Chapter Twenty Nine
McBride used his cell phone. Rather that than let his mother’s phone number get into the hands of MI5. You never knew, best not to take the chance.
The phone bleeped, rang three times before it was picked up.
“Michael, it’s John McBride here. Free to talk?”
“Yes, sure. I see in the papers that you are back. With your friend Ben. I tried to get you a couple of weeks ago, but your phone was dead.”
“Yes, I lost it somewhere along the way. I met your friend today, Black Beard, I don’t know his real name -- ”
“Ivan Ivanovich,” said Morton.
“Yes, well Ivan is a raving lunatic. He’s going to kill me, so he says. And I’m worried he might. So, where can I get a pistol?”
“You can get one with a man attached, me.”
“You go round shooting people? Bond, licenced to kill?”
“You’ve got it wrong way round. In the service, there’s a list of people who we are allowed to shoot. So we’re all licenced to kill, but only certain victims.”
“Does Ivan appear on the list?”
“Since a couple of weeks ago, yes.”
McBride decided to tell Morton of his fear.
“Ivan was on the train. He must know by now that I got off the train at York. Even if he doesn’t, he will know where I live. There’s been lots of publicity concerning me over the years, my address is not secret. Hey, they even did a feature in Country Houses. I’m staying in York tonight with my mother. Going home to Skipton tomorrow morning. I’ll bet you a hundred pounds to fifty pence he is there already, waiting for me.”
“He’s obsessive enough. I’m in London now, got a posting that’s better than Manchester. I could catch a train to York in the morning.”
“Bloody hell, I don’t think London’s better than anywhere in the north. But if you can be up here in time to catch the nine forty five train from York to Skipton with your pistol, I’ll be with you.”
“No problem. I know I can be in York for nine, so I’ll see you in the buffet.”
“The one just inside the station entrance. I’ll be there. And thanks a lot.”
“All part of the service.” He laughed.
Mother walked into the living room, dressed to go. A handsome woman, McBride had to concede. Seventy two now, but she looked ten years younger at least. He could not understand why she hadn’t married again. Unless she liked to be in control. Suddenly he realised that was it. McBride stood up.
“Is it time to go?”
She looked over at the clock. “Of course. Aren’t you getting ready?”
“I am ready.”
“I meant aren’t you going to dress a little, well, more formally?”
McBride looked down at his clothes. Chinos, clean, dark navy. Shirt, white, open neck. Shoes, leather, brown.
“I don’t expect I will be out of place. Restaurants don’t expect you to wear ties anymore.”
She sighed. “The whole damn country is going to pot. Come on.” And she went out of the room, McBride following her.
When they reached the hall door, McBride turned to her.
“Let me out of the door first.”
“It’s ladies first, my dear. Have you forgotten all the manners I taught you?”
“Just checking that the coast is clear.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s someone I don’t want to meet.”
“You don’t owe any money, do you? You told me you were, what did you call it, rolling in it.”
“It’s not about money, Mother. It’s a private feud. The guy is a madman. I don’t think he will be outside, for a moment, but I’m not going to get you involved. Just bear with me, and let me out first.”
She sighed again, but allowed him to go out, scan the street.
“All clear,” he said. His mother came out, pulled the door closed, heard the latch click home.
They walked the fifty yards to the restaurant, McBride on the outside, nearest the road, as his mother had taught him.
They got home at ten o’clock and McBride excused himself, said he was tired and needed an early night. He had just turned back the bed covers when his cell phone rang.
“John McBride.” He thought it would be his agent at first. Then remembering he wouldn’t have the new number.
“I hope it isn’t too late to phone. It’s Jenny Stockton here. You know, Ben’s sister.”
“How did you know my number?”
“Ben remembered, from when you both bought phones together. He owes you for his, so he’ll probably send a cheque.”
“Don’t worry. Tell him to take it as a gift.”
“That wasn’t why I rang. I wanted to thank you for doing such a fine job of bringing Ben back safe and sound. I wanted to take you out for a meal, as a thank you.”
“That’s kind of you. Can I phone you back tomorrow? I’ve got a job that needs doing. I should be able to phone you sometime late afternoon. Will that be okay? Haven’ I got your number? You gave it to me. If you haven’t changed it, then it’s in my wallet.”
“I really do look forward to seeing you again. Bye.”
McBride hoped he had scored there. She was a lovely girl.
At nine o’clock the following morning, he kissed his mother goodbye.
“Just be careful who you answer the door to. Keep the chain on, until you see who it is. Only until I phone you and tell you the situation is normal again. Promise?”
“Okay, I promise. You really shouldn’t get involved in dangerous things. Just be an artist.”
“I will, Mother, I will.” As he closed the door behind him, and walked up the street.
The railway station was not quite so busy now the rush hour was over. He went into the buffet, scanned the seated customers. Michael had not arrived. He went to the counter ordered an Americano black, found an empty table.
A few minutes later he saw Michael, looking smart in a black business great coat, dark grey trousers, black highly polished shoes. Your modern MI5 man.
McBride waved and Michael came over, hand outstretched. McBride stood up, took his hand.
Morton said, “I did have my doubts whether I’d ever see you again, you rash man.”
“Let me get you a coffee.”
“I’ve spent the morning drinking coffee on the train. Let’s get our tickets.”
As they went out to the ticket office, Morton, ever the spy, looked carefully at everyone in sight.
“I don’t think Ivan would be very good at disguise,” McBride said.
“I have other enemies.”
“Boasting now. You don’t change,” said McBride, with a straight face.
Once on the Skipton train, a diesel unit with hard upright bus style seats facing each other, but with no tables between, Morton said, “I did some checking with the office after you phoned last night. Nobody knew where Ivanovitch was, so he could be in Skipton. But if he isn’t I can’t spend too long with you. I mean, as your bodyguard.”
“The busy life of a spy.”
Morton gazed out of the window. “Nice countryside. That’s the downside of living in London. Constant traffic fumes, noise, and superb restaurants that rip you off.”
“I’ve spent a year or two in London, in the services. Whitehall. When you live there, the rest of the country may as well not exist. The London editions of the dailies don’t even report anything that happens outside the Metropolis. It’s, well you could say, parochial.”
“I know what you mean. I’ve just remembered what I was going to say to you last night. That fracking site you met Black Beard at, it got finished, despite the demos. It has been mothballed. The low price of oil and gas makes it not worthwhile.”
McBride laughed.
“The price will go up eventually, then the well will be back on stream.”
They walked out of the station side by side. McBride was alert now. Ivan could be anywhere even at the station watching for him. But
he wasn’t. As they walked up the High Street, Michael was looking round with interest.
“I could live here. Nice market town.”
“Yorkshire Dales on the doorstep. Leeds only a short ride away. Harrogate close. I like it.”
It was a ten minute walk to McBride’s house. An old townhouse, that may have belonged to a cotton mill owner a couple of centuries ago. But now belonged to McBride. Paid for in full and refurbished. Morton looked envious.
The house was close to the road, double fronted with a small strip of a garden, and a low wall and laurel hedge, closely clipped. The front door was centrally located, windows to each side. A small portico over the front door.
The house was totally detached, garden at either side, but only by about eight feet. Morton walked on past the house, McBride followed him.
“Give me details of the interior, before we enter. Are you going round the back, get in there? I go in with pistol out and confront him. I don’t think he will shoot me straight away, because he was expecting you,” said Morton. “In that case it will be a gun battle.”
“Brave of you. He’s waiting there, on a chair probably. Soon as the door opens, bang. He won’t wait to check. It’s me he’s expecting. It’s my house after all.”
“Except I don’t suppose he’s wearing a Kevlar vest.”
McBride looked at him. “You hide it well, still looking svelte.”
“So, you’ve got a back door key? You time it to come in before he has got over the shock of seeing me. Presumably you’ll be behind him. Use your SAS tactics and kill him. That way I save a bullet.”
“Government still trying to cut back?”
“All the time. Even on salaries. Three years since I got a raise.”
“Right, cut the crap,” said McBride. “Give me five minutes before
you go in. And just one thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t shoot me by mistake. When you go through the front door, there’s
a wide hall, with doors either side. And I chopped the end wall out, into the sitting room. Windows on the wall facing you. A sofa in front of the windows. I guess he’ll be sitting there, facing the door, about twenty feet away.”
“He’s made a mistake then. He wouldn’t be sure of killing from that
distance. He might be sitting in a chair in the hall.”
“There are no chairs in the hall.”
“You don’t think he might re-arrange the furniture? He’s had all night to do it.”
“There is that. Remember, five minutes, I’m going now, here’s the front door key.”
McBride went up the side path to the left of the house. Just round the back, at this side the back door led directly into the kitchen. He had his key in his hand.
Before he opened the door he looked carefully through the window in the door. All clear. Unless Ivan was crouching down below the central granite topped prep counter. He though not. The door from the kitchen to the rest of the house was closed. He eased the key round in the lock, pushed open the door slowly. He walked across the kitchen to the opposite end. There was a door into the dining room. He crossed the dining room, still on the window side. Another door, this time to the living room in which sat Ivan. Maybe.
McBride bent down at the door, looked through the keyhole. He could see the sofa, straight ahead, perhaps nine feet away. It was empty.
A movement to his right was somebody’s head. Ivan was sitting on the upholstered chair to the right of the door. Presumably had heard Morton open the front door. Whilst Ivan’s attention was distracted, McBride opened the door, stepped through. He was still behind Ivan, to his left. Across the room, Morton came into view, cautious, his pistol raised in front of him. Ivan lifted his arm. Hesitated for just a moment.
McBride dived forward, grabbed his arm, twisted it violently, the pistol spun out of his hand and bounced on the carpet.
“Get out of the way,” Morton said.
As Ivan snarled and struggled to get out of the chair, McBride drew his arm back and unleashed the mightiest punch of his life. It hit where intended, in Ivan’s larynx. Ivan who had been rising forward to get out of the chair, his momentum still propelling forward and fell on the floor and after a few gasping sounds didn’t move.
Morton came over. “You’ve killed him?”
“It’s possible. I tried to.”
Morton was bending over, feeling for a pulse. “You have.”
“Good, it saved getting blood on the furniture and the carpet.”
“My God, I’ve never seen a blow used like that.”
“The SAS could teach you a thing or two,” said McBride. “Do we bury him in the garden, or what?”
“I make a phone call and in an hour or so, two men with a van come and collect the body. Perhaps we can have a drink, do some shopping. Still too early for lunch.” Morton pulled out his cell phone, punched buttons. Spoke very few words, gave McBride’s address. McBride remembered to call his mother, tell her the matter had been resolved, and there was no further need for caution. Then he phoned Jenny, and arranged the date for that evening, in York.
“I wouldn’t mind a whisky if you have it.”
“A single malt is what we both deserve.” McBride went over to the drinks cupboard, poured two large tots, gave one to Morton.
“Would you like me to show you round while we drink? Get away from Ivan?”
He led the way into his studio, in one of the front rooms, large window facing north. There were two large plan chests, a counterbalanced drawing board. On the walls, framed paintings dozens of them, the best that Morton had ever seen.
“If people phone, and want to look at some paintings, they are welcome to come and view these. Most of my paintings are sold through my agent’s galleries of course, but I’m delighted to sell direct. That way I get twice the price.”
Morton spent the next half-an-hour looking at the paintings, while McBride gave a running commentary on the locations.
They were in the kitchen having coffee and biscuits when the doorbell went. McBride answered the door, and two young men stood on the doorstep. Outside the gate he could see a shiny black van.
“Mr Morton asked us to collect a parcel,” one of them said.
“Oh, yes. Come inside.”
Morton was in the living room standing by the body. One of the men was carrying what turned out to be a body bag. They very expertly straightened out the body, rolled it on to the unzipped bag. Then they zipped it up, carrying one end each down the hallway. Morton opened the door, said “Goodbye.” As easy as that.
“That’s a phone number I could do to know,” said McBride.
“You wish,” said Morton.
Find My Brother Page 31