“We’re going to Scotland Yard,” she shouted, her eyes wide open.
The cabbie turned down the radio.
“What’s that luv?”
“Turn around, turn around; we need to go to Scotland Yard.”
“All right, all right – calm down,” the cabbie grumbled. “I need to get out of the one-way system first.”
Marissa sat back and squeezed herself into the corner of the cab furthest from the SUV. Her mind was racing. She could get out again, could try to get a cab going in the right direction but what if they were after her?
No chance of escape.
The SUV was stuck in traffic too; if they were going to attempt anything they would have to wait until they could move away safely, surely?
Marissa fumbled in her bag, found her mobile phone, hesitated and then called Commander Ferguson’s number – engaged.
The traffic was moving in her lane; the SUV was still stuck. The cabbie moved to cross into a new lane. He managed to squeeze between two undecided drivers – there were now two lanes between her and the SUV. The SUV was moving now, also trying to change lane but with less luck than the taxi. Marissa tried Ferguson again – still engaged.
“Shit, shit.” Marissa could see the SUV pushing against the traffic despite the protestations of the other drivers. It would not be long before it would be level with her cab – then what?
“Can we try to go a little faster please?” Marissa asked. Her voice must have sounded desperate and the driver registered.
“You’ve got a problem?”
“Perhaps. I really need to reach Scotland Yard.”
The cabbie opened his window again and indicated he needed priority, another cabbie let him in and they started to move faster out of the traffic jam. The SUV was stuck again and Marissa felt hope. Her body now half turned, looking through the rear window.
“No. No,” she cried raising her hand to her mouth.
A figure had jumped out of the SUV and was crossing the lanes that separated them. The gun was pointing in her direction, the shooter running towards her cab.
“What the fuck?” The driver blurted as he looked in his rear mirror. Marissa dived onto the floor. The cabbie sounded his horn; the traffic accelerated. He turned into the Embankment to the sound of gunfire being discharged. He did not stop until they reached the Yard.
* * *
“Ferguson is on his way.” Pole put a cup of tea in front of Marissa. She nodded, the tissues she had used to wipe her face still in her hand.
“The cabbie is fine by the way; a bit shaken but fine.”
“Good,” Marissa barely managed to utter. Pole sat down as well, drank some tea and waited. She stretched a quivering hand towards her cup, wrapped her other hand around it. Her mouth opened and closed. Her eyes went moist but she recovered and cleared her throat.
“You need a statement from me?”
“Let’s wait for Ferguson. There’s no rush. You’re safe here.”
Pole’s voice was reassuring. There was nothing wrong with being scared.
When Commander Ferguson arrived Andy Todd also joined them.
“You think you were followed?” Ferguson asked as soon as he had finished greeting Pole and Marissa.
“I think so. I had not given any risk to myself much thought, even after Mark’s wife.” Marissa was still struggling with each word. Her face strained with the effort of concentration, of trying to remember and to be accurate.
“The SUV drove past you twice?”
“I think so.”
“The shooter?”
“Small man.” Marissa covered her eyes to still herself. “Small person. Five foot two or thereabouts, dressed in black – balaclava or hoodie.”
Andy was taking notes in his notebook. “We need to have access to all CCTV cameras in the area and around Buckingham Gate.”
Ferguson nodded. “Can you deal with it?”
Pole did not have to ask. Andy had stood up and disappeared the moment the request had been made.
“I doubt we’ll find them by tracing the vehicle. It was probably stolen and will’ve been set on fire and completely trashed by now,” Ferguson said.
“But people make mistakes.”
“Not these guys.” Ferguson moved to the window. He looked outside. It was dark and blustery. “In the meantime, we need to get you home safely,” he said to Marissa. “I’ll send a team to secure your flat. If it’s too complicated, we may need to move you to somewhere safer.” Ferguson commanding voice softened a little. “Does that work for you?”
“Yes, fine. I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” Marissa’s rigid body sagged a little.
“Perhaps a friend or family member could stay with you?” Pole’s voice, warm and comforting, somehow made it worse.
“I hope you find these fuckers and you have no mercy,” Marissa said, stunning both Pole and Ferguson into silence. “I need to powder my nose and I’ll follow you.”
“Tempting instructions,” Ferguson said once Marissa had left. Pole nodded. He had joined Ferguson at the window.
“Something bothering you?” Ferguson asked. “Apart from also being tempted to follow Ms Campbell’s instructions?”
“Yes, but I’m wondering,” Pole ruffled his goatee with his knuckle. “Who might be next?”
* * *
The doorbell buzzed a couple of times. Nancy moved swiftly to the intercom to let Pole into her building. She left the door of her apartment on the latch and ran to the kitchen. She had decided on a good old-fashioned blanquette de veau for their supper later on. First a private view at one of the contemporary art galleries she supported in Islington for the opening of her favourite sculptor, Bernard McGuigan, followed by dîner a deux.
Pole knocked and entered.
“I’m in the kitchen, Jonathan,” Nancy’s cheerful voice called.
“You shouldn’t leave the door on the latch you know,” Pole said walking into the kitchen with a bottle of red wine and a bunch of white lilies.
Nancy had donned oven gloves. The smell of slow-cooked meat filled the room with a delicious aroma when she opened the Le Creuset casserole lid. She stirred the stew with a wooden spoon, lifted it to her lips – perfect.
“It’s not been a good day, I think?” Her smile had disappeared. She took another spoonful and presented it to Pole.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t bring it home. Good evening Nancy,” Pole blew on the spoon’s contents and took a bite. He smiled at what was good old comfort food. He put the wine and flowers on the table. He hugged Nancy gently, kissing the top of her head and pulling back.
“What’s happened?” Nancy asked taking off her oven gloves in a sharp move and placing her hands on his shoulders. “Another —”
“No, no,” Pole interrupted. “But it was a close shave.”
Pole sat down at the kitchen table. Nancy opened the Nuits-Saint-Georges he had brought, poured out two glasses without tasting the wine first and listened carefully to Pole’s account of Marissa’s near miss.
“How is she taking it?” Nancy took a sip of wine, ignoring completely how good it was.
“Very shaken to start with, of course, but she’s bounced back pretty quickly.”
“You mean she is damned pissed off?”
“That’s a good way of putting it.” Pole smiled. “But she won’t be put off that easily from working on the case.”
“Quite the contrary. I’ve known Marissa a long time and I’d say missing their target is the worst these people could have done.” Nancy raised her glass to her friend. “Courageous is definitely Marissa Campbell’s middle name.”
Pole swirled the wine around his glass, more in a meditative gesture than to let it breathe. He finally took a sip. “The question now is, what next? Or perhaps who’s next?”
Nancy stretched h
er hand over Pole’s. “What are you worried about? That these people are on a murder spree?”
“That’s a possibility. If the intention is to intimidate or murder key witnesses, in a case that is not even a full case yet, they will target whoever it is they feel they need to target.”
“It would be almost impossible to reach Henry in HSU Belmarsh,” Nancy said.
“I’m not worried about Henry.”
“You think I might be a target?” Nancy pulled a dubious face.
Pole drank a little wine. “You are the go-between connecting Henry and Marissa.”
Nancy squeezed Pole’s hand again. “For all we know, Mark may not want to work with Henry and Marissa may have no other choice but to agree to that.”
They had moved to Nancy’s lounge whilst talking. Pole was replaying the conversation with MI6 in his mind. Make sure Henry Crowne works on the case.
“Jonathan? Is there anything else?”
Pole shook his head in a convincing denial. “No, you’re right. Let’s go to this art preview you’ve been raving about.” Pole finished his glass. The excellent Nuits did not receive the appreciation it deserved. How much would he keep from Nancy?
For now, all of it.
The small gallery nestling in Islington’s back streets was already packed when they arrived. Nancy pushed the large silver globe serving as a door handle, and she and Pole entered. Nancy was welcomed with a warm hug by the gallery owner, Phillippe. He shook hands with Pole and insisted on bringing them a glass of wine. Pole looked around at the diverse crowd only contemporary art could produce. He felt immediately at ease amongst this eclectic mix of bohemians and collectors. Nancy greeted a couple of artists she knew well and introduced Jonathan. “Jonathan Pole, a friend”. They smiled with amusement but before they had time to launch into personal questions, Pole started to comment on the quality of the pieces displayed around the gallery.
“Bernard’s craft is truly impressive.” Pole did know a thing or two about art, Nancy was delighted to see, and joined in the conversation.
“My favourite piece remains Ecstasy.”
The other artists argued; perhaps the latest abstract pieces Day and Night or Ode departed from the well known McGuigan figurative work but they were inspiring. Phillippe joined the debate. If they could wait until seven-thirty, Bernard would be arriving from the countryside then. He was finishing installing a large piece in the garden of one of his main collectors but he would arrive later.
Another younger artist she had not seen for a while came to say hello to Nancy. Pole started a conversation with a seasoned collector, Audrey.
The room was buzzing with opinions, news about current work being conceived or art pieces being purchased. A young man in a hat perched on the back of his head and dressed head to toe in black was gesticulating in front of the largest sculpture on display, elaborating on the technique, the material used and the impact the piece would have on the art market.
“This is crazy, have you seen the latest figures? Frieze Art Fair was again a complete success. The galleries sold eighty per cent of their art stock by the end of the first preview day.”
“I heard they had done so even before that,” a young woman in a vintage Alexander McQueen dress replied.
Pole moved towards the small office and casually consulted his BlackBerry.
“Any news?” Nancy asked as she presented him with a fresh glass of wine.
“Sorry.” Pole took the glass and gently tapped Nancy’s.
“Don’t apologise. I am very impressed you have spent almost a whole hour without looking at it.”
“I am glad my efforts at being civilised have borne fruit.” Pole smiled.
“In fact, I am impressed full stop.” Nancy raised her glass to him. She saw a little warmth rising to Pole’s cheeks.
“I’d told you I can talk the art talk too,” Pole teased.
The rumble of voices changed, suddenly turning to an acclamation. The door opened and a man with a mane of thick grey hair and a friendly smile entered. The artist had arrived.
Time to go back to the party.
* * *
Henry heard the bolt of his prison cell door releasing. Another visit before he was due to leave the compound, normal procedure. He would be expected to be ready before the inmates were allowed out for breakfast and would return after night lockdown had started.
The most senior of the prison officers came in. Henry was sitting on the bed, reading a book he had borrowed from the library, something of quality but not contentious, A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking.
“Change of plan, Henry. Your trip has been postponed.” The guard withdrew without further explanation.
“Wait.” Henry jumped from his bed but the door had already closed. “Wait.” Henry slammed his hand against the door. The small window latch opened. “I don’t have any more information. I’ll let you know when I have some news.” The latch closed again.
Henry lifted his fist to bang against the door once more. It took all his determination and more to stop. If the guards were toying with him it was not the time to rise to the bait. Henry spread his hands on the door. He needed to scream.
What had happened? Why had Nancy not contacted him?
His mind was fluttering, a bat caught in a confined room, bumping into the walls and never finding a way out. His cell closed in around him. He needed space but there was none. The desire for self-harm returned. He had never succumbed to it when he was a teenager in Belfast. Always fighting the temptation to test his resistance to pain. The street fights alongside the O’Connor brothers gave him enough deep cuts and bruises, sometimes broken bones, to satisfy his thirst for torment.
Prison was a new form of slow-burning torture. Henry was the first one to recognise he deserved his sentence but going through with it was another matter.
Henry’s body was now trembling with anger. The old foe had returned, summoned by the unexpected outcome of the officer’s visit. He needed to speak to Nancy. But there was no mobile, no phone he could use at this time of night. He would have to wait until the morning, queue at the telephone booth and finally place a call.
Henry returned to his bed in one step, threw the sheet and blanket to the floor and yanked the mattress from its base in a vicious move. The chair hit the desk. The carefully arranged books and papers shook, some fell to the ground. Henry did not care. He rolled the mattress, sat on the impromptu punching sack and started pummelling it with blows. He kept going, hitting, swearing, hitting again.
He can only hear the shots. The short sharp burst a gun makes before it hits its target.
It is August. The weather has been pleasant since the beginning of the month. Henry’s mother is visiting a friend in Ballymurphy. She does not know that the British army is about to launch Operation Demetrius. It is holiday season so she has decided to spend time with her friend whose son is Henry’s age. The house overlooks the green. The day has started like a normal day, breakfast with Henry and Patrick running around the house before they finally sit down to eat toast and fried sausages. Henry’s mother and her friend are sitting at the window, smoking cigarettes. Men run past shouting. Everybody goes quiet. Even at the age of four, Henry knows when he must stop talking. Men in uniforms of the Parachute Regiment run after them. There is no shooting at this stage, just running. His mother moves away from the window and asks the boys to go upstairs.
And then it starts – the gunfire. The shots are coming from somewhere on the left, from high up. His mother freezes at the bottom of the stairs. She calls them to come down now. Where is safe? They huddle in the kitchen. His mother’s friend is still at the window. One man is down on the ground. She screams. Another man with arms over his head moves slowly towards the body. He is shot as well. A few moments later a man in a white collar, a priest, takes his handkerchief out of his pocket, moves it over his
head. He is looking around, hoping the marksmen will see his white flag. He walks steadily; surely, they wouldn’t dare. A few minutes later Father Hugh Mullan collapses; death is instantaneous.
Henry couldn’t feel his fists. The sweat was pouring from his body; it soaked his T-shirt, his tracksuit bottoms. He rolled onto his side, banging his back against the leg of the bed. He could hardly breathe. He no longer knew whether he remembered the actual killings or whether he recalled the story told by adults around him. Ballymurphy had rarely been spoken about. Henry’s eyelids fluttered open. His cell was in a mess. He did not care. He had until the morning to make it look presentable again, to keep up appearances. But for now he wanted to stay with the violence that burned within him.
Henry sat up and shuffled towards the only part of the wall that was wide enough for him to lean his back against. His mind had quietened down somewhat. Lashing out in the privacy of his cell was the only way to control his anger.
Nancy had not called. There must be a delay that could be overcome. Henry had done good research on the topic of fiscal paradises and he knew the people well. He knew the countries that sell passports – real passports – to the Russians, the Middle-Easterners and others in search of a new identity. He knew that Cyprus and Malta are used extensively to launder money. He knew these people open bank accounts, create companies, trusts, structures with so many layers that the Ultimate Beneficial Owner of the funds will never be found. Unless you are Henry Crowne, of course, because he knew all the tricks.
Henry stood up warily. The cell had been plunged into darkness. He fumbled towards his desk and switched on the wall light. Time to clean up the mess.
I just need to speak to whoever is running the case. I can make a difference.
When he had finished, Henry ran a wet flannel over his body, washing away the rest of the anger.
He moved to his bed and lay down. He must prepare for a day of waiting and hoping.
Chapter Thirteen
Nothing had managed to lift Marissa’s spirits this morning. She had made herself a cup of her favourite Jamaican coffee, a couple of pieces of crunchy toast with guava jam – nothing doing.
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