The Convenience of Lies

by Geoffrey Seed

  Benwick registered this new snout as Auric because his information was ‘…as good as gold’. Auric told him about a young trade union official who arrived one lunchtime, very agitated. He claimed his boss had turned him into a rent boy for the pleasure of some well connected guests at private parties at a house in Clapham, south London.

  ‘And he wasn’t a rent boy before?’ McCall said.

  ‘Possibly, anyway he named two Conservative politicians who’d sexually assaulted him, one openly gay the other, a real high flyer marked out for high office, unmarried but supposedly straight.’

  ‘What was his motive for talking?’

  ‘He’d been fired after a big row over pay with his boss.’

  ‘And the union’s motive for allegedly pimping him to the MPs?’

  ‘He claimed they wanted the high flyer in their pocket, in other words to have enough on him to be able to persuade him into always seeing things the union’s way if he and the Tories came to power.’

  ‘To blackmail him? That’s quite a story if it’s true. But how do we know this young bloke wasn’t some fantasist with a persecution complex?’

  ‘Fair point but his allegations didn’t stop there. He provided information about some young girls and boys being procured for these parties, too.’

  ‘Being sexually abused by these politicians, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, and used in vile photographs and videos.’

  ‘Who were these kids?’

  ‘Most of them had troubled backgrounds, lived in care homes or lived rough so they’d been deliberately targeted for that reason and given drugs and alcohol and a few quid for their pains. If they’d complained, no one would’ve taken any notice because kids like them are seen as worthless anyway.’

  ‘But Auric believed his informant?’

  ‘He did because he signed a statement with names, dates, times and because he also agreed to talk to me - me being a lobbyist, of course.’

  ‘Did you find him a credible witness?’

  ‘That’s it - I never got to meet him face to face. He died of a heroin overdose before we could set up a meet.’

  ‘So the source was an aggrieved ex-employee, a drug user and a rent boy. Dead or alive, you must have seriously worried about his reliability as a witness.’

  ‘I would’ve agreed with you most times but he was about to bring down some mighty powerful people.’

  ‘You think his death could have been suspicious?’

  ‘His body wasn’t found for two months so whether it was an accidental overdose or murder couldn’t be established.’

  ‘So you were snookered?’

  ‘Yes but the same devious politicians who’d escaped Operation Kid Glove were still at it and I was damned if they were going to get away with it a second time.’

  ‘Not when one of them was a possible future prime minister?’

  ‘I take it that’s an educated guess?’

  ‘Nothing more,’ McCall said. ‘So you knew perfectly well who Guy Inglis was when he turned up at the reservoir with those other MPs?’

  ‘Of course… and don’t think for a minute that was a random inspection. Inglis was there to sniff out anything on our Ruby enquiry.’

  Before McCall could question him further or show him Ruby’s drawings, they both heard a noise outside. Something heavy was knocked over. Benwick motioned McCall to stay still and quiet. He went to the window with his night sights.

  ‘There’s a guy running away… and a car, no, two cars. We’ve got to move, McCall.’

  They grabbed their bags and hurried to the shed. Benwick unlocked a cabin-like structure in the corner and heaved out an off-road motorbike. McCall looked on, ever more intrigued by the extraordinary degree of Benwick’s forward planning.

  ‘Can you ride one of these things?’

  ‘Years ago I could.’

  ‘Then start remembering - and quick. My ankle isn’t up to it.’

  ‘Got everything you want out of your car?’

  ‘There’s that suitcase from the hotel in it, why?’

  Benwick didn’t reply but unscrewed the fuel cap, stuffed a rag inside and set it alight.

  ‘What the hell are you doing? That’s not my car and all my evidence is in it.’

  ‘Tough shit, McCall. Just get the bloody bike started.’

  Then he went to the door of the barn, took something like a grenade from his backpack and threw it towards the fireplace.

  ‘We’ve got thirty seconds at most.’

  McCall’s survival instincts took over. He rode the bike out into the open. Benwick clambered on the pillion. They careered onto a muddy track leading across the field to the birch woods on the far side.

  Less than half way there, an explosive flash turned night into day for two or three seconds. Chunks of car, metal and masonry were hurled into the air. A shock wave hit the motorbike and they almost keeled over. They skidded and swerved but made the cover of the trees as burning debris cascaded down around them.

  When they stopped to look back, the ruins of the barn and implement shed were engulfed in fire which was boiling into a plume of dirty black smoke. Benwick’s face had the satisfied look of a wartime saboteur. Yet again, McCall queried the wisdom of joining forces with a psychopath.

  ‘Christ, you could’ve killed those guys.’

  ‘They’d be no bloody loss.’

  ‘But they’re MI5 men. They’ll never let you get away with this now.’

  ‘You’re wrong, McCall. I am going to get away with it - and they’re not spooks.’

  ‘So who the hell are they?’

  ‘Think of them as undertakers.’

  ‘Undertakers?’

  ‘Yeah, guys who’ve been sent to bury the evidence.’

  ‘Evidence of what?’

  ‘Of what’s behind Ruby’s kidnapping. And if we don’t get going, they’ll bury us, too.’

  Thirty-Five

  That afternoon - and against medical advice - Lexie insisted on being discharged from hospital. A young junior doctor from Australia, sun-tanned and lifeguard fit, tried to talk her round.

  ‘Lexie, as ideas go, this one hasn’t got a pulse.’

  There was a time was when she wouldn’t have had such a man just sitting on her bed.

  ‘If you leave us too soon, you’ll be running a serious risk of possible complications.’

  ‘If I don’t, I’ll be running a serious risk of going nuts,’ Lexie said.

  ‘You’re suffering from a touch of post-operative depression which means you shouldn’t rush to make any decision you might regret later.’

  ‘Thanks but I can’t take the deathly atmosphere in this place anymore.’

  Hester arrived with Ruby soon after. The child seemed even more withdrawn. She crouched on the floor staring into the middle distance as if she were somewhere else and completely alone. She was still wetting the bed at Garth, too. Hester was hardly her usual tranquil self, either. It wasn’t difficult to figure out who was to blame for almost everything.

  ‘McCall can’t be up to any good,’ Hester said. ‘The police are after him and some guy who came to the house says he’s involved with some assassin. Jeez, but I’m at my wit’s end with worry about what the future holds for any of us.’

  Lexie saw her looking at Ruby as she said this. If she had any doubt about discharging herself, they disappeared then. She signed a form releasing the health service from any liability before a nurse pushed her to Hester’s van in a hospital wheelchair.

  Ruby remained locked in her private space on the drive back. Lexie tried to ignore her own discomfort and talk to her instead. She barely got a word of reply. They might have been strangers - but what else was Ruby but a child Lexie didn’t really know?

  *

  Hester’s chicken soup could heal the sick and comfort the weary. Lexie was both and sat with a bowl of it on her lap by the Aga in the comfort and warmth of Garth Hall’s old kitchen.

  Hanging from nails in the beams above w
ere bundles of herbs from Hester’s physic garden - coriander, dill, thyme, oregano - drying out and giving off a faint aroma of lemons and dried earth.

  Ruby had been drawing at the kitchen table but was now in bed. Before going, she’d fixed Lexie with her quizzical stare and said hospital had made her look different.

  ‘It’s like I told you, sweetie, I’ve had an operation,’ Lexie said. ‘Part of my tummy has been taken away so it’ll be a little while before I can feel right again.’

  ‘Babies come out of your tummy so that means you won’t have any.’

  ‘That’s right, but I’ve still got you, haven’t I?’

  Ruby didn’t react to what had just been said. She simply gave Lexie the pencil drawing she’d just finished.

  This was no mask of youth flattery but Ruby’s unforgiving take on Lexie as she’d become - face much thinner, lines more numerous, eyes darker-ringed, her hair lacking all bounce.

  ‘You’re so clever and artistic,’ Lexie said. ‘I’ll get this framed when I’m better.’

  ‘You look very old when you don’t paint your face.’

  Hester was accustomed to Ruby’s disregard for the sensitivities of others. But in Lexie’s fragile state, it could hurt. Yet that wasn’t all that was painful. She feared McCall’s continued absence seemed like a callous lack of concern for his girlfriend.

  A call Hester had made to his mobile from the phone box before supper had brought no reply. She’d wanted to tell him Lexie was home and ask again when he might be joining them.

  ‘He’s been away for five days now and I’m dreading what we’ll hear next.’

  ‘Something’s wrong, it has to be,’ Lexie said. ‘If it wasn’t, I’m sure he’d have written to us or found some other way of getting in touch.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune. You were calling him a son of a bitch a few days ago.’

  ‘I’ve had time to think since.’

  ‘So have I and McCall’s hardly behaving like a New Man, is he?’

  ‘He’ll never be that,’ Lexie said. ‘He’s more of a reconditioned sort of guy, one with several careless owners… like me, for instance.’

  As an admission of responsibility for anything, still less for screwing up McCall’s early life, this was a first for Lexie. But Hester was too tense to notice.

  ‘All I know is I’m picking up a really threatening vibe around here which I’ve never experienced before in my time at Garth.’

  Lexie could do without any New Age flim flam. She was already too uncomfortably close to the other side as it was.

  ‘I’m truly sorry the pressure’s all been on you but we’ve got to decide which is safer for us all - to stay here or go away for a time.’

  ‘What do you mean? Go where?’

  ‘I’m thinking of moving to Norfolk.’

  ‘That’s the other side of England.’

  ‘I know but my ex-husband has just bought the cottage over there where we all spent happy times years ago. He told me on the phone the other night and now he’s saying I should go there to convalesce. But I’d need you and Ruby to come with me.’

  ‘That’d mean uprooting her again.’

  ‘So you’d rather have her freaking out over some man following her around here and thinking she’s going to be kidnapped again?’

  ‘’Course not, but what about all the responsibilities I have as housekeeper at Garth?’

  ‘You mean where you’re now scared to death every time there’s a knock at the door or the phone rings?’

  Hester considered the options. She’d no wish to admit her Oregon Trail spirit was failing her. Threats - implied or imagined - had wormed their way into her mind. What before had been the endearing creaks of Garth Hall’s ancient oak frame or its shifting floorboards now assumed the menace of an intruder’s footfall.

  McCall’s career always required he head towards trouble. This time, it’d come looking for him. His house was no longer a refuge for Hester. She didn’t feel safe being there alone with Ruby any more.

  ‘OK, let’s go to Norfolk… if you’re sure you can cope with all the travelling.’

  ‘I can and you’ll love it,’ Lexie said. ‘It’ll be wild and stormy and we can have long walks along the beach and be miles away from everything that’s worrying you.’

  They were both tired and it was late. It was an effort for Lexie to climb the stairs. She paused outside the room Hester shared with Ruby.

  ‘I’d like to ask a favour,’ Lexie said. ‘Don’t get me wrong, but would you mind if I slept with you in your bed?’

  ‘Would I mind? No, if that’s what you’d like to do.’

  ‘It’s because I just feel… I feel like I’ve never been so alone in all my born days.’

  So they lay together in Hester’s big brass and iron bed. Lexie wanted to be held, needed the warmth of another human being, someone who would stroke her hair and kiss away the tears which came again like those of a child frightened in the night.

  Thirty-Six

  Benwick snored from the top bunk in the flat where he and McCall were now holed up. If the sin starts with the thought not the deed, Benwick must have done a deal of thinking of late. No one should lay money on him ever getting into heaven.

  Something else was clear to McCall. Whatever Benwick’s game, he wasn’t acting alone. His fallback arrangements to out-run those who would catch and kill him required not just savvy trade craft but a covert support network. So why put its security at risk by letting a hack in on the secret?

  Young Ronnie Stansfield had part of the answer. He’d seen an engine on the weapons factory railway hit someone - the one who couldn’t run away.

  This was Benwick’s female accomplice, the mysterious Mrs Boland. Whatever they’d been trying to pull off went disastrously wrong. Benwick, resourceful as ever, had a Plan B. But it needed two people to carry it out - and he was crocked with a sprained ankle. And all the while, those he feared most were closing in. Then McCall arrived, a useful idiot willing to play get-away driver in exchange for bits of background on Ruby’s case.

  From the law’s perspective, McCall was guilty of assisting a fugitive to endanger life and firebomb two buildings. He could still quit before the crap closed over his head. If he did, he’d have a chance to chase up Benwick’s leads about the paedophile politicians and the sabotaged police investigation.

  The newspapers would devour that, even if it gave every libel lawyer in Fleet Street the vapours. And if McCall got arrested, he’d get the sort of heroic publicity hacks crave, maybe a book or even a Panorama special.

  Against this, he hadn’t anything like the full story yet, not according to Benwick. But underlying all, McCall was no less addicted to risk-taking than him. He was strapped in on the scariest ride of his life and nothing could tempt him to jump off yet.

  For the moment, he’d too much brain-whizz to rest. He made himself tea in the flat’s small kitchenette then brought his notes up to date.

  M/bike from big bang through birch woods. Side roads only to Roundhay, Leeds. Arrived red brick semi, early hours. House number 33, street name not seen. M/bike hidden under tarp in garage.

  Benwick known to male occupier, me not introduced. They spoke only in Russian. Man looked fit, sixties, balding, lean, five feet ten, wary eyes. Dished up salt beef, dark brown bread, vodka.

  Kitchen like a landfill, no female? Slept in easy chairs, untidy front room, woke late afternoon. Washed at kitchen sink, had coffee, biscuits.

  Man came back with two sets workmen’s outfits, second hand donkey jackets, jeans, caps, industrial rubber gloves, boots. Our clothes left behind. Man put back seats down in Volvo estate, silver, ‘E’ reg. We lay under blankets. Drove east about ninety minutes. Arrived Barton, little town on Humber estuary, in darkness.

  Man parked near pub, White Swan, went off, returned with small bag of groceries and keys to flat over empty shop in Fleetgate then left. What the hell next? Port of Hull just across river. Russian timber ships dock there. />
  Is Benwick going to defect on one? If so, why do I need to be dressed like a docker, as well as him?

  *

  Dawn wouldn’t be long coming, presaged by a late autumn mist from the North Sea, unfurling like a white silk scarf over the tiled roofs of Barton’s quiet streets. Curtains were still drawn and cats kept watch from the walls of gardens where they weren’t welcome. Some shops had been boarded up, others appeared shabby and in need of paint and custom.

  It looked like a place having a lean time, a place probably best seen in a rear view mirror on the way to somewhere else.

  Standing at the window of the meanly furnished room, McCall was acutely aware of the drama taking uncertain form around him. Across the street, those soon to wake into that miserable morning could eventually read about them in their papers, the strangers who stole in during the night to hide where nothing exciting ever happened.

  McCall heard the loo flush then Benwick refilling the kettle at the kitchen sink. He joined him. Benwick asked why he couldn’t sleep.

  ‘Not knowing what the bloody hell’s happening could be something to do with it.’

  ‘Soon, McCall, soon. What would you like for breakfast?’

  ‘Smoked salmon, scrambled eggs, lightly done toast and my grapes peeled.’

  ‘That’ll be bread and jam for two, then. You make the tea and I’ll do the rest then we should talk.’

  *

  About one hundred miles south, the same North Sea waves humped and broke on the beach by Staithe End. The fog which came with them slowly evaporated leaving a nacreous sheen across the watery sweep of sand beyond the dunes.

  Hester had been looking out of a window, too. How strange, how different it seemed to be staying in such a doll’s house of a cottage. Its entire footprint would fit in the panelled drawing room at Garth Hall with space to spare.

  But immediately Hester stepped inside, she’d heard its voices - the words of the long dead, lingering where they’d been uttered and audible only to those wise enough to listen. Yet amid these murmurs was a whisper from deep within her own self, the idea that now was the right time to leave the hills and find the sea.