A Blind Man's War

by David Fiddimore

  ‘Where am I going?’ Doris asked him.

  ‘Edinburgh. There’s an American consul there. If he bats for you you’ll be on your way – free as a bird. If not they’ll lock you up in the castle, and fling the key away.’

  ‘George?’

  ‘Mr Handel? He’s handcuffed to a bed in the cottage hospital. Important people coming down from Glasgow to see him – my chief constable won’t like that.’ He probably wondered why the words made us smile.

  ‘Chris whatever’s-his-name? If that was his name.’

  ‘Crawling all over Sheildaig’s hill with a bomb disposal squad and some scientists from AWRE, happy as the day is long – he’ll probably get a reward.’

  ‘And Charlie?’

  ‘I’ve to put him on a train, with an escort to keep him straight . . . all the way to London. Somebody wants to talk to him.’

  ‘Fabian of the bleeding Yard,’ I muttered gloomily.

  ‘No,’ Alex said. ‘Not as it happens. Mr Fabian has been outbid. An English twit from the Foreign Office has exercised some obscure privilege, and has first shout on you.’ Then he asked, ‘Where’s the money, by the way? I spoke to Mr Fabian and he was very keen on the money.’

  I opened my mouth, but Doris got there first.

  ‘We don’t know. George must have it. He took it away from me when he came here.’

  Alex pushed his chair away from the table. He gave her the old eye lock.

  ‘Last night Charlie told me not to believe a word you said.’

  She held her room key up to him, and let it swing from side to side.

  ‘You can search my things if you like.’

  He shook his head, but took it. Then he held out his hand for mine. After he left us I leaned over the table to Doris and hissed, ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In one of the boats on the shingle, under a thwart, under a cover. Don’t worry, honey, he won’t find it. I took enough out to pay off the Galbraiths and you. I’ll smuggle the rest back into my stuff before we leave. They won’t search me twice.’ Where had I found a girl who could suddenly use words like thwart?

  ‘What else haven’t you told me, Doris?’

  ‘Anything actually, honey – not even my name.’

  There didn’t seem to be anything to say to that, so I stood up.

  ‘I think I’ll just go for a short walk, and smoke a pipe or two.’

  ‘OK, hon, but stay away from the boats until I tell you . . . or I’ll drop ya.’

  You need a short walk and a couple of pipes to accustom yourself to the idea that you’ve been had over. I’d been guarding against entirely the wrong person for the last week. I had been so concerned about George the maniac, that I’d failed to notice Doris the mobster in my arms. My father would like this story, and laugh at it. I’ll rephrase that: he’d laugh at me.

  We took the back seats in the Land Rover. Alex sat alongside his driver up front. Doris shivered and thrust a hand into my flying jacket pocket to keep it warm. She said, ‘They didn’t build these buggies for comfort, did they, hon?’

  ‘They built them because we were giving too much of our money to America in exchange for Jeeps.’

  ‘I’m going to lean against you and close my eyes, is that all right? It’s the only way I don’t get carsick.’

  ‘Sure.’ I smelt her hair. If smells have colour her hair smelt a chocolatey brown. Rich and very sweet. I wondered if I’d ever smell it up close again. When she withdrew her hand from my pocket I knew I wouldn’t. She’d left a flat lumpish packet in there – I’d been paid off. Doris was cute. Yeah: the way the Yanks use the word. She gave me a kiss on the police station steps when we said goodbye. She kissed me on the lips, but it wasn’t a soul sucker. Alex looked away embarrassed.

  As I went to get back into the Land Rover for the trip to the railway station Alex pulled me aside and said, ‘You’ve got a pistol in your pocket, Charlie, and a box of bullets in your kit. I found them when I searched your room. Have you got a licence for them?’

  ‘You know I haven’t.’

  ‘Then bloody well get rid of them as soon as you can. I don’t want to arrest you for something as silly as that!’

  Yeah. Alex was my pal again, and I supposed that one good turn deserved another. I shook his hand.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a great hairy policewoman hiding in your police station by any chance, have you?’

  ‘We call them police offices up here, Charlie, and yes, we have. How did you guess? Her knuckles drag along the ground as she walks, and we try not to let her out without her trainer. Why?’

  ‘You’re being very unkind. I could report you to the animal protection squad.’ I waited for a nine-beat intro – Jelly Roll Morton’s ‘Ballin’ the Jack’ – gave him the innocent wide-eyed look, and asked, ‘I suppose you still want all that money back?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know where it is?’

  ‘I’d find an excuse for your feral colleague to body-search Little Annie Oakley, and turn over her bags again . . . before you let her get away. You never know, you might get lucky.’

  Alex nodded at me. Slowly. He got the message. Doris was at the top of the steps to rather an impressive old building behind us. My voice was low, so she was more or less out of earshot. She smiled and waved. She was a touch of the exotic in this austere town. I smiled and waved back, and climbed into the wagon. I felt a lot better after that.

  The young detective who accompanied me to London was named Angus. Actually it wasn’t. It was something like Aonghas. He said it was the Gaelic for Angus. We had seats in an otherwise empty First Class smoker – coppers don’t sit with the plebs unless they’re sitting on top, knocking the shit out of them. As soon as we had crossed the border into England he produced copies of an American magazine with nearly naked girls on the cover, and a packet of Vantage cigarettes. He offered me one, which I declined.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll stick with my pipe if you don’t mind. I like fags, but I smoke too many once I get going. Where did you find those things?’

  ‘There’s a specialist tobacconist in Glasgow, just off George Square. He sends them to me. I think I first bought them because of the advertisements in this sinful magazine.’

  He showed me one: a miniature naked Vargas girl with tanning marks sat on the side of a cigarette packet, with another between her legs. It wasn’t exactly a subtle message.

  I asked, ‘Do you genuinely believe in sin?’

  ‘It’s what I do, isn’t it, Mr Bassett? People commit sins we call crimes, and I detect the sinners and lock them up. Nothing like a bit of friendly sin to sell a few newspapers.’

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing you waited until we were in England before you opened your comics.’

  He gave me a very straight look, and lifted his nose in disdain. Hundreds of years ago John Knox taught the Scots how to do that, and then they patented it.

  ‘It’s smut, Mr Bassett, dirty smut. We don’t approve of smut in Scotland. Would you care for a dram?’ He’d produced a half-bottle of Red Label from another of his capacious raincoat pockets.

  ‘Why not? Don’t mind if I do. You can call me Charlie, by the way.’

  He magicked into existence two shot glasses to go with the whisky: he must once have been a Boy Scout. We drank the bottle inside half an hour, and I fell asleep. I don’t know what Angus did; probably went looking for more girlie magazines. I awoke when we were an hour from London. Angus was still giving me the look. He observed, ‘You talk in your sleep. Did you know that?’

  ‘What was I saying?’

  ‘Something about AWRE. People aren’t supposed to talk about that, it’s secret. The Atomic Weapons Research Establishment at Aldermaston, right? I should report what you said.’

  ‘And I should report your pockets full of dirty mags, and that you drink on duty. Don’t be such a twit, Angus. Lighten up a bit. We’re nearly at London. Sin City Central – you’ll love it. I can give you the name of a wonderful pub on the Old Kent Road that has strip
tease dancing at lunchtime.’

  There was a long pause. A tune started to bounce around between my ears. Hoagy Carmichael was doing ‘My Resistance is Low’. Anyway, old Angus perked up.

  ‘Lunchtime, you said? That’s very decadent.’ Ah, well; he smiled in anticipation the rest of the way to Euston. A man, I thought, at peace with his right hand. I couldn’t wait to get rid of him.

  Chapter Seven

  Where the Hell is Loughborough?

  ‘Nice temperature at this time of year,’ CB told me. ‘Tight little island. Drink’s cheap, women and whisky galore.’

  ‘It’s on, then?’

  ‘Of course it’s on. Always was. Abernethy?’

  We were in a small British Railways office looking down over the platforms, talking about Cyprus. He’d met me from the train, and signed for me as if I was a parcel. Commuters were forming orderly queues at the barriers. Why do we do that? Most of the trains were late.

  ‘Can you just do this?’ I asked him. ‘Take over someone else’s office? What do you do, wave a wand?’

  ‘Ask my brother usually. He’s the station superintendent. They don’t have stationmasters any more. Pity.’ He dipped his biscuit in his tea, lifting it out just before it disintegrated. It was something to do with the way he’d lifted his elbow; I’d seen that before. I said, ‘I know you.’

  ‘Of course you do. We chatted a couple of times a couple of weeks ago. Can’t you remember?’

  ‘No. I mean I’ve met you before that. Germany 1948.’

  He gave me his cheesy smile.

  ‘Possibly, old boy. I got caught for National Service just like the rest of them. I spent eighteen months in Germany.’

  ‘You were an intelligence officer in the RAF.’

  ‘No, I was a cook. Army Catering Corps. Came out a stone heavier than when I went in.’

  ‘You had a pencil moustache, and wore tweeds.’

  ‘Hardly, old boy. You must be mistaking me for someone else. Not surprising – there were a lot of us about out there. I have enough cousins and brothers to form two cricket teams. We do, actually, most summers. Sure you don’t want a biscuit?’

  I shook my head. He thought that meant no. It also meant that I didn’t believe him. I had stumbled into the hall of mirrors his kind inhabited years ago, and had never managed to completely find my way out.

  I asked him, ‘Do you know what I’ve been doing for the last week?’

  ‘A little birdie told me, yes.’

  ‘Do you know more about the Americans I was with than I do?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Who were they working for?’

  ‘Handel was working for himself. Civilian contractor – just like you will be when you get to Cyprus. Didn’t he tell you that?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t believe him.’

  ‘There you go, Charlie. Appearances can be deceptive. We’ll hold him until he’s hopping about a bit more handily, and providing he cooperates we’ll deport him.’

  ‘And the woman?’ I hoped my face wouldn’t give anything away.

  ‘State Department. She’s a Hoover.’

  ‘She’s in the FBI?’ J. Edgar Hoover. Even I had heard of him.

  ‘No, a Hoover. She is a state department vacuum cleaner – she vacuums up diplomatic messes before they embarrass anyone. Very intelligent girl by all accounts, although she messed it up this time. She was running George. He didn’t know that, and was very offended when we told him.’

  ‘So, she’s in the clear. She said she probably had diplomatic immunity.’

  ‘She may have, but not yet. She’s sitting in a cell at Fort William in nothing but a prison gown – because her own clothes are material evidence – just about to be charged with money smuggling by the local PF. Wonderful to-do. There’s already all hell to pay – the transatlantic telephone lines are red hot.’

  ‘Will she be tried?’

  ‘Of course not, old boy. We’ll give her back in a month or so, and promise to keep the story quiet . . . after they’ve done us a considerable favour or two.’

  ‘And me?’

  He leaned back, and tried to balance his teaspoon on the surface of his tea. It gave the impression of deep thought. Or psychological detachment to the point of idiocy.

  ‘You know our American cousins were never all that keen on you, don’t you? Well, they’ll positively dislike you now, won’t they, old boy? What makes it even worse is that within a couple of months they’ll hate the rest of us as well. You won’t even be able to trade on “the special relationship” to keep you out of trouble.’ I disliked the relish with which he pronounced that. It was the first I’d heard of any growing international tension: usually all we argued with the Yanks about was the price of oil, and the taxes they placed on our exports – that was after the bloody accountants had taken over in the Land of the Free, where nothing would ever be free again.

  ‘What’s about to happen to upset the apple cart?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know, old boy – they never tell me. I’ve probably said too much already.’ He looked momentarily annoyed.

  ‘You haven’t said anything.’

  ‘There you are then, old boy – nothing to report. Weren’t we talking about the American girl who ended up in clink in the Highlands somewhere? Apparently she blames you for her predicament, and doesn’t use your name without attaching several colourful and imaginative expletives. She thinks you took advantage of her, and says you done her wrong.’ He was quoting from either ‘Frankie and Johnny’ or ‘Miss Otis Regrets’. They were popular songs – you could hear them on the radio all the time. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the Yanks even sent some people over to teach you a lesson. They’re a simple but unforgiving race.’

  ‘Will you protect me?’

  ‘Why should we? We didn’t ask you to go carousing around the glens looking for an illegal and inefficient weapon.’

  ‘So what do you suggest I do?’

  ‘I suggest that there are very few Americans on Cyprus at this time of year . . . and those that are, are squarely in our sights. So how about it, old boy?’

  His old boys were beginning to get on my nerves. Before we got down to business I asked him, ‘I don’t suppose she was related to the pilot of that crashed plane?’

  His smile could have meant anything.

  ‘I don’t suppose she was, either. More tea?’

  I went back to Green’s Hotel and booked in. It was Ozzie’s night off, and he agreed to come out on the skite. His wife said he didn’t get out enough, so it would do him good. They don’t make wives like that any more. We ended up three sheets to the wind in a small club off Soho Square. The dancing girls were uniformly beautiful – young actresses looking for the first step up the ladder. Three fat guys from the film business sat at the next table, and discussed them as if they were meat. Ozzie wanted to thrash them, but I held him down. It was the way of the world these days. It made me think of the Americans again, and the American way of life – how long would it take for the Yanks to realize that it wouldn’t necessarily suit the rest of us?

  I treated Fabian to lunch in the Savoy Grill. I was rather taken with the place. It was pricey of course, but not that pricey. They could do you a decent lunch for seven quid, and a bottle of house red for thirty bob. We were greeted by a black jacket who took the inspector’s raincoat, and asked him, ‘Your usual table, sir? It hasn’t been booked today.’

  Fabian nodded, and smiled.

  ‘Thank you, Michel.’ After we had been seated – a small table overlooking the area of Savoy Yard in which the taxis turned – he told me, ‘He’s not French, of course. He came into the world as Michael . . . in Camberley.’

  We took the menu à choix, and Fabian chose the wine. He didn’t make a pig of himself. When he asked, bluntly, ‘What is it you wanted?’ I was taken a little by surprise and replied too loudly.

  ‘To make sure I wasn’t still in the shit before I go abroad again.’ Then I realized where I was, and looked
round hurriedly, hoping no one had overheard. The woman at the next table had. She smiled at my discomfort, but it was a big sort of smile that suited her big hair, which fell below her shoulders in glorious auburn waves. It was a film star’s smile that forgave and included you at the same time. She was very beautiful; I’m sure you’ve seen some of her movies. I’d have to tell Dieter about her as soon as I met him. Fabian smiled too.

  ‘I understand you’re in the clear. You seem to specialize in that, don’t you? Not that I know anything, of course, I’m retired these days.’

  ‘Of course you are, Inspector. Can you recommend the fish?’

  ‘Not as good as the fish in Cyprus.’ Then he winked.

  Bollocks.

  I had phoned Dieter before I boarded the rattler down to the south coast. He asked if he could meet me at the station.

  When we met the first thing he said, smiling, was, ‘You’ve lost your new girlfriend, haven’t you, Dad? It’s written all over your face.’ I hate smart-arses.

  The first thing I said to him was, ‘When you said you wanted to meet me, I didn’t expect you to be doing the driving.’

  He’d driven into the station forecourt at Chichester in a green pre-war Hillman Tourer. He’d parked it too far away for me to see who was in the front passenger seat. He hadn’t L-plates up, but that wasn’t surprising – he wasn’t seventeen yet, and he couldn’t legally drive. He said, ‘I wanted to surprise you. I bought it from a man in the yacht club for twenty-five pounds. Mrs Valentine is teaching me to drive.’

  What else is she teaching you? I thought, but all I said was, ‘Hmm.’ He knew that I wouldn’t have him lose face by delivering a bollocking in front of his passenger, even though he deserved one.

  ‘Where did you get the cash?’

  ‘Working in the bar, washing glasses for the Major.’ He wasn’t officially old enough to do that either.