by C J Carver
‘Don’t hurt her,’ I pleaded.
‘Where is he?’
He forced her head back further. Pressed the knife against her neck. A tiny drop of blood bloomed where the tip broke her skin.
Clara made a strangled sound. Her eyes were on mine, desperate, pleading.
‘Please,’ I begged. ‘If I knew I’d tell you, I promise.’
He raised his eyes to the ceiling and shook his head, making a tsk-tsk sound, like a teacher disappointed with one of their pupils. ‘You’re beginning to sound like a stuck record. WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?’
He bent Clara’s head back a fraction further. Behind her gag, she began mewling like a distressed cat.
I’d have to give him something, I realised. Make something up. I let a silence drag out as though I was coming to a difficult decision. I was opening my mouth to tell him Rob was in Yeovil, Edinburgh, anywhere but here, when at that exact moment, the doorbell rang.
His head switched round, his whole body stiffening and becoming as alert as a hunting dog.
My phone gave a ting as a text came through. The Saint had a quick look. Came and stood in front of me.
‘Nice to meet you, artist,’ he said.
And with that, he and his goon were gone.
Chapter 12
Susie released us fast. It had been Susie who’d rang the doorbell, and who’d sent the text that the Saint had read, saying she was outside. When we didn’t answer the door, Susie used the front door key magnetised to the underside of one of the windowsills, something Clara insisted upon since her kids were continually forgetting or losing their keys.
Calm as the proverbial cucumber, Susie called the police. Then she rang Clara’s husband John who came straight home. While John comforted Clara, Susie and I went around the house, checking the windows and doors were locked. After that, we stepped outside to check the perimeter of the house.
‘How did they get in?’ Susie asked Clara when we returned.
‘The conservatory.’ Clara hung her head. ‘I didn’t lock it behind Nick when he got here.’
The conservatory was at the opposite end of the house to the sitting room which was why I hadn’t heard them. Plus, I’m sure they could be as quiet as cats if they wanted. Both men had that air about them.
Before the police arrived, Susie sat me down and asked me questions. I told her about my head cracking against the wall and regaining consciousness in the kitchen and she came and checked my head – a small swelling the size and shape of a gull egg had formed – and then my pupils.
‘You’ll live,’ she pronounced without much sympathy. She wasn’t the nursing type I already knew, but even so, it would have been nice to have had a bit more commiseration.
‘Thanks to a thick skull, no doubt,’ I said a touch sourly.
She looked at me. Then she rose and came over and pressed a kiss against the top of my head and stroked it gently. ‘Poor Nick,’ she murmured. ‘Poor hurt Nick.’ She pulled back. ‘Is that better?’
I couldn’t help shaking my head ruefully at her, which made her smile and kiss me again. ‘So,’ she said, ‘what happened next?’
‘I asked him who he was.’
She raised her eyebrows in expectation.
‘He said his name was the Saint.’
She didn’t blink, didn’t move, but that strange stillness dropped over her, alerting me something was wrong.
‘He’s named after a–’
‘Comic book character,’ she interrupted. ‘From Preacher.’
Astonishment and disbelief flooded me. ‘You know him?’
‘Not personally.’ Her voice turned distant as she looked at something in her mind’s eye. ‘But…’ She brought out her phone and opened Safari. Tapped briefly then passed it to me.
The picture showed the front page of an online newspaper. The headline read: POLICE SAY GANGLAND MONSTER IS UNTOUCHABLE.
Below was a photograph of the Saint and beneath that, I read:
For the last two decades, George Abbott has revelled in his reputation as the untouchable boss of an organised criminal gang.
This supposedly respectable “businessman” enforces his will with acts of extreme violence, which makes sure no one stands up to him. Even the police fear that this villain, who makes his money through human and drug trafficking, fraud, prostitution and money laundering, is simply “too big” to bring down.
Abbott, or The Saint, as he is known in gangland circles, has evaded justice for years despite brutal attacks on his enemies. He has led groups of assassins to rid him of unwanted competition, hunting down and murdering anyone in his way. Claims have also been made that Abbott has infiltrated key parts of the criminal justice system from the police to the Crown Prosecution Service to the prisons, ensuring he has never been convicted.
‘Holy shit.’ Something inside me quailed at the knowledge I’d faced what sounded like the country’s most notorious gangster. I quailed even further when I thought of DI Barry Gilder. Was he one of the officers on the Saint’s payroll?
I stared at the gangster’s picture. ‘What does someone like him want with Rob?’ I asked out loud.
‘He didn’t say?’
‘No,’ I said, but it certainly made Rob’s disappearance understandable. If I had Abbott hunting me, I’d do a vanishing act too. I rose and went next door, to Clara. She had wept when John arrived and wrapped her in his arms, big deep sobs borne out of fear and relief, but she seemed to have regained some of her composure and was sitting with John on the sofa drinking tea.
‘Fancy a cup?’ John offered with a tense smile. ‘Or would alcohol be a better option?’
‘In a sec,’ I said.
‘Clara, love, did you recognise either of those two men?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was wondering if they could have been the ones who wanted to take Rob out for a beer the day before he disappeared.’
Her hands went to her mouth. ‘You think they were?’
‘No idea, because it wasn’t me who saw them all those years ago. But you did. Can you think back to that time? Try to remember.’
She closed her eyes. Opened them and shook her head. ‘Honestly, Nick. I don’t know. I just remember three big men struggling to fit into our tiny cottage.’
It had been worth a shot but even without Clara’s confirmation, instinct told me it could well have been Abbott and a couple of henchmen who’d visited that Saturday twelve years earlier, but why? What had Rob done? What had he got himself involved in?
I turned round as Susie spoke. ‘The police are here.’ She closed the door behind her and came and knelt before Clara, her gaze flicking from me to Clara and then to John. ‘But before you see them, I think it’s fair to say it would be wise not to mention the Saint’s name.’
Clara and John looked about to object until Susie showed them the online newspaper article.
‘Christ,’ said John. His skin lost some colour.
Clara’s lips wobbled but she made a Herculean effort not to cry again.
‘We’ll tell the police in due course,’ Susie added. ‘But right now, I think we’re better off keeping quiet until we have more information about what he wants with Rob. Mention his name to the police and the roof will fall in. You’ll have all sorts of authorities here wanting you to take Abbott to court, pressuring you into giving evidence against him so they can get him for something, anything, and I’m not sure if that’s a good idea. Agreed?’
Although I knew it made sense, I felt a flash of outrage that Abbott’s reputation was dictating our response to his attack. He hadn’t even told us not to say anything, and I supposed he either guessed we’d keep quiet for the reasons Susie had given, or he was confident that he had enough people in the right places in his pocket to be able to undermine anything we said. Really nasty stuff, when you thought about it.
I looked at Clara. ‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t want to ever see him again,’ she said, suddenly turning
fierce. ‘Keep him away from us. I don’t care how you do it.’
I looked at Susie. ‘Okay. No names.’
Susie went and fetched the police. I faced them with a fair bit of equanimity because at last I had an idea why my brother had faked his own death.
To keep him, and his family, safe.
Chapter 13
After the police had interviewed Clara and me, Susie took me home. As promised, she’d brought a takeaway, and when I saw the dishes of Lebanese food – baba ganoush, sumac-roasted chicken wings and skewered lamb, salads slathered in molasses and tahini – my appetite kicked in. I opened a bottle of Lebanese red I’d been hoarding for such an occasion and devoured my food and drink as though I hadn’t eaten in a month.
We were clearing up in the kitchen when she leaned her hips against the worktop and said, ‘Nick. I have something to tell you.’
An odd note in her voice made me put down the glass I was drying and turn to face her. She was staring at me with an intensity that sent a chill through me.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s…’ She took a breath. ‘Something I should have told you a long time ago. But I didn’t.’ She glanced away. ‘I had my reasons. I just hope… you’ll understand.’
She ran a hand through her hair, took a step towards me, then back. When she twisted her wedding ring around and around, I knew this was serious. She only did that under immense duress, like when my mother had accused her of caring more for her job than her family. Susie hadn’t argued. She’d fallen silent, turning inward and twisting that ring around and around.
‘I haven’t been entirely honest with you, Nick.’ When she swallowed, her throat made a little click. ‘God.’ She gave a laugh but it held no humour. ‘I never thought this would be so difficult.’
With a shock, I realised she was scared. Really scared.
‘Suze,’ I started, but she held up a hand, stopping me.
‘Let me just say it, okay? And I’ll let the cards lie where they will.’
My imagination went wild. She’d been having an affair. She spent so much time in London, away from me, how could she not? She worked late a lot, spent days, occasionally weeks away at a time. How could I have been so stupid not to have thought of it before? Because I trusted her.
‘You know I told you I worked in IT at the Home Office?’
‘Yeees,’ I said cautiously.
‘I work for the Home Office, but not in IT.’
What? I struggled to rein in my imaginings of her lithe form lying in another man’s arms and concentrate on what she was saying.
‘I’m an officer for MI5. Military Intelligence, Section 5. The UK’s domestic counter-intelligence and security agency.’ Her words came out like bullet points. ‘I work in G Branch. We deal with international counter-terrorism.’
I reached out a hand to the wall, steadying myself.
‘You work for who?’
‘I’m a case officer. I’m a trained specialist in the management of agents – sources – and agent networks. I manage human agents, and human intelligence networks. I spot potential agents, recruit them, and train them in tradecraft, especially how to avoid detection by people who would harm them if they knew what they were doing.’
I felt as though the air had left my lungs. I listened to her run on, more from nerves than any intention to give me her CV, thinking: My wife is a spy?
‘I can’t tell you what we work on specifically because as you can appreciate it’s classified…’
My next thought came crashing through: It suits you.
And then I wondered how on earth I could have believed she was happy doing something bland in the IT department of the civil service. She was so much more. Secretive, clever, self-reliant, composed, ice calm under pressure… She could have been born to it. How could I not have seen it before?
‘You were vetted by the security services when we got together…’
‘I passed, I take it?’ My voice surprised me. It had a sarcastic edge I was unaccustomed to, and from her response, Susie heard it too.
‘Flying colours,’ she mumbled. She hung her head. She looked so unlike the Susie I knew, the calm one, who’s unremittingly self-possessed, that my heart clenched.
‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’
She waffled on about wanting to protect me, but we’d been married eleven years, I knew when my wife waffled.
‘Suze,’ I interrupted. ‘Just tell me the truth.’
She raised her head and met my eyes. ‘You won’t like it.’
‘I haven’t liked hearing that you’ve lied to me since we first met,’ I shot back, ‘so another axe in my heart won’t hurt, I’m sure.’
Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Just say it.’
She spread her hands helplessly.
‘You can’t lie.’
‘And you can,’ I snapped. ‘Clever you.’
She looked stricken, her face pale. ‘It’s to keep us safe. Not just me, but you too. If anyone suspects I’m not who I am, or if we meet a mark or source by accident, it could put us both in real danger.’
‘You didn’t trust me not to lie well enough?’ My tone was disbelieving.
She twisted her wedding ring around again. ‘I guess so.’
‘Shit.’ It was my turn to run a hand through my hair. I knew I was a crap liar but I hadn’t thought it would be the reason why my wife withheld her real job from me.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I wish I’d told you ages ago, but the longer I left it the harder it got.’ Her whole body drooped in misery.
I looked at the woman I loved with all my heart. My god, I thought I married Superwoman. I really had.
‘Do you have a gun?’ I asked, suddenly curious.
She blinked. ‘I don’t own one, if that’s what you mean. But yes, I am fully trained and I do have access. But before you get excited, Nick, MI5 agents are more office workers and observers than guys running around with guns stopping terror plots. It’s not all Spooks you know.’
Through my confusion of shock and disbelief came a rush of pride. This woman was amazing, incredible, and I was going to spend the rest of my life with her.
‘Oh,’ I said, feigning disappointment. ‘I hoped you might show me your gun. Isn’t it nestled inside your stocking?’ I moved towards her, my love all-consuming. ‘Or perhaps you have a pea shooter tucked in your bra?’ I added hopefully.
Relief and happiness flooded her face. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘Yes.’ I was honest. ‘Very much. Intellectually I can understand your reticence, but emotionally… it hurts like hell that you didn’t tell me before.’
‘I can understand that.’ She came close and touched my face. ‘I love you so much. I was terrified I’d lose you.’
I put my hands on her waist. ‘You’ll have to do more than confess you’re Mata Hari to get rid of me, you know.’
She wound her arms around my neck and raised her face to mine. ‘Thank God,’ she breathed.
Chapter 14
When we awoke, it was past eight and next door’s dog was barking. Susie wriggled out of bed, grabbed my dressing gown, and padded downstairs, returning with two cups of tea, which we drank in bed, looking out of the window.
She’d taken the day off so I could settle into my new-found knowledge of her, and her career.
‘I want you to ask me anything that comes to you,’ she’d told me the previous night. ‘Anything at all.’
My questions ranged from how much she got paid to how she got the job. ‘It was a friend of Dad’s who gave me the old-school spook’s tap on the shoulder when I was at uni.’
Susie had gone to Oxford, no less. Where so many spooks came from, including the notorious Philby and Blunt. I could feel my mind bending with the knowledge she was as bright and as talented as these men (but hopefully not a traitor).
She told me she was well placed to rise to head of section in G branch in a couple of years.
She was pretty ambitious, my Susie, and she went on to confess she’d been fast-tracked from the start.
‘My line manager tells me I’m a rising star,’ she said proudly.
I finished my tea and kissed the rising star roundly before asking if I could talk to her dad. Caution rose in her eyes. ‘Of course. But why, in particular?’
‘I’d like to know how he lies. How he keeps you safe.’
‘Living in New Zealand helps,’ she said drily.
‘You know what I mean.’
Susie messaged her parents and arranged for us to Skype later. We didn’t do this often, just at Christmas and on birthdays, which I found sad at first, but when I learned the reason why, it made sense.
Years ago, before she joined MI5, before she’d met me, Susie had been attacked in London and mugged really badly. She’d ended up in hospital with serious head injuries, brain damage, a broken nose and fractured eye socket and cheekbone. The bruising had left her almost unrecognisable apparently, but more serious was the drastic alterations in her mood, memory function, and also personality.
At first, she seemed to have bounced back fast, returning home within weeks instead of the year-long recovery that doctors predicted. But this seemingly miraculous recovery was nowhere as straightforward as everyone hoped. While the brain swelling subsided, her emotions, memory and other functions suffered more lasting damage.
‘My brain had to rewire itself,’ she told me on our third date. She’d wanted me to know her medical history in case I changed my mind about continuing to see her. ‘That’s all. I’m fine now. Just a little different to how I used to be, or so my parents say, but I wouldn’t know. I’m just me. The way I am. Today.’
‘I think you’re wonderful,’ I told her. ‘The way you are. Today.’
The smile she’d given me lit up the sky. She liked that about us, immensely. That I loved the woman she was, and not the woman she used to be before the attack.