The Vengeance Man

by John Macrae

  Robertson shook his head, disbelief written on his face. "What? So Scotland Yard send an Inspector round? For a little local burglary? On a local patch. Balls. I don't believe a bloody word of it " A thought occurred to him. "Was there a burglary that night? "

  Fielder consulted his notebook "Yes. There was. Downstairs.”. He read out, all in one breath. “Mr Denness had been visiting the Divisional Commander at the time and had asked to come along out of interest on the investigation to see how the local coppers dealt with minor crime. as part of his review paper for Bramshill on street crime in urban areas….’ ‘A pure coincidence.' That's what they said. But Wright wasn't to know that. As far as he was concerned, he was the only heavy visited on the night of the Roberts shooting."

  'Because all they were looking for a couple of quick entry burglars?"

  "Or that's their story. And that side of the story sort of checks out, too. There was even a piece in the local paper." Fielder smiled slightly. " Someone's gone to a lot of trouble over this, chief. A lot. It's a good tale."

  "And you believe it?" Robertson was waspish. Fielder’s smile faded. "So. If it wasn't after the Roberts shooting, when did this bloke, Wright, Fritz, whatever, think they got on to him?"

  Fielder fidgeted and thought before answering. "He reckons that they sussed it out by elimination. He said he was too slick; his tradecraft was too good ... that's what gave him away; he reckons, anyway. They must have realised it was a professional."

  “Reckoned," said Robertson, emphasising the past tense. He looked at Fielder closely. "But you don't think so," he prompted.

  'No, I don't. I think it's even dirtier." Fielder stopped.

  "Go on."

  Fielder was almost apologetic. 'Well, you've got to remember that the guy was almost incoherent. He'd put away a lot of whisky, he was upset about his bird back home and he knew he was going up country next day. He knew he'd been set up. He knew he was for the chop, I think. He knew ... " he repeated softly, his eyes far away.

  "The Scots have a word for it," said Robertson.

  "Oh?" Fielder came back to reality.

  'Fey. They say a man's fey when he sees his own death."

  Fielder shrugged, then went on. “Anyway, he was maudlin drunk, he was confused and he hadn't got his act together. At times I don't think he really knew what he was saying. But he did say that his boss, Mallalieu, had known all about his trip to France, when he slipped back to do Spicer, the paedo."

  "So? I thought you said Wright, whatever his name is, had used that to establish some sort of alibi: to prove he was out of the country at the time he snipped Spicer's goolies. How could Mallalieu… ?"

  "Right." Interrupted Fielder. "Right. So he got really worked up about something he claims Mallalieu had said to him at the airport as he was being escorted out of the country. Something about 'slipping back into UK on your Belgian ID card'. He got really upset about that. I mean really. It’s all on the tape.” He gestured at the recorder. “He was more sorry than angry, I think. He kept saying, 'he knew about the Belgian ID card. How did he know that? He must have known all along... What else did he know...?" Fielder sighed. "He was in a hell of a state, boss. He didn't know what to think."

  "And you, Mike, what do you think?"

  Fielder looked round the room, seeming to take in the piles of papers, coffee cups and news photos on the wall for the first time. Behind the glass door the clamour of the busy news room could be seen and faintly heard.

  He measured his words without enthusiasm, deliberately slow. "I think we've solved the great Vengeance Man mystery. I reckon we've found him. I’ve found him. And we can prove it. I think it's the dirtiest thing I've seen since I started in this game. I think that Wright went quietly psycho in the SAS. He obviously worked for some dirty tricks brigade. Shoot to kill and no questions asked. He told me he'd been under some trick cyclist before he was kicked out of the Army. Wouldn’t tell me his name. I asked him why, and he said that when he got back he’d break the bugger’s neck. I think he meant it, too. In the end, our friend - Fritz, Wright, Boyd, whatever - couldn't tell the difference between topping people for Whitehall and killing for what he'd decided was a good cause himself."

  Robertson sat silent. Fielder glanced up at him from under his eyebrows, and went on.

  "I think they must have sussed out a long time ago what he was up to. Then they used him. They cold-bloodedly exploited a guy they'd driven half barmy to do their own dirty jobs; then they used every trick in the book to control him, and when he wasn't any use any more, they ditched him. Worse - they let the Afghans or someone get rid of him nice and quietly a long way from home where there’d be no fuss. I wouldn't put it past them to have tipped them off that he was coming, just to make sure he was got out of the way. They exploited him," he repeated, "And at the end, when they saw their chance, they killed two birds with one stone - literally."

  "Two birds...? If your story's true, Mike, there's a lot more dead birds than that. According to your version, this is more like one of Phil the Greek's Sandringham pheasant shoots."

  Fielder growled his assent. "The whole rotten bloody stone wants turning over, that's for sure. What a story! There really is some nasty little dirty tricks outfit hiding out there. Christ, it makes 'shoot to kill' look tame! How can we allow people like that Mallalieu creature, and what's his name, Lamaison, to get away with it? I mean, murder, literally? Civil servants? The bloke, Fritz, even told me exactly how he'd killed Briggs, their own man. He said, 'record it all !' And we're supposed to be a democratic, free country? That's a bloody joke. It's sensational. If people only knew half...." There was a loud 'snap' as the tape-recorder finished its winding back. The following silence hung loud in the room.

  Finally Robertson shuffled the papers together. "Right, Mike, let's just clear this up." The light on his telephone flicked on and off, and he pressed a button to divert the call. 'You met a bloke in a hotel bar in Pakistan. He tells you he's an ex-SAS officer now working for a dodgy insurance firm that he reckons is an MI6 cover job." He lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling.

  “The guy claims that he’s the man who topped Lord Isaac Roberts, in the famous shooting of the decade, on the direct instructions of Number Ten. Then he arranged a fake accident for that well-known spacer Jonno Briggs, all on the orders of some furtive little Civil Service Committee tucked away in the Treasury. A department responsible for the elimination of the Queen's enemies. Or belting strange Italians around the head to nick their notebooks. Not content with his official duties, our hero, freaky Fritz, the well known ex-SAS heavy, tells you he's privatised the mayhem business, and coyly confesses that he is in fact the darling of the tabloid press, the man we've all been looking for eighteen months, the famous Vengeance Man - but only when he can fit it in with his day job. Which just happens to be killing people on behalf of Her Majesty's Government. Like Isaac Roberts." Fielder looked taken aback. Robertson's sarcasm was notorious.

  "So our ex-SAS man decides as a recreational activity he'll, one: slice off the goolies of Spicer, your friendly neighbourhood sex-criminal; two: stick a poker into some ex-Tory MP turned City shark, who’s fiddling the Inland Revenue - and anyone else who's mug enough to invest with him. Not to mention a little sideline in blackmail. Right?"

  Fielder nodded glumly. Robertson continued, "Thus regrettably causing his sad demise - accidentally, of course," he added, with heavy irony. "And last, as his pièce de resistance, your maudlin ex-SAS drinking companion admits to being the well known public servant who knocked off the infamous Brixton three in an absent-minded moment with some home made dum-dum bullets that he's just run up on the kitchen table. Right? Is that it?"

  Fielder muttered a shocked 'yes'.

  "So then your tame- but garrulous, killer - eyeballs now swivelling in different directions doubtless, and smelling of last night's whisky - goes off to fame, glory - and according to you, certain death - on some mysterious job in the wilds of Afghanistan for HMG. Minus hi
s sentimental CD player. But he tells you. Why? Why you Mike? Do you have a sympathetic face? Or are you both just founder members of the Khyber Pass Chapter Of Alcoholics Unanimous?"

  "It wasn't like that, Bill." Fielder sounded tired.

  Robertson looked long and hard at his reporter. “Do you really believe all this drivel?”

  Fielder looked crushed. “Yes. I do. Remember, I met this bloke.” His voice suddenly sharpened. “But I met him and you didn’t. I’ve checked it out and flogged round half bloody London since I got back. Yes, I do bloody well believe it . All of it. It's all there. On the tape. Check it yourself if you’re so fussed. It all checks out. Anyway, it should sell a lot of papers. It's a good story. You know it is."

  Robertson nodded absently. Of course, Fielder was right. A story like this could sell a lot of copies of the paper, given a bit of a puff, and lots of hype. Couple of prime time TV ads… God knows the comic needed more publicity at present. Marketing was the name of the game today. And it was a good story. Better than that -- it could be a sensational story. Oh yes. A story like this had legs.

  Eventually he spoke. "Do you know what I'm going to do, Mike? I'm going to give you a bonus. A big, fat bonus for a fine piece of reporting. I'm even going to give that second-rate feature piece of yours on the 'Plight of the Afghan Refugees' - which is why we really sent you there in the first place , if you can remember that far back- a centre page feature, which is a damn sight more than it deserves."

  The reporter glowered. “But you're not going to publish my story about Fritz - Wright?"

  "That's right. I'm not going to print it. It's spiked. And do you know why?"

  Fielder shook his head, crushed. His silent resentment smouldered.

  "Because I think it's true. I believe it. "

  Fielder looked up, startled.

  “Oh, yes Mike," said the News Editor, nodding emphatically. "I think it's true. Every bloody word. So why ain't we going to print it? Because for a start we'd have an official Number Ten Defence Advisory Notice slapped on us so fast our feet wouldn't touch the ground. And then, in about two days' time you'd get knocked off that silly wee motorcycle of yours and get squashed flat by some taxi or other, or something like that on the way home from work. All a total accident, of course."

  He dragged hard on his cigarette and blew smoke out contemptuously. "No connection. Pure chance. The taxi driver might even go to nick for it." He corrected himself quietly, "No, these guys would make certain the taxi driver went to jail for it."

  Robertson cocked his head on one side and stared at his reporter. "Can't you see that you're mixing with the big league now? You’ve stumbled onto a big operation here, can’t you see? Look, these bastards are obviously hard enough to screw down their own tame SAS man and shop him to the Taliban or the Chinese or anyone else to get rid of him. Do you think they'd stop at you? They'd make mincemeat of you. Do you want to end up like Jonno Briggs?" Fielder shook his head. "Look, son, tell yourself I'm doing you a favour. 'Cos I am ... "

  He ran his hand through his thinning hair and looked at the younger man.

  "Don't sulk, Mike. And don't go around looking for cheap exposures in the fringe mags, either. If this turns up in the 'Eye' you're dead. Probably literally. Why do you think Tom Hemming's staying schtumm? Don't you think he smelled a bloody good story over Briggs? He’s no fool and a greedy, conniving bastard at the best of times. But even he's keeping quiet because he knows the score. He's been warned off. And he’ll go on staying quiet for a long time. That's the way it is, and if it's good enough for Hemming - and it's his specialist field - then it's good enough for you. And me."

  Fielder shook his head, eyes on his shoes. "No, no," he muttered. "You can't ditch the best story I've ever got ... You can't."

  "Why? Because you want to expose them? Is that it?"

  "Of course,.." started Fielder.

  Why?" asked Robertson. "You won’t win. They'll deny it. In a heart beat. And they can prove you're wrong: yes they can. They can prove it. And they will. They’ll wreck whatever reputation you have; leak stories about you. Blacken your name. Probably come round and arrest you for having kiddy pornography downloaded onto your computer…”

  Fielder gasped and coloured. “That’s a bloody lie! I’d never do stuff like that. You know I wouldn’t. There’s never been anything like that on my computer…”

  “Oh, I’m sure there isn’t. But by the time these boyos have finished with you there would be, believe me.” Robertson looked grim. “They’d fit you up in a heartbeat and have you all over the Sun before you’d even called your lawyer. You’d not be the first, take my word for it. And even if you proved innocent eventually, the damage is done. I’d be forced to suspend you.” He crunched his cigarette out venomously.

  “Oh I can just see the cosy chat round at Downing Street. The quick couple of discreet words with the Proprietor, at some Number Ten cocktail party. And after that you’d probably never work again, except for the Chipping Sodbury Clarion and Bugle. Can’t you just hear it?, ‘Oh, that’s Fielder the child pornography fellow - you remember… There’s no smoke without fire’, etcetera.” He looked grim. “These boyos’ll fix you laddie, don’t be in any doubt.”

  Fielder sat stunned.

  Robertson went on, “Be your age, Mike. These guys are big, whoever is doing this. This is government. Just look at all the trouble they've gone to already. All the time and money they’ve invested in this. The flat, the girlfriend, the company. The removals, the Foreign Office pair in the flat, Mallalieu, whatever his name is.... Don't you see? This is a very big, very thorough, very expensive cover up. It's been well organised. They'll say we've made it all up, and you won't be able to prove otherwise. They'll all lie - even the girlfriend, if what you say is true. 'Cos she'll be praying lover boy's coming back if she's a good girl..... It’ll be your word against half a dozen solid citizens, all of whom have already been bought off. Or scared off. Oh, it's good, " he mused. "It's been well done, from what you say ..."

  "And then you'll have an accident - or one of your family will, Mike..." Fielder looked up sharply. "Oh yes, my friend. You're in the big league now. This isn't the bloody Kent Messenger or wherever else it was you started . "

  Fielder was shaking his head in shock and indignation, "They wouldn't dare.... They can't. It's wrong!", he choked with anger,

  Robertson pulled a face. "Oh, c'mon now. Be your age, Mike," said Robertson. "Stop behaving like some adolescent who's just discovered masturbation, morality and Playboy magazine. Do you think that there's no need for this sort of thing? Do you think that any state in any age has got by without a little bit of muscle up some dark alley? It's got to be done, Mike, whether you like it or not. And bursting into print to tell all those miserable commuters on the 8.15 what's going on their behalf isn't going to make the great British taxpayer feel any happier; or make Whitehall’s Private Finance Initiative special goon squad disappear overnight. Believe you me. It'll just drive it even further underground." Fielder was looking up, startled.

  “Of course a bit of killing, a bit of the heavy stuff goes on. Even in Whitehall. From time to time. All governments have to do it. Kill the occasional problem off. Don't you think that the Drug Barons and the CIA and the anti-terrorist organisations use it? They're at it - all the time. How does Mossad fight Hamas? By playing Mr Nice Guy? How do you track and trap international terrorists, eh? How would you fight them, Mike? By throwing down your arms and parading your liberal conscience? Do you really believe that Liberty, the law courts and the concerned leaders in the Guardian are really going to protect the country, Mike? 'Tough on the causes of crime?' Bollocks. D'you reckon that a few daft political slogans are going to change the way the world really works? Eh?"

  He didn't wait for an answer. "I'll tell you how. You get yourself a small, rather nasty, gang of dirty tricks goons, a defensive squad mind you, with your own tame psychos and heavies tucked away in the background, protecting all those nice wee folk on
the 8.15. And you never, ever tell them. You know why?"

  Fielder shook his head.

  "Because you don't want to put the voters off their breakfasts. Because you don't want to shatter their cosy little commuter worlds. They’ve got enough to worry about. Austerity, cuts, mortgages, stuff like that. Because we like to pretend everyone abides by some rule of law as we tut tut over the latest revelation in the caring press. And when it goes wrong sometimes - like with your drunken lunatic in Pakistan or wherever - then you quietly sort it out. Deny it. Tuck the problem away. And sometimes that gets a wee bit messy."

  He sat forward and fixed Fielder with a stare. "Have you ever been in an abattoir, Mike?" Again Fielder shook his head, and muttered 'No'

  "Well, I have, and I'll tell you this; that's a bit messy, too. It put me off my chops for a week. But I got over it, and I still eat meat. Beef, BSE an' all. And now I accept the fact that some poor bastard has to work in a slaughter house up to his arse in blood and giblets so that you and I can enjoy a cosy steak dinner once in a while when we take the missus out on a Saturday night. That's what it's like out there, laddie. Some people have to work in the bloody abattoir, so that people like you and me can enjoy our chops in peace. You and I, " he corrected himself, absently.

  "I don't like it any more than you do Mike, but I'm old enough to realise that there's a need for it, just like I accept there's a need for coppers. Bent, bastards, or otherwise. And funnies. And spooks. Just don't ask me to be one. They're all bloody wolves and vultures. Believe me: I know."

  There was a long pause.

  "It's the way of the world, laddy." Robertson looked at Fielder almost gently. "Look - has anyone come knocking on your door at three o'clock in the morning because of this? Or on Hemming's?"

  "Of course not," began Fielder.