by Alan Judd
He took another phone from his pocket. ‘Eight o’clock,’ he said into it, and put it back. He took hold of her wrist again and pulled her to her feet. ‘We’re going home now, back to the bunker. A little primitive, these wartime bunkers, but well hidden. It won’t be for long. You’ll be out in time to meet him.’
Charles put down his phone. He was at the desk in the study at Jeremy Wheeler’s house in Battle. There was only one chair and Jeremy leant ostentatiously against the windowsill, arms folded, his gaze fixed on a hunting print. Charles looked again at Jeremy’s laptop.
Sarah’s call had cut Jeremy off in mid-sentence. ‘As I was saying, I don’t accept it’s my fault,’ he resumed. ‘Firstly, I had no way of knowing that Toast was Tew. Secondly, I had no way of knowing that he could use my computer as a Trojan horse. Thirdly, it’s not my fault if government systems are so poorly designed that once someone gets on the inside track they can get everywhere. It’s clearly something the ISC—’
‘You should have returned the computer when you resigned.’ Charles spoke while staring at the screen, which was showing the daily briefing for the ISC.
‘No-one asked me.’
‘And you should never have used it for non-official business.’
‘That was never made clear, I—’
He paused as Wendy passed the open door, her heels clicking on the parquet floor and her gaze resolutely straight ahead. The front door opened and closed with a bang. ‘She’s like that all the time now.’
‘That was Sarah on the phone.’
‘Doesn’t seem to feel any guilt at all about knocking off your friend Klein whenever my back was turned.’
‘May I use your landline?’
‘Of course, if you’d let me know who he really was I might have been able to look after him, help out a bit. Then she might not have—’
‘What’s Katya’s mobile?’
‘Katya? What do you want—’
‘Just the number.’
Jeremy bristled with further questions but Charles’s tone silenced him. He gave the number.
Katya sounded harassed. ‘Jeremy, I am sorry, I cannot speak now, I am—’
‘Katya, it’s Charles Thoroughgood. Have you an answer for me?’
There was silence, then, falteringly, ‘Oh, Mr Thoroughgood, Mr Mayakovsky—’
‘Tell Mr Mayakovsky you have two hours from now. Otherwise you’re out.’ He cut her off and dialled again before Jeremy could resume. Tim Corke’s secretary said Tim was in a meeting. Charles told her Sarah’s mobile number had been used in the last ten minutes, probably in Sussex or Kent, and asked for location. His own mobile on the desk before him showed messages from Angela Wilson and Michael Dunton.
Jeremy moved away from the window. ‘While you’re faffing around here I suppose I’d better see what I can do about saving my marriage.’
Charles picked up his own phone. ‘But she’s just gone out.’
‘I know that. I might go and get some flowers or something.’
‘D’you want to save it? You’ve got Katya, haven’t you?’
‘Not if you have your way, by the sounds of it.’
‘I can’t kick her out. You know I can’t. It’s all bluff.’
‘Anyway, it would look bad in the constituency. Also, after all this’ – he waved his hand – ‘and with her being Russian and whatever, I’d be off the ISC, wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t look good. An embarrassment to the government.’
‘Sounds like the whole flower shop, then.’
Jeremy snorted. ‘Don’t see why. She’s as much at fault as me. More than. Been going on a year or more, whereas Katya and I, we – you know – were still only talking about it, really.’
He was suddenly a schoolboy, fat, crestfallen and puzzled. Katya had clearly played him along, never quite giving him what he wanted. Perhaps nobody ever had apart from Wendy, at first. There wouldn’t be any more of that now. Charles was surprised to feel a spasm of sympathy. The past was a bond; knowing each other over decades, even though they had never been close, created a hinterland of acceptance, if not always forgiveness. Self-important, unaware, unappealing, pompous and naïve though Jeremy was, he had no malice, was too sorry for himself to hate others, only ever wanted to be part of it all, whatever the ‘it’ was. As had Peter Tew. And Charles himself, perhaps. But Jeremy was not vengeful.
‘What about some coffee?’ said Charles. ‘I’ve got a couple more calls to make. Then there’s something you can do to help, if you want. Leave the flowers till you’re talking to each other again.’
The messages from Angela and Michael were essentially the same, Angela’s the more peremptory: where was he? The police were looking for him, protection was ready but they couldn’t find him. His office didn’t know where he was. Would he please get in touch. Charles put down his phone and picked up Jeremy’s landline again, dialling DI Whitely.
‘Any news?’
‘Nothing much.” She sounded flat. ‘He was in his shop when I swung by this morning. Been trying to get a mobile team on to him but there’s quite a bit going on today, big drugs push, and I daren’t raise it again without the super wanting to know more. I’ve been sort of half-promised a team for a couple of hours later, depending how things go. Thought I might go up there myself, depending what you think, though it’s not an easy area to hang around in. He had a call this afternoon.’
‘Who from?’
‘Hang on, made a note of it somewhere. Couldn’t get him on live monitoring, as I think I said, but he’s on instant call-check read-out. Here we are. Incoming call, three seconds. Not a very chatty lot, are they? From a mobile.’
He noted the number. ‘Someone needs to be on him now. How soon can you get up there?’
‘Ten minutes. But I can’t stay for ever. I’ve got to pick up from the childminder’s. Want me to check that number?’
‘I’ll get it done from here. Get up there as soon as you can and stay as long as you can. Let me know before you leave. I’ll try to find someone to take over.’
He left the number with Tim Corke’s secretary for urgent checking, then rang George Greene’s office. George was in the House and couldn’t be disturbed.
‘Milk and sugar?’ called Jeremy from the kitchen.
‘Just milk, please.’ He rang George’s parliamentary secretary, who said he was in her office drinking whisky with his constituency chairman. George came to the phone laughing.
‘Charles, what can I do for you? How’s it going?’ Charles told him what he proposed. ‘Jesus Christ, going out on a limb a bit, aren’t you? Why not wait for the police?’
‘He’ll be looking for tricks like that, he knows the territory he’s chosen and he knows the way we work. The slightest hint of company and he’ll kill her, then me. I know Peter, he’s dedicated to whatever he does. And we can’t expect the police to mount a decent stakeout on unfamiliar ground with no notice. No-one could guarantee that. The only thing is for me to go unaccompanied, make sure she’s released, then keep him talking.’
‘Until he shoots you. Great idea.’
‘Just wanted you to know, George, you don’t have to approve. If it all goes wrong, say you ordered the opposite and I disobeyed. Also, could you get your secretary to tell Angela that I’ve got her message and will get back to her as soon as possible. She wants to imprison me in protection. Tell her what I’ve just told you if you like.’
‘When’s all this supposed to start?’
‘Now. When I put the phone down. No good thinking about intervention.’
There was a pause. ‘I can’t stop you, then?’
‘No. Have it in writing if you want.’
‘You’re off your head, old son. Good luck.’
Jeremy returned with two mugs. ‘No milk. Well, no proper cow’s milk, only that red-topped stuff she has with her gnat’s pee tea. Seems to have gone on strike, domestically.’
‘There’s something you can help with.’
‘Probably gallons o
f real milk in Klein’s fridge. I bet she kept him well supplied.’
‘Something that might redeem you in the eyes of the ISC after the scandal of your computer misuse. If it works.’
18
The cottage smelt damp. There was no time to light a fire. Charles spread his Ordnance Survey map on the table and followed Peter Tew’s directions. It told him more than his phone could. The grid reference was a small building – Peter had mentioned a barn – in a field about three-quarters of a mile from where he had to leave his car. No doubt the site was selected so that Peter could watch him in and check that he was unaccompanied. The stated time – less than two hours away now – would leave no time to insert surveillance in advance. As for where Peter was holding her, the barn was surely too obvious; more likely it was simply for the hand-over. She would be held somewhere nearby, within reach on foot. The barn and its fields were surrounded by hundreds of acres of woodland. He had no idea why Peter had chosen Sussex, unless it was because it was near his hitman, Michael Swavey. Knowing Peter, it would have been carefully worked out.
His phone vibrated on the table, the screen proclaiming ‘Unknown number’. At first there was silence, then a foreign male voice said in careful, heavily accented English, ‘Mr Thoroughgood, it is a pleasure to speak with you. We believe you are seeking the location of a special computer. I am happy to tell you that it was last turned on at 15.37 your time. I shall give the location on your English map.’ He read out a grid reference. ‘It was turned off at 15.41. We wish you luck and look forward to receiving our part of the agreement.’
Charles noted the grid reference. ‘Thank you, I hope I shall be able to deliver but I cannot promise. That’s not Mr Mayakovsky, is it?’
There was a pause and what might have been a chuckle. ‘No, Mr Thoroughgood, it is not. Goodbye.’
The grid reference was the middle of a wood across the valley from the barn, about equidistant from where Charles was to park. There were no buildings or paths marked. For once he regretted the lack of a computer, though Google Earth would have told him less than the map. Perhaps Peter was based in the barn after all and simply went into the wood to use his computer, except that the footpath near the barn would make it an unsafe hide.
He rang Tim Corke again. This time the secretary put him through, saying, ‘He was about to ring you anyway. He has news.’
‘Charles, where are you?
‘Sussex.’
‘The phone that made the three-second call you enquired about made it from Sussex but we didn’t have it on tap so couldn’t say precisely where from or what was said. But there’s since been another call and now we can. Got a pen and paper?’ The grid reference was the one Charles had just received from the unknown Russian. ‘Want to know what was said in the second call? I’m breaking all the rules, of course. Doesn’t mean much here but it might to you. There were no names. Caller says, “Just to confirm, the barn at eight. But you need to be in position well before.” Distant: “With my gear?” Caller: “With your gear. But use it only if we’re interrupted while I’m talking to him.” Distant: “Which one first?” Pause. Caller: “Him, then her.” Distant: “What if they get you? How do I collect?” Caller: “Collect from the bunker. It’s here now.” Ends. Make sense?
‘Sounds as if you need protection after all. I’m going to have to pass this on, you realise that? It’s a police matter, I can’t withhold information about serious crime.’
‘Protection is trying to find me now.’
‘You’re not waiting? You’re going ahead alone?’
‘Not entirely.’
He next rang DI Whitely. ‘Where are you?’
‘Down the road from his place, in my own car. No movement.’ She spoke softly.
‘I think there soon will be. Heading out towards the country, Ashburnham area. Are you able to go with him? I’m sending someone to join you who’ll take over when you have to get to the childminder’s.’
‘I’ll see if they can have her for the evening. They’ve done it before in emergencies but I don’t like to push it.’ She paused. ‘Hang on, there’s movement. He’s coming out. I’d better go.’
Charles next went to the cupboard under the stairs where he had hidden the guns he brought down from London. It was not secure – the police would seize them if they knew – but it would have to do. He didn’t shoot regularly any more but always assumed he would in some imagined leisurely future.
He laid all five carefully on the dining-room floor. He still hadn’t admitted to himself that he had decided to go armed – a serious and illegal escalation which at the very least would cost him his firearm certificate– but knew he would. Choice of weapon depended on which circumstances he thought he’d face. The two shotguns were ideal for close-quarters work, one to one, but too indiscriminate if he were trying to shoot Peter without hitting Sarah. The .22, with telescopic sights and silencer, would be fine for distance work but that was unlikely in a wood and anyway he’d need to be sure of hitting a vital organ to stop someone. He hesitated over the Savage, a useful .22 and .410 rifle-shotgun combination, something of a favourite. But he chose the last, the Winchester 30-30, his father’s quixotic purchase, justified by the alleged need to cull muntjac in the Chilterns but never, so far as Charles knew, used in anger.
Until now, perhaps. He worked the under-lever action familiar to viewers of a thousand ancient Westerns. It was a compact weapon and although over open sites he wouldn’t trust himself at more than eighty to a hundred yards, it fired a heavy enough round to ensure that what it hit stayed hit. Bush guns, they were called in America, ideal for close country. He remembered an idle day on leave from the army, knocking the tops off old iron fence posts with it until his mother protested at the noise. Like much of the past, it seemed so innocent. Especially now, as he also remembered showing the gun to Peter during that weekend.
He loaded four rounds, pushing each into the magazine with the snub nose of the next. The mechanism reminded him of Dante’s medieval popes in hell, crammed one on top of the other for – what was it – simony? Thinking of other things was a refuge, he knew. If he stopped to think about what he was doing – a semi-public official taking the law into his own hands, going to kill or be killed by an old friend, hazarding his wife’s life without waiting for the help that was on its way – he would not act. But waiting meant leaving responsibility to someone else, another form of refuge. The only alternative would be to go naked into Peter Tew’s trap, hands in the air, agreeing to anything, including his own immediate extinction, provided he saw her walk free.
So why didn’t he? The question hovered unanswered as he wrapped the Winchester in a sleeping bag and laid it on the floor of the Bristol.
DI Whitely followed Michael Swavesy’s white van into the industrial estate. There was enough traffic for her to keep two or three cars between him and her Corsa, also enough to keep him from pulling out of sight. But in the estate she had to let him go when he turned off towards the garages behind the tower blocks. It would be too obvious to follow, especially as there was no clear way out. She turned round farther down the road and parked outside a car parts business, facing the way they had come. Her phone rang while she was still debating whether she had enough things with her, ideally a bag she could bulk out, to pass as a woman from the tower blocks walking past the garages with her shopping.
It was Charles Thoroughgood. ‘Where are you?’
She told him.
‘Okay. I’m in my car, parked up, not far from where I think he’s going. Have you got a map?’
‘I’ve got a phone.’
‘I don’t know whether grid references are any help but I’ll give it to you anyway.’ He described what he thought she would see on her phone. ‘It’s a barn by itself in the corner of a small field, with the footpath branching off and running right past it. You have to go through some woods to get to it. I think he said it was thatched. I’m pretty sure that’s where your quarry is headed but I’m not sure whet
her he’ll hide himself in the barn or stake it out. He’s almost certainly armed. Don’t go near him, just do enough to confirm he’s in the area.’
‘Is the armed response unit on its way? Do they know about it?’
‘They’ll have been told and may be on their way but they’ll almost certainly be too late. Any worries, pull back. It’s not worth risking your life. As I said, I’m sending a former colleague to help you. He’s local so he knows the area but it’s a long time since he did anything like this and he was never much good at it anyway. But he’s another pair of eyes and has his own vehicle which your quarry won’t have seen. I’ve told him you’re in charge so don’t take any nonsense and if he’s no use, send him home. He’s waiting to hear from you.’ He gave her Jeremy’s name and mobile. ‘As I said, Louise, don’t take any chances. If in doubt, drop out.’
She appreciated his use of her first name and smiled despite herself. This was better than recording burglaries and break-ins that were never going to be cleared up. ‘You’ll square this with my super, will you?’
‘The Foreign Secretary knows about it. The Home Secretary soon will.’