by Tony Walker
"I asked him that. He said he looked in the phone book."
Karen pshawed with contempt. "As if. How many Gilroys in the Edinburgh phone book? A fair few. What - did he ring through them all?"
"I didn't think it was an old friend of Johns. I got the feeling it was one of those MI5 people. So, I rang John. I rang the number he gave me."
"At Ailsa's."
"I don't know what she's called. I don't want to know. As far as I'm concerned you're his wife and always will be. I think he's been very foolish, but you know how men are. They think with their things not their brains. There was no answer on that number. And then I got worried that he was in trouble. Have you heard anything?"
"No, nothing. I haven't heard from him and no one has phoned me here."
"There's another thing Karen. But I might be imagining it."
"What?"
"There's a car parked over the road with two men in it. They've been there ages. They look like policemen. You know undercover."
"Don't worry about it Elizabeth. I'm sure he'll get in touch. I'll let you know if I hear anything."
"Thank you Karen, you're very kind. You've always been a great girl. I saw your mother the other day in Spar by the way. She's looking well. We'll see more of you and the girls when you come back to Bonnyrigg."
"Aye, you will."
Karen put the phone down and went and opened the curtain to peer out onto the dark street. Just over the road there was a car with a man and a woman sitting in it. It was hard to make them out but there was the air of police officers about them. She closed the curtain and went to make a coffee. Then she sat down with the girls and began to read them from their favourite book Hairy Maclary From Donaldson's Dairy. She recited the rhythmic lines with great gusto to the girls' delight. She read it four times and grew tired of it before they did. She was just about to pick up Mogg in the Dark when there was a knock on the door. She had half expected it. She got up and opened the door. She recognised Sue O'Hanlon from the office and another man she didn't know who smiled apologetically. Sue introduced him as Toby Ewing. Behind them was an unsmiling man in a dark suit who looked like a policeman. Sue introduced his as an officer from Special Branch. She asked if they could come in.
"Do you have to?" said Karen.
"It's about your husband," said Sue. "It might be in your best interests to let us in."
"In my best interests? Perhaps you're behind the news Sue but John doesn't live here any more." Karen felt a seething anger grow at the other woman's officious tone.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," said Toby, "but it might be better to let us in. It's quite sensitive. It's also starting to rain," he smiled. Karen warmed to him slightly.
"Ok," said Karen. "I'm not sure about the goon though."
"The officer can wait outside," said Toby, glancing at the policeman who turned and disappeared into the rainy night.
They stepped into the house. Toby saw the girls and gave them a wave and a goofy smile. They both smiled back. Sue saw him do it and frowned at his unprofessionalism. Karen didn't ask them to sit.
"So?" she said.
"Your husband has disappeared," said Sue.
Karen laughed ironically. "I think I've realised that."
Sue looked flustered. "No, I mean he has gone and no one knows where he is. He has broken the Official Secrets Act."
Toby corrected her. "We don't know that, but we do want to speak to him."
"And you're telling me this because?" said Karen.
"Because you might know where he is." said Sue.
Karen shook her head. "I don't. Anyway what's he supposed to have done?"
"It's a bit difficult for us to talk about that," said Toby.
"Well if you won't tell me anything, why should I tell you anything?" said Karen.
"Because you'd be helping your country."
"I'm a Scottish Nationalist. Your country isn't my country."
"Really?" frowned Sue as if Karen had just owned up to an antisocial habit.
"What's it to you anyway what my politics is? Oh I forgot you keep a close eye on people who don't believe correctly."
Sue narrowed her eyes. "Things become clearer."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The vetting obviously wasn't very thorough. Both you and your husband seem to have subversive beliefs."
Toby stepped forward. "Scottish Nationalism is a legitimate and wholly respectable political opinion which our service has no interest in."
"Jesus Christ, stop beating around the bush. You want to know if I know where John has gone and I don't. We've sort of fallen out."
Sue said, "So, you don't have any idea where he's gone? We merely want to talk to him. It would be in his best interests."
"You said that. You seem to know a lot about other people's best interests Sue. I'm guessing your 'talking to' involves handcuffs and police officers and I'm guessing wee rooms with no windows and late nights. Maybe rubber truncheons too?"
"Of course not you silly woman," said Sue. "The Russians might stoop to torture but our intelligence services never would."
"Oh just get out of my house," said Karen.
"I'm sorry to have disturbed you," said Toby.
"If you know and you withhold information we will have you arrested for perverting the course of justice," said Sue. "So you'd better speak up now."
Toby put his hand on her shoulder to drag her out. He could see the warning fire in Karen's eyes. As they went out of the door, Karen said. "Good night you fine secret policemen. I hope he gets away. This is probably the most honest thing he's ever done."
Outside Toby and Sue made their way to the black high performance Ford where two police officers waited for them. They got into the back seat.
"She knows where he is the little bitch," said Sue.
"Maybe she doesn't," said Toby.
"Oh she knows alright the little Jock whore. I can smell lies. You can't trust the Scotch. Born liars. Scrounging heroin addicts the lot of them. We shouldn't employ them in our Service." She snapped at the officer in the passenger seat. "Put her under surveillance." The policeman looked at his colleague in the driving seat for confirmation, eyebrows raised. His superior nodded and shrugged.
"Well, we have an alert at all ports and airports. I don't think he'd try a flight, but he might think he could get over on a ferry," said Toby.
"We have Dover and Folkestone under close watch," said Sue. "The Immigration Service and port Special Branch have his photograph."
"What if he doesn't try to get to France?" said Toby. "What if he goes north instead of south?"
Sue shook her head. "He'll try for the shortest crossing."
"I still think we should look north. He's from Edinburgh. He has connections with Durham. North will feel like going home - getting to safety."
"Very well," said Sue. "Alert the traffic police on the M1 and M6 heading north. Most probably the M1." She leaned forward. "Did you hear that?"
The driver looked over his shoulder. "I heard ok. And by the way. I'm Scotch too."
Sue snorted.
"Where now?" asked Toby.
"We'll go to see the other of his bitches."
8th November, 10:00pm, Oxford: The rain had gone and the November fog was gathering around the ancient colleges of Oxford, in the quadrangles, in the bicycle haunted streets. The bookshops were closed. The pharmacies were closed. The fashion boutiques were closed but the pubs were open. John wandered the streets of the strange town as the fog grew thicker and he began to resemble the ghost he hoped to be. Students tumbled out of pubs whose doorways leapt open and then quickly closed leaving John outside in the damp street gloom. Inside fun was had; love affairs were kindled, and beer was drunk to the sounds of eternal merriment. Laughter ringing down centuries - heard in these same timeless taverns as crops of students came up like golden fields of wheat - the endless summer of youth. This was not what John sought. He wanted never to be seen and if seen then quickly and finally forgotten.
So he made his way from the popular thoroughfares down quieter, less fashionable streets where the fog hung thicker in haloed wreaths around quiet streetlamps. Older places, painted signs of ploughs and ships flecked and weather beaten. Quieter doors, hardly opened. They were old men's pubs, and the night was too damp for old men to venture out.
He pulled open the door which resisted him as if he were not welcome. Once inside, he felt the warmth from the log fire in the far wall. He went to the bar. The barman was a man in a once white shirt - but now marred by egg stains, beer stains and on his collar flecks of dried blood. He looked up and grunted. John didn't wonder why the place was quiet.
"A pint of Brakspear's please. And I saw outside that you do rooms."
The man nodded. "Full English breakfast included."
"I'll take one please."
"For how long?"
"Just tonight. I'm passing through."
The man nodded and finished pulling the pint.
"And a packet of crisps please," John added. He pointed at the cheese and onion box which sat between salt and vinegar and ready salted just under the shelf at the back of the bar. He paid.
"Just come up to the room when you're ready. Pay tomorrow."
John took his beer and crisps. There was him and one other man. This man was in a dark suit standing at the bar quietly drinking a whisky. It looked as if it were a regimental blazer with a badge on the left breast, but John couldn't make out any detail and he didn't want to stare. John sat down at a table not too far from the fire but still in a corner from where he could observe the door and window. Outside the fog was very thick and he was glad he wouldn't be going out again. There was a jukebox on shuffle to give the place some atmosphere - the barman correctly assuming that there was no one in the bar who would feed it money. Occasionally as John sat and sipped his beer there came a song he liked. He found his foot tapping to the familiar sound of Golden Earring's Radar Love. He was just glad to be far from anyone who knew him. Then the door opened and a grizzled man of about sixty with a salt and pepper beard entered. The fog had wet his hair. He wore a long greatcoat which he threw open as he walked up to the fire and warmed his hands. He shouted over his shoulder, "Pint of Brakspear's Jim."
"Right you are," shouted the barman back. "Quiet night for revolution?"
"Very quiet," smiled the man. "But our day will come."
When he judged himself sufficiently warm the man went over to the bar and picked up his pint. He looked at John and did a double take. Then he sat down. He initially pretended to ignore John but he was restless and filled with a nervous energy. Finally he said, "Tourist?"
John shook his head.
"On business?"
"Just passing through," said John and looked back at his beer. It was nearly finished. The alcohol warmth seeped through him but he knew it wouldn't last. He contemplated getting another one.
"I'm Alan Peathouse," said the man. "I used to be a lecturer at Caius but they fired me for being a troublemaker. Or as I call it, speaking truth to power. Power didn't like it."
"Oh," said John.
"Now I preach revolution outside the Bodleian Library."
"Anyone take any notice?" asked John.
"Some. That's not the point. Some are happy with things the way they are because they've got money and are hanging onto it. Some are duped into being happy."
"Really," said John.
"Yes," said Peathouse. "Capitalism has turned them into consumers and told them they're free. Free to buy Hi-Fis and washing machines and keep quiet while their masters rip them off."
"Surely if that's what they want, they should be allowed to do it?" said John.
"If they filled a man full of drugs to make him quiet there'd be uproar, but if they show him adverts of a new CD player he gets mesmerised by his greed and does whatever they say. Have you read Marcuse's One Dimensional Man?"
John nodded. "Yep."
"Good," said Peathouse. "I'm surprised though. Not many have. You seem like a bright chap. Too bright to take their shilling."
"Pardon?" said John
Peathouse ignored him and looked over his shoulder at the tall man by the bar in the regimental blazer. "Some of us have always taken the shilling though haven't we inspector? Always keen to do our master's dirty work in exchange for scraps from his table."
"Shut up Peathouse," snapped the man without looking round.
"That's Inspector Ramsbottom of the Yard," he said to John, jerking a thumb at the tall man. "As was anyway. He's just an ex copper on an inadequate pension now spending his time in pubs reminiscing on how he used to protect the rich."
John shrugged. Peathouse lowered his voice and said knowingly, "Inspector Rambsbottom mind you."
John looked blankly at him.
"Where are you staying tonight boy?" asked Peathouse.
"What's that to you?" said John.
"I'm a friend."
"Of mine? We haven't met as far as I'm aware."
Peathouse said quietly. "Your face is all over the news. If you know what's good for you you'll come with me because at some point tonight or tomorrow the Inspector is going to remember seeing you and tell his ex colleagues where he did."
John felt a chill. He looked suspiciously at Peathouse. Peathouse said, "I'm an honest Marxist. Look at my beard. Now look at the Inspector's military bearing and shiny shoes. Which of us do you think's on your side?"
Peathouse said that he would leave and for John to follow five minutes later. He shouted good night to the barman and went out. John waited, watching Ramsbottom at the bar who was slowly making his way down his third whisky. Then John got up. He went quickly through the door, emerging into a foggier night ringing with the magnified footsteps of strangers, lost in the dark, on their way home or perhaps on errands of love. Peathouse found him. "Come with me," he said, leading him through streets that John would never remember, by lamps, past the comforting lights of happy houses. They came to a run down, private let where Peathouse lived alone with his cat Mabel. Inside, he took off his greatcoat and offered John a cold pork pie, which he took and gave him a blanket. He pointed to the sofa. "That's yours. Tomorrow I'll give you a lift to Birmingham. There's this week's Morning Star on the table. But don't stay up too late, we'll make an early start."
8th November, 8:30pm, London: The night had deepened by the time Sue and her Special Branch collaborators arrived at the house where John had stayed with Ailsa in Chelsea. They knocked. After a short delay she opened the door, dressed casually, no make up. Toby Ewing thought she still looked beautiful. Sue still hated her because she did - but she smiled falsely, fooling no one, not even the quiet policemen on either side.
"Quite a gang you have with you," said Ailsa.
"Can we come in?" said Sue.
"It's a bit wet out here!" laughed Toby.
Ailsa's eyes flicked to Toby. She recognised him from MI5's offices at Gower Street but didn't know him. She took in the two policemen who resembled what they were sufficiently for her not to have to ask. She shrugged. "Why not?"
They followed her through into the comfortable living room. She gestured politely for them to sit. "Coffee?" she asked. Sue shook her head. Toby, with at voice like a small boy, said, "Yes please, if I may - black no sugar."
The sternest of the policemen - the Scottish one - shook his head but his colleague, in a South London accent that sounded out of place among the well honed speech of his betters, also shyly asked for a coffee but with milk and three sugars.
"Your teeth will drop out," said Ailsa smiling and thus disarming him. All men were weakened by her and if the policeman had come with any ill intention he couldn't have carried it out. Ailsa meandered through to the kitchen and made them instant coffee at her leisure.
Sue fidgeted in her seat. Toby told her to calm down. The young policemen looked around at all the expensive and he supposed tasteful things in the room. The stern policemen looked at his nails and his shoes which had become scuffed. Eventually
Ailsa returned with the coffee for the men.
"So," said Sue.
"Just a sec," said Ailsa. She smiled and pointed back towards the kitchen. "Got to get mine."
When she returned she was pleased to see that Sue looked uncomfortably furious. Internally, Sue raged at how this upper class hoity-toity madam was treating her. No respect to her hard earned position. It was plain insolence, but she didn't vent it - she as too smart for that. Ailsa sat down and crossed her legs. Her jeans were expensive and flattering. Her designer t-shirt showed off her figure. The policemen noticed. So did Toby though he would have had less idea of what to do with it. Ailsa sipped her coffee and smiled.
"So," said Sue again.
"So, Sue. " smiled Ailsa back.
"You haven't asked why we're here."
"No," nodded Ailsa in agreement. "I haven't." She gave a delicious smile at the younger policeman who blushed. He colleague glanced at him in a disciplinary manner.
"It's about John Gilroy," said Sue.
Ailsa let the silence grow, sipping her coffee, maintaining eye contact with Sue.
"That's no surprise to you I suppose," said Toby, finally breaking the tension.
"No," said Ailsa. She grinned at Toby. "I don't think we've been introduced. I recognise you, but I don't know your name."
"Ah, sorry," said Toby. "I'm Toby Ewing. I work in K7."
"I get mixed up with all your MI5 sections. What does that one do?"
"We investigate penetration of British intelligence and security."
"Ooo. I should be careful," smiled Ailsa.
"Why?" said Sue sharply. "Have you anything to hide?"
Ailsa ignored her.
"John was living here until recently," said Toby.
"Yes. I phoned you to let you know he had left."
"After two hours," said Sue, "Why did you delay so long?"
"I was very upset," said Ailsa.
Sue snorted. "Or you wanted to give him a head start."
"I reported my friend to you, what more do you want?"
"It was your duty," said Sue.
"Yes, my duty."
"But you waited two hours," said Sue, her anger now revealing itself. Anger not just at the delay but at everything Ailsa was and had and she did not.