The Cold North Sea

by The Cold North Sea (retail) (epub)

  ‘Finch… Dr Finch…?’

  It was coming back.

  ‘Dr Finch…?’

  He heard a female voice again, pleading with the man for patience.

  ‘I understand your position, Miss. But I’m afraid time is not on our side.’

  Finch struggled to recognise it, but then he knew… the detective.

  ‘Coates?’

  ‘Nurse, he’s awake!’

  He felt a hand on his wrist, his pulse. Then he heard the nurse dash off… to fetch a doctor, she said.

  ‘I am a doctor.’

  She stopped.

  ‘No, Doctor… I mean your doctor… your physician…’

  She spoke in hushed tones.

  ‘Please, Detective. Be gentle with him.’

  Finch blinked his eyes open. It was bright but blurred. He could see a clear, blue, early winter sky. And now his head hurt… all over, every patch of his skull. He sensed a fresh bandage round his crown.

  ‘Coates?’ he asked again.

  ‘Here, Finch.’

  His shape began to form. The detective was standing over him. There was something white. He had his right forearm in a plaster cast.

  ‘Sorry…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your arm.’

  ‘Not your fault, Dr Finch. Not directly.’

  Croaked Finch: ‘You need to get yourself a better driver.’

  Coates gave a light laugh.

  ‘Oh no, sorry, I mean… Is he okay?’

  ‘Jennings? Was just concussed. He’s fine.’

  ‘Ingo?’

  There was another voice… male… Scottish.

  ‘Jilkes?’

  There must have been panic… strain in the way he said it.

  ‘Please, you mustn’t go upsetting yourself, Dr Finch,’ said Coates.

  Jilkes sounded heartbroken.

  ‘Ingo, I’m so sorry…’

  ‘He’s been here the whole time,’ explained Coates. ‘Slept in a chair.’

  ‘How long have I been…?’

  The nurse had come back in.

  ‘Two days,’ she said.

  Finch saw a white coat. The doctor was with her.

  ‘But Jilkes…?’

  He could see Jilkes now, too – the worry, the concern etched into his features.

  ‘They leaned on me, Ingo… I couldn’t act freely… didn’t know what to do…’

  Coates came close.

  ‘Bastards threatened his family,’ he breathed. ‘They’re okay now. No danger.’

  ‘Jilkes, no, it was me. I should never have dragged you into this whole bloody business.’

  He reached out his right hand. He felt Jilkes take it. He realised his wrist was bandaged.

  ‘You were doing what you thought was right,’ soothed Jilkes. ‘We both were.’

  ‘But Agatha, the kids…?’

  ‘They’re fine, Ingo. All’s well. They send their love.’

  Finch tried to smile.

  The doctor bustled his way through. He and the nurse eased Finch up slightly. There was a pang, a burn, down the side of Finch’s neck. The nurse placed another pillow behind his head.

  Finch couldn’t gauge distance… depth… but he seemed to be in a private room.

  ‘Right, let’s have a look at you,’ said the doctor.

  The nurse gave him the vitals but Finch couldn’t compute them. It was just a string of numbers.

  ‘When will we be able to take a statement?’ he heard Coates whisper.

  ‘Hold your horses, Detective. Our patient’s been a lucky fellow,’ griped the doctor. ‘Let’s not push it.’

  ‘Sorry. But it’s…’

  Christ… it was all coming back to him…

  ‘The ambassador!?’

  ‘Please, Dr Finch,’ said the doctor. ‘Don’t exert yourself.’

  ‘Right as rain, Finch,’ said Coates. ‘You saved his life.’

  The movement made his shoulder burn again. He winced.

  ‘Take it easy,’ said the nurse.

  ‘Bullet hit you just below the collarbone,’ explained the doctor, prodding and poking at him. ‘A high-velocity bullet. Clean in, clean out. Just missed the artery. But just a fraction of an inch either way…’

  He pronounced it as jollily as if to a child who had just scraped their knee.

  ‘…You’re a lucky fellow.’

  This doesn’t feel like luck.

  ‘A German bullet… Mauser… 7 millimetre,’ added Coates.

  ‘Oh.’

  The doctor and the nurse conferred. Coates whispered so they couldn’t hear.

  ‘…And so the plot thickens. We’re still piecing it all together. Which is why…’

  The doctor threw Coates an admonishing look.

  ‘As I said, Detective, all in good time.’

  The doctor got to work on Finch, looking into his eyes, examining his pupils. He was shining a light now, then holding a fountain pen, commanding that Finch follow its line of movement.

  ‘Of course, this is all off the record…’ added Coates. ‘Nothing in the papers… Stakes too high. The assassination attempt? It never officially happened. Powers that be…’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Bit of a hero, laddie,’ chipped in Jilkes, and the word made Finch think, for a second, of Lulu.

  ‘An Anglo-Russian accord was signed. Problem averted,” declared Coates. “And for that, at the very least, Whitehall will give you some kind of commendation.’

  Finch waved it away.

  ‘Ingo…’

  It was Jilkes again.

  ‘…There’s someone else who wants to see you. She’s been here with me for most of it.’

  It was the question he’d wanted to ask. He had no idea. But any pain he felt was offset by the warmth now oozing through him. It was more powerful than any drug.

  ‘Annie?’

  The silence lingered. Something was amiss.

  ‘No, Ingo,’ she said.

  When the doctor moved, he saw her, sitting in the corner.

  ‘Maude came here the moment she heard,’ offered Jilkes.

  Whispered Coates, awkwardly: ‘Mrs Pointer’s midway across the Atlantic… Safe.’

  Now it was Jilkes who was leaning in.

  ‘Just let it go, old boy.’

  ‘Maude… Really… I’m sorry… I…’

  And once again Finch hated himself…

  * * *

  Finch sat in the open tonneau of the government Wolseley as it turned off Whitehall at the corner of Horse Guards Avenue. There was a distinct chill in the air and he pulled his overcoat around him, careful not to let the heavy serge put pressure on his shoulder. His arm was still in a sling, left hand strapped to his chest, the palm resting on his right clavicle.

  It had been ten days since his discharge from the West London Infirmary, three weeks on from Eaton Square. Back home, unfit to work, he had spent his time being indulged by Mrs P-A, to whom he was unable to confide the exact nature of his injuries.

  He suspected that inconsistencies in his storytelling were rife and respected her refusal to probe them. There was an upturn in the police presence around the house and about the street, she had noted. He knew, without it ever being spoken, that she understood a fraction about some other life that had been lived – in South Africa, and now here.

  He doubted if a return to the old ways would ever be possible. Not now. What could he ever get out of his small-town profession other than frustration and disappointment? Though he had never asked for it, and certainly never expected it, he had been awarded a thousand pounds in compensation by the War Office – not that the word ‘compensation’ was ever used. The cheque was anonymous. It came with its own unique code… a reference number… He was assured its deposit would never trouble the Board of Inland Revenue.

  He would see how long the money lasted… and how long till drink accounted for a chunk of it – though he had not touched a drop since his wounding; he had simply lost the taste. It wou
ldn’t stay this way, he knew… and Christmas was imminent. He vowed in advance to give some money to Mrs P-A and to spend a portion of it on the house.

  He had not seen Maude since that day in the hospital, and, pointedly, barely seen Jilkes. He knew that his friend’s visit that day was as much about the assuaging of guilt as anything else. He was sure Agatha, quite correctly, would put the security of their family first. And that meant no room for him in their lives.

  As the car came to a halt outside the great granite edifice of the War Office, Finch looked up. It was colder but clear, the sky bright blue, the wet and grey of autumn lifting for a more welcome crispness, a purging of the gloom that had inflicted itself upon him, in every sense. His breath came in great billows.

  The government chauffeur walked round the car and opened the door. He extended a hand to help Finch down, though pride got the better of him and he struggled by himself, regretting it as a twinge of pain flashed through his shoulder and up his neck. He still couldn’t recall the moment of being shot – running towards the ambassador’s limousine, yes, but nothing else until the hospital.

  ‘You know where you’re going, sir?’

  ‘I do, thank you.’

  He had been told the number and been asked not to write it down – room 1571. It seemed an unnecessary affectation.

  There were two Horse Guards, one either side of the entrance in their dark blue tunics, red-plumed helmets, white trousers and shiny black riding boots. They sported swords and shoulder braids and gleaming cuirass breastplates. They were unmoved as Finch mounted the steps, his troublesome knee at least benefitting from the enforced rest.

  In a circular vestibule was a reception desk at which a khaki-clad NCO requested Finch’s name and ticked him off a list. The room was on the first floor.

  There was an electronic buzz – a door-release system – and Finch was inside. He could hear the clack-clack-clack of typewriters as he went towards the stairs. Up the first flight, he walked along a dark, oak-panelled corridor, his shoes clicking and echoing off the shiny black and white tiles.

  The doors were all numbered. There were no names. He found 1571, knocked and heard a muffled, ‘Wait.’ There was a chair outside. After five minutes of standing, he then sat in silence for what seemed forever. Eventually the door opened and a small, expressionless man in a winged collar poked his head out.

  ‘Dr Finch?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This way, please.’

  The man was slightly stooped. Not old, he just seemed it – as fusty as the civil service he represented. Inside, the office was that of a mandarin – a window onto Whitehall (probably in every sense, mused Finch), an oak desk, leather chair, bookcase, an ornamental globe.

  It soon became apparent that it was not this fellow’s office. A side door opened and in walked a tall man in a morning suit. He had a commanding presence. He was probably in his mid-fifties, was balding, but with an impressive moustache and keen green eyes.

  ‘Allow me to introduce Mr Melville,’ said the underling.

  ‘Ah, Dr Finch,’ said the incomer, shaking his hand firmly. ‘No doubting you’re a brave man.’

  His accent caught Finch unawares – not the cut glass of the public school, but the cadence of the London streets, tinged with the lilt of Ireland… of its remote, wild west.

  ‘I’ve read the report, Finch. You’re a resourceful chap. Can get yourself out of a pickle… and into one, for that matter.’

  He motioned to the underling, who picked up a wooden case from the desk. He flipped the lid. Inside, on a white silk lining, lay a silver cross, with a ruby in the centre. It was threaded onto a long, pale-blue and white striped ribbon.

  ‘The King’s Gallantry Medal,’ said the underling.

  He indicated that Finch should bow his head.

  Melville took it out and hung it around Finch’s neck, arranging it across the sling.

  ‘Although, of course, this is all just entre nous,’ the underling added. ‘Can’t let it get out in public.’

  Melville harrumphed. The underling scurried out and closed the door. The atmosphere felt flat. Far from a reception for a hero. Not that Finch considered himself such.

  ‘I say brave,’ said Melville. ‘But your actions were also reckless… Nearly blew wide open an operation that Military Intelligence and the Secret Service had been working on for years – and not for the first time I might add.’

  ‘But I thought… the ambassador…?’

  Melville went to the window and looked out. He had big, square hands. He clasped them behind his back.

  ‘Count Alexander Konstantinovich Benckendorff…’

  He uttered the words slowly, deliberately and, fancied Finch, with no small measure of contempt.

  ‘…You think you saved his life?’

  ‘Well, I mean… not that I feel comfortable with the term… but he emerged unscathed, the signing went ahead… the accord between Britain and Russia.’

  Melville shook his head. He turned.

  ‘I ask you, Dr Finch – not to judge you, a man is entitled to his opinions – but, in terms of this accord, where do you stand…? Were you a man lusting for Russian blood? Or perhaps one who thought that wiser heads should prevail, and a better solution, a diplomatic solution, be sought?’

  He sensed Finch’s hesitation.

  ‘I think that should be obvious.’

  ‘Obvious? In this department, in our demi-monde, nothing is ever as it appears… You may speak freely.’

  He produced a worn gold cigarette case and offered it. Finch, unusually, declined.

  ‘Well, sir, I would have to say, much as I share the outrage at what happened in the North Sea, it was not something to go to war over. I’ve seen war up close. It’s not pleasant.’

  Melville produced a flint lighter and lit himself a smoke.

  ‘So, in your view – and I’m not putting words in your mouth, you understand – sitting round a table, signing an accord, was an important way of achieving that goal?’

  ‘I’ve not read the small print, and I’m sure there’s some humble pie to be eaten on the part of the Russians, but, essentially… yes.’

  ‘His Majesty’s government would concur…’

  He exhaled upwards, towards the ceiling.

  ‘…In which case, Dr Finch, given the importance of this Anglo-Russian accord, why do you think we would place it in even the slightest jeopardy – at this particularly combustible time – by parading the Russian ambassador, Count Benckendorff, through the streets of London… and in an open-topped car in broad daylight?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’

  He tapped the cigarette on a large glass ashtray.

  ‘That man you saved… spared from a Bolshevik bullet… I have to tell you, Finch, that was not the ambassador…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘…but an actor posing as him. We switched the two men as the vehicle left the embassy… The real ambassador, the real Benckendorff, had already met with our foreign secretary in secret an hour before.’

  ‘Oh.’

  The more Melville went on, the more pronounced the Irish.

  ‘What’s more, your actions, despite your having been warned to stay away on several occasions, I regret to say, resulted in the death of one of our chief assets.’

  ‘A death?… Who?’

  ‘You knew him as a private detective.’

  ‘Vax?!’

  ‘If that’s what you prefer to call him. Though that is immaterial now.’

  Finch felt cold, numb, sick to his stomach. His words came hushed, strained, pathetic.

  ‘My God, I had no… I’m so… so sorry.’

  ‘A skilled agent who had successfully embedded himself within the Russian diplomatic hierarchy and was our greatest single source of information about the Bolsheviks’ dealings in this country, something we could only leverage by drawing their little plot out into the open… This Norfolk business, the assassination attempt, we had it a
ll covered…’

  Melville must have seen the colour drain from Finch’s face.

  ‘…His infiltration had also allowed him to groom a female accomplice, a member of the household staff. Needless to say, we’ve had to pull her out. Months of work sacrificed.’

  He went to the globe. The upper half lifted up as a hinged lid. It was a drinks cabinet. Without even asking, Melville poured two generous measures of single malt Scotch into cut-crystal tumblers. He handed one to Finch. He sipped. It didn’t taste how he remembered.

  ‘The problem is, Finch, you are a liability…’

  He had offered both a smoke and a drink, but, noted Finch, not a seat.

  ‘…You’ve owed your freedom to the fact that, five years ago, during the South African War, you found yourself sitting on some classified information – information that His Majesty’s government hoped would never surface. You then used the existence of this information as a bond… blackmail, in another man’s language… to guarantee said freedom.’

  Finch felt the blood rise.

  ‘Goddammit… South Africa… my life was in danger. Those bastard thugs were about to put a bullet in my head. I had no idea of the context. I was wagering those documents on my life… on Nurse Jones’ life…’

  Melville sat on the edge of his desk. He swirled his glass and examined its contents.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, Finch. You played your hand well. Sometimes people…“outsiders”… ones not straightjacketed by specialist training, can be very – how shall we say? – creative in their reasoning… their methods…’

  He rested his cigarette in the ashtray.

  ‘…But I regret to inform you that you will shortly be receiving a communiqué from a private security bank in Holborn informing you that there has a been a break-in at their establishment and a certain deposit box opened, its contents removed. I think you know to what I’m referring.’

  Finch felt the nausea return. He nodded weakly.

  ‘We don’t doubt who was behind it either – our friends, the Germans. And in the shadow game of the intelligence war, it’s a pretty big stick for them to wield. To use the language of the saloon bar, they’ve now “got something” on us. And why? Because by poking your head above the parapet, as you were explicitly told not to, you drew attention to yourself. In this game, all actions have consequences. And they’ll come after you, Finch, will want to make you talk. If we had any common sense we’d have liquidated you – you and your Australian friend. But she’s an untouchable now. And so, by association – and by a whisker – are you.’