Home Front: A James Marshal Thriller Omnibus

by Thomas Waugh

  Marshal paused, licking a few beads of sweat from his top lip, before replying:

  Thanks, but it’ll be fine. I’m not sure I’ll stay too long.

  Marshal did not want Grace to see him too mournful, or vengeful. There was an immediate look of hurt and worry on her face when he originally told her that he would prefer to attend the service alone.

  Are you still coming to the book launch tomorrow evening?

  Yes.

  Marshal had given his word, made a promise, that he would go to the party. He was far from sinless, but the soldier had always tried to be a man of his word, whenever he gave it. He recalled a quote, from Richard II:

  “Mine honour is my life; both grow in one.

  Take honour from me, and my life is done.”

  Marshal suddenly felt a pang of something – grief, fury or self-loathing – when he realised that he should be making a vow to his friend, to find and slaughter his butchers. Mullen and Duggan. Anything else would prove ignoble, unjust. He would forever walk around with a stone rattling around in his shoe. He would never know peace, until he went to war with those responsible for his friend’s death. Marshal thought that should he pray to God right now, it would be the righteous one of the Old Testament, rather than the forgiving one of the New.

  He finally approached and opened the large black holdall. The contents gave him short pause - but did not surprise him. A Glock 21. An old army service revolver. A Browning shotgun. An assortment of smoke and flash grenades. A Smith and Wesson M&P15 Sport II. The dark metal glinted. Black gold. Marshal also recognised Foster’s collection of service medals at the bottom of the bag, half-discarded or half-treasured.

  I want to give you a key to my storage locker. If somehow something happens to me, I want you to remove the contents. You will know what to do.

  Foster’s whisky and smoke-soaked words were roughly spoken but clear, like a voice from the grave. Like old Hamlet’s ghost, calling upon his son to avenge his death.

  His phone vibrated again with a message from Grace, reminding him of the details of the party tomorrow evening. He gazed at his screen saver image, after replying. It was a photo of Grace. Achingly beautiful. She was standing, in a blue and white polka-dot dress, belted at the waist to accentuate her lithe figure. She beamed as much as, if not more than, the summery day around her. When he zoomed in on the photograph, he could see a few wayward strands of blonde hair fall down her clement face. Marshal could also make out the silver cross around her neck, against her smooth skin. The photo had been taken outside of the National Gallery, during one of their first dates. Despite being works of genius, the paintings inside failed to stir his soul as much as her. Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners. The world really would be a better place if it read more John Bunyan, Marshal fleetingly thought. As much as he had stared fondly at the image in the past, he now felt it was inappropriate. His brow was corrugated. His soul was in another place. The screen saver should be a picture of Foster or Mullen, to remind him of his grief, guilt and duty. Marshal pressed a few buttons to change his settings, so his home screen remained blank.

  8.

  Morning.

  Light shone through a gauze of blue, marked by wisps of cotton-white cloud.

  “It’s a nice day for it,” more than one person remarked at the funeral, as if it were a wedding. Few people under sixty quite know how to behave at a funeral. Dwelling on one’s mortality can prove awkward and distracting at the best of times.

  Marshal rocked a little on the balls of his feet, offering up a few courteous smiles and fidgeting with his tie as the mourners congregated outside the chapel. He chatted to a few other attendees. Veterans. He found some of the small talk excruciating, but he nevertheless soldiered on. Marshal had met a handful of the ex-servicemen before, through Foster. There was Frank Chester, a former member of the Black Watch. He bred whippets, served as a school governor at a special needs school and wore a poppy on his lapel all year round. His skin smelled of lavender. Next to him was Nigel Hartnell. Like Foster, Hartnell had fought in both the Parachute Regiment and SAS during the Troubles. Hartnell had once explained to Marshal how he had spent half his time trying to forget, rather than remember, his past. With a mixture of plaintiveness and resentment he confessed how he still suffered nightmares about what he had seen – and what he had done: “I can still sometimes feel the spit on my face, from when the women, widows, used to front up to us during a patrol. When it comes to the Troubles, we bleed on both sides.” His breath smelled of rum.

  Time can erode the toughest cliff face. Many of the lions had become as frail as lambs, Marshal lamented. Instead of carrying their well-maintained rifle they now clutched walking sticks. Hairlines and faculties were receding. Tattoos were fading, whilst liver spots grew more pronounced.

  The night before the funeral Marshal had dreamed of encountering soldiers who were riled up, with a plan and fire in their bellies to take on Mullen and their friend’s killers. He felt relief in the dream, unburdened. Perhaps some of the soldiers would have avenged Foster’s death in their prime. But it was doubtful that many could now even remember their prime. Yet, for Marshal, the veterans in front of him provided proof that honour existed in the world. Every one of them was worth ten trade unionists, investment bankers or conceited students with mental health issues caused by climate change. And they were worth, at the very least, thirty virtue-signalling celebrities, who raped or repented on a whim.

  Just before everyone started to file into the chapel, Marshal offered his condolences to Cheryl, Foster’s second wife – a stewardess turned hairdresser from Chesterfield, who was wearing black leather trousers in a show of grief.

  “Jack was very fond of you,” she said, half-distracted by her desire to check her make-up once more before the service started.

  “And he was very fond of you too,” Marshal replied, lying. He remembered how Foster claimed that the wedding had cost a fortune, but it was nothing compared to the expense of the divorce. “The step-kids from the marriage say that they resent me, because I did not spare them the time to get to know me. God knows how much they’d resent me if they did get to know me though.”

  Marshal sat at the rear of the chapel, his back to the wall, as though he did not entirely trust God. The dull ache in his stomach throbbed, like a bee sting. His mouth screamed out for a cigarette or swig of whisky, but Marshal remained deathly silent. Incense perfumed the sombre air. A bible lay open on a lectern. Candles shimmered along both walls, and upon the altar. Organ music was piped through the sound system, but Marshal neither wanted to hear from or speak to God right now.

  An effete vicar, who had never once met Foster, went through the motions, like a bored actor. Haughty rather than holy. Marshal regretted not being more forceful with the first wife in relation to saying a few words during the service and honouring his friend. The widow also chose not to arrange an open casket. Marshal wanted to see Foster once more, to say goodbye to him. The sight of him would fuel his ire too. As the coffin sank into the floor, to the sound of Brothers in Arms by Dire Straits, Marshal’s heart sank with it.

  “And though they did hurt me so bad

  In the fear and alarm

  You did not desert me

  My brothers in arms.”

  Part of Marshal desired to join the deceased, in heaven or in hell – for life to be over. The former personal protection officer thought again how he should have stayed with his friend – and seen him onto the plane. He also pictured Mullen. The Irish politician had given his own press conference, offering his deepest sympathies to the victim’s family. Milking the attention and the chance to play the victim himself. He was being wrongly accused, he argued, like his son had been all those years ago. “History is repeating itself.”

  Marshal shuffled out, along with the other mourners, and welcomed the breeze on his face. Even some of the most stoical soldiers shed a tear. The two widows clutched each other’s hands in mock - or genuine - sympathy. The chi
ldren appeared solemn - or bemused. Perhaps it was their first funeral. Marshal had lost count of the number of funerals he had attended. Death is a soldier’s bedfellow. He withdrew from the throng, desperate for a cigarette. He switched his phone on, having turned it off before the service. Two messages flashed up. The first was from Grace:

  Hope you’re okay. Love you xx

  The second was from Paul, asking him if he wanted to watch the Chelsea game in the bar that evening. Marshal replied to the latter, explaining that he wished he could join him for a drink, but he had to attend a book launch.

  Marshal looked up from the phone and observed the figure of Coulson standing at the top of a grassy slope which led towards the cemetery’s carpark. He held a large golfing umbrella (although the chance of rain was slim) and puffed out his chest a little. The policeman was standing a post, peering at the crowd of mourners. Marshal fancied that Coulson resembled a shepherd, keeping watch over his flock.

  The two men met each other’s gaze, without animus or amity. Marshal strolled towards the Special Branch officer. He did not want to appear rude and snub Coulson. He also did not want to give the impression that he had something to hide. They stared at one another from a distance, narrowing their hawkish eyes in scrutiny. They softened their expressions, however, as Marshal reached the crest of the slope.

  “I thought I would pay my respects,” Coulson said, not mentioning how he was curious to see who might turn up at the service. He wondered if Mullen might send one of his minions to observe the event and report back to his master. The investigator was also not averse to encountering the ex-Para again. He could not quite get a read on the soldier, which was cause for concern enough. The son from a distinguished military family could have gone far in the army - but chose not to. Most Paras Coulson had met over the years considered themselves men apart. Arrogance and aggression were drilled into them - if they did not exhibit those traits already. Coulson was taken back when he came across Marshal’s service record in Helmand and beyond. He was no stranger to violence and killing. The Special Branch officer had met a variety of types of killers over the years. Marshal did not fit the normal profile. But that did not mean that he could not be in a class of his own. If anyone could go after Mullen, out of revenge for killing Foster, then Marshal could. Yet surely Coulson was letting his thoughts run away from him. The former soldier had a comfortable life and model girlfriend. His record was clean. No arrests. But that did not mean he was guiltless of any crimes. Yet surely Marshal would have too much to lose, if he decided to take the law into his own hands? Mullen may have been less Catholic than the Pope, but he seemed just as well-guarded.

  “Jack would have appreciated the gesture,” Marshal replied, forcing the mildest of smiles. A cloud of awkwardness and tension hung in the air, like speech bubbles in a cartoon.

  “My father used to say that he liked a good funeral, whatever a good funeral is. Knowing my father, he was probably referring to the good drink-up after the service. We spend half the day remembering the dead – and then the rest of the day drinking to forget. I was hoping to catch you before you had a drink, though, in case you might have remembered anything else. Any small piece of information might prove useful and unlock something larger in the investigation.”

  “To tell you the truth, I have been trying to distract myself and not dwell on things,” Marshal explained, with a slight apologetic look on his face.

  A car horn blared in the background, but the two men ignored the noise.

  “I understand. I suppose he would want you to get on with your life.”

  No, he would want me to violently end the lives of the bastards who tortured and killed him.

  “And how are you progressing with the investigation?”

  “You will appreciate that I cannot comment too much on an unfolding case, but there are a few leads that we are pursuing,” Coulson remarked, with clear ambiguity – masking his frustration and disappointment. Coulson had a suspect, but no evidence. The officer had been present when a colleague had interviewed Mullen at his office in Mornington Crescent. His alibi for the afternoon and evening when Foster was abducted and murdered was airtight. Too airtight. His performance was convincing – too convincing – as the former IRA Brigade Commander confessed how there was once a time when he would have wished evil on the British soldier: “I would have even wanted him dead. But there has been too much blood under the bridge. The Troubles are a thing of the past. I buried my son. My baby boy. I also put down my weapons and buried my grievances. I believe in the Good Friday Agreement. My life is now dedicated to peace, not conflict. Words are my weapons. Words of peace and reconciliation. And I must practice what I preach… If I can help in any way, do let me know and keep me abreast of your inquiries. I am as keen to catch the people who did this as much as you, officer.” The lines the politicians spouted seemed rehearsed. An air of self-righteousness, as well as self-satisfaction, laced his tone. But no amount of perfume can wholly conceal the smell of excrement. Coulson left the meeting more convinced than ever that Mullen was involved in the murder. But, also, he was more convinced than ever that he would be unable to find sufficient evidence to prosecute the wily politician. There were no forensic traces on the body to work on. No witnesses had come forward to further their investigation. They had failed to identify anyone within Mullen’s organisation who would break ranks and provide them with relevant intelligence. Mullen’s men were loyal to him, like soldiers to a general. The police – Brits – were the old and constant enemy for the republican. Coulson’s investigation was not progressing. Rather it was stuck, like a broken cart in a muddy field. If only he could make some mud stick to Mullen, the policeman thought.

  “What about the man you mentioned, the Irish politician? Do you believe that he is connected to the killing?” Marshal asked, deliberating not mentioning Mullen’s name, as if it was of little importance to him.

  “We have been unable to find any evidence to link him to the murder,” Coulson replied, adjusting his collar a little as though it were causing him discomfort.

  Marshal noted how the policeman was now wearing a proper, as opposed to clip-on, tie for the funeral. Marshal also noted how the investigator did not entirely answer his question.

  “Hopefully, Jack will deliver some justice, when he catches up with the guilty parties in the afterlife,” Marshal posited, fingering the key in his pocket to the storage unit.

  “I am determined that some form of justice will be delivered earlier than that,” Coulson asserted, whilst he cleaned his glasses with his tie. The detective recalled, however, a meeting the day before with his superior. “Sometimes the prey, through luck or judgement, avoids all the traps,” the commanding officer remarked, before subtly or not encouraging him to devote greater resources to other outstanding cases.

  Marshal could believe that Coulson was determined to arrest any culprits, but determination alone would not be sufficient to apprehend Jack’s murderers. Mullen knew the law, as well as the Special Branch officer. Justice sometimes, or often, meant working outside the law.

  Coulson’s phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a message from his wife, Irene, asking when he would be home for dinner. It was his day off. She had not given her husband the most uxorious of looks that morning when he mentioned he would be travelling into town.

  “You need to rest,” Irene insisted, pricking his breakfast sausages with more violence than usual. “That job of yours will be the death of you - or me.”

  Irene nevertheless kissed her husband of more than twenty years goodbye.

  “I am afraid I am being summoned home, by the wife. Best not to be on the wrong side of your immediate superior,” Coulson said, in good humour. “My daughter is due home from university today and my better half is cooking a special dinner. She will have my head on a plate if I am late.”

  Coulson smiled as he thought of seeing his daughter, Tessa, once more. He loved her dearly – but despaired that she had chosen to sign-up to F
ilm Studies at university. The degree was less than useless, he would often assert. “It’s worth nothing, although it seems it’s also worth nine thousand pounds a year in fees!” he routinely complained to anyone who would listen. The policeman was willing to swallow his wife’s tolerable cooking this evening, though he would refuse to swallow any “critical race theory” coming out of his daughter’s mouth. According to his daughter, he was not “a good feminist” – and his original sin of being a racist derived from him “being white”. The freemason and local golf club member just hoped that his daughter would not wear her “I know Foucault about Marxism” coffer-stained t-shirt when they were sat at the dinner table.

  “Enjoy your meal,” Marshal remarked. Somehow the globules of awkwardness and tension vanished. “My better half has corralled me into attending an event she has arranged for the evening. As much as I am smitten with the host of the party, I doubt if I will be enamoured with her guests.”

  Left-wing authors. A tautology.

  “Thanks. Would you like me to keep you updated with the investigation?” Coulson asked. Was Marshal, like Mullen, an interested party?

  “No. You already have enough on your hands, I imagine. If there’s a breakthrough I will catch it on the news.”

  Both men knew that there would be no breakthrough in the investigation. Mullen would have second-guessed police procedures. But he would not have factored in Marshal being part of the equation. It was time to make the call. To Oliver Porter. The dull ache in his stomach subsided, as the ex-soldier thought of the mission ahead.

  Blood for blood.

  9.

  Clumps of chocolate-coloured mud were interspersed with patches of shimmering grass. Barely a cloud scarred the burning blue sky. It looked like it was going to be a fine day, until his phone rang.

  Oliver Porter reached into his pocket, moved the poo bag aside, and pulled out the chiming device. The former fixer had been expecting a call from Marshal at some point, but he had not entirely been looking forward to it. Porter suspected that his friend was about to do something honourable or foolish. There was little distinction between the two.