by John Macrae
I'd half-risen from my chair, clenched fist pounding the desk. A strange look came over Harry Plummer's face. For a split second he looked scared. Then a glint of realisation, of awareness, almost of satisfaction, followed. I wondered if I'd gone over the top, but the moment had passed. "Well?"
In a choked voice, Harry said, "We're looking at two – or three. Three crimes. There's the shooting of the Brixton muggers last summer, the Varley thing, of course, which you’ve mentioned and...” he looked across at Paddy again, "And there's possibly one other."
"What's that?"
Paddy intervened. "To be honest, there's a bit of an argument over the third job. Harry here thinks that it's all linked with an attack on some nutty paedophile who got his balls sliced off two years ago. He reckons it’s all this ‘Vengeance Man’ stuff. Me, I think that it's not the same guy..." His face as open and candid. He was showing me his hand. If there's ever a time to suspect an interrogator, particularly a full-time expert like Paddy Croft, it's when he's making with the 'open and candid' stuff. What the hell was he up to now?
"Oh yes," I muttered. "I remember. It was some Scots gang or other, wasn't it? I remember reading that when I came back from leave."
"That's the one," said Paddy, approvingly. "Some bloke called Spicer. Very slick, professional bit of work; snip, snip, fifteen stitches, and Bob's your Auntie now..."
Fifteen? Hardly, I thought.
"And you really think one of our people might have done that, Paddy? Cut some paedo’s balls off?" I demanded incredulously.
"No, I don't. But Harry here thinks it’s a possibility. Got a bit of a bee in his bonnet about it. Worked on the case on and off ever since, haven't you, Harry?" Harry nodded, wordlessly, staring at me.
Sweat gathered in my armpits. The idea of Harry Plummer stolidly plodding in my footsteps, pursuing me doggedly across the years didn't appeal. "I wouldn't have thought that sort of thing was SB's work, Harry? That’s a criminal investigation, surely"
"It isn't; but CID have done a lot for me. And I reckon that it's one of my blokes that did it, so I owe it to CID. I'll get him."
"One of your blokes?"
"Yes; I'm the Branch LO to all the List X companies and the funnies, and I've always reckoned it was someone in the funnies that did it. Some professional psycho working for one of them. I even spoke to you about it, remember? I told you I'd get him."
"Yes... of course. I'm surprised you take it that seriously. After all, didn't the bloke deserve it? At least, didn’t all the papers say so?"
"Oh, yes, no doubt about it. He deserved it all right. Spicer was a right little toe rag; couldn't keep his hands off little girls. Or his cock. But he’s a different man now, I grant you, singing in a different key without his goolies. But that still doesn't make it right."
"I'd have thought it was a public service this bloke did, then."
"Sure: a real public service. And was it a public service when the same bloke did Varley? Stuck a poker in his guts and left him screaming? He took eighteen hours to die. Eighteen hours."
The sweat was trickling down my armpits now, the room hot and oppressive. For a second, Varley's hopeless agonised screams rang again in my ears, and I remembered my panic stricken flight through the woods. Paddy Croft sat back, face wreathed in cigarette smoke, his eyes watching me speculatively.
"Maybe; I don't know anything about the Varley thing – apart from what I read in the papers. How do you know it was the same bloke?"
"I don't, but the descriptions match pretty well; voice, same build, same MO. No, my money's on it being the same bloke. This Vengeance Man nutter." Harry was staring at me, I swear.
Nutter? I thought Bloody cheek…. Best say something. “But didn't you say it was a gang?"
"Did I? When?"
Another slip. I recovered quickly. "Er, when you came round here asking about Varley; you know, that nonsense about the SAS bagman and that little pack thing. You said it was a gang, Harry. You did, I’m sure..."
"Did I? Anyway, it wasn't nonsense. Access to that SAS pack is going to be a crucial bit of evidence. One day."
I pulled a face. "Perhaps."
Paddy leaned forward and addressed himself to Harry. "Did you really say it was a gang, Harry? You know, when you asked around about the Varley thing?"
A look of surprise came over Harry Plummer's face as he absorbed the implications behind Paddy's question. "I don't know." He riffled open a file from his document case. "I'll have to check."
I jumped back in. "I'm sure you did Harry. Maybe I saw it in the papers. Otherwise, how else would I have known?" That was a mistake, too.
"That's a good point," said Paddy, wide eyed with affected naïvety. "How indeed?"
"Well, I'm sure you did, Harry. Anyway, wasn't it in all the papers? On the news?" I desperately tried to collect my thoughts. "I'm sure I remember it after the Brixton thing."
"What Brixton thing?"
"You know; those three muggers."
"Oh, that. So how's that linked to Varley?"
I was tense with controlled fright and cold with sweat. "Well, I don’t know. You did say it was one of your three cases, didn't you? And the papers linked it with that Scots gang... "
"Yes. Yes, I did." Harry sounded disappointed.
"That's why we think it's a funny." Paddy took up the running .
"What?" I swivelled to face him.
"Because of the Brixton job. It was too good." He dropped ash. I was conscious of Harry scanning his notes, preparing for his next go. These bastards could tag wrestle it against me as a twosome all day. I had to stay sharp for both. "Too good?"
"Oh, yes." Paddy's tone was dry. "Real professional stuff, that. Whoever pulled that stunt was a good shot.”
“That lets me out then,” I laughed.
“Why?” They exchanged glances and sat forward together.
“Well. I’m a lousy pistol shot. It’s a well known fact.”
Harry sat back. “Well, whoever did the Brixton kids job was good shot. A top grade hit. Running girl, fifteen yards, dead centre lower back. Classy shooting. Don't you think so? Even by your standards."
"Yes - not bad." My standards? What was he getting at?
Paddy snorted. "Not bad? Bloody marvellous! Particularly with a handgun. Pity about the bullets, though."
"Oh, why's that?" What about the bullets? My mind yammered at me. I'd been careful there, hadn't I?
"They'd been prepared. Very slick, very professional."
"So?"
"He'd dum-dummed them. Probably reversed them, filed a cut. Stuff like that; but unfortunately he made a mistake. A very silly error."
The blood roared in my ears and I felt very hot, trapped in the stuffy smoke-filled room. I forced myself to stay calm, think calm, sound calm. "Well, you should catch him then, shouldn't you?" I scratched myself and looked pointedly at my watch. "What mistake did he make?"
Paddy leaned forward triumphantly. "Fingerprints. All over the bullets."
Bullshit. Utter bloody nonsense.
"What?"
"I didn't say anything. So he left fingerprints on the rounds, this bloke?"
"That's it."
"On bullets? After they'd been in the body?"
"I didn't say that."
"Well, how else? Were there some ejected cartridges?" I'd used a revolver: no ejected cases there. That’s why I hadn’t used the automatic. I'd dropped the empty bullet cases down a drain myself that night. Paddy was bluffing. There couldn't have been any prints on the bullets after they'd smashed through skin and muscle and bone. They would have burst open like petals on hitting flesh. Lady Red shoes couldn't walk with a smashed spine and as for Ivor's thigh - it had turned to bloody pulp. I tried to shake it off by changing the subject. "Good. Well, that'll make it easy for you, with evidence like that and some accurate times and places, you should catch him easily, whoever he is. Now, do you want that staff list now? Do you want to finger print everyone?"
If Padd
y was bluffing about the bullets - which he was - then he must suspect me. Otherwise, why bluff? Why lie about those bullets? They were on to me, or on to something, no doubt about it. This was a pressure interview.
The net was closing.
" ... so then there's that to explain."
"Uh? Sorry, Paddy, I missed that. What did you say?"
"I said, there's that Briggs' nonsense to explain."
"Briggs? What he got to do with it?"
"Well - his accident. It's all a bit convenient, isn't it?"
"Who for?"
"For this firm, for one," Harry Plummer pitched back in.
"Now, steady on, Harry, that's not exactly ... "
"Well, it is .."
"I agree with Harry," added Paddy. "Lucky for you."
"For me?"
"Not you, personally. Why do you keep thinking we're talking about you? No, this company."
"Why’s that?" I asked.
Paddy scratched his ear. "Well, if he'd lived, he'd have been an embarrassment, wouldn't he?"
"Who to?"
"This company; SIS Ltd. He'd threatened to get his own back. After all, it was him or you, wasn't it?"
A bell clanged in my mind as the fruit machine of memory whirled into place. I'd said that, somewhere; 'It's him or us.'
Then I remembered it flooded back, crystal clear. We'd been in Mallalieu's office after it was decorated; Andy, Mallalieu and me. It was the day I'd offered to top Briggs. After I'd been sick. After the Roberts job. We'd started in Andy's office, but for the last part of the conversation we'd moved into Mallalieu's smart new dove-grey office, still smelling of paint. And I'd said something about Briggs being set on his revenge, and then I'd said those words; 'it's him or us, isn't it?'
Paddy had just repeated it. Word for word. How? How could he have known that? Coincidence? No. Because he'd heard a tape, that's bloody how. Must have done. Because the sodding bug had been put there by the decorators, that's how. Realisation burst upon me. Christ! How much else had they heard? I racked my memory. We hadn't said much in there, I was sure, but Paddy and the Home Office must have heard enough to make them suspicious. Briggs. Briggs. Always a source of trouble, even from the grave.
"What?" said Paddy.
"I didn't say anything. I was just thinking about Briggs. You're right."
"Oh?"
"If he'd lived, he'd have been a real embarrassment. Wouldn't he, Harry?"
It was Harry's turn to sound flustered. "Oh ... why?"
"Well, two of your blokes questioned him, didn't they? Mallalieu told me that two of your SB guys turned Briggs over at Cannon Row after he was nicked outside the Sherlock that night. He gave them a hard time. Threatened to blow the gaff on the whole game, I heard. Even asked to see their warrant cards and they didn't have them. Funny, really."
"Oh, yes, that ... "
"That's right, Harry. You must remember."
Harry wriggled. "Yes, I do remember, now ... "
I pressed my advantage. "There you are, then. Good job for SB that he wrapped himself round a tree."
"He hit an excavator. Went down a bank."
"Well, whatever. Lucky for you. It saved your bacon in Special Branch. And Whitehall. He was complaining that he had been set up by Special Branch, last I heard. Threatening to blow the gaff on all sorts of things, I heard. Stuff I’d never heard of - little dirty jobs for Five, trips to Iran – stuff like that… We weren't the only people that Briggs could have embarrassed."
Harry winced and they paused, looking at each other. I sat back, trying to stay calm, taking stock. I now knew that Harry was looking for a bloke about my height with blue eyes, ex-SAS, with access to a Covert Methods of Entry course utility pack five years ago. Now I knew that they were also seeking a good pistol shot, who knew how to doctor bullets. But that was all they had. Or had revealed.
They had just described me. They knew it. Oh, they knew something: of that I had no doubt. Or suspected it: but were they sure?
No. If they were sure, they wouldn't be going through this charade.
But they couldn't prove anything. They'd had as good a go at me as they could do without making outright accusations, and I'd ridden that out.
I hadn't really slipped up, confessed or had a nervous breakdown. Spicer, Varley, the Brixton muggers, and now Briggs; they knew the score - or suspected it, which was nearly as bad. But they couldn't prove it. Not yet, anyway. But they were on the scent.
My shirt clung stockily to my chest and I swear I could smell the fear on me as I'd battled for survival. But they hadn't got anything. Without absolute confirmation of my whereabouts for each of their accusations, I was in the clear. And that would be hard to prove. The trails were very muddy there. Otherwise, it was all speculation, half confirmed facts and circumstantial evidence. Without an admission or hard evidence against me, I was safe. For the moment. But they'd be back. I had to buy time. "Well, what about this list, then?"
They looked up at me, startled.
"I've got another appointment at noon," I explained. I made a big thing with the watch. "Shall I get you that staff list?"
Silence. "I know, I'll ask Jan to give you a copy. Then you can ask any questions about dates you like. And fingerprint anyone you like. Me even. OK, Harry?" He looked taken aback, but stood up as I swept them towards the door. Keep moving, keep talking. Paddy followed, words forming on his lips. I forestalled them. "I'll tell you what, Paddy. Why don't we go and have a beer at lunchtime? I'll be clear by half past twelve. Well, what about it? We can talk about things then."
They looked at each other. Paddy swallowed and shook his head. "No, thanks. I've got to see the Victoria Street people before one o'clock."
"Victoria Street? Off to put the questions to the competition, eh, Paddy? Mixing with the respectable end of the Security Industry now? Don't think you'll find many deranged castration artists and freelance murderers with them. Very respectable lot, Victoria Street. Very image conscious. Well, good luck. Let me know if you find anything. Shame about the drink. Some other time, perhaps?"
I swept them along, my shirt cooling as I walked down the corridor. Jan gave them the list and I saw them off. I was expansive, Harry was silent in his dour copper's way and Paddy was thoughtful. At the top of the stairs Paddy paused, a glint in his eye; "When can we come back?"
"Any time, Paddy, any time. Looks as if you've got a lot of work to do to sort this one out. But you're always welcome, you know that. I'm always available for my friends."
He grunted. "Sure." He couldn't disguise the sarcasm in his voice. "Next week sometime."
“Of course, of course. When you've checked the list out, come on back. I'll help you all I can. Fingerprints, everything. You know me."
"Oh, yes." Paddy breathed deeply. "I know you." He looked at Harry, who shrugged. With a baffled nod, Paddy turned on his heel and went down the stairs.
"See you next week," I called down. "We'll go for that drink then - OK?" He looked up and missed a step, nearly falling. "Careful, Paddy," I shouted after him. "Those stairs can be dangerous; we don't want Harry having to add you to his list, do we?"
I thought for a moment Paddy swore.
I think I'd just lost a mate.
CHAPTER 38
TROUBLE
I was in trouble.
Back in my office I leaned against the door, breathing deeply. Part of my brain was yammering with panic but calm at the same time. It's a feeling we all know: it only seems to happen when things go really wrong but there's still time to observe normal life going on around you. Through the open window, the sky was blue and birds flitted across my line of vision. I envied them their freedom. At least they were outside in the fresh air, instead of being cooped up in a smoky little office with doors closing and hunters lurking in dark bureaucratic corridors, armed with files and statements as their talons and claws.
I shook it off. Hell, they weren't stalking some fat, dozy town pigeon. I was supposed to be a bit of a hawk my
self. That's why they were being so careful. After all, hadn't I done a lot of their dirty work for them? No, they were going to have a hard fight to pin me. At least I knew that the game was on now, which was something. I had to start thinking.
Like, was my office bugged? Was there some little fibreoptic camera? I'd better start some kind of defensive campaign.
The first move was clearly to find out just how much Mallalieu knew. He'd have to know, anyway, sooner or later, because he was up to his neck in it over the Briggs business. His secretary wasn't a lot of help. "Colonel Mallalieu's not in, I'm afraid."
I raised an eyebrow and looked at my watch. It was only 1215.
She laughed, "Yes, it's going to be one of those lunches. And I don't think he'll be back before half past three. He's gone to the City. To the Bank of England."
I grunted and turned away. The ‘Bank of England’ sounded interesting. Lamaison, the Special Projects (Economics) bloke that Mallalieu had told me about worked from the Bank, he'd said. Maybe, even now, Mallalieu was being briefed that his most trusted employee had gone private.
I wondered how they'd do it. Was there already a big, fat file on me? Was I 'a case', with a special codeword and a big red diagonal cross on the file cover?
I could hear them now. "How do you like the salmon mousse, Mallalieu? Good? Oh, by the way, did you know that your Director of Operations is a bit of a freelance murderer? He kills people in his spare time. Extraordinary, eh? More Sancerre?" I shivered.
"Are you all right?" asked Jan . "You look as if you've seen a ghost." Her motherly face was creased with concern.
I laughed. "Probably. No, I'm just feeling a bit... under the weather, I suppose."
She tut-tutted like s broody hen. "Well, we don't want you getting sick again, do we?" She nodded decisively, one of those middle-aged earth-mothers passing a judgement on life. I envied her conviction. I expect, like all her tribe, she was as confident as a Woman’s Own agony aunt. "I mean, it took you ages to get over your business in the Middle East, didn't it? What you need is to find some nice girl and settle down, you know."