The Vengeance Man

by John Macrae

  "No, Chief," interrupted Fielder. "I thought he was a spook. I'd seen him earlier with the Six man in the High Commission."

  "The Six man?"

  "Yes. He's a bloke called McKenzie; claims to be a Second Secretary Commercial or some other nonsense, but everyone knows what he does. He might as well wear a badge and advertise in Yellow Pages."

  Robertson's eyebrows climbed slightly, then subsided. He didn't smile. "So you start boozing ...”

  "I was looking for a story ... "

  "... which is why, doubtless, you're claiming it all on your fiddle sheet," grunted Robertson. "And this fellow says, 'let's carry on our chat upstairs.' Right?"

  "Right. Alcohol is almost as taboo in parts of Pakistan now as it is in Saudi - in public, anyway. They've gone very fundamentalist."

  "So you go up to your hotel room and attack a bottle of Bell's, during which Charlie Henry spills this fairy story, and what's more, lets you put it on tape." He gestured at the cassette recorder.

  "Right. But he didn't 'let' me put it on tape, Chief: he insisted on it. He said he wanted it all on the record. Everything."

  Robertson gnawed a cuticle and looked at the tape recorder. Sensing his indecision, Fielder jumped in. "Look, at first I didn't believe a word of it, either. But the more he went on, the more I began to wonder. It was all too pat. He'd got everything: places, names, people. It had to be true. So I asked around when I got back, and it all checks. I wasn't going to come near you until I was sure. I'm not stupid."

  "I wondered what you'd been up to since you got back," growled Robertson. "We’ve missed your smiling presence in the newsroom. And?"

  "It's true. No doubt about it. And not only that, but I reckon there must be one hell of a cover-up going on."

  Robertson drummed his fingers, then switched the tape to 're-wind'. The whirring of the machine was loud in the stuffy office.

  "Oh, come on, Bill," Fielder's voice was exasperated. "You know it's true. Christ, if that cutting wasn't him, who was it?" He threw a piece of paper on the desk.

  Robertson picked up a two-week old photocopy of a short piece from an inside page. It was a 'World Brief' from the Telegraph:

  Mystery Briton Killed

  Afghan authorities reported that 20 tribesmen and a mystery Briton were killed in a clash between Taliban Militia and warring factions in the continuing civil war in North East Afghanistan earlier this week. British Embassy officials in Kabul said that the Briton may have been John Boyd, a tourist. Local sources believe he may have strayed into an inter-tribal dispute while trekking in the mountains near the Chinese border. A.P.

  "And you reckon that the bloke you met - Wright? - "

  "Frederick William Wright,” Fielder nodded. "Said everyone called him Fritz.'"

  "Fritz?"

  "Something to do with the Army; learning German. I dunno..."

  "So you reckon this bloke Fritz you met in the bar was really Boyd, the one reported killed?" Robertson pulled the corners of his mouth down. "What did he look like ?"

  Fielder shrugged: "Pretty ordinary. Dark hair. Until you looked at him closely. Tallish. Six foot. Sort of thin and tight, if you know what I mean. Looked a bit underweight if anything. Very quiet and hard, though." He reflected. "Oh yes; he had very stary sort of blue eyes. Like a Husky dog. Looked right through you, if you know what I mean..." he trailed off.

  'You reckon that he was this mystery bloke - Boyd - the Afghan say got killed, but no-one back here could trace?"

  "Right. I'm sure it's this guy Fritz I met in the hotel. Fritz, Boyd – it’s the same person."

  Robertson read the cutting again. Fielder peeled a strip of dead skin from his nose and absently chewed it while he watched his boss, trying to gauge his reaction. Robbo could be an awkward sod at times, but he'd never let a good story go. He was too professional a newsman.

  "And of course it would be an exclusive." The reporter timed his intervention carefully. "A world exclusive for the paper," he added.

  "A big scoop for Fielder eh?" sneered Robertson. Fielder sat silent. "And you say you've checked it?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "That's a change, after your last effort. Three factual errors, wasn't it?" Fielder flushed. "You've spoken to this bloke - Mallalieu?"

  "Yes." The reporter consulted a notebook. "He's the Managing Director of 'Specialist Insurance Services Ltd. I've seen their accounts at Companies House. Formed eight years ago, turnover between twelve and fifteen million, directors are some retired Guards General called Sellers, Mallalieu and some an appointee of a Lloyds trust. Ex-Foreign Office type I think. Cooling. Anyway he’s got a CMG after his name. Got offices behind Victoria."

  "What did Mallalieu say?"

  "He was very helpful; well, up to a point." Again, Fielder looked at his notebook. "Yes, he did know Frederick William Wright. Known as Fritz. Yes, he was an ex-serviceman. Yes, he'd been in the SAS. The firm had employed a number of ex-servicemen in the past for high risk protection and overseas duties. Mainly bodyguarding. Low level stuff like that."

  “And Boyd? The one in the paper?”

  “Never heard of him. At least that’s what Mallalieu claimed.”

  "Did you ask him about the Spicer thing?"

  "Yes. He said that he didn't see a connection, but he remembered it vaguely. Read it in the papers"

  "And Varley; those three muggers down in Brixton?"

  "He couldn't remember Varley. He said he thought everyone remembered the Brixton muggers case."

  “Briggs?"

  "Oh, he knew all about Jonno Briggs 'A very sad affair' he called it, 'His worst moment with the company' he said it was. 'But it's water under the bridge now,' was his line. 'Old boy, don't you know'. That sort of stuff."

  Robertson snorted in disgust. "Did he say where this SAS heavy – Wright… Fritz was now?"

  "He didn't know. Mallalieu claimed he'd resigned about a month ago. Left very suddenly." Fielder scratched his sunburn meditatively.

  "And?" prompted Robertson.

  'Well, Mallalieu hinted - he didn't actually say so - that Wright had been dipping his fingers in the till and had left under a cloud. Said he thought he'd left the country. Didn't have a forwarding address. He implied Wright was a bit of a waster. Kicked out of the Army. I checked," he added hastily, "And he was a compulsory redundancy."

  "But I thought you said Wright was their operations manager?"

  Fielder pulled a face. "Mallalieu laughed when I said that; 'Oh, I don't think so. Poor old Fritz just got a bit of consultancy and the occasional bodyguarding and baby-sitting jobs, just to give him a leg up. Nothing more.' He even said that 'the Inland Revenue will confirm his freelance status...' I even followed one of the secretaries from the building and chatted her up."

  "And?"

  "Not a dicky bird. Nothing. She was very uncomfortable, stilted. But she swore she only knew Mr Wright vaguely. He was a consultant. ‘Freelance’, she said. She'd been warned off. "

  He sighed. "Mallalieu has got it all sewn up; or someone has. No, according to Mallalieu, Mr Wright's nothing to do with him." Robertson's eyebrows knitted over his nose in a frown of irritation and puzzlement. The reporter leaned forward, urgently. 'Well, he would say that, wouldn't he, Bill? Let's face it, you don't expect people like Mallalieu to say 'it's a fair cop, guv', do you?"

  "Did you ask him about the bloke killed in Afghanistan - Boyd?"

  "Yes. Never heard of him. So he said. 'He didn't quite catch the connection...' "

  "How did Mallalieu strike you?"

  The reporter pulled a face. "Creepy. Very establishment. As smooth an ex-Army type as you'll find. Your typical suit. Nice pin stripe, member of the Special Forces Club. I checked him in the old Army lists - the biographical bits. Ex-Para, ex Intelligence Corps, ex-funny jobs. Retired some years ago. Your real gentleman." He sneered. It wasn't a compliment. "But I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him."

  Robertson changed tack. "What about the girl-friend - th
is Joy woman?"

  "Ah well, I went round to see her. At her place. She's all right. A very nice girl, nice, very tasty ... " he caught Robertson's eye and came to the point. "But she doesn't know much. She confirmed all Wright's details, though. His flat and so on. They were engaged, you know. But she was.....well... evasive."

  "Where did she say Wright was now?"

  "She said that he was out in Pakistan doing some insurance job."

  "Do you think that she knew about all this?" Robertson waved the cutting. "Did you tell her about Wright - Fritz - and Boyd? Did you make the connection?"

  "No." Fielder paused, thinking hard. "But she knew something, I’m sure. She seemed very - well, tight, inside, I mean. Frightened. No; over-controlled, if you get me. Too careful. She was definitely holding something back."

  "Didn't she see the Boyd story? Does she think he's dead?"

  'Hard to say; I don't think so. 'She didn't know when he'd be back', she said.

  'Had she been got at?"

  'Possibly. Again, hard to tell." Fielder looked puzzled. "I didn't want to push it. I didn't say I'd met him out in Kabul. I just said I was researching a piece." He paused. "But she shut the door on me when I gave her the CD player."

  Robertson leant forward like a pointer dog on a scent. "CD player?"

  "Oh, didn't I say? That was how I got to see her. Fritz gave me his little CD Walkman thing in the hotel and asked me to give it to her when I got back in London. Said she'd understand. He said the batteries were gone or something and he wouldn't need it again. So I did. Gave it to her."

  "And?"

  Fielder shrugged again. "Well, when I showed it to her, it was like she'd seen a ghost. But when I gave her the CD she just burst into tears and shut the door on me. Weird really."

  "What was the CD? Anything special?"

  "Nah. Just some old medieval tosh. Boys, Boyce or something. Fancy old rubbish. It wasn't even a new CD. Apparently they'd played it together. Like I said: weird. He actually said to me that he wouldn't need it any more and to tell her..." Fielder looked at his editor. “What now?”

  Robertson sat silent. He breathed heavily.

  "And the flat; did you check his flat?"

  "Yes. Now, she said that Wright had let his flat because he was going away for some time. But it didn't ring true. She was definitely hiding something. And she's scared. I pushed her hard, but she won't budge. Not after I gave her the CD thing. Wouldn't even open the door; and the telephone's on answer all the time."

  "What about his flat? Anyone in? Other tenants?"

  Fielder returned to his notebook. 'OK. The flat. His flat. It's occupied now by a Mr and Mrs Randolph Ian Webster."

  'In the flat? Already? Who's Webster? But I thought you said that Fritz - Wright? - only intended to be out of the country for a few weeks?"

  Fielder looked triumphant. "That's the fishy bit. The girl friend is adamant he's away for some time. The Websters have only been in the flat two weeks. They were very helpful. I mean they were almost glad to see me. Very matey. Almost as if they wanted to tell their story to someone. Come in. Have a cup of coffee. That kind of stuff. Very odd. They were bloody ecstatic to talk; couldn't stop them. 'It was a real snip,' they said. A lease like that, etcetera, etcetera'. And guess where he works - Webster, I mean?" Robertson shook his head. "He's a career diplomat in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, back now in London. Surprise, surprise."

  Robertson's frown deepened. "And did they say what happened to the last occupant?"

  Fielder was going well now. “Our Mr Wright, you mean?"

  He turned a page of his notebook. "According to the lady downstairs, Mr Wright - a ‘very private sort of man’, she described him as - Mr Wright hasn't been seen for a month. Then, just about a fortnight ago up rolls a Hoults removal van and took away all his stuff. Three days later - bingo - new tenants. Mr and Mrs Webster, of the jolly old FCO."

  'Do you think they're in on it?"

  "I can't say for certain, but I'll bet they're part of the cover up. He's certainly FCO, I've checked. He's in the list and works in their Middle East Department. Came back from Beirut three months ago."

  'Did you check Hoults?"

  'Yes. The furniture is in store in their Nottingham depot, on their client's instructions while he’s out of the country on business. Written instructions. Dated over a week before Fritz claimed he left London, by the way. Before. Very fishy."

  'Hmph." Robertson scrunched out his cigarette. 'What about this civil servant type ... Lamston?"

  "Lamaison, Chief. Oh, he exists, too. He's in the Civil Service yearbook." He read out, 'Page 469, between 'Domestic Economy Sector Economic Unit' and the 'Financial Institutions Division (Overseas)', what do we find? 'The Special Projects (Economics) Unit', Head: Assistant Secretary William Alex Lamaison, CBE." He looked up, triumphant.

  "Did you phone him?"

  "Of course. His secretary answered." He read from his notebook. "'SPE; Mr Lamaison's telephone. Black and white; he exists. And the Civil Service government website shows he’s head of a Special Economics Advisory team working for the Treasury.”

  Robertson was unimpressed. "So he exists. You've done the basic checking. So what?".

  Fielder was exasperated. "Come on, Chief. What more do you need?"

  "Proof. That's what you need, Mike. Proof."

  "Christ, how much proof do you want?" The reporter gestured at the tape. 'How much detail do you have to hear to convince yourself? The exact number of stitches in Spicer's balls?" He stopped, eyeing his Editor, who sat silent. "Look, boss. I even phoned his sister. She backs his story word for word. She wonders where he is. She thinks he's out of the country. I've talked to the stamp dealer that Wright traded the stamps with. Michael Canning. He nearly wet himself with fright - he thought I was the Fraud Squad from the Inland Revenue at first. I've talked to the Hotel across from the Italian embassy, and they know all about Mr Hunnicutt, about the Roberts killing, and I've talked to a friend of mine in MOD who's on a posting to the Defence Intelligence Staff."

  "Oh? And what did he say?"

  “I had a drink with him round the corner in the Charing Cross hotel. The upstairs bar; you know the one where Doctor Kelly ….”

  The Editor cut him off. Yes. I know. Now get on with it….”

  “He said 'Back off. Stay out. Don't get involved. Quote, "These are codeword people even to the codeword people. Even DIS isn't cleared for them. Just don't get involved."

  Robertson nodded. "Yes." He paused. "You have been a busy little bee these last few days, haven't you?" A thought occurred to him. "Have you spoken to that policeman ... what's his name?"

  'Harry Plummer." Fielder looked uncomfortable, paused and rubbed his face. The News Editor waited. "No, I haven't. But I've spoken to a friend of mine in the Met, an instructor at Hendon; old Flying Squad type."

  “And what did he say?" Robertson probed, sensing his reporter's hesitation.

  'Well, he clammed up, once I mentioned Harry Plummer's name. 'Leave it out', was the message."

  'Why?"

  Fielder shrugged. ' I dunno. Because Plummer's SB, I suppose?"

  His editor’s brows knitted together in puzzlement. "So what, Mike? We've got contacts in the Branch. Especially after all this terrorist malarkey. We've dealt with them often enough in the past. I even know some bent ones who'll tell you anything for a drink or two... What's so difficult about Plummer?"

  Again Fielder hesitated. "It's just something my Squad contact said." He looked away from his News Editor, and stared blankly at the wall.

  'Well, what?"

  " 'Just don't get involved. Plummer's the Branch's Branch. He's not even to be gone near if you want to stay healthy.' Anyway, that's what he said." He looked embarrassed.

  " Stay healthy? What? And did you believe him?"

  'Not at first." Fielder closed his notebook softly. "It seemed a bit, well, melodramatic. Bullshit. But then I had a drink last night with a friend of mine in the Home O
ffice ... Millbank.”

  "The Security Service? MI5 ?"

  Fielder went on. "This bloke said the same." He looked Robertson straight in the eye. "Actually, he said that if I started sniffing round Harry Plummer and his Special Operations Teams I'd more than likely have an accident."

  "Did you believe him?"

  "His actual words to me were,' if you'll take my advice, Mike, you'll leave well alone. You’re meddling in dangerous territory..' "

  "And you, the great investigative journo - you believed him." It was a statement.

  "You're damned right I did."

  Robertson cocked his head. 'Why so certain all of a sudden?"

  "Because I talked to Tom Hemming on the phone afterwards."

  "Hemming? Well you’re definitely mixing with dangerous folk there, Mike. Very exalted company. That’s for sure. And?"

  Fielder’s mouth was sour. "And the great Tom Hemming doesn't know anything."

  Robertson was surprised and sarcastic. "The ace Int & Sy journo not in the know? Not even after the Jonno Briggs' stuff? Bollocks! He really isn't interested in being the one who breaks 'The Vengeance Man' story? Hemming? The truth about Jonno Briggs? And the real identity of the Vengeance Man?... That doesn’t sound like the Tom Hemming we all know and hate. The bastard’d kill his old granny for a chance of a good story and a fat cheque. I find that hard to believe, Mike. "

  "So did I," said Fielder. " Hemming actually said to me, 'there's no real story there. I'd leave it if I were you; it's dead.' He was scared. Didn’t want to know. Couldn’t get away fast enough. He's been nobbled too. He has... And I reckon there was someone watching him. Or us. Sitting in the corner, reading his paper. Watching us…"

  This time the Editor didn't sneer. He just nodded thoughtfully.

  The little recorder's whirring became higher-pitched as the tape speeded up. Robertson looked down at some notes on his scribble pad. He frowned.

  "Did the police say why the other copper, Denness, called round the night of the Roberts shooting? Who put them up to it?"

  Fielder brightened.

  'Yes. That's quite funny, really. The story is that there had been a break-in on the ground floor flat that evening. Someone had got in through the kitchen window and had a video and some other stuff away. The local nick called on every flat in the building that night."