by Phil Brett
That made three of us then – me, the cat and her.
‘That’s the key here. She was killed because she knew the name of another spy in the party!’
My thoughts exactly. And for all the caveats she might rattle off, Cole did too, which was why she’d come calling for me. ‘She believed that I had been close to finding out who else was working for the counter-revolution?’ I asked.
His reply stopped any self-congratulation. ‘Good God no,’ he said in a sneer, which I thought was regrettable, considering why we were here. ‘She thought you were all over the place. She thought it was hysterical that you even thought that she was one. Apparently, you had said at the trial that she appeared to be “different people at different times”. She thought that was brilliant. She said that she’d loved to be that; it would help her do all the bloody work she had to do a hell of a lot easier. She’s a person of different moods, so she must be a spy. We cried with laughter about that. Surely that would make someone wholly unsuitable to be a spy.’
I was going to point out that whilst I had made mistakes, I had ultimately found out who actually was the murderous state agent and had risked my sweet well-dressed life to do so, but he started speaking before I could say anything.
‘For a while,’ Nick said, ‘she was almost obsessed with how the bombings at St Paul’s Cathedral had been pinned on the Anarchist Federation. Questions kept going through her head. For example, why were there leading AF members in the vicinity of St Paul’s when the explosion had gone off? We had never found out why they had been there. Ol’ kept asking who had got them there? How were these leading members lured to the set ups? And how come they had been cornered by the police and shot? She kept repeating that you can’t just ring an organisation and ask them to be somewhere and they drop everything and go. Especially not in the middle of a revolution!’
Good point. I hadn’t thought about that, because I had been too wrapped up in Alan Wiltshire’s death. I nodded wisely. ‘Did she have any ideas?’ I asked.
‘Originally, she said she had, but then she just seemed to let it go. Something distracted her.’ He stopped, remembering it, and told us at length about the sickness of one of his children, his voice growing fainter and drifting off into the country lanes of confusion.
I pulled him back to the subject at hand. Viral infections weren’t the key thing here. ‘So, she found something out. Didn’t she tell you later?’
‘No, it just sort of got lost.’
‘Lost? It was rather important just to get lost! It’s not like it was a ballpoint pen!’
Cole looked at me hard. Yeah, I knew – be nice. Don’t snap or be sarcastic. Message to myself: he had just seen the love of his life dead, so he was feeling as if every internal organ had been torn out by a claw and all that was left was a bloody empty pulp. I, of all people, knew how that felt.
Not that he seemed to take offence, as he replied simply, ‘I know. But we lead such busy lives.’
I still couldn’t work out how it had slipped their minds to discuss the identity of who was undermining the revolution. It wasn’t like forgetting to buy the milk, but I let it go. ‘So, you have no idea what she found out?’
‘No.’
Great. Why didn’t couples talk anymore? Why couldn’t they have just sat down at the dining room table and had a good chat about how the security agencies had attempted to destroy the Socialist and Anarchist movements? It could have been over the beans on toast and after the kid had been given his medicine.
Both Cole and I tried for the next few minutes, in differing ways, to see if he had any thoughts on what she had found out, but whatever angle we tried, we still got nowhere. He seemed to be drifting off again and just kept muttering how she had appeared to have lost interest in it.
‘So, have you any idea why her interest was rekindled?’
My question jolted him back. ‘Yesterday, she was flustered. She had changed her mind again. She said that you were right about there being moles.’
‘What exactly did she say?’ I asked, my heart increasing its beat.
He looked at me as if I was asking the ridiculous. As patiently as I could, I waited for the answer, which I was sure would help the process of exonerating me. Feeling my stock of that precious commodity severely diminished, I gently prompted him. ‘It’s important, Nick. I know it is hard. You’re shocked, confused and hurting, but this is important. I lost my partner three years ago, so I know what you are feeling. I really do. But you’ll want us to get whoever did this. Right now, you feel as if you are drifting in a sea which bursts into a tsunami and then, just as suddenly, becomes still.’
Good God, I was using Dr Backus’s sink and swim analogy. There was no way this was going to ever get told! I dared not look at Victoria’s face.
He nodded. Speaking closely, as if he was quoting her, he said, ‘She said: Kalder was right about there being moles.’
‘That’s precisely what she said?’ I turned my tone dial to sympathetic. ‘It is important,’ I almost purred.
He closed his eyes, ‘Yeah, yeah, er, yeah, it was that. Well, maybe it was: Kalder was right about moles – more than he realised.’
‘Did she name anyone?’
‘No. As I've just told you, she never gave me any details.’
‘Any hints?’ I asked; hoping that she had used a nickname or a physical description – or painted a portrait. Anything.
He answered, speaking slowly, ‘No. She just said that there were moles.’
‘Why did she say that?’ My vocal dial had spun back to demanding. I felt in a rush – wanting answers quickly, in easy and obvious chunks, so we could solve this now. I really wanted to get the bastard responsible for Olivia being left in her car like that.
He said that he didn’t know, but I could see him ransacking his brain to find the answer.
‘Had she found something out?’ I asked.
Again, he said that he didn’t know. Irritation at being constantly asked to what amounted to the same question was being suppressed by the memory of the horror of what had just smashed into his life. It was obvious that, any minute, grief was going to make any further questioning futile. Even to a rookie like me, it was plain that we needed to know more about this, but the sight of his face steadily losing the frozen control stopped me from pushing him any further.
‘Check . . . her files. There . . . m-might have something at home, on the . . . computer.’ He was gulping down emotion, urging us forward. It was like the last gasps of a drowning man. ‘She spent . . . hours on that.’ Suddenly, the thought of her ripped aside the numbness. The muscles in his face began to collapse and a roar of grief tore through him. His head bowed and sobs convulsed his body.
Neither of us moved, but simply sat there, looking at him. Whether we were paralysed by sympathy or the awkwardness of seeing someone so wrecked by emotion, I didn’t know, but the only physical comfort delivered was by the woman whose flat we were in. Alerted by his crying, she came in and sat by him. He buried his head into her shoulder.
I stared and remembered: remembered the first battalions of grief that would herald the full invasion of his heart and mind. Yeah, sinking, swimming and stuff just weren’t enough to describe what he was going to go through. War was the only appropriate one. Total war.
It had been three years since the death of Caroline and Lisa, and whilst the battle had decreased in intensity, there was hardly peace in my time.
Cole muttered something about arranging for people to look after him. Softly, she asked him for his house key. Between gulping for breath, he fished out a fob from his pocket.
Leaving the flat, Cole’s phone went off. She switched it to voice-only and spoke for a few minutes. Actually, she said very little except for ‘yes’, ‘no’ and ‘maybe’. Oscar Wilde she definitely was not.
I stood there like a prize lemon.
Finally, when she had finished, she deigned to let me know what was going on. ‘It’s Asher. As we expected, disco
unting prints older than a day, the only ones found are Olivia’s and Nick’s. Ditto body fibres. This is silly. Hold on a sec, Ash.’
She switched the micro-3D image so I could enjoy the sight him moaning that there was no reason for him to have to report to me as well. I wasn’t that important to warrant being included. Obviously, though, Cole was feeling the love and wanted us to be one big happy family and wanted me to be included. Sweet.
Feeling that resistance was futile or simply not worth the bother, Asher shrugged and continued. ‘All the computers, travel history, communications log – the lot – have been wiped: that includes her phone, car, even her glasses. Totally wiped. I’ve sent them to Roijin, but it looked pro to me, so I wouldn’t hold out too much hope. I couldn’t even tell you if she’d listened to any music. I will do further tests and get back to you. By the way, they're just about to take her way. I think we've done enough here.’
Swiftly, he was thanked and I was granted a second of her time. ‘I think it’s time to contact Jackie.’ Without waiting for an answer, she spoke to her phone, instructing it to ring ‘Jackie P’ and remain on image. It was going to be micro-Jackie for me.
This was going to be interesting.
The Jackie of the P answered immediately. Obviously, the head of the country was never too busy to take a call from Comrade VC. The phone image wasn’t that great and it made her black skin look almost purple. Her lips, only lightly glazed with lipstick, twitched a faint smile before giving a brief hello, whose quietness was matched by the loudness of its wish for Cole to quickly get to the reason for the call.
Jackie was the woman of the moment, whose decisions could affect world history, so she wasn't one for preambles. Without any introductions or social niceties, Cole went through everything that had happened, was happening now and what was going to happen. She was clear, articulate and to the point. No doubt, she was used to this; after all, this was what Cole had been trained in. The only thing that was different was that it was the President of a Workers’ Britain she was reporting to and not a Chief Constable.
Jackie let her speak, without interrupting. She looked straight at her, but I had seen her catch a glimpse of me. I’d known her for years, so I could often make a pretty good guess at what she was thinking. She would let us know what that was in her own time.
It was impossible to see where she was, or indeed, what country she was in. All that could be seen was a brick wall behind her. From the sound of the wind whistling, the sight of patches of snow and her shivering in a large black trench coat. She was outside. Or, failing that, in a house with really crap insulation.
If you discounted watching her on the news, this was the first time I had contact with her since my trial. Once, we had been close friends, but what would we call ourselves now? Were we still that? I could not deny that I felt bitterness at her lack of support when I had needed her most. Once upon a time, she had given me the credit for recruiting her to the party – a party she would quickly come to lead, a party which, not so quickly, would come to lead the revolution. And yet, what credit had she given me for unmasking the MI5 killer?
Then, as Cole paused, presumably thinking how to discuss what we had learnt from what Nick Morgan had said, which would involve explaining who the we was, Jackie turned and looked directly at me. With a voice, though polite, sounding more of a demand than a question, she asked, ‘Why is Pete there?’
For the first time, Cole hesitated before answering, ‘I thought, in light of what Pete has gone on record as saying concerning the level of state emersion in the revolution, that he’d be useful to have here.’
Jackie looked unimpressed. ‘Do you think that’s wise, Vic? In view of his recent history . . .’ She continued with what could not be regarded as a tribute.
After letting her finish, although I would have liked to see her try to stop Jackie, Cole replied by reiterating the ways I might be of help. To be honest, they sounded pretty flimsy, even to me. Still, at least someone thought I was useful. Jackie, in turn, countered with much the same objections, which, after you stripped the polite, comradely, health-sensitive and politically correct language, consisted of saying basically that I was dangerous.
I wanted to shout and holler – to demand: ‘What’s the problem? Have you forgotten that my “recent history” consists of me stopping a MI5 agent who had infiltrated the party for decades? Someone who had murdered and tortured comrades. Yes, I had killed the killer, but so what!’
I didn’t have the chance because, finally, she acknowledged my presence. She looked, rather than glared. The harassed leader, with unimaginable responsibilities weighing her down, took a rest and a person from my life reappeared, and Jackie smiled. I couldn’t tell for sure whether it was from genuine pleasure at seeing me or from mere politeness. Even when she spoke, the ambiguity remained. ‘Pete, forgive my rudeness, but you'll understand the stress that we're all under. It is honestly great to see you. How are you? I’ve been meaning to pop into Anchorage to see you.’
It was good that she was a world leader and not an actress. She might be thinking several things on seeing me, but one of them certainly wasn’t “great”.
‘Oh, I’m fantastic. Enjoying every second of being banged up in there,’ I snapped.
She didn’t reply, but just pulled a concerned face.
Inside, I roared that she should be the one with the guilty face.
Perhaps it was from that guilt that Jackie didn’t continue with the pleasantries and returned to her familiar smooth, authoritative voice. ‘I took the actions which I felt was correct in the circumstances. Which the Central Committee supported. I could not be seen as interfering with the system of justice in the new state. I told you that I was appreciative of your work, but I felt then, and still feel, that you have to be answerable for what you did. There are still questions about what happened, and that is why I really don’t think it is useful for you to get involved in this. I think it is dangerous.’
That appeared to be it, at least of actually talking to me, because she turned her attention back to Cole and back to ignoring me. This was becoming a habit. Had I become invisible? Her suggestion was that Cole should take me back to the Anchorage.
Standing at the edge of the conversation, although being central to it, I retraced the journey we had made to get here. How I had met Jackie all those years ago when she had been a student. We had met and talked. And talked. Talked endlessly about politics, history, art, anything. She had an enquiring mind and quickly had asked everything which I had answers to. She had joined the party when we were a mere few thousand. As we had grown in number, she had done so in stature. Now she was the President. We had been close friends, and I had felt a sense of pride of being a page – well, a paragraph – in the Jackie Payne story. Then, the Alan Wiltshire affair had blown up. I felt narked at becoming a footnote.
She thought I had over-reacted and behaved in a reactionary manner. I thought she was an ungrateful prima donna.
Cole repeated what Harrison had been looking into, and how now she had been murdered by the same make of gun favoured by the former intelligence agencies. Nick Morgan had stated categorically that Olivia Harrison had been investigating precisely what I had previously claimed, so it made sense for me to be involved. She did have a solution to our problem though. ‘Pete can offer an insight into this. He can also be my immediate superior from the Workers’ Council. You know, of course, that under the Anti-Social Behaviour and Enforcement Law, former members of the police may be used as technical advisors but are not allowed to either work alone or unauthorised. We have to be under the supervision of the Workers’ Council.’
‘I’m aware of that, Vic, but as you will know, former members of the police must be under the authority of the regional Workers’ Council, which Pete is not a member of, and it has to be an elected representative of, which Pete is not.’
‘True,’ Cole replied, and then, not to be outdone, added, ‘But Paragraph 3b states that in the case of a
direct threat to the security of the state—’ Her tone changed, as she quoted the provision in question: ‘’Ex-members of the police forces, or former employees of organisations contracted to police forces, can be co-opted directly the National Workers’ Council Executive Committee.’ Of which, you are the elected President.’
Wow, this was interesting. In the movies, the maverick cop beat up suspects. Here, there’s a discussion about amendments and motions. I wondered if Cole was making it up on the spot or had thought about it before we had got here.
‘Of course,’ Cole continued, ‘it cannot be expected that, as President of the Republic, you would take day-to-day control, so you can nominate a representative—’
Strewth, she wasn’t going to quote that sub-section as well, would she? Thankfully, she didn’t, and instead had learnt the art of paraphrasing.
‘There is provision for that in the legislation. Pete could be that person.’
So, whoopy-doop-doop; I was now a provision.
Jackie didn’t seem convinced. ‘So you think the NWC Exec, let alone the staff and guests management committee of the Anchorage, will allow a patient with a history of violent breakdowns to supervise an investigation into a murder? I think that’s highly unlikely.’
I was going to query the use of the plural and point out that it was just the one, but guessed that wasn’t really the point. Well, that said, there was my self-harm. In any case, Cole jumped straight in with a reply.
‘As Pete points out, it was self-defence, which the jury accepted. The issue which was the prime reason for his move to the medical facility was the level of how much force he had used. You could have his release put under my supervision. I would be accountable for my actions to you, via him, and he would be supervised by me, for you. A rather symbiotic relationship, don’t you agree?’