Authors: John Macrae
"With all those guns and all, it's like little ol' Noo York City," I said. I was conscious of my slipping accent and the terrible mixture of American dialects, but it didn't matter. Miss Reception wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between Birmingham, Alabama and Birmingham, England at that moment, let alone the mythical Mr Hunnicutt from Calgary. Canada I could feel the sweat running down from my armpits, but I said calmly,
"Well, I guess I'll go and see what all the hassle's about," and shouldered my way through the rubberneckers in the lobby and out the glass doors.
I was banking that they hadn't closed off the hotel fully yet, and I was right. A curious knot of guests and hotel staff stood on the steps staring over towards the Embassy. Folk were stood on the pavement Policemen seemed to be running everywhere and the shouts and flashing blue lights gave the scene a surreal air, like a Bosch painting. Lights were coming on and windows opening all round the square. I took a deep breath and walked towards the Embassy. It seemed the safest way to head; that's where the flow was. The gun bumped against my thigh as I pushed through the crowd. A clear voice shouted somewhere, "Get those fucking barriers up and seal the street – now!” I walked up to the corner of the railings.
I didn't get twenty yards. A worried looking young policeman stood in front, put his hand out and stopped me. "Stop right there, you." In the flashing blue light he looked nervous and ferrety. "Where do you think you're going?" My heart stood still.
"What's up?" I tried to sound North American.
"Nothing. There's been an accident, that's all." He was distracted by a middle aged woman in a Claridges dustcoat trying to push past. "Now come on, lady. Stand back. Go home. There's nothing to see."
From the distance an ambulance wailed, getting closer. A crowd was forming. The young copper looked even more worried. I stepped forward and tried to sound American. "But I've been invited
to the Embassy tonight
."
Harrassed, he looked at me. Training took over. Dealing with foreign nationals, lesson one: "Do you work there, Sir?"
"No - I'm a visitor."
"Well, would you come back tomorrow? There's been a serious accident and this Embassy will be closed until further notice."
"OK." I shrugged. "But which way do I get out?" I stared around at the street being closed off by policemen. He put out a hand to stop a scruffy youth trying to get past him to gawp at the shambles on the Embassy steps and the running figures.
"Oi! You! I said, keep back!" He was getting angry now, and grabbed the youth's collar to drag him back. "Over there," he shouted to me. "You can get out through Brook Street. Where that ambulance is coming." He jerked his head towards a growing wail and flashing blue light racing towards us down a side street. "But hurry up and clear the area."
"Thanks." I walked away from the crowd, round the railings and out from the street. Policemen were placing crush barriers across this final exit, and as I left, the last one was slammed into place behind me.
I think our policemen are wonderful.
A NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE
The Flat
True to the plan, I went straight to Charing Cross and the left luggage office to draw out the empty briefcase. Then down into the lavatory to put the gun and its strap away behind a closed door. I was glad to get rid of that constant leaden tap against my thigh. The case, now heavy with its load, went back up with me to the buffet and I stood with my cup of coffee, looking carefully around, surrounded by that mixture of late commuters and theatre goers that swarm on London's stations at that time in the evening, staring at each other with mutual incompre
he
nsion and disdain.
Which one of my fellow coffee drinkers was Mallalieu's designated courier? The girl with the headscarf and the long posh dress peeking underneath a scruffy topcoat? Or the bulky, blue-coated fifty-year old businessman, puzzling over the Telegraph crossword and checking his watch? The timing had to be precise, he'd said. Seven minutes past eight.
"Can I have your sugar, mate? Gotta bit of a sweet tooth, me." The spaceman standing next to me spoke. I hadn't expected that an adolescent in flashy black motor-cycle leathers with a black crash helmet underneath his arm would be the contact. He looked like an extra from 'Star Trek'. Trust Mallalieu. The boy waved a gloved hand at the two packets of unused sugar carefully propped against my coffee. Even his gloves had zips on them, I noticed.
"Yes, with pleasure. I don't use it any more. Bad for the teeth," I carefully intoned the response. He looked at me for the safety sign, and I noticed that the eyes were unusually grave and watchful for a youth. Mallalieu had chosen well. "Or so my dentist says."
He nodded, as if coming to a decision. "Ta, mate." He reached across and took the two sachets. I ignored him, finished my coffee and left, the dark briefcase now at his feet. His job now. The plastic bag with Mr
Hunnicutt’s
gear went with me. As I went out underneath Charing Cross arches, I dropped the American coat and hat on the ground near a half-
conscious
dosser in the Strand and kept walking. A hundred yards round the corner the gloves went too, one at a time. By quarter past eight I was back at the flat, clean and safe. It felt good and I leant with my back to the door to breathe deeply. I'd pulled it off without a hitch; I'd even overcome that cock up with the hotel gates.
As I stood there a welter of emotions went through my mind.
I was pleased with the success - it would be a lie to pretend otherwise. I felt a glow like I'd won the lottery. I was glad that I wasn't just a private arm of vengeance, but I was also making a contribution. Now I was official. I was especially pleased at getting away from the hotel. A momentary grin came at the realisation that the hotel bill would never be paid. Mr Hunnicutt’s Gold card might be real, though. Their problem. But above all I was pleased that the detailed, careful plan had worked; the planted evidence with its mixture of DNA, the clean-hands techniques, the precise timings, the anonymous young motorcyclist collecting the gun. It had all gone well.
Don't ever let anyone tell you that intelligence footwork and special operations aren't work; real hard graft. It's an eye for detail, care over good administration plus all the other bullshit that makes these things work. That much I'd learnt from the Regiment, Bill Luxton and Tom Mallalieu. It had been a well planned op, well executed. Looking back I don't think Roberts' fate even crossed my mind.
I came out of my reverie of self-congratulation to check my watch. Nearly half past eight; Joy would be here soon. Time to make like a patient. I left the door on the latch and got into bed.
To this day I don't know why I decided to take two of Mallalieu's little green pills. He’d told me one would work. Well, I’ve always been a bit casual about medication. But God knows I got it wrong this time. God only knows what disastrous brew they contained. Ipecacuanha, I suspect. Or some monkey shit dredged out of an African swamp. I just felt instinctively that a good alibi demanded that I be sick - really ill - when she arrived. I suppose I thought that one wouldn't work fast enough if she came a bit early. I realised that any ideas I had about a sexy evening were finished if I did take two, but I guess that duty won over pleasure. A psychiatrist would probably claim that self-preservation comes before procreation. Hepworth would, that's for sure. Anyway, I've always been keen on the first and the latter has been something I've managed to avoid all my adult life - I think. I took two of the pills, to be sure they worked in time.
They worked all right. Within twenty minutes I was sweating and feeling terrible. My guts made those awful squelching gurgles that precedes something very nasty. I barely made it to the bathroom and brought my heart up into the bath. While I splashed cold water on my face, a stranger's white mask with hollow eyes stared back. I literally looked pale green.. Shivering and cursing Mallalieu and all his works, I staggered back to the bedroom. I felt like a bad case of swamp fever: I certainly looked like one.
I’d got company. In the living room stood a burly man with a bar of bushy eyebrows joined above his nose. His raincoat and stolid stance looked ominous. The front door was wide open and two other, younger, men stood behind him.
I can honestly say that I felt so lousy I wasn't even indignant at the intrusion. They looked like heavies. I braced myself for trouble and looked round for a weapon – although I don’t think I could have taken on an aggressive aunty in my state. Then I clocked that they were very static. Official. I clutched my dressing gown round me. How the hell had they got in? All three of them stared back at me with varying degrees of interest or surprise.
Bushy-brows flashed a warrant card under my nose like a conjurer and asked me who I was. Instinctively I told him, while my brain slowly changed up a gear, away from its preoccupation with my intestines. Police. What the hell had gone wrong? He took out a notebook and eyed the shambles of the flat. I began to shiver. He started in a cold, official voice, checking my identity, then switched to a question that shrieked betrayal.
"And can you confirm that you an ex-member of the Directorate of Special Forces, now redundant from the Army ?" Suddenly I thought of that Resistance training, long ago, ‘ I can't answer that question – now fuck off!’ But I had to answer these people. What the hell did they want?
"Yes...but I don't advertise.
What's all this....?"
"Where were you at seven p.m. this evening?"
The mixture of shock, confusion and nausea combined to make me rubber lipped and incoherent. With hindsight, it was probably the best reaction of all. I gurgled and waffled as only the truly innocent do. “What? Where ... why? Who are you? What's all this about?"
Bushy eyed me keenly. "I'm Detective Inspector Denness of New Scotland Yard; now, let me ask you again, where were you at seven o'clock this evening?"
I felt my gorge rising; not from the pills, but from fear. An Inspector?. Heavy stuff. I'd been sold out, betrayed. But how? Who?. "I'm ill ..." and I staggered towards the bathroom.
"Go with him," Denness called, and one of the others followed me out. At the bathroom I made the bowl this time and looked up to see the dark-haired copper recoiling with disgust in the door. Of course - I'd been sick in the bath already.
"Phwaw" He waved a fruitless hand in front of his face. "Are you all right, mate?" I shook my head dumbly and heaved up in the bowl again.
Somehow I got back up and I remember him helping me to the bedroom. I lay on the bed and the room spun round. Bushy-brows Denness came in and I heard snatches of their conversation, but frankly I was too far gone to care.
"Sick?... Oh, come on ... seen the bathroom? .... He's ill ... call the hospital ... could he? ... well, look at him ... faking? ... I don't see how he could make it further than the karzi, guv…not in his state ... how long? ... can't tell ... but he couldn't have, not like this ... hardly walk ... not this one, Guv.. "
Through closed eyelids I suddenly heard a woman's voice. It was Joy, who must have found the door open and walked straight in. She was clearly giving the policemen a hard time. 'Who were they? What were they do
i
ng here?' I opened my eyes and sat up on one elbow. Joy stood framed in the bedroom door, looking pretty and angry at the same time. Her pale blue sweater heaved with indignation and then she ran over to me and knelt down. Bushy-brows and the dark young copper stood irresolute, watching. I wondered where the other policeman had gone to. But looking at Joy I suddenly felt better.
"Are you all right?" she asked with concern in her voice.
I shook my head. She stroked it, which was nice. Her nostrils twitched, then flared as she recoiled. "Have you been sick? You smell awful." I nodded. She rounded on the watching policemen. "Well, what do you want? Can't you see he's ill?
Eyebrows looked uncomfortable. "Who are you?"
"I'm his fiancée; and who the hell are you?" My fiancée? That was a surprise.
"I'm Detective Inspector Denness of New Scotland Yard, Miss. I'm a policeman,' he added, unnecessarily, "And there are certain enquiries I must make." He seemed to come to a decision. "Where was your, er, friend at around half past seven this evening?"
A look of surprise came over Joy's face as she digested the implication, then she flared back, "As he's been sick for the last two or three days, I should think he was here, wouldn't you?" Denness hesitated and Joy redoubled her efforts. "Well, where do you think he was, for God's sake? Look at him."
They all looked at me.
From their eyes I could tell that I wasn't going to be picked as Playgirl Magazine's Man of the Month centrefold this time round. I felt like the 'before' frame from one of those really grim migraine ads. We all stared at each other, until my stomach made its presence audible.
"Bowl," I muttered, "Bowl ... oh, God!" And before I could stop myself, I retched onto the carpet by the bed.
By the time the confusion had sorted itself out, even Denness was softened. I could tell. He looked concerned. Maybe he was wondering if I wouldn't survive long enough to make a statement. Or I might croak on him then and there and cause him a lot of extra paperwork and form filling. I could see he was sentimental at heart. "Look, how long have you been like this?' he asked.
"Two days?" I croaked, "Maybe more. Off work."
The dark young copper who had helped me from the bathroom suddenly stood aside and his missing companion appeared. He'd been rummaging the flat, I'll bet. Much good it would do him. He whispered urgently to Denness. Joy reappeared and started mopping the floor, white with fury.
Denness tried again, but his heart wasn't in it. You could tell. "Have you been out tonight? Sir."
I opened my eyes and stared him full in the face. "What do you think?"
"All right - all right," he muttered.
I closed my eyes and felt my guts gurgling.
"Have you seen the doctor?" That was the dark policeman who'd followed me to the bathroom. Denness shot him a ven
o
mous look, but the kid stuck to his guns. "You look as if you should see someone."
I nodded."
Yes. Doctor McDonald, I think he was. He's the new one. Young bloke."
"When?" snapped Denness.
"Yesterday?"
"Don't you remember?"
"Yesterday. I don't know. Ask the bloody doctor."
Joy boiled over. "Why can't you leave him alone? Can't you see he's sick? What the hell do you want, anyway?"
Denness gave up. "OK, lady, OK.OK…" He raised his furry eyebrows at the copper who'd been out of sight most of the time, who shook his head. "I was going to ask you to answer some questions….." He obviously caught Joy's eye, because he continued hastily, "But you're clearly in no fit state to do anything." He sounded disappointed.
"What did you want from me, anyway?" I managed to croak.
"It's just a routine enquiry, that's all. It's obviously our busy night."
"Busy? Why?"
"Haven't you heard the news?" Denness looked surprised. Joy snorted.
"What news? I've had other things to worry about."
"Someone shot Isaac Roberts tonight. At the Italian embassy."
I sat up, carefully. "Roberts? The tycoon bloke? Why? Who did it?"
Denness paused at the door. "We don't know. But don't worry, I expect they'll find out. It's just a matter of time."
I fell back with a groan. "Well it wasn't m
e, if that's what you're saying
."
"No; no. I
can see that it wasn't you. No.
.
." He seemed to be about to say something, but thought better of it. "Do you want an ambulance?" Denness seemed almost sincere for once. "You don't look too good."
"I don't feel too good," I echoed, "But I don't need an ambulance,. Thanks."
Denness pounded the side of the door with a cupped hand, as he prepared to leave. 'Well, we'll be off now, sir."
I noticed the 'Sir' again. Things are looking up when policemen like Denness call you sir .
"I hope you find what you're looking for," I said.