Sabbathman

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘I’m a little vague,’ she said carefully, ‘about the line of command here.’

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘You and me. Where everything fits.’ Annie smiled. ‘Are you controller now? Have you taken over? Only they normally announce that kind of thing. Protocol, and so forth.’

  Cousins looked briefly pained. Like many men, she detected a reluctance to deal with simple truths. He sat back in his chair, reaching for a pencil, tapping it lightly against the knuckles of his other hand.

  ‘We’ve set up a task force,’ he said, ‘for the duration of this business. As you know, we have a special desk. Ring-fenced monies. Priority call on most facilities. You’ll have been briefed on all that.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Nominally, Francis Wren would be in charge. As Controller of ‘T’ Branch, that would make sense. He would be the line to the Directorate.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘There is no Francis Wren.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘His position is vacant.’ He smiled. ‘Pending developments.’

  ‘I see. So all this … the Sabbathman operation …’

  Cousins nodded, watching her carefully again. ‘Mine,’ he agreed, ‘as of yesterday.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘You, too, I’m afraid. Until we slot the bugger.’ He paused. ‘I’m surprised Wren didn’t mention it. Maybe he had other things on his mind. Still, if you don’t object …’

  ‘Not at all, of course not, I just’ – Annie shrugged – ‘wanted to know, that’s all.’

  Annie shouldered her bag and turned for the door. She was about to open it when Cousins called her back.

  ‘This liaison business,’ he said casually. ‘You and your Plod friend.’

  ‘Alan Kingdom?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s idea was that?’

  ‘Wren’s, as far as I know. I happened to fit the bill. Alan was the Yard’s contribution. After my appointment.’

  Cousins said nothing for a moment. The sunshine had reached Euston now, pouring in through the big plate-glass window, rimming his head in gold, casting his face into shadow. Annie wasn’t sure but she thought he might be smiling.

  ‘I’ve cancelled the arrangement,’ he said at length. ‘I thought it might make things easier for you.’

  Annie hesitated, one hand still on the door handle. Cousins’ use of innuendo was masterful. She thought she knew what he was saying but she was by no means sure so she decided to play it straight.

  ‘He’ll be pleased,’ she said lightly. ‘He’s got troubles at home.’

  Cousins was smiling now. Definitely. ‘The wife?’

  ‘His father. He has Alzheimer’s. I think there’s a problem with getting him looked after.’ Annie paused, offering a smile of her own. ‘And he’s divorced, by the way, in case you’d got the wrong idea.’

  Annie took a late afternoon train to Birmingham. At Cousins’ suggestion, she’d been back to the flat and packed an overnight bag. From the station at the international airport, a monorail bridged the half-mile to the passenger terminal, and Annie found the restaurant up on the first floor, exactly as Cousins had described. There were a dozen or so tables, and a scattering of passengers bent over cups of tea. Of Eddie McCreadie, there was no sign.

  Annie glanced at her watch and fetched a pot of coffee from the counter. A table near the back of the eating area offered a good view of the approach from the escalator, and she settled down to wait. On the train, she’d read through the rest of the Derek Bairstow file, trying to test Hugh Cousins’ thesis against the known facts. The Fraud Squad file was exhaustive and it was plain that Bairstow had been under surveillance for the best part of a year. In all, according to bank statements recovered from his house after his death, he’d salted away more than £200,000 from a variety of contracts. In every case, the money had come from firms to whom he’d awarded PSA contracts, and these monies had been paid directly into a company account at the Zurich bank. The company, Nordvolk, had been held by Bairstow’s wife in her maiden name, and she and Bairstow had made regular visits to Zurich to draw cash from the account.

  Attached to the file had been a series of photographs. They’d included shots of Bairstow himself, both dead and alive, and a nicely framed view of his house, a modest semi at the cheaper end of Jesmond. Looking at the photo, Annie had wondered quite how the investigation had begun – there were no obvious signs of wealth – but reading on, she’d found a note of an interview filed by a detective called Gosling. The note, nearly a year old, appeared to have initiated the entire inquiry. Gosling had been phoned by the managing director of a marine engineering company in Aberdeen. The firm had tendered for a construction project out on the Northumberland coast and had lost. Suspecting foul play, the managing director had unearthed some evidence of his own, and handed it over. By itself, this evidence wasn’t enough to secure a conviction but a year later the Fraud Squad were on the point of closing the trap. Pinned to the interview note was a photocopy of a letter from the same managing director. The letter was brisk. Six months after the interview, he was saying, nothing had been done. Bairstow wasn’t only still working for the PSA, he’d actually been promoted. The signs, the managing director warned in the letter, were ominous. If a bent civil servant got promoted, where did the corruption end?

  Annie had been amused by the tone of voice behind the terse interrogatives. She’d met men like this before – self-righteous, shrill, angry – and she wondered now whether O’Keefe came from the same mould. Had he written letters? Or phoned DC Gosling? Or had Cousins reached for his hi-lighter for some other reason? Because of the man’s nationality? And because he fitted so neatly into the conspiracy they were all labouring to understand?

  Annie shook her head, none the wiser, and when Fat Eddie finally turned up, nearly an hour later, she was no closer to an answer. He was a huge man, much bigger than the photo suggested, in ill-fitting brown trousers and a green Pringle sweater. He had a long, heavy jaw and a wary smile. Now, he sat behind a small mountain of pasta, winding spaghetti round his fork. The second bottle of Chianti was nearly empty, though Annie’s glass was barely touched.

  ‘So who briefed you?’ she said. ‘Who asked you to go?’

  ‘Told me. Told me to go.’

  ‘OK.’ Annie conceded the point, ‘So who was that?’

  ‘Yer man down there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tall fella. Young looking. Had that way about him. You know what I’m saying? Nice enough now, but you wouldn’t want to argue.’

  Annie smiled, nodding. Hugh Cousins exactly. ‘And you spent a fortnight there? In Longford?’

  ‘Yes. I knew there were jobs going, you know, shite work, because he’d told me. I was staying at a grand little place out on the Newtown road there. I took the bus every morning.’ He reached for the remains of the Chianti. ‘Shite work.’

  ‘Any faces you knew?’

  ‘None. Every man a stranger. Every woman, too.’

  ‘And the crack? In the evening?’

  ‘Horses and politics and Gaelic football.’ He frowned. ‘And don’t think I didn’t put myself around. Because I did.’

  ‘But nothing?’

  ‘No. And no surprise, either. I told yer man before I went. I told him. Save your money, I said, there’s no way, not in that town.’

  ‘You’d been there before?’

  ‘No, but that’s not the point. Jeez now, Longford, there’s a place the Irish are proud of. They’ve got jobs, prospects, the place works. The last thing those fellas need are us lunatics from the north. It’s the same you’ll find anywhere else there’s a half-decent life. People down south don’t want anything to do with the Provos. Especially not in a place like Longford.’

  ‘And O’Keefe?’

  ‘Least of all O’Keefe. Dessie’s Mr Fianna Fail. He’s mainstream. He’s been at it most of his life and now they’re in power again. They’re running the place. Now why would he want to spoil any of that?
’

  He reached for a paper napkin and wiped his mouth. He had huge hands, and Annie watched him swallow the last of the wine, wondering about the wisdom of ordering another bottle. She’d rarely seen anyone so nervous. He’d refused even to sit down until they’d changed places. He’d said he needed to keep an eye on things. Looking at the wall gave him indigestion.

  Now he was eyeing the clock beside the departures board.

  ‘If that’s all …’ he began.

  Annie reached out, restraining him. ‘O’Keefe,’ she said again. ‘I need to know how sure you are. You know how the story goes?’

  Eddie shook his head with such violence that his whole face wobbled. ‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘and if it’s all the same to you, I–’

  ‘Listen,’ Annie’s hand was still on his arm, ‘O’Keefe’s been crossed in business. Man here on the mainland. It’s cost him a lot of money. He asks his republican friends to teach the man a lesson. They do just that.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By killing him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘With a knife. At a football match.’

  Eddie stared at her. His face, already red, had purpled. ‘Provos?’ he said. ‘A knife? At a football match?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Eddie began to rock with laughter, the whole table shaking above his massive knees.

  Annie steadied the empty bottle. ‘Something I said?’ she inquired. ‘Something you find amusing?’

  Annie phoned Cousins from a call-box half an hour later. She’d just escorted Fat Eddie back to his car, waving goodbye as he bumped away towards the pay booth. One of his back lights didn’t work and she wondered how he’d make out if they stopped him on the way home. Even a frame that big couldn’t hide two bottles of Chianti.

  ‘Now, she bent to the phone. Cousins had told her he’d be waiting for her call. When his direct line didn’t answer, she phoned the main switchboard, asking for him by name. The telephonist put the call through at once but the voice that answered, to Annie’s surprise, belonged to Wren.

  ‘You’re after our new friend,’ he said at once.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I’m holding the fort.’ he paused. ‘He’s gone down to Wales. He wants you to join him there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Fishguard. You’ve to go to the customs people in the ferry port. They’ll know where he is.’

  ‘Why?’ Annie said, ‘What’s happened?’

  There was a brief silence at the other end. Then Wren was back again, chuckling softly to himself.

  ‘They’ve intercepted ten kilos of Semtex. Plus some other goodies.’ He paused. ‘In a consignment of office furniture.’

  EIGHT

  Annie was down at Fishguard by quarter to seven the following morning, stepping off the overnight train from Paddington. She’d dozed most of the way, huddled in the corner of an under-heated carriage, and when dawn came up she found herself in west Wales, a landscape of high stone walls, sheep-cropped upland fields, and the distant brown smudge of the Prescelly Mountains.

  Fishguard itself was a pretty town, terracing the hills around a bay. A long stone jetty protected the harbour from the rolling swells of the Irish Sea, and at the landward end of the jetty there were berths for the big blue and white ferries that made the four-hour crossing to Rosslare. The railway station formed part of the ferryport, and the platform was dotted with passengers waiting for the connecting train to London.

  Annie stood on the platform a moment, getting her bearings. It was windy by the sea and there was rain in the air. She stared out across the bay, watching gulls swooping over the stern of an incoming trawler, then she tried to shake the chill from her body and went to find the customs hall. The officer in charge occupied a tiny office beside the Nothing to Declare channel. A one-way mirror gave him a perfect view of the last of the exhausted foot-passengers, still plodding off the Rosslare ferry. Annie showed her MI5 pass and inquired about Cousins. Apparently he’d spent all night with a rummage crew in one of the freight sheds and had just retired to a hotel across the bay. The hotel was called St Athan’s and it was evidently run by the customs official’s sister.

  ‘Good breakfast, mind,’ he said, ‘as long as you like mushrooms.’

  A taxi took Annie to the hotel, a tall, grey building with a new slate roof and a full set of UPVC windows. She asked for Cousins at reception and a pretty girl in a pair of denim dungarees checked her name and then directed her to Room 214. Cousins, it seemed, had already ordered breakfast and Annie said yes when the girl asked whether she, too, would be eating.

  Room 214 was on the second floor at the end of a long corridor. The big cast iron radiators were on full blast and for the first time in eight hours, Annie began to feel warm. At Cousins’ door she paused and knocked. She could hear the hiss of a shower inside and the sound of someone singing. Eventually the door opened and Cousins appeared. He was still fastening a towel around his waist. His face and upper body were soaking wet and when he stepped back to let her in he left two perfect footprints on the nylon carpet.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said, ‘You made it.’

  Annie shut the door behind her and let Cousins take her overnight bag. The bed hadn’t been slept in but the television was on and there were two used tea bags squashed flat in a saucer beside the electric kettle. Cousins put her bag on a chair by the window, told her to make herself at home, and disappeared into the shower. He didn’t act like a man who’d been up all night. On the contrary, he seemed – if anything – refreshed.

  Annie kicked off her shoes and lay full-length on the bed, her head against the pillow, half-watching the television. A reporter on the lake shore in Geneva was explaining something complicated about the latest push for peace in Bosnia. Annie did her best to follow the drift, thinking again how nice it was to be warm. Next thing she knew, Cousins was bent over the bed, a piece of toast in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He nodded at a tray on the table. He was fully dressed.

  ‘Scrambled eggs,’ he said cheerfully, ‘and rather a lot of mushrooms.’

  They ate steadily through the weather forecast before the eight o’clock news. When Annie asked Cousins about the customs seizure – what had happened – he shook his head, putting a finger to his lips, not taking his eyes off the TV screen. The news bulletin began. Second item, after a piece on a riot in South Africa, was a report about a big arms and explosives find at a ferry port in west Wales. Customs men had examined a container lorry from the Republic. Amongst other items, they’d discovered ten kilos of Semtex explosives, several automatic pistols, and a quantity of ammunition. The Garda in Dublin had been notified and investigations were under way on both sides of the Irish Sea. Annie glanced across at Cousins. He was sitting at the table by the window. When the next item started, he reached forward and turned the television off. He looked extremely pleased with himself.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said.

  ‘What’s excellent?’

  ‘The coverage.’ Cousins pushed his plate away and glanced at his watch. He was smartly dressed: beautifully cut suit, lightly striped shirt, plain blue tie.

  ‘At ten o’clock,’ he said, ‘we get down to the serious work.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Press conference.’ He nodded out of the window, across the bay, towards the ferry port. ‘Freight Shed “B”. Our policeman friend’s due down any time now from London. His show, of course. As far as Joe Soap’s concerned.’

  ‘Which policeman friend’s that?’

  ‘Allder, of course.’ Cousins smiled. ‘Who else?’

  Cousins topped up his cup with coffee and reached for the sugar bowl. He said he’d taken a call from the customs investigation people late yesterday afternoon. They’d had a tip about an incoming consignment of office furniture due at Fishguard on the evening ferry. Cousins had left London at once, driving down to Wales, arriving in time to meet the boat. The target lorry had been one of the last vehicles o
ff. They’d opened the container in Freight Shed ‘B’. The container load had included a ton and a half of knockdown ready-to-assemble office furniture. In one of the packs, he and the customs rummagers had found explosives, hand-guns, ammunition and – most significant of all – a sniper scope and a map.

  Annie was still finishing her breakfast. ‘Map?’

  Cousins nodded. ‘Deal,’ he said, sipping his coffee, ‘in Kent.’

  ‘Is that significant?’

  ‘Yes. I think it probably is. Though God knows why.’ He glanced across at her. ‘I thought I’d let you handle that.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Annie finished the last of her scrambled egg and put the tray to one side. ‘So tell me about this furniture. Where did it come from?’

  Cousins was looking out of the window again. The ferry Annie had seen earlier was backing slowly away from the jetty.

  ‘Where do you think?’ Cousins said.

  ‘Longford?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘O’Keefe?’

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded at the television. ‘Which is why our media friends will be so interested.’

  Annie leaned back against the quilted bedhead. In six years with MI5, she’d never met anyone so publicity-conscious as Cousins. Normally, at Gower Street, the press and TV people were regarded as a necessary pain, an affliction, one of the curses that came with democracy. Controllers went to endless lengths to shield operations, to keep on-going inquiries under the tightest of wraps. Yet here was the new man, the coming force in ‘T’ Branch, positively eager to share the spoils with a wider public. Indeed, watching his face as he monitored the news broadcasts, he might easily have been a journalist himself, anticipating fresh twists to the story, bending it this way and that, examining it from every angle.

  Annie looked across at Cousins, trying to sort through what he’d told her, the little basket of goodies he’d unwrapped overnight.

  ‘This tip,’ she began, ‘to the customs guys.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How come?’

  Cousins glanced across at her, shrugging. ‘Pass,’ he said.