Shadowplay

by Norman Hartley

  I glanced across at Seagull and wondered about her background and training. How early had someone spotted the strong, resilient body I’d loved so much to hold? Or had it been the quick, intuitive mind that had first caught her masters’ attention? And now, it seemed, she was dispensable. She had been a target too, there was no mistake about that—she hadn’t been caught up accidentally in an attempt to kill me.

  The thought brought Sellinger’s face floating into my mind. I remembered Ryder’s chilling words at Fort Benedict: ‘If the Sellingers ever decide things are getting too messy, they may not leave it to us.’ Was it possible that the Sellingers had decided in St. Tropez that it was simpler just to get us both out of the way? But that made no sense; there had to be a real mole somewhere and I didn’t believe I’d outlived my usefulness yet in trying to find out who it was.

  I looked again at Seagull, and thought, Damn the sleeping-bag game. I’d lost Nancy because of my ambition, now I was going to lose my career through self-indulgence and desire—not exactly an original pattern. And it was all likely to be over very soon. If Seagull was a Soviet agent, pleading my innocence would be a waste of time. There’s no greater sin for a journalist than being naive. And if she simply stonewalled, as she had in St. Tropez, and I had to hand her over to Ryder, I wouldn’t hold out much longer anyway against Sellinger’s pressure.

  I’d be obliged to resign, ‘pending further inquiries,’ pleading ill health probably, which Paul would make sure sounded plausible enough after my absence from Brussels. At least when I thought about the EEC talks, I realized what a minor problem they had become; I no longer cared whether Gerstein was angry, or whether the stock exchange contracts were renegotiated. I just wanted the Seagull business settled.

  I was really working myself into a foul mood and because of it, I had no warning of the crash. Cox saw the Jaguar coming out of the side turning, but before he could do anything, he was trapped by a buckled door. My own reaction after the car hit was completely reflexive.

  We were on Western Avenue, the main arterial road into London. The traffic was heavy but the flow was steady and the driver was keeping to the nearside lane, anticipating some maneuvering in the outer lanes, in preparation for a major right turn ahead.

  The Jaguar was a gray XJS, almost new; an expensive car for the two young, tough-looking kids in the front seats. It appeared from the side turning without any warning and, making no attempt to brake, it smashed into our near side, at the level of Cox’s door. The Jaguar’s bumper caught in our wheel arch and the two cars skidded together, careering into the guardrail down the center of the road. There was a screech of brakes behind us and the car immediately following grazed the curb as it swerved close to the pedestrian walkway.

  The crash knocked Walker to the floor and I saw from the corner of my eye that he was bleeding from a graze on the side of the temple. Cox seemed to be all right, but he was jammed in tightly and Seagull seemed to have rolled with the impact because of the tranquilizer. The two men in the Jag seemed to have suffered no damage and they were already halfway out of the car. I saw the look of determined anger in the face of the driver and in the split second before I reacted, I read into it much more than the fury of someone whose car had been hit.

  He was coming for me, I was sure of it, but I’d had one rehearsal for my death on the hillside in St. Tropez and this time I was not going down easily.

  If there’s one lesson I learned from my two brutalizing years in the military police, it was ‘Get in first’: get the advantage. If you lose the initiative, you’ll probably lose the fight.

  I presumed they had guns but I didn’t care. Inside the car, I was a static, framed target; at least in the street I could create some confusion with movement.

  The nearer of the two was the biggest, a heavy, broad-shouldered man in his mid-twenties with hooded eyes and the slightly hunched stance of a boxer. Once I was out of the Volvo, there were only feet between us and I hit him with a shoulder charge that sent him staggering back against the Jaguar. Before he could regain his balance, I got in a kick at his kneecap. It wasn’t a direct hit but it made him scream an obscenity and he started to slip back against the car door. I had the advantage of height now and I stamped downward at his extended leg and caught him square on the ankle. He screamed again and tried to reach downward to protect his legs and as he leaned forward, I hurled him upward again and heard his head crack solidly back against the window.

  I knew that was it, and only just in time for me to deal with the second man scrambling over the hood of the Jaguar. It was a mistake. He should have come around. It was quicker to come over the top but he could get no purchase on the polished metal surface and he was in too much of a hurry to check his momentum as he prepared to leap on my back. I turned and managed to get under him, grabbing him savagely by one lapel and his tie. It wasn’t really a throw that I executed; I more or less hauled him down onto the roadway, half choking him into submission, half relying on the force of his impact on the concrete surface.

  I was vaguely aware of a crowd forming and shouts and a woman screaming. I did hear someone call ‘Dial 999’ but by that time I was straddling the second man and beating his head against the curb.

  When I was sure he was unconscious I turned back toward the Volvo. Cox was struggling to move Walker, who was wedged under the steering wheel, so he could get out of the driver’s side. Seagull was still in the back seat and I yelled at Cox to keep her there, that I was all right and it was all over here.

  There was a crowd several lines deep now and the traffic seemed to be backed up as far as Heathrow, but no one tried to stop me as I knelt on the roadway and checked the second man’s breathing.

  Then I saw the police car approaching, against the line of the blocked traffic, two wheels on the pedestrian way, with horn blaring and headlights flashing despite the bright sun. Two uniformed policemen got out. Someone pointed at me and shouted, ‘That’s him. That’s the one’; but the older of the two officers had already worked that out from my rumpled suit and sweating face and before long I was sitting in the back of the stationary police car.

  The constable was young and soft-faced and as I waited for him to get his notebook out, I sat stupidly—with the adrenalin ebbing—thinking of a cartoon I’d seen recently of a cherubic-looking policeman saying to his partner: ‘I sometimes have the feeling the public’s looking younger every day.’

  I gave him a cursory statement, trying to fudge over my position in World News by giving my home address and describing myself as managing director of an ‘information company,’ but the constable wasn’t put off. After comparing notes with his partner, who had called an ambulance for the two men and talked to several witnesses, he said, ‘Sir, I’m afraid your story about a fight breaking out after the car accident is not supported by other eyewitnesses. They are saying that it was an unprovoked attack by you on the two men. What do you have to say to that?’

  I tried to stall further, saying I believed that I was being attacked and had acted in self-defense, but he clearly wasn’t satisfied, and when all the statements had been taken he announced, as I’d expected, that I would have to accompany him to Chiswick police station. I was taken in the police car and though the constable said it was so he could continue taking my statement, very little was said on the journey and I presumed it was to prevent me from concerting statements with Cox, Seagull, and Walker. I’d no idea how bad the situation was legally; my first concern was to stop word from getting out. I was already having doubts about whether the crash had been another attempt to kill us, but if the press got hold of the story immediately, it would be academic anyway: I would be linked with Seagull.

  The Jaguar was being towed to the police station but the Volvo was drivable and Walker, who had only been grazed, was following us, with Cox and Seagull. I wasn’t certain of the law, but I was fairly sure that the police could not detain anyone but me. I was counting on Cox to stay with Seagull whatever happened, but he probably wo
uldn’t be able to handle Walker as well and the driver’s first reaction would, I knew, be to call the head office.

  At the station, the isolation was the most irksome part of the procedure. Once we had got past the desk sergeant, I had no idea where the others had been taken and I was ‘processed’ on an upper floor. When I was searched, I asked if I was being arrested, but I was told that it was standard procedure for ‘persons detained at the station’ and I didn’t argue. I was taken to a small bare interrogation room furnished only with a table and three wooden chairs, and I sat with the second policeman who told me that ‘CID would be handling the matter from now on.’

  I’d expected the matter to be dealt with initially by a young detective constable—everyone I’d seen in the building seemed to be under twenty-five—but the man who came in was in his mid-thirties and he introduced himself as Detective Inspector McMurdy. I soon saw why. My fudging about the ‘information company’ hadn’t lasted five minutes; from the other statements, they’d learned who I was and the inspector, a shrewd, aware man with bright red hair and a distractingly high forehead, knew exactly what that meant in terms of prestige and status, and had even seen me on television, at the ceremonies in London to mark the World News merger. After some quick preliminaries, he gave me a formal caution and came straight to the point.

  ‘I’m told by the officers who attended the scene of the accident,’ he said, ‘that several witnesses have stated that immediately after the collision, you leaped from the back seat of your car and attacked the two men, kicking, punching, and wrestling them to the ground. I should warn you that the extent of the injuries inflicted has not yet been determined, but in any case this constitutes a serious unprovoked assault and I should like to know why you acted in this way.’

  In the time since the accident, I’d already planned my strategy; in the long term, the court case, if there was one, would be nasty, but I would have a far worse and more immediate crisis on my hands if any hint leaked out that I was afraid for my life because of an attempted murder in France. With the scandal already bubbling, and my name possibly already being mentioned in connection with it, even a hint of a story like that would bring the whole Fleet Street pack to my doorstep. So, though I knew it sounded feeble, I went on stalling. I said I had a good explanation for my behavior; that I was convinced that if I hadn’t struck first, the two youths intended to attack me. I had good reasons for that belief but I wasn’t in a position to disclose them.

  The young PC took notes and when I’d finished, the Inspector said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Railton, but I’m afraid I must point out to you that it is very much in your interests to give me those reasons.’

  We sparred for a while arid the inspector asked me if it was a security matter. I said it wasn’t, not knowing whether he believed me. We argued again, then he said, ‘Mr. Railton, if you maintain this position, you leave me no alternative but to charge you with a criminal assault.’

  I knew he would have to charge me, but at least the situation seemed to be still within reasonable bounds; then, just as the inspector was making what I guessed was one final appeal for more information, I heard Paul Sellinger’s voice in the corridor outside. He wasn’t near the interrogation room but there was no doubt he was intending his voice to be heard all over the building. I gathered he’d forced his way past the desk sergeant and was being physically restrained from looking for the CID office. He was shouting and cursing and I knew him well enough to know that his tone was calculated.

  Despite his naturally aggressive manner, Sellinger had a keen sense of occasion; when it suited his purposes, he could be subtle and quietly authoritative—the approach he well knew was the right one to help me in the present situation. Instead, he was being deliberately offensive. He was, by the sound of it, being half-dragged back down toward the staircase, and he was thundering abuse at the officers for their incompetence. I winced as I heard the damaging phrases booming out, one after the other: they had no right to detain a man like John Railton. Didn’t they know whom they were dealing with? He would see the Home Secretary; he would have questions asked in the House.

  Eventually, they must have got Sellinger downstairs and the inspector made a point of not acknowledging what was going on; then, just as we were about to resume the questioning there was a knock on the interrogation room door. The inspector, who was by this time noticeably irritated, opened it and I heard him say, ‘Tell the sergeant I’ll come out when I’ve finished interviewing him and not before.’ There was a pause, then I heard the policeman at the door say, ‘Sir. He’s asked for a complaint form. He says it’s outrageous that you won’t see him and he’s asking for your name and rank.’

  The inspector cursed quietly and went downstairs. I was left with the young policeman, who stared at the wall rather than be drawn into conversation, and when the inspector came back he was badly rattled. I didn’t need to be told what had happened. It had taken me months to learn how to cope with Paul Sellinger in full cry; he was capable of an imperious arrogance which seemed to place the Sellinger family’s concerns above all possible challenge; and he could bear down on you, hectoring and harassing in such an unjustifiably violent way that it left you speechless.

  When the inspector sat down, I knew Sellinger had done what he had set out to do: I had lost all possible chance of the benefit of any doubt.

  He spoke very formally and I could see he was having trouble controlling his temper. ‘Mr. Railton, if you persist with your present attitude, I have to advise you that I shall have no alternative but to charge you under section eighteen of the Offenses Against Persons Act with causing grievous bodily harm with intent. This is a very serious charge which would be dealt with at the Central Criminal Court and could carry a sentence of up to life imprisonment. Have you anything to say to me?’

  I saw that Sellinger had boxed me in securely; without spelling out the details, the inspector had inferred in the earlier conversations that I was making it difficult—but not yet impossible—for him to deal with me under another section, on the much lesser charge of causing bodily harm but without intent. Thanks to Sellinger, I had now gone straight to the head of the table and it was going to take more than formal stalling to get me down again.

  ‘I’m sorry about the interruptions,’ I said. ‘They weren’t of my doing. If I were able to give some indication of the reasons, would it change the situation?’

  ‘It could affect the situation, yes.’

  ‘I would need to talk to someone first,’ I said. ‘Will you allow me to make a phone call?’

  The request was a lie, but I didn’t see how it could make matters any worse. I knew I still dare not give my reasons and a lawyer probably wouldn’t help, but there was one man who might still be able to undo the damage Sellinger had done.

  I called his number, praying that he would be in, and I could feel the relief unknotting my nerves when I heard the familiar deep, gravelly voice.

  ‘I’ll be right down,’ he said before I was halfway through my cautious explanation. ‘What’s the DI’s name?’

  ‘McMurdy.’

  ‘Is he there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right, John. Put him on.’

  I handed the phone to the inspector.

  When the call was finished, McMurdy looked at me quizzically. ‘So you know Jim Pike?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We were in the army together.’

  It sounded feeble, like saying we were old school chums, but there was no way of conveying to the inspector how much I owed to Pike.

  I’d told Cox in Fort Benedict that I’d survived the military police, but I hadn’t said that it was mainly due to Jim Pike. He had been my sergeant and he had decided, after making, as he always did, his own personal assessment of the situation heedless of all the pressure from his superiors, that I was getting a raw deal. There was nothing he could do to change permanent assignment to provost duty, so he had helped me in the only other way he could: he had taught me how to
look after myself. Painstakingly, he had shown me all the things that seemed to come naturally to him: how to be streetwise, how to read a situation in a bar and know who presented the real threat and who were the blowhards who could be cooled out with a sharp word, and above all he had taught me all the self-defense shortcuts which appeared in none of the manuals.

  Jim had left the army soon after me and I’d always felt that my treatment by the CO had played a part in his own disgruntlement with service life. Instead, he had joined the Metropolitan Police and had just retired after one of the most spectacular careers the force had seen in postwar years, rising to become detective chief superintendent in charge of the Flying Squad, which dealt with armed robbery and major violent crime.

  Though my own profession had helped debase the word, he had been in a real sense a legend in the force, a folk hero to young policemen and one of the last of the old-style Scotland Yard governors, before—in Jim’s own private phrase—the CID had been monkeyed about with by the ponces from Uniform branch.

  When he walked through the door of the interrogation room with McMurdy, I noticed that the young constable beside me half-rose out of his chair. It was a natural response to a man whom I had seen disciplining a military police platoon with only a stare across a barrack square.

  He stood almost six foot four inches tall and his bulk was emphasized by a thick leather car coat which he wore open over a somber, dark-blue suit. But his eyes were his source of his authority as much as his size. They had told many a violent robber: Don’t bother reaching for that shotgun, mister, because I’m going to get you, and you may as well accept it. I noticed too that he was wearing the discreet blue tie with the bird motif, just in case anyone in the Chiswick station was too young to remember that they were looking at the man his colleagues had called Mr. Flying Squad.