  Mrs Meekin's comments when she was interviewed though by the SUN were fairly clear; "Serve the bastard right...one of the happiest days of my life." But then, you could hardly expect her to be politically and morally correct, could you? The SUN's headline was 'JUSTICE'. Without a question mark, I noticed...

  By the following day, Spicer had obviously been interviewed in hospital and the press reports reflected this. I had become, 'a Scottish gang, probably from Glasgow', and the whole affair had been 'meticulously planned and executed', which was nice. There seemed to be little sympathy for Spicer. He was described by various hospital spokespersons as, 'ashen faced,’ 'weeping with shame,' and 'shaken.' He was, according to one report, also thinking of suing the Metropolitan Police for failing to provide him with adequate protection. He’d probably win.

  The cartoonists in particular, had a field day, taking their own revenge by inventing improbable castrations of a number of likely political and showbiz targets on, "Not another Balls Up?" themes. One headline to a tongue in cheek Spectator piece had even caused a complaint to the Press Complaints Commission, according to the Standard; it had read, 'Paedophilia: a Modest Proposal?’

  The whole story had petered out a few days later following the flare up of trouble in the Middle East, and a serious crash on the M1 involving some celebrity north country soap actress with an unusual past. You can guess which made the headlines in the tabloids.

  Two strands stuck in my mind as I ditched the files before going for my compulsory check-out at the gym. One was a remark by Spicer's doctor praising my crude surgery as being, 'typical of emergency surgical procedures or hasty battlefield techniques', which was a bit too close to the truth for comfort.

  Second was a grim note by the senior police officer dealing with the case which had got a lot of publicity. 'We're going to have to get these men and put them away, whatever the public feel,' he had said in a TV interview. 'You can't have unofficial vigilante groups taking the law into their own hands. Next time they could do this to a totally innocent person. I mean, where's the rule of law in that?"

  As he had been boarding the Glasgow train 'to check with his Scottish colleagues' at the time I wasn't unduly worried. Anyway, it was a one off. I wouldn't be doing anything like that again. And Spicer had deserved it.

  Everyone said so.

  But my chance meeting with Detective Sergeant Plummer was more worrying. Harry had been doing one of his routine liaison visits to Group to drop off a yet another print-out from the National Criminal Intelligence Service computer, and we had bumped into one another in the front office as I came back from the gym. Naturally we had talked and equally naturally he had asked me if the last list he had given me had been OK. "Yes, great, very useful, Harry. I passed it on to Tony" - one of my colleagues - "He's the one mainly interested in UK nationals."

  "Oh." Harry paused. "You remember that bloke, Spicer, the one you got by mistake?"

  I had pretended vagueness. "Oh, yes - I think I remember."

  "The one who had got off for the sex crimes," persisted Harry. "You must remember. You scrubbed his name out of the NCIS print out."

  "Oh, yes, now I remember. You gave me the wrong Spicer. Why?"

  "Well, it's a bit odd, really. He got done just after that."

  "Done?"

  "Castrated. A very neat job. Surely you read about it? It was in all the papers."

  By then I had been sweating. "Yes - I remember reading a bit about it when I got back from leave. Some Scottish gang, wasn't it? That's what the papers said. Why do you ask?"

  Harry was non-committal. "It just seemed a coincidence, that's all. Whoever did that wasn't normal." He tapped his head. "And they were specialists, too. Ball-slicing: it's not your normal criminal's style."

  I shrugged. "What's normal these days? But I didn't know that Special Branch bothered about these things."

  "We don't; but I've got a lot of mates in the CID; and they reckon this one is different."

  "It does seem a bit sick ... didn't he say he was going to sue the Met? Mind you, I expect that this bloke - Spicer deserved it."

  Harry nodded, thoughtfully. His eyes never left mine, and I felt uncomfortable, conscious of his stare. God knows why: he couldn't know anything. It was just my own guilty knowledge; what the lawyers call 'mens rea'.

  "Some might say so." Harry Plummer's policeman's face didn't flicker. "Some might say he deserved it, but it was still a crime."

  We'd parted amicably, but I thought of that conversation as I bounded up the stairs to see the Director.

  Somehow I felt uneasy.

  CHAPTER 11

  Whitehall's Revenge

  I had every reason to be uneasy.

  Brigadier Peters was grim as I went in, and shook my hand. To my surprise Tony Bell was already in there, along with the new Chief of Staff, an amiable Irishman I didn't know well, but liked. They looked serious. Suddenly I felt bad news was on the way. You know the signs. I’d walked into trouble. Was it the Spicer thing?

  We all sat down.

  "Well, " said Peters, "The last time you were in here I said you weren't going to like it." He paused, and looked me straight in the eyes. Peters' nickname had been 'The Axeman' when he'd been CO of 22, I suddenly recalled. "I'm afraid you're going to like this even less."

  My stomach went tight. The brigadier put on a pair of gold rimmed half moon reading glasses and read from a piece of paper in his hand.

  "I've been instructed by the Adjutant General's staff that you are to be made redundant forthwith…"

  I must have made a noise, because he held up a restraining hand and went on, "You are to be discharged as a compulsory redundancy on the grounds that you are no longer medically up to the standard required. You are entitled to a full redundancy package, all resettlement courses and the statutory periods of terminal and accrued leave."

  He took the glasses off and looked hard at me, dangling the gold half rims from a loose hand. "Not good news I'm afraid. They've decided that your services are no longer requir
ed." He rubbed his nose and looked at the ceiling. "Of course I've fought it. I've even played one of my few cards with the Adjutant General personally. The Chief of Staff has done little else but argue about you for the last week. No good, I'm afraid. They're determined to see you go. And there's not a damned thing we can do about it."

  He waved the glasses at the other two. Tony looked stricken and the Chief of Staff shrugged helplessly.

  Peters got up and began to roam his office.

  "I thought that we'd fixed it all up after Iran. And especially after your excellent operation in Italy. Six were besides themselves. Delighted. I thought that would show them what a good operator you really are. But they are adamant. Attorney was a disaster as an operation far as they’re concerned, however successful it was in fact. A political one anyway, or so they tell me. The whole Iranian business looks like going critical soon, anyway. Something to do with the PM and the President, no less. . . The problem seems to have been that your Kurdish sidekick’s little escapade at that airbase delayed some shifty undercover deal with the Yanks, apparently. And you’re to blame. You were to be their sacrificial lamb after all those Parliamentary Questions, and we stopped that. That's not how we do things while I'm in this chair. Well, they didn't like that. They weren't pleased at all. They thought that some bloody ex-newspaper man in Number Ten could give me orders, and then we'd just jump. Well I told them where to shove it, and I told them no. I’ll not be bullied by second rate ex-editors who come in here and tell me they’re giving me orders. Cheeky sod. But I'm afraid this present mob are power mad. They really do think they're running the country. But we can't have Ministers or their bloody lapdogs telling us who will and won't serve in the Army. Christ! Where would it stop? Secret Party-approved selection lists for the next senior promotions board? Like the Germans? Like the Bundeswehr? Absolute bloody nonsense... .”

  He paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose again. "But now they've shafted us on the redundancy issue, I'm afraid, and, as I say, there's not a damn' thing we can do. We've been outflanked. Very clever. By a bunch of politicians " He sighed. “Anyway, you’re to go. Redundancy. The Attorney General’s come up with some backstairs legal advice, or so I’m told. I've registered my objection, but they don't give a damn. The Minister has the power to order it on administrative grounds. Bastard.”

  Or some ambitious civil servant on the Army Board who's been advising the politicians just how to use the Army’s rules so he could become Permanent Under Secretary one day, I thought. "Can't I appeal...?"

  Peters held up his hand. "Hold on. We've done a deal with the Military Secretary. You go quietly under compulsory redundancy. They won't bring charges against you. You're not fit to serve at present anyway." He put up a hand again to stifle my protests. "No, you're not . Don't let's kid ourselves. Remember, I've seen all the documentation. You should see what the psychiatrist..."

  "Hepworth?" I asked.

  "That's the fellow. Quacks like that don't understand people like you. And me ,” he added. He eyed me with a bright birdlike eye, head cocked on one side. "What did you say to upset him, by the way? He's no friend of yours. "

  I waved my hands, helpless.

  "I don't think you're barmy. If you exhibit 'schizoid psychotic tendencies,' then so does every one who makes it through SAS selection," he added uselessly. "Myself included." He stared back down at the bit of paper. "So you go; there's no fuss, and the matter ends there. Like I said, bad news. Appeal if you like but it will only delay the inevitable."

  I sat dejected in the chair. What to say? "What happens now?" I heard myself.

  "It's not as bad as it seems. By being selected for compulsory redundancy, you'll get a gratuity of £80,000. You'll stay on the books being paid for another eight months as part of the normal re-settlement package , so there's plenty of time to look for a job. And, "he paused and looked at me to gauge my reaction, "And, I think that we may even have solved that little problem for you. " He looked at Tony, who nodded.

  "Good," said Peters. "I think that you may find that what we've got lined up for you may actually be precisely what you want. "

  I was still trying to take in what was happening to me. I didn't want to go, but it looked as if the decision was being taken for me. And he was right; £80,000 was a good screw. But I wasn't happy. "OK; I understand what you're saying, Brigadier. It's not how I saw myself leaving. What's this job?"

  Peters looked at me with a very slight smile. "I don't know," he said unexpectedly. Perhaps Tony can enlighten you”.

  I was puzzled, and Tony broke in for the first time. "The Director isn't in the picture on this," he said addressing me. He turned to Peters, "I've got Tom Mallalieu outside, if you want him in?"

  The Director held his hand up. "No. I think that's a matter for you and our friend here." He eyed me, "Tom Mallalieu knows you from his time here as Chief of Staff. You can trust him. He's been told all about you -- and all about this nonsense." He waved a dismissive hand at the file in front of him. "Listen to what he's got to offer. Tony and the Chief of Staff have done a lot for you."

  I didn't know what to say. I had the feeling that my life was running past me and I wasn't in control. That's probably because I wasn't. I needed time to sort out the bits and pieces. I looked back to the Director. "So there's no chance of staying in?"

  He shook his head firmly. "No. None at all. You've got to leave the Service. It's the only decent chance you'll get. Take it. Of course you can try and appeal if you want to, but believe me, you'd be wasting your time. They want you out and this lot would start spreading stories about you. Don’t be in any doubt about that.”

  “Stories?”

  “Oh yes….that you’re sick…” He tapped his head. “Barmy. Overstressed. A danger to the rest of us and the Army’s reputation. You know the kind of lies and smears this lot spread behind people’s backs… poisonous. They’d lie to their friends in the media tomorrow if they thought it made them look good politically. Don’t kid yourself. Threats of a court martial… ‘SAS Man In The Frame’ type headlines. Looks good for them, you see. Little men from Whitehall interviewing you under caution and dropping hints about loss of pension, prison – that sort of thing. I’ve seen it already in the last year or two. Even drove one bloke, one of the Whitehall civil servants, to suicide… . Believe me, this lot are totally unscrupulous, you mark my words. They’ll pressure you, if you don’t play ball…”

  I was shaken. “What’s your advice, Sir?”

  “I strongly advise you to take it. As I said, listen to Tom Mallalieu." He stood up. "Eighty grand's not to be sneezed at, you know," he added unexpectedly. "Not at your time of life. I wouldn't mind that myself. That’d buy a few lunches at the Special Forces club, if nothing else." He grinned, looking twenty years younger.

  I was ushered out of the office with handshakes and bonhomie, but with a clear understanding that I was out. Finished. In a daze I found myself being led into the visitor's room to meet Tom Mallalieu.

  * * *

  Colonel Tom Mallalieu was one of the legends of the murky world of the Special Forces. He'd spend most of his life drifting between the Parachute Regiment or Intelligence jobs and looked a lean and tanned forty eight, which, for a man nearer sixty wasn't bad at all. The story was that when Lloyds had first suggested a specialist insurance company to do the high risk insurance work for the City of London, he had been one of the first men they head hunted. The specialist insurance cover hadn't fooled any of us. You don't do the rounds of the SAS, SBS and best special operations men in the business to recruit a few insurance investigators to look after the Arab sheiks and Russian millionaires’ personal kidnap security. I mean. it's just got to be cover for something.

  Mallalieu was one of those men who seem to be natural colonels. It was hard to imagine him as a dozy young lieutenant, lost in a wood in the dark. He exuded an air of effortless command and poise, which, allied to his crisp authoritative manner and good memory for faces and names, made him
still, ten years after leaving the service, 'The Colonel'. He never played on it, but it was hard to visualize anyone clapping him on the back and calling him "Tommy". Once I'd seen an American do it; Colonel Tom's silky disapproval and fractionally raised eyebrow had said far more than mere words.

  He greeted me warmly in the light, airy visitors room and shook my hand with genuine pleasure. Tony had disappeared, I noticed.

  "How do you feel?" was his first question.

  "Ok. I'm not 100 per cent, but getting there. "

  "Good. Good." He eyed me speculatively, the dark mobile face on one side. "How do you feel about all this?" He pointed at a file on the coffee table. I assumed it was me. I shrugged.

  "How do you expect me to feel?"

  "Are you bitter?"

  "Of course I'm bloody bitter. Wouldn't you be?"

  "No. I'd say to myself that I was 35, no longer 100 percent fit, being given the freedom to carry on doing outside what I had been going in the service, getting £80,000 in my pocket, and the choice to do whatever I wanted to, without restrictions, plus a good offer of salary and expenses. Sounds a good deal to me"

  I looked at him steadily, thinking hard. It did, too; the way he put it. "You're wrong. You've got your analysis twisted. "

  "Oh?" He looked anxious and opened the file.

  "Yes. " I let the pause lengthen. "I'm only 34. "

  The harsh bark of his laugh echoed round the room and he slapped the file shut.

  He leaned back and looked at me. "What went wrong?"

  I told him in some detail. I didn't spare myself or anybody else. Finally I stopped. He glanced through the file and looked up. The blue eyes bored into me.

  That Iran business - what on earth made you so late in getting away?" He tapped the file. "You should have got out of that town – Hasak? - immediately."

  "Don't I know it. Jamal stayed behind to kill - no, execute's the right word - a prisoner he took." The eyebrows reformed their interrogative arch. "It was a revenge killing," I explained. "The prisoner was a policeman; Iranian militia. He'd killed Jamal's sister the year before. "