Authors: John Macrae
The three coppers looked at each other, then back to me. "Oh, we'll find what we're looking for," said Denness. His face had settled into a grim, sour expression. The eyebrow was a solid black bar over his eyes. He'd regained his official composure. "You see, whoever killed Isaac Roberts also killed a copper from the Diplomatic Protection Group and wounded one of our coppers and the pressmen."
"It was like 'Gunfight at OK Corral' according to the TV," said the silent searcher policeman, who hadn't spoken before. Now he couldn't stop. He went on in a bright, enthusiastic voice, "Apparently it was some kind of grenade or shotgun. It blew the car door right off. Roberts was blown apart. There were eight people injured all told, but ... " He stopped, conscious of the disapproving stares of the other two. Policemen don't like loquacity. Maybe the silent one was making up for lost time, but from Denness's look, I'll bet he wouldn't be saying anything else for a long time.
"Better switch the telly on, sir. We'll be in touch later," he said, to Joy I noted. Then, with one last, slightly baffled, look at me, he pounded the bedroom door again with that gloved cupped hand and left, taking his talkative minions with him.
I collapsed back onto the bed.
I was engaged, apparently.
A LAST
RIDE TO VALHALLA
,
London
I have to tell you that I didn’t feel very romantic.
There's nothing like being ill for making you re-arrange your priorities. Things that seem important one day go completely by default when you're too sick to care. That vital trip next weekend; the showdown at the office - all fade into insignificance when we're ill. Even Cesare Borgia stopped trying to be Pope when he was sick, I read somewhere once; or maybe his sister poisoned him to take his mind off it. She was obviously a persuasive lady.
Anyway, for the next twenty-four hours I felt as if Lucrezia Borgia had got at me. I found out later that Mallalieu's little green monkey shit pills contained sekatron and some other emetic, a harmless but devastating combination. I was so preoccupied with my own internal problems that I couldn't even be bothered to get out of bed, except to stagger to the bathroom, which I did - frequently.
Joy did her Florence Nightingale bit and then disappeared into the night. She was obviously worried about me but even so, I was surprised to get a visit from the doctor next morning. Apparently Joy had phoned him to let him know that I was at death's door. He looked grave and suggested hospital, but I said I was feeling better already, so he gave me Avomine, which made me laugh, and another sick note which made Mallalieu laugh when I phoned him later.
I'd phoned Mallalieu because although I hadn't really hoisted in the significance of Denness's visit of the previous night, the radio programmes next morning got through to me. Roberts was headline news all over the world.
When one of the richest men in the world is assassinated, it's a big story. We had made news flashes, although I only found out about those later, but the morning papers were full of it: big headline stuff: '
BILLIONAIRE ROBERTS GUNNED DOWN !'
,
'Mystery Assassin Sought'
.... all that kind of thing.
CNN, all the TV bulletins and virtually every radio news were carrying the story big time. No one seemed to have a clue about why it had happened. There was a lot of stuff about ,
'Police Find Arms Cache And Evidence In Hotel Bedroom'
, but after that it was all, '
the biggest manhunt for mystery gunman since Kennedy'
, etc. I noticed with amusement that I was being compared with Lee Harvey Oswald and the Texas School Book Depository shooting. I felt insulted. Oswald had been such a
geek
. And he never did it
, anyway. Everyone knows that
.
Ask the Yanks who know.
There was lengthy obituary about Roberts in the paper. I read it carefully then read it again. I remembered that I’d read somewhere that you can’t libel the dead, which was just as well. Alt
h
ough it didn’t actually say so there was a distinct undercurrent in the obituary that the late lamented Lord Roberts was perhaps a lit
t
le too mixed up in some slightly off
-
centre dealing: a hint – just a hint, mind – that its subject was slightly dodgy. The Business Editor of one of the broadsheets virtually said he was a high level crook. Interesting.
In the various articles there was the usual a flurry of speculation about motives, and conspiracies, but then it all dried up. There was nothing solid for the press to go on. I did see one TV interview with his wife, all red eyed and weeping, but I didn't feel bad about her. After all, she'd been carrying on a fairly public life with some ageing French film star and Roberts had had a string of well publicized girl friends. I didn't feel a thing. They were all well provided for, that was for sure. Not the others: that was different.
After all, what do you say when you shoot a mark who deserves to be taken out, only to discover that you've also killed a policeman, nearly killed a press photographer and put six other people in hospital, one of them a foreign national ? They were the 'collateral damage' in Sal's remembered phrase. Oh well…
I phoned in. Doreen, the telephone lady with the long nails, put me through and Mallalieu came back, bland and reassuring.
"Well, well, how are the sick, lame and lazy today?"
"I've felt better."
Mallalieu
made tutting noises. "Are you still taking your medicine?" he cooed.
"No, it wasn't doing me a lot of good. In fact, since I stopped taking the tablets, I feel much better," I replied, pointedly.
"Oh, good. When do you think you'll be able to come back to work? We're really missing you."
I'll bet he was. "Today, after lunch."
"So soon?"
"Yes. By the way, I had a visit from the police last night."
"Really." A long pause. "What
have
you been up to?" said Mallalieu smoothly,
"Nothing, but I gather that Isaac Roberts was killed."
"Oh, yes ... that. yes, it's been all over the papers..."
I waited for him to make the next move. The pause grew even longer.
"Well, why did they come and see you?"
"I've no idea. I was in bed, sick. I wasn't able to help them. I wondered if you knew."
Another long pause. "Hmm. Maybe it was just a routine enquiry?"
“Yes,” I agreed. "It seemed like it. I just wondered why they called round on me. Out of the blue like that."
"Hmm ... I'm not sure I like all this." Mallalieu sounded nonplussed. Either he was suddenly a good actor or he was genuinely puzzled. He obviously remembered he was speaking on an
open line, and added hastily,
"I mean, one of our employees - being harrassed by the police like this." He trailed off lamely.
"Look, I'll come in after lunch. All right?
"Yes, yes." He sounded relieved. "You'd better come in. We need to talk. There's another problem that's come up. Is there anything I should do? Any action you want me to take?"
"No." I didn't want to get involved in anything until we'd talked. A vague, uneasy feeling was beginning to grow on me. The Roberts thing didn't feel right. Had I been set up? But by whom? Why had the police come bursting in? Something didn't add up. Suddenly I wanted to get back to the office and re-establish normality. "No. I'll come in by two o'clock."
"All right. I'll talk to you then. Don't forget to bring in your sick note," he added, unexpectedly.
It was my turn to splutter as Mallalieu, chuckling, rang off.
*
*
*
No-one was chuckling at two o'clock when I got back. Mallalieu and Andy were deep in consultation in the corner of the Ops room. They looked up, Mallalieu quizzically, Andy with genuine pleasure.
After the 'Yes, I'm feeling fine now,' bit, and the usual jokes about 'the bottom dropping out of my world' had been made by Andy, they went on talking about their original topic: Briggs. I tried to bring the conversation round to the Lord Roberts shooting, waving at the blanket coverage on all the newspapers scattered around, but Andy wasn't interested and Mallalieu's glance warned me off. So we all went back to talking about Jonno Briggs.
While I'd been away, he'd been interviewed by two coppers. The ostensible reason was the drunk and disorderly charge. Briggs had seen straight through that and had given the questioners a hard time, demanding he be let out of his house; was he a prisoner? Were they policemen? Stuff like that. I groaned inwardly. It was all as I'd predicted. He'd even challenged the policemen's identity and demanded to see their warrant cards in case it was a Special Branch stitch up. Which it was. To cap it all, he had demanded a lawyer and was now apparently threatening to blow the gaff completely once he got out. "You can't keep me here for ever," he'd shouted, according to Andy. "And when I get out there's going to be hell to pay. I could tell a few secrets," etcetera. That kind of stuff. I had to agree with Andy's description. It was a bad scene, in every sense. Grabbing a cup of dreadful coffee left over from the morning's brew, I followed them into the Bull Pen office, where Andy had spread Jonno's files out and we went through his case again. It was depressing and none of us could see a clear way out. After half an hour, Mallalieu stood up and went to the window. He stood staring out across the roofs. I looked at Andy, who raised his eyebrows. The cold coffee did terrible things to my taste buds as well as my still delicate stomach, which gurgled audibly in protest.
"I think we've got a major problem here." Mallalieu didn't turn from his contemplation of the roof tops. This blinding glimpse of the totally obvious was greeted in silence by his limited audience. We knew we had a problem - we hoped that Mallalieu had the solution. After all, he was the boss. He got paid more, didn't he? Andy and I exchanged glances, while the silence grew longer.
"I mean a
real
problem. One that threatens the whole of this firm and all it stands for," continued Mallalieu after what seemed like an age.
Andy tried to downplay it. "He's only one man. Let's face it, there's always been a risk from someone shooting his mouth off one day. It's not the end of the world."
I'm not so sure, Andy," Mallalieu glanced back at us. "We've never assumed we'd ever have a deliberate breach of security by a malicious ex-employee, out to ruin us. And now this - well, Briggs. He's out to wreck us, if he chooses to blab."
"Oh, he'll shoot his mouth off all right. You heard what he said to the police." Andy was adamant. He caught my look. "He didn't just say he'd blow the gaff - he actually said that by the time he'd finished telling Fleet Street about SIS Ltd, we'd all be in chokey, never mind him. He means trouble, and no mistake."
I winced. Mallalieu looked decidedly hunted. Andy went on, ramming his point home. "He obviously feels bad about it. He said he was going to get his own back if it took twenty years. He's out for revenge, no doubt about it."
I suppose, with hindsight, we all came to the same conclusion at the same time. The word that cleared the problem for me was 'revenge'. When Andy Bell said that Briggs had sworn revenge on us all, it was as if a switch had clicked and I knew what was required. I can't speak for the others. But they obviously came to the same conclusion at the same time. It's funny how nobody used the words, though. It was as if the subject was so terrible that even admitting its existence, and that even to mention the thought was impossible. I remember quite clearly, though; Andy spoke first.
"If only Briggs would just, well... disappear. Or go under a car. Anything…." He petered out as we all recognised what he was talking about and what we were all individually thinking. The silence was grim. Mallalieu turned back to the window, scratching his shoulder. "If only. We need a convenient accident," he said in an absent sort of way. "If only. Yes, but how?"
Another interminable silence followed. I stared at the papers strewn all over the table. On one sheet a photograph of Briggs grinned up at me. It looked as if it had been taken in his stunt man days, years ago. Behind the sunburnt face I could see a film camera, and beyond that what looked like the harbour at St Tropez, dazzling in the sunlight.
'I'll do it,' I heard my self say. Andy looked up amazed and his mouth opened to speak. Mallalieu turned fro
m
the window and looked down at me, arms clasped protectively across his chest.
"No, Andy. I'm the right man," I went on. "I think Jonno Briggs is due a nasty accident, don’t you? Leave it with me. OK, Boss?" We both looked up at Mallalieu. He stood there one arm folded across his chest, the other hand stroking a non-existent moustache on his upper lip. Staring at us. Then very slowly, he nodded, his head working like those toy dogs you see in car rear windows.
"Yes, you're right." he agreed. "An accident would be very useful. Timely too. Do you think you could arrange one? After all, you're the best man. In fact, you're the only man, really. For this sort of job." We looked at one another, sharing our own personal secrets
within a wider conspiracy.
"But why?" said Andy. "I mean, you've been out of the game now for at least two years. Why you?" He turned to Mallalieu. "Colonel, don't you think that I ... ?"
Mallalieu cut him short. His eyes didn't let go of mine. "No, Andy. This isn't for you, or the Bull Pen. This isn't exactly going to be official, is it?" Andy stared back at us. Mallalieu pressed his point. "I think you've got to realise that some things are best kept unofficial. Don't you agree?"
Andy nodded dumbly. "Well," continued Mallalieu, "For unofficial jobs we need unofficial operators."
"Experienced unofficial operators," I added. Mallalieu smiled slightly and inclined his head as if conceding a point. "Experienced unofficial operators," he echoed.
Andy looked aghast.
"Experienced
... you mean you've been doing field jobs?"
I laughed aloud. "Yes. Don't look so shocked." He shook his head.
Mallalieu smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I think brother Briggs is best left to our Ops Coordinator - don't you?' Andy stared from face to face and shook his head again. "OK - if you say so. How will you fix it?"