No Turning Back

by Freddie P Peters

  John laughed outright. “It’ll take more than a pongy con to give HSU Belmarsh a bad reputation. It’s got one already.”

  “Still, I am meeting with two ladies tomorrow.” Henry pleaded jokingly.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Henry nodded and prepared to enter Cell 14. He slowed down a little, crossed the threshold and stood there until the door was shut. He could feel the metal against his back. Henry’s body swayed gently, an oscillation that gradually pushed him inside the room. He forced himself to move slowly to his bed, two steps. He sat down, using his breathing as control.

  Inhale – exhale.

  Adrenaline was still coursing in his veins – everything was now possible.

  “Everything,” Henry murmured.

  He let his mind drift, coming back to one word in focus. He had lived a boring but sheltered life since he had started his sentence. He hoped the four years spent in an environment in which hardly anything happened had not blunted his mind and his ability to anticipate danger. He would very soon find out.

  Kamal was ready. Henry was still puzzled at the thought. Be one step ahead of the competition had been his motto and he had never failed. Today he was prepared to let someone else make a life-changing, even life-threatening, decision on his behalf but it was the price he had to pay. Henry relaxed into the thought. Kamal and the new Jihadi group he was helping to build needed Henry Crowne. He certainly could construct a financial empire, unassailable and capable of churning out hundreds of millions. But a new idea was forming in his mind. Kamal had another motive perhaps.

  Henry scratched his nascent stubble. He had always hated the idea of growing a beard but needs must. He would have to fit in and look dedicated. He picked up the small book wrapped in a delicate silk scarf. It was only 9pm. Time to read a few verses of the Qur’an before sleep.

  * * *

  Yvonne’s phone rang for a while before someone picked up. The mortuary was not a place where matters were rushed. A young voice asked for a name. Pole replied he was returning Yvonne’s call and the next minute the pathologist was on the line.

  “I have something to cheer you up. Perhaps.”

  “How did you know I needed good news?” Pole’s voice sounded almost offended.

  “’Cos you’re having to deal with The Super.”

  “How did you know? Never mind. What is it that is so cheerful in the middle of explosive devices, cadavers and other forensic paraphernalia?”

  “I sent the bullet that was recovered from the taxi carrying Marissa to ballistics and there is a bit of forensic evidence on it.”

  “The suspense is hardly bearable.”

  “I have a partial print.”

  “OK. That could cheer me up. I can hear there is something more.”

  “Yup. That partial fingerprint is pretty close to the one I found in a previous case.”

  “Go on.”

  “The Royal Exchange sniper.”

  Pole’s entire body tensed. Images and sounds jumble in his mind. The noise of a bullet shattering a window and the thud it made when it hit its target, Nancy and Edwina barely sheltering from the shooter, the man dead on the floor.

  “Jon, Jonathan, are you still there? Hello …?”

  “Yes, sorry. I’m back. I mean I’m listening.” Pole’s voice sounded faint. He leant against the desk.

  “Flashback,” Yvonne’s voice was professional but considerate. “Happens a lot.”

  “Right. Thank you.” Pole cleared his voice. “Would someone have been that careless?”

  “More often than you think. In particular with bullets. And this is only a partial print, don’t forget. I don’t have enough to identify the person but I have enough to establish a connection between the print on the bullet that almost killed Marissa Campbell and the one which exploded Gabriel Steel’s head.”

  “And I presume the same gun.”

  “Correct.”

  “And how about …?”

  “Visconti? Lots of prints on the sword and zero matches on IDENT1 so far, but I haven’t finished.”

  Pole remained silent.

  “I agree entirely,” Yvonne said.

  “What now? Can you also mind read?”

  “You were thinking so loud I couldn’t fail to hear. All this could be connected. I’ll focus on the fingerprints.”

  “Thanks Yvonne, good to know we are on the same wavelength. My intuition —”

  “Intuition! I’m a scientist. If I ever even whispered the word intuition I’d be branded a hysterical woman.”

  Pole managed a laugh. “I promise I won’t mention it to The Super.”

  Pole hung up and looked at the long list of calls he had to return. Nancy had suggested a late dinner. He sat down and started his round of calls. He would be damned though if he missed an evening with the woman in his life.

  * * *

  “Will we see you at the wedding, old chap?”

  Brett lifted an eye from his newspaper. He replied without asking the other gentleman to join him.

  “Almost certainly, the young Earl of Coventry is finally tying the knot. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Brett barely smiled. He had no time to waste on such pleasantries. A few more words were exchanged and the intruder retreated.

  Brett resumed reading his paper, barely managed a few lines and checked his watch again. MI6-Steve was late, very late. Brett tried to pay more attention to The Telegraph article speculating about the death of Massimo Visconti: mafia – Sicilian or Russian? It was all about art smuggling – perhaps Italian old masters or even antiquities from further afield. The paper had taken Visconti’s death as an excuse to lament the theft of art in war-torn countries. “Better that than letting it be blown to pieces,” Brett murmured with contempt. He dropped the paper and ordered a second whisky. He was meeting The Sheik again the next day, another request at short notice for a conversation in which he would be asked to deliver an impossible deal. Armaments of some horrendous nature. Antonio, his reliable Italian smuggler, wouldn’t like it. Then again, if the price was right …

  MI6 had promised back-up and he needed it, preferably now.

  Steve was over an hour late. Even by his casual standards when it came to timetables, this was alarmingly late. Had something happened to him? Brett pushed the idea away but as time passed it kept creeping back into his mind. His handler was not a man he would have chosen to mix with – still, he was his protection, as his link to the agency.

  The whisky arrived. Brett inspected the amber liquid through the thick crystal of the tumbler, an elegant Victorian Royal Scot Diamonds piece. He took a mouthful and closed his eyes.

  Surely, if something had happened to Steve, he would have been contacted by now – although there were no mobiles allowed in the club.

  Surely, they, whoever they were, would have sent a note.

  Brett straightened up; this was ridiculous. The whisky was not helping and he resented it. He would finish his glass and make a plan – back at home he could activate his emergency code.

  The sound of a body dropping heavily into a chair startled Brett.

  “Did you miss me?” Steve asked with a grin and a wink.

  The tumbler shook in Brett’s fingers and a few drops landed on his immaculate trousers. Brett brushed them off with the back of his hand and suppressed a curse.

  “That much, hey.” Steve turned towards the gloved waiter who had appeared noiselessly at his elbow. “The same thanks.”

  Brett would have liked to summon outrage at the way Steve was being so matey – name your drink, don’t thank the waiter for crying out loud –but he was too relieved to indulge in his favourite pastime: correcting MI6-Steve in the ways of the upper classes.

  “The reason why you are late had better be a good one.”

  “It is but …”

/>   Brett pursed his lips. “You can’t tell me.”

  “At least not yet.” Steve nodded. “We’re picking up a lot of activity outside the UK. Too early to give us a lead.”

  “So that’s it – no intel I can use, nothing.” This was not the support Brett had been waiting for.

  “Not quite. It is almost certainly about movement between countries.”

  “Really, I would never have guessed.” The sharpness of Brett’s voice amused Steve.

  “You may want to prep Antonio up.”

  “Let me handle Antonio as I see fit.”

  “I reckon it will be armaments this time around,” Steve interrupted Brett. His face had turned serious.

  “I thought you had no idea.”

  “Not enough details though.”

  “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

  “It’s not. Don’t care whether you’re reassured, Brett. I care whether you’re still alive at the end of this deal.”

  “I don’t believe one word.”

  “And to make matters even better, I think you’ve just been promoted by your Jihadi pal.”

  “To state the obvious, he is not my Jihadi pal. And what do you mean promoted?”

  “You’re about to replace Visconti – again unofficial.” Steve emptied half of his whisky in one gulp.

  “Was Visconti one of your – assets?” Brett’s eyes had locked with Steve’s.

  “Nope. I don’t even know whether anyone tried to recruit him.”

  “Let me rephrase the question. Is the fact that someone tried to recruit him what got Visconti killed? He was one of the best operators —”

  “Hold your horses,” Steve interrupted. “When it came to stolen artefacts, paintings and the like, perhaps, but armaments is a different matter altogether.”

  “And why would I fare better?”

  “You got me.” Steve raised his glass and drained his whisky.

  Brett tapped his fingers on the arm of the leather chair. “Do I facilitate anything?”

  “We’ve had this conversation before, yes. Anything goes.”

  “But before, it was hypothetical; today …” Brett let the sentence hang. He could not quite believe what he was letting himself in for.

  “What matters is that we track the payload.”

  “But Antonio does not tell me the route he takes. That is the deal. I only see the merchandise when it arrives.”

  “And that is what we want.”

  “So you don’t care that some ridiculously dangerous item – nuclear, chemical, whatever – transits through Europe.”

  “I didn’t say that but if it’s the price to pay for dismantling this terror cell …”

  Brett had bent forward towards Steve as the conversation progressed. He now sat back in his seat. “Anything else?”

  “Try to find out more about Crowne.”

  “You’re not serious?”

  “Extremely.”

  “And what am I supposed to find out? Whether they are going to get him out of jail?” Brett sniggered. His fair complexion had turned a shade of pink, making the roots of his hair almost look white.

  “That would be ideal.” Steve replied. He was not jesting.

  Brett put the glass to his lips, realised it was empty. Another one? What the hell, it might be his last. He looked in the direction of one of the waiters.

  Brett remained silent for a moment. Was MI6 genuinely expecting Crowne to escape? The answer seemed straightforward after all. Yes, they were.

  “You want to recruit him, don’t you?” Brett asked suddenly.

  “You don’t expect me to answer that question?”

  “The idea of sending the Irish peasant to the hell that is the Middle-East war zone has some appeal.”

  “Whether it has some appeal or not, it’s off limits.”

  Brett sat back again. He had scored an unexpected point against MI6-Steve and he savoured it.

  “If you know what is good for you, Brett, just let it rest.” Steve’s biting voice slapped Brett out of his mood.

  “Fine, I’ll see what information I can gather tomorrow.”

  * * *

  The warm smell of food made Pole’s mouth water. The small restaurant’s top-floor room was packed, yet Nancy had secured a corner table that commanded the entire space and felt cosy. She was reading a book, her head slightly tilted forward, a pair of Chanel glasses shielding her eyes. Pole reached the table in a few long steps. Nancy lifted her face with a broad smile, small lines creasing the corners of her almond eyes. She removed her glasses and lifted her face to Pole. He bent forward and kissed her cheek. Nancy closed her eyes. The brush of his lips on her skin felt delicious.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Pole sat down on the banquette next to Nancy.

  “Don’t apologise, Jonathan. The book I am reading is keeping me excellent company.”

  “Which book am I competing with?”

  Nancy laughed. “Nothing can compete with you, mon cher, but, if you must know, Murakami.”

  “Kafka on the Shore,” Pole added smartly. “Even a copper like me has read the man who is tipped to be the next Nobel Prize winner.”

  “Mais je n’en doutais pas moins.” Nancy pressed her fingers into his hand. “Let’s order, I’m famished and so must you be.”

  The menu looked appetising and they chose a mix of peppery lamb, seabass cooked in lemon and herbs, okra fritters and roast aubergines. The waiter brought a tasty plate of beetroot hummus with freshly baked lagana bread for starters. Nancy and Pole enjoyed the first dish, sharing their impressions of the food they were eating. It was good to take pleasure in having dinner together.

  The conversation drifted onto the latest art show they had visited together. Pole had been enthusiastic about the artist he had not known before, Bernard McGuigan. He spoke about his grandmother, her art galleries in London and Paris, opened in the fifties. “She would have loved his sculptures,” he said animatedly.

  “She must have met some of the biggest names in modern art. And so must you.”

  “She did, although she had a preference for the quieter, more obscure artists. Or artists that once were famous but have somewhat faded from memory; although she was a great fan of Kupka or Dubuffet.”

  “You own a Kupka, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Absolument, although I have a few more on loan to museums.”

  “She had a very avant-garde taste, right until she sold the galleries, you mentioned before.”

  “She was fond of videos and installations way before they became popular; Joan Jonas in particular was a favourite. And we are talking early seventies.”

  “I am impressed. I can’t quite get to grips with some video installations, I must say, but Jonas, she is a giant of that medium.”

  Pole spoke about the artists he had met. Nancy was listening but at the same time her mind was wandering towards another time. Pole gently took her hand. “What is on your mind? I’m talking about art which you always find uplifting but somehow I feel it is dragging you down today.”

  Nancy sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just bringing back some memories; Paris, artists in the seventies …” She squeezed Pole’s hand back and left hers in his, safe.

  “Your father?” Pole’s voice was cautious, only murmuring the words. Nancy nodded and her face changed. Her radiance had disappeared; it was sad and overcast. The memories of China rolled back like thundering clouds.

  “I can’t hide anything from you. Well, I’m not trying to anyway.”

  “I know it’s not easy. I’m afraid I’ve not made much progress since we last spoke about it.” Pole had moved closer, his shoulder almost touching hers. She ran her elegant hand over her hair and tugged a strand that had escaped from the clasp behind her ear.

  “I’m not expecting you to find anythi
ng significant this early on. It was over thirty years ago and I haven’t heard from him for almost as long.”

  “Still, it’s important to you. I don’t want to let you down.”

  “Jonathan, mon cher ami, I can’t ever imagine you letting me down.” Nancy had tilted her head towards him. “And I also hope you won’t do anything you shouldn’t to get the information.”

  “Moi. Jamais,” Pole said mockingly offended.

  “Vraiment, Inspector Pole. I know what you are capable of.” Nancy squeezed his hand once more. Pole remained impassive. Being involved with MI6 to solve her father’s disappearance fell squarely into that category.

  “May I ask a question?” Pole became more serious.

  “Of course.” Nancy drank a little wine.

  “Why now? After so long.”

  Nancy pulled back slightly and considered her answer.

  “Maybe because I feel ready. It would have been impossible – too difficult – when I was working.” Nancy’s eyes focused in the distance, conjuring images that did not speak of happiness.

  “You needed to hold it together when you were a QC, emotionally.” Pole ventured.

  “That is a good way to put it.”

  “I can understand,” Pole said.

  “Time to move on. I can’t spend the rest of my life hesitating.” Nancy’s voice wobbled a little. Pole moved his shoulder even closer and she rested her head on it lightly. They stayed silent for a moment before Pole murmured quietly.

  “Shall I take you home?”

  “Please.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The coffee grinder made its crunching noise, its small vibrations rippling through her fingers. Marissa opened the lid and closed her eyes. She inhaled deeply the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. She poured the coarse powder into the cafetière, an old-fashioned two-part affair. The water had boiled and reached the right temperature. She poured it over the coffee in small doses, making sure it was wetted through.

  Marissa touched her face gingerly. The bump on her forehead she had got diving to the floor to avoid being shot, had come down and the bruise near her eye had darkened. At least a black eye on a woman of colour might be less noticeable. Marissa chuckled at the thought. Finally, a small advantage.