He passes Bernard’s bench. It was strange not to see the old man there, keeping guard. People here came and went, they came and went. Knowing they were here to live out their days made them vital. They moved slowly, but their time ran fast. Bogdan liked to be among them. They will die, but so will we all. We are all gone in the blink of an eye, and there is nothing to do but live while you’re waiting. Cause trouble, play chess, whatever suits you.
He and Stephen try to play at least three times a week. It gives Elizabeth a bit of time off to go shopping, visit friends, solve murders. Stephen forgets most people’s names now, but he has never forgotten Bogdan’s.
Inside Elizabeth’s flat, the game is twelve moves old, and Bogdan has Stephen in something of a bind. Bogdan is not counting his chickens, of course – you must never do that with Stephen – but he is happy with his position. He doesn’t see that Stephen has many options for his next move.
That next move may take a while, as Stephen has fallen asleep. It is happening more and more often these days as he shuts down further and further still. But so long as Stephen is here, Bogdan will play chess with him.
And whenever Stephen’s eyes pop back open, Bogdan knows he will still be in for a brutal game. Exactly the way he likes it. Stephen has forgotten many things, but he hasn’t forgotten how to win a game of chess. He also hasn’t forgotten Bogdan’s big secret, the part he played in the recent murders, and is happy to bring it up whenever a game is particularly tight.
Bogdan has no fear though. He trusts Stephen absolutely. And who would Stephen tell anyway? Only Elizabeth, and Bogdan trusts Elizabeth completely too.
And speak of the devil, Bogdan hears the key in the door, and sees Elizabeth walk in. She is carrying a large sports holdall. Which is unusual.
‘Hello, dear,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Is he asleep?’
‘Maybe. I think he’s faking it though. He knows I’ve got him beaten.’
‘Let me make you both a cup of tea. Could I ask you a favour, Bogdan?’
‘Who was the man with the gloves?’ asks Bogdan.
‘An MI5 risk-assessment underwriter,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Happy?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ says Bogdan. ‘What favour do you need?’
Elizabeth puts the holdall down on the dining table, next to the chess board. She unzips it to reveal bundles of money.
‘Money,’ says Bogdan.
‘Nothing gets past you, does it, dear?’ says Elizabeth.
‘And what for?’ asks Bogdan.
Elizabeth double-checks that Stephen is still asleep. ‘Could you buy me ten thousand pounds’ worth of cocaine?’
Bogdan looks at the money and nods. ‘Sure.’
Elizabeth smiles. ‘Thank you, I knew I could rely on you. Wholesale though, not street price.’
‘Of course,’ says Bogdan. ‘Is this to do with the man and the van?’
‘No, this is something different.’
‘When do you need it by?’
‘Tomorrow lunchtime?’
‘No problem,’ says Bogdan.
‘Lovely, you’re such a help, you really are. I’ll flick the kettle on.’
Bogdan takes another look at the holdall as Elizabeth disappears into the kitchen. Who would have that much cocaine at this short notice? There was a woman in St Leonards who used to be a teaching assistant at a primary school and now works out of a row of lock-up garages by the seafront. He would try her first. She had once asked him on a date, and he had told her that he wasn’t attracted to her, and that he worried about her career, because it is very important to be honest in romantic endeavours. No one will ever thank you for dishonesty. She had thrown a pint glass at him, but it was some months ago now, and he’s sure she’ll still do him a favour. Bogdan takes out his phone, but before he can text, Stephen wakes, looks at the board as if there has been no delay, and moves his bishop. Bogdan puts down his phone and processes what Stephen has done. He had not seen that coming at all. What a move. Bogdan smiles.
Elizabeth’s ten thousand pounds. Stephen’s bishop. No wonder they got married. You had to hand it to these two.
Bogdan has a job to do, and some thinking to do. Which is just how he likes it.
21
Douglas Middlemiss now has a view of the sea, which is some consolation at least.
The house is in Hove. Officially an ‘executive let’ but used exclusively by MI5. Douglas was in the big bedroom at the front, with the diagonal view of the sea. They had told him to stay away from the windows but, really, give a man a sea view and what do you expect? He is currently sitting in an armchair angled to catch the sun coming up behind the spidery ruins of Brighton’s West Pier in the distance. If somebody shoots him through the window then there are worse ways to go.
Poppy is in a bedroom at the back of the house, with a view of a council car park and some bins. To get to his door, someone would have to go past Poppy’s. And she had proved surprisingly effective last time. Shooting Andrew Hastings. One of Martin Lomax’s close-protection officers, sent to kill him, but, instead, killed himself by a small woman with a nose ring and an Ottolenghi cookbook.
Moving to Coopers Chase had seemed like such a terrific idea at the time, the perfect hiding place. Also a chance to see Elizabeth again. To impose himself on her. But Martin Lomax had breached security somehow. Which meant somebody had told him where he was hiding. But who?
Douglas has his suspicions. He had messed up, that was for sure, showing his face on the security cameras. He had put the Service in a very bad position. Perhaps someone felt a debt needed to be repaid? Would they really sacrifice one of their own? He’d seen it done. Rarely, but he’d seen it. Could he trust Sue and Lance? Sue he was sure of. But Lance? The man he broke into Lomax’s house with? What did he really know about him?
Poppy knocks on the door and asks Douglas if he would like a cup of tea. He tells her that would be lovely and he’ll be down in a moment. What on earth does someone like Poppy make of someone like him, he wonders.
Douglas was no longer a popular man. He knew that, and he could see why. My God, he used to be popular. But now? Now he was the type of man to take his mask off during a robbery, and the type of man to make a joke about a gay colleague in a briefing. He meant no harm by either, but he saw he was out of step, and he knew, deep down, that a man less self-regarding than himself would have the ability to act more professionally and kindly. He had hoped to reach the end of his service without having to change one bit. Afraid not, old boy.
The diamonds were his way out. A lucky break, at a good time. Sitting there on Lomax’s dining-room table. But had his luck run out? How to get out of this one?
What has changed, he wonders. Twenty years ago and you could make jokes about whoever you liked, couldn’t you? Never to be mean, a joke was a joke was a joke. At school there had been a boy, Peter something, who they teased because he had ginger hair. Nothing mean, just jokes. He left after a few terms, too sensitive, and that was still the problem, wasn’t it? If people took offence then weren’t they just being like Peter, who had wasted a perfectly good education because he couldn’t take a bit of teasing?
Douglas had mentioned this when he was sent on a Gender and Sexuality Awareness course a few years ago. They had asked him to leave, and he was given one-on-one coaching instead. He passed with flying colours as it was run by an old friend who told him exactly what he needed to say if he wanted his certificate signed.
So perhaps the Service has finally had enough of him? Perhaps Sue thinks he is no longer useful? That life would be better with him out of the way? Perhaps she has persuaded everyone it would be a small price to pay for peace with Martin Lomax. Had Sue done a deal with Lomax, and disclosed his location?
How many other people had known that Douglas was at Coopers Chase? Five or six? Including Poppy, of course. Was she more than she appeared, with her podcasts and her poetry and her Gregorian chant music? Was that an act? He’d seen it all, to be honest, so perhaps there was more
to her, perhaps she was in league with the others against him? But then why shoot the intruder?
Elizabeth? That was a bigger question. Would Elizabeth have disclosed where he was? Surely not. He had told her about Martin Lomax, though, hadn’t he? Had she tracked him down? Elizabeth could track anyone down. Douglas had had four affairs during their marriage, and Elizabeth had discovered all of them. The final one, a junior analyst named Sally Montague, had ended the marriage for ever. He had gone on to marry Sally Montague at least. Though she was twenty years his junior and that marriage only lasted until his next affair. They fired her, very discreetly, after the divorce. Where was Sally now? He knows he should probably care, but sometimes it is all too much for him.
Heaven knows how many affairs Elizabeth had had. Plenty. But Douglas had never caught her once.
You only marry one Elizabeth in your life. If Douglas was any sort of a man he could have kept hold of her. But Douglas was just a boy, he knows that. He was charming and funny, and life came easily to him. Whatever Douglas wanted, he got; everybody fell for him, everybody fell for the act. Although he supposes that people who didn’t fall for his act had probably just given him a wide berth over the years.
He had once asked Elizabeth when she had seen through him. She had said she’d known from the moment she’d met him. And she’d wondered what small, frightened boy must be hiding behind such an obvious act. She had fallen in love with that frightened boy, but was yet to meet him. Douglas could have taken that moment to turn his life round, to become real and live in honesty. But instead he threw a whisky glass against a wall and stormed out, staying the night with Sally Montague in West Kensington. The next day, when he returned, Elizabeth had said nothing, but that was the day she gave up trying.
So he has lived on his charm ever since. There were worse lives. But he has lost touch with what charming is. He sees new generations of men, who know what to say and how to say it, and he is left with the tools of a different age. Jokes he can’t tell, passes he can’t make. And without them, what has he got?
The diamonds. That’s what Douglas has got. His great escape.
Douglas gets up from his chair and pulls a comb through his hair. Some careful combing and it still stood up to cursory scrutiny, which is all that matters for most people. Cursory scrutiny had got him through most of his career. But a new generation saw right through him. Which was very annoying.
The silly thing is, Douglas knows they are right. He knows he is only being asked to be respectful, and he knows people just want to turn up to work and do their job and not be reminded every five minutes of what they look like, or who they slept with. Douglas knows they are right and he is wrong. He doesn’t miss the good old days, he misses his good old days. He doesn’t suppose they were good for most people.
But to really admit that to himself would be to admit to a lifetime of wearing his comfortable blinkers. It would be admitting that he still wonders what happened to Peter. To Peter Whittock. Of course Douglas remembers his name. Bullied out of school by children who were also young and scared.
How many other Peter Whittocks had he left in his trail? How many more Elizabeths? Sally Montagues?
Twenty years ago you could leave your mask off and the whole thing would have been one big laugh, a bit of ribbing, a message to Martin Lomax to go and boil his head, and Douglas would have to buy the drinks that evening. But that had been the big mistake.
One way or another, things catch up with you.
There is no point moping, however – you get the life you deserve. Douglas resolves to think his way out of this particular spot of bother. Time to deal with the task at hand. Time to deal with the threat of Martin Lomax, and possibly a threat from inside the Service itself. Then disappear with the diamonds. New identity, maybe a farm in New Zealand, or Canada. Somewhere they spoke English.
He has to assume now that he is compromised. He has to assume that he is on his own. He can trust no one. He steps out onto the landing, hearing the kettle whistle from the kitchen.
Not true. He can trust Elizabeth. Of that he is sure.
This thought brings him some cheer. He has made it to another sunrise, and, descending the stairs, he decides he will have some marmalade on toast while he still can.
22
Joyce
So I rang Poppy’s mum, and she could not have been nicer. She is called Siobhan, and, yes, I did just have to look up how to spell it. She must have been Irish at some point, but it doesn’t seem like she is now.
I filled her in on what had happened. I thought that must be what Poppy meant, because perhaps when you’re a spy you don’t always tell your mum everything that’s going on. Or perhaps that’s just daughters in general? I’m lucky if I find out Joanna has had a haircut, for example. She once had a week in Crete and the first I knew about it was from Facebook. I reminded her that we had once had a week in Crete when she was little, but apparently this was a very different part of Crete, which she took delight in telling me. So I have been in Siobhan’s shoes in some ways.
This is how it went. There were pleasantries, and I told her that Poppy had asked me to ring her, and that she was quite safe, but there had been an incident.
I actually said, ‘Don’t worry, no one has died,’ before I realized that, of course, somebody had.
It became apparent, and I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, that Siobhan wasn’t fully on top of what her daughter does for a living. The way she had been told it, Poppy worked for the Passport Office. They had done some checks on Siobhan when Poppy got the job, and she thought that unusual at the time, but hadn’t really questioned it. There’s always something with children, isn’t there? Dressing them up for World Book Day and the like.
Really, I should have broken things to her in stages, but in nursing you get the sense of when it’s better to come straight out with it. I said something along the lines of your daughter works for MI5 or MI6 and she’s looking after a man who used to be married to my friend Elizabeth, and who has been accused of stealing diamonds (her: ‘MI5?’ ‘Elizabeth?’ ‘Diamonds?’). An intruder had tried to shoot the man last night, and Poppy had shot the intruder. That was as short as I could get it.
Siobhan was taken aback, and I thought perhaps she thought it was a prank, so I added, ‘This isn’t a prank, it really happened, she really did shoot him, and I even saw the body.’
I told her that Poppy had given me her number, and she asked where Poppy was now, and I said I didn’t know, and that MI5 had taken her away, but that Elizabeth had said that was nothing to worry about, and that Poppy had done the right thing in the right way and had saved someone’s life.
Siobhan asked where it happened and I told her all about Coopers Chase. She said it sounded lovely and I said, ‘Well, why don’t you come and visit? Meet me and Elizabeth?’
Siobhan said she would like that, and then she started to cry, which was for the best in my opinion. Let it out. Imagine if your daughter had just shot a man and been taken away by MI5? You couldn’t help but feel emotional. I asked for her address, so I could pop a friendship bracelet straight in the post for her. I’ll get the money when I see her.
We had a nice chat after that. She apologized for crying and I said not at all, then I asked if she liked Poppy’s nose ring, and she thought for a while and said not really, she thought Poppy was prettier without it. I said Poppy was still very pretty with it, but I sympathized because Joanna once had three piercings in the same ear, one at the very top, and it was awful. You can still see a tiny scar there now, where it didn’t properly heal over. You wouldn’t notice it, but I always do. I think Siobhan and I are going to get along.
So Siobhan is going to come and see us, that’s the big news. I hope Elizabeth won’t mind. Poppy had slipped the phone number into my cardigan pocket, not Elizabeth’s, so perhaps she knew this wasn’t the done thing in these circumstances. Will Elizabeth object? Well, if she does, then that’s her problem and not mine.
She lives in Wadhurst, by the way. Siobhan. I’ve been through it on the train, but that’s about it. I’m sure it is very nice, if Poppy and her mum are anything to go by.
Just as I hung up, my door buzzer went, and it was Yvonne, my old neighbour, wanting a cup of tea and a chat. She was the first person I know to get a video recorder, I’ve never forgotten it. I remember they invited Joanna round to watch ET. Honestly, the look on Joanna’s face. Anyway, she lives in Tunbridge Wells now, of course she does, so I asked her to pop the bracelet through Siobhan’s letterbox on her way home. Saves a stamp, doesn’t it?
What else then? Ryan Baird, of course. Ron has really got the wind between his legs with that one. I am looking forward to hearing the plan. And Ibrahim should be home tomorrow. He told us not to visit him again, and that’s for the best as Elizabeth wants us to take a trip to Hove, for reasons she kept to herself.
I’m baking for Siobhan now. I have no idea what she likes, and I couldn’t find a place in our conversation to ask her. So I’m playing it very safe with a Victoria sponge, some brownies with no nuts and a coconut and raspberry slice in case she’s adventurous.
I do keep thinking about the diamonds. Twenty million pounds would turn most people’s heads, wouldn’t it? It would turn mine. On Deal or No Deal they would say that £25,000 was ‘life-changing money’, but I don’t know about that, once you’d paid off your credit cards and been to Portugal, perhaps a couple of replacement windows. But twenty million? Someone is going to get their hands on it, I suppose, even if they have to murder a few people along the way.
I realize I didn’t mean that Ron has ‘really got the wind between his legs’ by the way. What’s the right expression? It’s something like that, isn’t it? I’ll leave it for now, though, because it actually rather suits Ron.
So, Hove with Elizabeth tomorrow, which will be fun. We’re getting the 2.30 bus into Brighton, and we’ll get out by the big M&S and walk into Hove. Elizabeth has said, ‘Strictly no shopping, Joyce,’ so we’re certainly on business of some sort.
The Man Who Died Twice (The Thursday Murder Club) Page 9