Icelight

by Aly Monroe

  ‘Sorry.’

  They moved down the path at a careful shuffle. Cotton knocked at the door.

  Nothing. Cotton knocked again.

  This time there was a noise and then the sound of heavy, dragging feet approaching the door. The sound was oddly rubbery. The door opened. Either Paul Mair had been woken by the first knock on the door or was ill or was, in a phrase Cotton had learnt from his time in America, drunk as a skunk. Options one and three had possibly combined in two. He gave them a queasy, anaesthetized look.

  ‘Mr Morton? Mr Mair?’ said Cotton.

  Paul Mair thought. ‘Do I know you?’ he enquired.

  ‘My name is Cotton.’

  ‘Have I heard of you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Have you?’

  Paul Mair shrugged and then abruptly found a taste in his mouth he disliked very much indeed. ‘Who’s the other man?’

  ‘This is John Driver, Mr Mair.’

  Mair frowned and leant forward. ‘That sounds like a pseudonym, you know.’

  ‘It’s his new name,’ said Cotton. ‘He’s originally from Germany.’

  ‘Is he now?’ said Mair. He tried to look reflective. I’ll tell you what it is, Mr—?’

  ‘Cotton. Peter Cotton.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t like two men coming to see me when it’s dark.’

  ‘In less wintery conditions,’ replied Cotton, ‘I’d agree. But if we had, for example, wanted to kill you, we would have done so already, wouldn’t we?’

  Paul Mair blinked. ‘Who said anything about killing?’

  ‘Have you heard of a man called Watson?’

  Paul Mair frowned. ‘It’s rather a common name, don’t you think?’

  ‘Come on, you can do better than that. And it’s cold out here.’

  Paul Mair gave in. ‘Oh, all right, all right,’ he said, already turning and beginning to shuffle along the hall.

  Cotton and Hans stepped in and closed the door. The dragging noise Cotton had heard before the front door had opened was attributable to Mair’s sheepskin-lined flying boots. He had not done them up. He had one trouser leg loosely tucked in, the other was merely rucked up.

  They turned after him into the drawing room. Apart from two kitchen-type chairs and a small card-table, the room was bare to the light bulbs. There were some old newspapers on the floorboards, a first underlay for a carpet no longer there. The fire was banked, however, with glowing coke. On the table was a nearly empty bottle of whisky and a Chinese-pattern teacup without a handle or a saucer.

  Paul Mair rubbed his hands and turned to welcome them. He was dressed in what, in better light, turned out to be a pale green tweed suit and a camel-coloured scarf. At thirty-nine he was getting to the age of looking as much fragile as slim. His hair, particularly where the oil had worn off, looked white, but he retained something of the manner of someone rather charmingly looking around to see where he had mislaid the rest of his charm.

  To the left were some double doors. Hans drew them back. On the floor of what had been meant as the dining room, slightly off centre, were a mattress and a heaped-up quilt.

  Paul Mair waved a hand. ‘I have no interest in the shrouds of respectability,’ he announced. ‘I’m camping in this ghastly place until the end of March.’

  ‘What happens then?’

  Hans had already moved on. They heard him walk into the kitchen, open cupboard doors and then go out and up the stairs.

  ‘He’s your sniffer dog, is he?’ said Mair.

  ‘What happens at the end of March?’

  ‘Can I offer you something? We could eke out this bottle if I could find a glass or other receptacle. Oh, I know. I’ll divide it between the cup and, well, could you drink from the bottle? Can you bear that?’

  ‘March,’ said Cotton.

  ‘I leave these dreary shores.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Only France. Well—’

  ‘What?’

  Paul Mair shook his head. ‘Awful thing,’ he said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I have a bank account in France. I had two hundred pounds in it. And then I got paid four hundred more.’ He smiled. ‘For services rendered, you see.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s all gone.’

  ‘Four or six hundred?’

  ‘The six. I mean that is beyond the pale, isn’t it? Taking back the four hundred is one thing, cleaning me entirely out is pretty gratuitous and rather nasty, wouldn’t you say?’

  Hans came back. ‘There’s nothing at all upstairs except a sunlamp.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Paul Mair. ‘It’s a very small room. I turn it on and lie down on the floor, you see. I just fit.’

  Cotton looked at him.

  ‘Oh come on,’ said Paul Mair. ‘Let’s not pretend too much. Call me a cad. I don’t care. That’s what I do. I am the Mozart of the suspender belt. I can even make a meal of a garter for a starter. But one’s fingers can’t loiter if they’re pale, old boy.’ He was in appealing, apparently confessional mode. ‘It’s the slope of a young belly I like. The tuck, you see, of the main course.’

  Cotton nodded. Was Mair trying in a man-to-man way to find the right gear? ‘So why do you stay here?’

  ‘I’ve told you. I’ve barely got a bean. You see, my idea was I’d get a fresh start in France. Surely that’s clear enough?’

  Cotton shrugged. ‘Sell the Lagonda.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They drive on the right in France.’

  ‘I know all about that,’ said Mair. ‘But it took me such a long time to get her.’

  ‘Tell me about Watson.’

  ‘I abandoned any pretence to morals years ago. My father was an Anglican vicar. Ghastly snob. I was brought up in Rome, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Gelato and breasts, that’s what I remember.’

  Despite himself, Cotton found Mair’s manner, the badly acted stabs at remembering who he was, amusing, almost admirable.

  ‘I’m good for syringes,’ Mair said. ‘And I can get hold of stuff to put in them. It’s usually heroin or cocaine but I can, at a push, do you for other substances.’

  ‘Cyanide?’

  Mair looked pained. ‘There’s a positive glut, old man. The Germans had enough to kill an army.’ He turned towards Hans.

  ‘Try under the sunlamp, Fritz,’ he said.

  Annoyed, Hans left.

  ‘He’s not much of a sniffer,’ Mair said.

  ‘Tell me about Watson.’

  ‘Dear Lord,’ said Mair, ‘it’s really not so difficult. Most people aren’t frightened of death, you know. They’re frightened of how they will die. They prefer it to be quick and painless.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m pretty positive that makes sense.’

  ‘You’re probably right. What has that to do with Watson?’

  Mair looked baffled. ‘We’re talking about a little man, some sort of plum scientist who allowed his taste for lads to, well, ruin his career?’

  ‘You could say that. Was he very depressed?’

  ‘Oh God yes,’ said Mair. ‘He was very down. He said he couldn’t understand why the law was placing his robin above his scientific mind. Something like that.’

  The word ‘robin’ threw Cotton for a second, until he remembered the poem ‘Cock Robin’. The combination of baby talk, suicide and science was novel.

  Mair shook his head. ‘Do you know his own mother didn’t know about his tastes? A damned shame, if you ask me. I’m with Lord Byron on this.’

  ‘Really? What did Byron say?’

  Mair looked doubtful. ‘Any port in a storm?’ he suggested.

  ‘I’m not sure I remember that. What did you do?’

  ‘I just kept him company for a bit, that’s all. He didn’t seem to have a lot of friends left. He was rather bitter about that. So we had chats and drinks. He had absolutely nowhere to go, you see. He was finished, poor devil, ambition dead, career over, nothing and nobody to live for.’


  ‘So you helped him move on?’

  Mair looked doubtful. ‘You can put it like that. I don’t think I would.’

  ‘You facilitated his suicide.’

  ‘I assisted his suicide,’ insisted Mair. ‘I’m not mealy-mouthed, you know. I provided the wherewithal. Christ, he thanked me! You’re a hard man, you know.’

  ‘I wasn’t there.’

  ‘Everybody needs help. And he didn’t want to cause a mess. You know, throw himself under a train, that kind of thing. He wanted to go quietly. And he wanted to leave his mother something.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘A little hope! At least a chance to deny it was a suicide. She’d probably prefer accident. Something not intended.’ Mair blinked. ‘And then I had to get back here. The weather was atrocious.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why did you do this for him?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake! I facilitate things! That’s my job!’ Mair suddenly looked doubtful. ‘I have told you about the money, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you have,’ said Cotton. ‘My next question is—’

  ‘I’ve no idea who gave the order.’

  Cotton nodded. ‘I didn’t imagine you did. But you can help me.’

  Mair shook his head. His eyes moved towards the bottle of whisky. ‘In late September last year I was, well, turfed out really. My particular skills were no longer needed in MI6.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Mair made a face. ‘Do I have to go into that? It was administrative, really. Stuff about regulations.’

  ‘Expenses?’

  ‘I was several quid short on the Lagonda.’

  ‘You did a little borrowing?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Paul Mair. He paused. He decided to carry on shedding pretence. ‘I wasn’t really thinking of paying it back, you know.’ He shrugged. ‘They took it off my last month’s salary and settlement pay in any case.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘I went on a four-day bender.’

  ‘Mm,’ said Cotton. ‘After that?’

  ‘I couldn’t pay my rent. I was overdrawn.’

  ‘What about the two hundred in France?’

  ‘That was my nest egg. It was then I got a note.’

  ‘No address? No signature?’

  ‘No stamp either. It said I still had the possibility of “unauthorized” jobs for MI6. It came on rice paper, edible stuff, quite sweet really. It did make mention of four hundred quid. And I rather fastened on that.’

  ‘You didn’t think it was a lot of money?’

  Mair looked appalled. ‘Jesus! I was just thinking of getting hold of some cash and then buggering off to France.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Paul Mair had begun to twitch. Evidently he found this troublesome.

  ‘Go ahead, have a drink,’ said Cotton.

  There wasn’t much whisky left but Mair slopped it when he poured into the cup. He drank. For a moment he looked relieved. Then he frowned.

  ‘Have I told you about the Soviets?’

  ‘No, you haven’t,’ said Cotton.

  Mair shook his head. ‘A man from their embassy got in touch with me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes! He thought I might be –’ Mair thought for the word ‘– disgruntled.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘No. I was a combination of pissed and pissed off really.’

  ‘You sent the Soviets away?’

  ‘I said I had another job.’

  ‘I see. Do you want to tell me about that?’

  ‘I needed somewhere to live, you see.’

  ‘And your unauthorized contact suggested here.’

  ‘I wasn’t actually in a position to choose, you know.’

  ‘How did you get the money to pay for it?’

  ‘Envelope containing the deposit and six months’ rent.’

  ‘You didn’t think that might be an advance?’

  ‘They still didn’t have to take the two hundred in France.’

  ‘Did you think of buggering off then?’

  Mair sighed. ‘Only briefly. Anyway the envelope was delivered to the estate agent. He said the bank had sent it round for me.’

  ‘Good,’ said Cotton. ‘Give me his name.’

  ‘He has an office by the local shops. His name is Rig something. Rigsby.’

  The telephone started ringing. Mair looked alarmed. He turned to Cotton.

  ‘Do you really think I should answer that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cotton.

  Mair picked up the telephone. He listened.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There’s someone else here.’

  Mair held out the receiver. ‘I think it’s for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cotton. He had not been expecting any call.

  ‘Sir?’ said Moira Kelly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re at the number I gave you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The house has foreign diplomats as close neighbours. A cultural attaché lives at number 39. The Embassy has also rented number 41 though it is not clear who lives there. It appears to be run as a sort of B & B for several low-level staff, chauffeurs, that kind of thing.’

  ‘How convenient,’ said Cotton. ‘What made you think of checking?’

  Miss Kelly sighed. ‘I don’t know. The name Totteridge, I think. But the link didn’t come until I was on my way home.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘I’m back at the office.’

  ‘Good. Do you know what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Somebody’s already on their way.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Cotton put the phone down, then picked it up and listened. The tone sounded as the normal burr. No click. He began unscrewing the mouthpiece.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘Checking, Mr Mair. Do you have any contact with your neighbours?’

  Paul Mair shook his head. ‘Not much. They’re rather dull, suburban sort of people.’

  ‘Surely the Soviet cultural attaché across the road would be a little more exciting?’

  Paul Mair groaned. ‘Oh shit!’ he said. ‘I’m no good at this kind of thing. I’m more perfume and girls and sherbet.’

  ‘Sherbet?’

  Mair winced. ‘Fizz? After the garter. I dab a little on a finger, lick it and move up the thigh. Hell, it’s not electricity but it acts almost as well.’

  Cotton showed him the telephone.

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘Nothing much. No aid to listening, for example.’

  ‘They can put them elsewhere.’

  ‘I know they can.’

  Paul Mair made a face, even looked nauseous.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The notion of being observed, even being listened in on, is not very pleasant, not in private things,’ he said. ‘I’m not a voyeur, you know.’

  ‘Do you have much of a social life?’

  ‘Are you talking about girls?’

  ‘Not only girls.’

  ‘I haven’t been doing much, not lately.’

  ‘Do you think the garage has ears?’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘I’d like to see your Lagonda.’

  ‘Really? Oh, all right.’

  25

  HANS WAS in the kitchen. On the flat surfaces he could find, he had laid out a selection of syringes and some small bags of this and that.

  ‘It’s mostly heroin and cocaine,’ he said. He pointed at two small purses. ‘Vials and pills. Food for Watson.’

  ‘We’re going outside for a breath of fresh air,’ Cotton murmured. ‘A man will be coming to check some things out. He shouldn’t be here for a while but if he turns up let him in.’

  Hans nodded. ‘Can I stay by the fire?’

  Cotton nodded. He unlocked the back door.

  ‘God, it’s cold,’ said Paul Mair. He shuddered and rubbed his hands.


  They went into the garage. There was a smell of paraffin. Mair took hold of a broom and dragged out the lamp.

  ‘I don’t want the radiator to crack,’ he said.

  The Lagonda was a V12 Drophead Coupé in grey and black. They got in.

  ‘You have Soviets for neighbours,’ said Cotton.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mair, ‘but they do rather keep to themselves, you know, as if they might get infected by something.’

  ‘They’re a bit near for comfort, surely?’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

  ‘Yes, that might worry some people, Mr Mair.’

  Paul Mair blinked. ‘I say, do you mind if I gun her up a bit? Get some engine heat going?’

  ‘Not in an enclosed space.’

  ‘We could go for a drive.’

  ‘No, we couldn’t.’

  Paul Mair sighed. ‘I’m depressed,’ he announced. ‘It’s this country, you know. It’s so damned grim. The weather’s awful. The food’s unspeakable. Even the little shop girls are a bit desperate for fun.’ He glanced queasily at Cotton. ‘I have absolutely no future here.’

  ‘Have you thought about journalism?’ asked Cotton.

  Mair shook his head. ‘I can’t write for toffee.’

  ‘What about your old boss in MI6?’

  ‘Butler was his name. He called it a day after the war and went back to Oxford. He speaks lots of languages. Turkish, Arabic, Farsi, that kind of thing. I should have resigned when he did.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘The oil company didn’t want me back. Said things would take a couple of years at least to get back to normal after the war.’

  ‘Would Butler recommend you for anything?’

  ‘No! Of course he wouldn’t,’ said Mair. ‘He’s an academic. Awfully sharp, of course, but the kind of man who doesn’t say a word now about what he was doing then. If he won’t admit that, he’s certainly not going to remember me.’

  ‘What about France? You were planning to move there. What would you have done?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought. I just wanted to get out of here.’

  ‘But you’ve been to France quite often, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’ve been,’ admitted Paul Mair. ‘After all, I was looking for somewhere to live. That was what the money was for. I was thinking of something not too big, of course.’

  ‘Right,’ said Cotton ‘But I’m talking of a time before you left MI6 – perhaps May or June last year?’