by Daniel Kemp
“We don't have any Mother over here, because we don't have that kind of a Strategic Studies Group. How's your mum these days? I knew her very well back in the day. Send my regards when you get back,” he said. He wanted to add Faggot! but restrained himself.
So Igor knew what Alexi thought he knew, that Mother didn't exist. But Alexi didn't know Igor's identity, and neither did Igor know his. Fortunately for Paulo, the strong willed Valentin Antopolov was still walking the corridors of Moscow Centre, the money minded Vladimir Sololov was sitting in the top chair.
At this early time in his life, Rudi had no granddaughter to share his stories with. The President could not be bothered with such menials and as far as a priest was concerned well he just didn't know any well enough, so Rudi told Alexi, instead of one of his yet-to-be trilogies.
“They've got another one of those homo queers in that SIS. Genetic Vice International I think I'll call it from now on! Never trust them…they don't know a bat from a ball.”
By the time of his retirement in 2007, it cannot be known if Rudi used his misspelt anagram again, but his dislike of Igor was well-founded, and returned with some interest.
The night before Mr English's funeral, Igor met with a man that Mr English had previously recommended as the best in the business at clearing up unwanted loose ends. The settlement of an insult to Mr. English was on his mind. The topic they discussed was not Paulo, but Ceran. She was an embarrassment that no longer needed to be tolerated.
* * *
The sky was black, the moon shrouded by the quickly scurrying clouds, as Scarlett's immortal words of — tomorrow is another day, were confined to the dark screen of the television, and I wished “goodnight” to Rhett and the others in Gone with the Wind. My tomorrow was now my today, it was after midnight but my thoughts of Judy would not go away and allow me to sleep curled up on the office divan beside the window. I imagined Judy as Scarlett and myself as Rhett, wondering why there had never been a sequel. A part two, perhaps Blown back by the Wind, where they got back together and life ended happily. Or maybe Rhett, like me, found the circumstances of their relationship too difficult to continue with and never pressed it further. As I lay there, with only the occasional passing sentry to interrupt my thoughts, I recalled part of the conversation I had with Paulo that I had forgotten all about. The second time we met at the concert in Moscow. He was talking about himself and Katherine, but it could well have been me or any number of Patersons. It had started completely innocently, with me complimenting his choice of seating.
“I sustained an injury to my knee many years back, and the cold and the rain affect it badly. I do appreciate the ability to be able to stretch it out. Usually I find I'm in an uncomfortable seat, where it's not possible.”
“Ah the misfortunes of life, we all suffer them in one form or another. I have had a few, but not, in all honesty, many. I doubt there is much time left for me to experience more than I have had. My deepest regret is of one of a higher plane…more transcendent a pain than one so physical. Love seems never to have smiled upon my family, Harry. My mother lost my father early, and then when she found happiness in the arms of another man it was short-lived. Death took her before she had finished with it. The same applies to me. I lost someone close…she was taken from me by men not like us. There was no love in their hearts, only hatred of something they did not understand, knowing only that it was different, and that they were frightened by it. Katherine is not frightened by love, but it still escapes her. The married title, and her change of surname were for convenience, in order to get something that marriage would provide. In her case, the deception was quickly over. She could return to normality and the pretence was put aside; for another day, perhaps.
Convention, protocol, propriety…call it what you want, but people like me embrace it. It means conformity; we blend in. We don't get noticed the way that those who display their difference to that state do. Being married and having children is the norm, and it opens doors usually closed to the single man unless, that is, he knows the right people, or has secrets about them to use as a leverage. Excuse me, Harry. I've drifted away from what I was speaking about. You're perfectly normal in your sexual orientation, I know that much, but why no band on your finger? Nobody good enough yet?”
I wondered where that knowledge had come from, trying not hard to glimpse at Katherine.
“No one silly enough, more like,” I had replied.
“They won't have to be silly, Harry. They will need to be as clever as you are. If you get the chance, think about what I have said…things might get clearer for you, if the need arises.”
I sat bolt upright, reaching for the phone as soon as I did, and punctuated the darkness of the room with the light from the computer screen. The answers I received from both, however, were painful.
Chapter Forty-Three: The End of The Path
“Wake up…I need you!” It was my turn to disturb Judith's sleep. How is it that the brain works overtime when the body labours through loss of sleep?
The cortege was due at eleven, but I doubted that by that time I would feel as wide awake as I now did. I was shaking with excitement and trying my damnedest to hold it all together. The penny had dropped, well to be precise, more like a halfpenny and now all I needed was to prove my deduction and get the other half.
“Go away, Harry, I'm sleeping. I certainly don't need you.”
“I've worked it out. I need David Haig's number it's urgent Judy. I've got him by the balls. Do you want to sit in on the call and share the glory, or to lay here all alone?”
“Lay here…no, all right, I'm all yours. Figuratively, not literally. Don't let your imagination stretch too far H, you might get carried away. Why have you got David by the balls incidentally? Would you like to elaborate?”
“It's not Haig, but I need him to do something for me, I mean us.”
After some banter of “I told you so,” and “don't involve me in your fantasies,” she dressed, and from my office phone, dialled his London number. “He said he would be in London until after the funeral. Put the phone on speaker, and you do all the talking I want to keep my job, thank you. This had better be good, Harry.” Judy pulled up a chair and sat opposite me, as if distancing herself from the conversation.
“David…Harry Paterson. Sorry it's so early, but this won't wait. I think I've found who's behind the murders. Judy's here, listening in.” I saw her scowl at me, but then she smiled, as I added, “She knows nothing of this call so I need you both to listen and hear me out.”
“Judy? Oh, I see…you mean Judith Meadows, on more friendlier terms then? Sorry, I was still half-asleep. You do know the time, Harry? You're not in a different time zone up there, are you?” he asked. I ignored the intonation carried on his voice with Judy's name, and the chance of declaring independence for Yorkshire, and dived straight in.
“That club that my brother was supposed to have gone to last Saturday night, was it quite an exclusive club?”
“I don't know the exact details but I believe it was, yes,” he replied
“Then it would have had a membership list. Did the police check it?”
“Harry, they are very good at their job. I don't hold their hand through everything, but if you asked me to hazard a guess then I would say yes, most definitely,” the sound of a kettle boiling did not overshadow the condescension in his reply. I glanced at Judy to see if she too had caught it, and she turned her green eyes towards the ceiling with a finger in each ear, waggling the rest, imitating a bird in winged flight.
“Then get them to check it again, only this time look for Geoffrey Rowell. It's a name that has been used before, and could well have been used again. Get a description. Then if I'm right, you're both in for a tremendous shock.” Judy had her black and red book with her, opened and ready for the off, but she did not pen anything into it. I thought I knew why.
“It will have to wait until Monday, now, Harry. I would doubt that there is anyone there at this time
of day with a list of members. Tell me who you suspect, and I'll have him detained until we can follow this up.” Sir David replied.
“No, that won't do. Get Special Branch to knock down doors. You are going to need hard evidence for this. I've downloaded a photograph and I'm sending it to you now.” I pressed the send button. “Take a good look then you will understand the severity and urgency of the situation.” Judy tried to get a peek but it had gone and I'd cleared the screen.
“While you're waiting, let me ask a question or two David. Who was the permanent secretary to the Ministry of Defence in 2007, the one who makes suggestions to Prime Ministers for appointments?”
“Something makes me think that you know the answer to this already, Harry. Will it confirm your suspicions, or have they passed that page and moved on?” he asked.
“Both barrels are loaded, but the safety is still on. Have you got the photograph?” To the muted sound of his “Yes” I added, “Then take a deep breath.” I looked at Judy. “Do you want to kiss me now for ruining your prospects, or save it for later when we're both in the Tower?” I asked, as I turned the screen towards her.
“You can't be serious, H! You've lost whatever marbles you had!” she replied, leaving her mouth wide open, as I contemplated the lack of a refusal as an open invitation. The phone connection had gone silent, but not Judy. “Are you going to explain the logic that led you to this fanciful conclusion, or is Prince Phillip the next on your list? They've had some bad barley harvested and distilled in the Isle of Jura, and you've drunk it!”
“Yes, you could be right, Judith, but, then again,” it was David. “The answer to your question, Harry, was Sir Gordon Spencer. He was a very close friend of the outgoing PM of that day, and the one-time holder of my job. He was called to give evidence to both the Hutton inquiry and the one into the Iraq war. He was retired by Gordon Brown in the first year of the new administration because of his ill-health. His sickness began to show virulently, as he was in a constant sweat, and could not swallow or keep any food down. The evidence he gave in the Iraq case was taken at his home, because by that time he was too weak to travel. He had a cancer of the immune system, lymphomas. A symptom of HIV, from which he died four weeks ago. Your man in the picture was at the funeral along with many other distinguished notables, including myself. But one thing I, and a few others, did not have in common with the majority there that day, was that we were not from the gay fraternity. Your man, however, could have been, or could still be, I suppose. To my humiliation, I must confess that I have had little dealings directly with him including on that day, and it did not appear to be of great significance that we were receiving the Garden information at the FO. But then, and please remember that it was only four weeks ago, having seen the way he conducted himself, I wondered if there was a connection.
The war in Libya and the death of your father in suspicious circumstances took pre-eminence over approaching the PM over that slight concern. However, being sexually motivated towards one's own sex does not confirm him as being your murderer. How can you relate this orientation to the murders of Elliot and your brother, Harry?” Judy was saying nothing, sitting motionless, impassively staring at the image that stared back.
“Through George, and through a lot more digging into his past than has been done. He has an association with a killer somewhere in his past, and it has to be found between now and sometime soon, do you agree?”“I will do my best Harry. How did you know about Spencer?”
“I knew about Edward. He had mentioned the name a few times in the past. Seem to remember a case that Mrs Tony Blair had brought to the Court of Human rights for poofs to be included everywhere, including on the education curriculum or something similar. Sung his praises, did Edward. He banged on about the liberalisation of sexual awareness whenever he had the chance. Was she and the other half there at the funeral, or was he still into his 'holier than thou' stage and soaking up the American oil dollar, hiding his face with disclaimers of all responsibilities from any indiscretions?”
“I'll call you back if I find anything, Harry.” Sir David's phone line went dead, and I was left alone with Judy, her attention still glued on what was before her.
“I can understand the connection with the name of Spencer and the funeral H, but I fail to see how that leads you to him as your killer. It's preposterous! I've never met a nicer man. For pity sake Harry, his father was awarded the KCMG for services rendered to this country. He spent about fifty years in the diplomatic corps and must have done wonders for us. Do you suppose that his son was disenchanted with what daddy was awarded? Maybe he thought he should have been made King and that's what turned him? Perhaps Moscow visited him and said the same…a mere medal for all those secrets of ours you gave away, old chap? Come to us and we will appoint you as our next Czar! That might have done it for him, don't you think? I think you're barking mad, Harry.”
“Did you know that he is Turkish by birth?” She had moved from her uncomfortable position and was spread out on the divan, the blanket that I had minutes ago over me, draped around her body and tucked in at the chin. Cold but cosy; neither words that would rush into my mind to describe her. “I didn't, but so what? Does that make him a spy?” Her eyes were closed, but she was not about to fall asleep.
“Why do you think that it was covered up by his father, the Ambassador? By the time he took on the role of Ambassador in Washington his son was a British subject, and all reference to his birth in Istanbul had been removed. Incidentally, although I expect you have an answer to this, why was his original birth certificate not filed until 1953, when he is said to have been born three years before?”
“Could be completely innocent. Perhaps his parents forgot, thanks to the pressure of work on Sir Raymond. An oversight so what?”
“He's adopted, Judy. He's said to be the outcome of a previous 'you know what' of Ceran, his mother. No name under the 'Father' column, and a secret made of it at the time…why should it have been. Surely another notch on Sir Raymond's belt of humanitarianism, goodwill to the underprivileged furthering the gospel of British altruism but was it? Sometime in the sixties…I'm not sure of the exact dates, but perhaps you might know as you were what, twenty something then?” I said with a sarcastic grin on my face “the Soviets found out about American-built intermediate range ballistic missiles stationed in Turkey, pointed down their throats. So they thought what the hell, let's put some of ours on that insignificant island of Cuba, and see how the Yankees feel about that! Sir Raymond moved from Turkey to Syria in 1961 just before it all got rather warm in Cuba. And where was Philby when it was finally decided that he was a Soviet agent, Judy?”
“Not far away, Harry.” She had opened her eyes and propped herself up on an arm of the divan, looking directly at me. “How do you know all this, H?” My attention was concentrated on her lips mouthing the words, taking no notice of the sounds that came from them.
“The same way I found out about Spencer being in charge in 2007. I had heard his name as I have said, but didn't know that he was the number one chief mandarin at the MOD. It all came together when I remembered some words of Paulo's. I have friends in the war office. I've just woken a few up and then suddenly, all the bits fitted. You started it rolling, Judy, in the library when we were speaking about that grouse shooting weekend and I mentioned Howell being in 2nd Para. You asked if he had said anything about the UN and it whetted my appetite, so I began to ask around after that.”
“Come on, then! I'm all fired up don't stop now, you heathen. Where are you going with all this?” The blanket was off, and sadly I admit, I unashamedly fantasied what lay beyond my reach.
“I'm making tea. Do you want a coffee?” I needed to move, the tension inside of me was becoming too intolerable. “Come with me, Judy. I need you to hold my hand, I'm shaking.”
“Sure, I might need the caffeine.” She did as I had asked, not, I've got to say, to my surprise. Her soft hand felt good in mine, but other things kept me from announcing
my proposed devotion, not simply the thought of rejection. “If we bump into any full red-blooded plods, they'll probably use you as a spoon,” I joked, attempting to lift the tension that I thought we both could feel. “Ha bloody ha. Be careful they don't confuse you as a traitor,” her gentle voice proclaimed.
There was a distant sound of voices as we used the back staircase to the kitchen, the one with the no carpet and painted bannisters instead of thick pile and shiny polished ones elsewhere. Judy, wrapped only in her dressing gown, complained about my 'meanness' in having the heating turned down and about being disturbed, and not being told earlier about my enquiries and anything else she could bring to mind.
The kitchen door was closed on the people and voices behind. She was still moaning as I opened it, only to be surprised by the number there. I had expected one or two with the rest patrolling around, but there were over a dozen, and more coming down the main stairs. The reinforcements for the day ahead had arrived. I recognised one, with his Yorkshire Constabulary insignia. “I'm sorry, your Lordship, I didn't think anyone was up. If I had known I would have asked your permission. We're just assembling, ready for the day ahead. Were we making too much noise?” It was Superintendent Ryan, who I had met in my duties as a lay magistrate. All heads had turned in our direction, and neither of us could confuse the leers that were levelled at us.
“That's all right, Alan carry on. Had I known, I would have laid on more refreshments. We're only here for a tea and a coffee, so we won't get in your way.” I was I confess, a little embarrassed.
Judy was busying herself at the sink filling a kettle, with the cups already prepared. I joined her, parting from the attentive company. “Are you quite comfortable here or shall I make them, and bring them back to the office?” An innocent and, I assumed, gallant enquiry as to my companion's welfare and feelings, but I was wrong.