Authors: John Macrae
"The less you know about it the better. But it'll have to be an accident."
Mallalieu nodded.
Andy's shocked look had become a fixture. "You mean..... You mean that you'll.... You'll do it yourself?"
"Of course."
Andy tried. I'll give him that. "Look, this is crazy. This can't be right... I mean. Ther
e must be a better way. This is…
well...," he trailed off, unable to admit the enormity of murdering someone to himself. “We can’t just…well…”
But this wasn't
murder
. Anyone with a grain of sense had to see that Briggs had to go; he'd left us no choice. This was self defence.
Mallalieu eyed him sideways. "Andy, if Briggs talks to the press you'll have a job staying out of the dock, let alone staying out of the newspapers. We all will. You know that. The bastard knows too much." Andy looked hard at him, and Mallalieu nodded knowingly. Suddenly, Andy looked stricken, and the sudden thought that I didn't know everything that these two had been up to popped into my head. What secrets did
they
share? Maybe there were a lot more secrets about Mallalieu than even I had begun to realize.
Andy waved his h
ands in the air. "Can't we just
...
well, sub-contract it out ? There are plenty of people south of the river who'll arrange an accident. No-one need ever know..."
I broke in. Briggs was mine. This was one for me to enjoy. "We can't risk a failure." I said decisively. "And it will be even less secure if we bring in outsiders. Much less secure, and much more iffy. Let's look after our own problems ourselves. Right?"
"Right," affirmed Mallalieu. "The less people who know about this the better."
Still shaking his head, Andy looked back at me, as if seeing me for the first time. He stared at the newspapers on the table, then seemed to come to a decision. "Right. I don't like it. I really don’t. But I'll leave it to you. Need any help?"
"I don't think so; but thanks anyway. Better stay out of this. You keep your hands clean. That way you can always deny things. You walked out of this conversation. OK?"
The silence fell again, and Mallalieu stepped forward and began to tidy the files up. Still looking down he muttered,
"But we haven't got much time."
I tried to be brisk and business-like.
"Where's Briggs? At his flat?"
Andy chipped in, "He's being baby sat on a rota by the Support Team. It's all right: they think it's something to do with the police case and the conditions of bail. I couldn't keep a Bull Pen man there all the time. There are two of them." He snatched a glance at Mallalieu who remained impassive. He seemed to have withdrawn into himself.
"Which two?"
Andy consulted a little red notebook. "John and Neil."
I knew them both. John Morgan was a heavy ex-Royal Engineers Staff Sergeant who was happy to exchange the drudgery of being a porter for one of the famous auction houses for the tauter drudgery of supporting the Bull Pen by driving and fetching and carrying. Besides, it eked out his pension.
Young Neil Macariewicz was a different breed entirely. The son of a Polish Air Force pilot who'd fled to England in 1939, he had been raised in a closely ruled family, imbued with 'A Cause'. I've seen the same in Ukrainian families. Although he'd never joined any service - sometimes his asthma crippled him completely - young Neil was a natural warrior. Briggs couldn't have had better guards, or more trustworthy, or close-mouthed, even if they didn't know the real facts.
At times like that I don't remember thinking as a process. I just seem to know, instinctively what to do, what questions to ask, what action to take.
"How's he feeding?"
Mallalieu looked startled and turned to Andy.
"He's feeding himself," Andy said, puzzled. "We make sure he's got bread and milk. The place is full of tins, eggs and bacon, that kind of stuff. My guys stake out the front door and control him. The telephone is cut off. We’ve taken his mobile and the computer. Silly bugger thinks it’s a bail condition because of the Basra job. He’s threatening blue bloody murder when he goes to court. Arrest, liberty, all that kind of crap. We can’t keep this up much longer. Hemming was on the phone earlier asking where Briggs was and there’s been at least one reporter trying to doorstep. We’re in trouble.
Why do you ask about food?"
"Milk."
"What?"
"Milk, that's the key. I'll dope his morning milk. That's how. I assume there's still a milkman? Bottles on the step?"
“No. Supermarket. We buy it.”
"Now, slow down," said Mallalieu. "What the hell are you talking about? You've lost me."
"Easy," I explained. "We drug his milk. Syringe through the carton. Then leave the rest to me."
Andy and Mallalieu looked at each other, then back to me. "I don't like it," muttered Andy.
"You've got a better idea, Andy?"
He licked his lips, and looked to Mallalieu for support. Mallalieu pulled the corners of his mouth down. "I don't think we've any better choice. Let's just do as Ops suggested and leave it to him."
"Right," I continued, "Let’s fix his milk for tomorrow. Then, when he's out for the count, Andy, you let me have the use of John and Neil. For the whole day."
Mallalieu had formed a tidy pile of the files. Picking them up, he went to the door and we followed him into his office. It smelt faintly of paint and the new dove grey walls looked discreet and anonymous. Trust Mallalieu to keep his office smart. He dumped the stack of files on a side table while Andy closed the door. Still looking down, Mallalieu boxed off the pink stack with his palms, then fussily extracted the red-crossed 'P File' with its '
B-27/BRIGGS, John'
scrawled in black marker and patted it on top.
We waited. Then he looked up sideways at me. "OK, I leave it to you. If there's anything you need, just ask. It's a messy solution; the fewer people who know about this, the better. Do it." He slapped the stack of files. The sudden noise emphasised the finality of his decision. "Now. Do you need anything?"
"A couple of things. Access to a hypodermic and some drugs. And I'll need funds for vehicle hire. And some other expenses. But nothing more. Oh yes, we'll need a laundry basket. One of those big ones. "
Mallalieu looked at Andy, who nodded. "Yes, we can fix that."
"And I think you'll have to fund some overtime for your two support boys, Andy. Any problem?"
"No ... if you say so." He looked uncomfortable.
I looked at them both. My total confidence seemed to make them unsure; it was laughable really. I was the one taking the risk.
"Look," said Andy. "Do we really have to? I mean...," He trailed off.
Mallalieu looked surprised. "I thought we'd already agreed that we don't have any other options open. Do we?" Andy shook his head. "Well, then." He turned to me. "Play it carefully and don't get caught." I nodded.
"No fuss," continued Mallalieu, "A good clean job." Andy still looked miserable. "Cheer up, Andy. After all, it's him or us, isn't it? He's set on taking it out on us. On you. You said so yourself, didn't you?" Andy nodded. I nodded grimly. Jonno Briggs' revenge was to be still-born and instead I was to be the instrument of
our
vengeance. In a funny way I felt quite proud.
*
*
*
That was how, two nights later, Jonno Briggs, sometime stunt man, late Fleet Street and Wapping photographer, came to drive off the end of some of the M 11 road works in a hired Ford Sierra.
Death had been instantaneous, as foolishly the deceased had failed to fasten his seat belt. The Coroner waxed eloquent about the folly of disobeying the seat belt laws, but, as the investigating officer from the Traffic Division of Essex Constabulary pointed out, at that speed it wouldn't have made much difference anyway. It was noted that the deceased had gone through two lots of warning cones. The smashed body was hardly recognisable from the smashed car and the Fire Brigade couldn't have been expected to spot the jammed steering from a wreck like that. But all the accident services could smell the brandy. Briggs must have been way over the limit and was already in trouble with the police, apparently. Arrested for drunk and disorderly only recently - trouble with his dismissal from a responsible and well placed job in London as a result…. The papers hushed that up - after all, Briggs had an aged mother somewhere. But then, doesn't everybody?
I won't bore you with the drugging of the milk and carrying the heavy laundry basket down to the hire van at night. It all seems a bit sordid, like a bad detective movie, I suppose. Automatic hire cars with jammed accelerators and steering aren't difficult. It's just straight tradecraft and strong nerves. Funnily enough, young Neil
Macariewicz
was better than John Morgan at the end. Neither of them really knew, of course, but a laundry basket that heavy, from a house you've been guarding and then dumping it and watching it being driven off down the road.. Well, I ask you. I suppose that it takes a particular sort of nerve to accept that.
And it takes a particular sort of nerve to pour brandy into a half conscious man in the dark when he's muttering to you, then send him off like a doomed Viking on his last voyage over the edge.
The big Ford didn't look right first time, so I had to nip back down the slope and make sure the job was complete before anyone came. Good job I did, otherwise he might have survived the accident. He opened his eyes and recognised me. At one point as he even began to surface. It didn't do him any good. I didn’t like the bastard and he’d get us all in the shit if he lived. His neck really was broken by the time I left. It was his own fault. He shouldn’t play by big boys’ rules and then try and blab his mouth off. But I made sure he couldn’t. I didn't bother to do the petrol tank. A car fire would have attracted attention before we'd made put enough distance between ourselves and the wreck.
I scrambled back up the muddy embankment, then ran the four hundred yards back to the waiting van. The car had been hired in Briggs name. They were waiting in the layby by the road
works, and if they hadn't actually seen anything or anybody directly, they'd have had to be stupid not to have guessed. After all, I stank of petrol and there was mud all over my trousers. Anyway, it would all be in the papers in the morning.
John Morgan looked shaken, so young Neil offered to drive us back. He whistled softly off key as a boy sang Allegri's
'Miserere'
icily high on a radio programme I found. Then they switched to some rock rubbish. I sat quiet, nursing a badly bruised hand and reading John's
SUN
; it was still full of the Roberts shooting;
'The Search For the Lone Assassin'
, that kind of stuff. Inside it had a feature on
'The Empire Fights Back!'
over the family squabble over Lord Roberts' business empire. The children had fallen out. What a surprise. Out of curiosity, I turned to Briggs' stars. From the birth
date in his file I knew he was a Taurus. According to his stars he was going on a journey.
That was true. And, according to mine, I'd reached a crossroads and there was no turning back now. Well, that was bollocks. Things couldn’t be better.
Mallalieu represented the Firm at the funeral, and Doreen the telephone lady had an office whip-round for a wreath; she'd always had a soft spot for Briggs since he’d been on the telly.
I gave £20.
But then I've always been sentimental.
EVEN THE WALLS HAVE EARS, London
You'd have thought that after topping Lord Roberts and then despatching Jonno Briggs that life would become more complicated.
Well, it didn't. The great Isaac Roberts story degenerated into a series of tedious feature articles on my late mark, his life and affairs, both business and otherwise, driven off the front pages by the combination of a flare up in the Middle East. The Americans were gearing up for war, apparently. That’s news? They’re always gearing up for war. Their big arms firms need the money.
It looked like Iran. It always looks like Iran. What was it one of their Vice Presidents had said way back in 1991? “If Kuwait grew carrots, we wouldn’t give a damn….”
But the Jonno Briggs story did have one interesting knock-on though. One of the well informed – well, he said he was – crime correspondents wrote a big feature piece
headlined ‘Was He the V Man
?’ And a load of
nonsense
underneath about how Jonno Briggs could well have been the mysterious Vengeance Man, plus a lot of drivel about how ‘it was a mystery that would rival the legend of Jack the Ripper’. Well. I ask you? Crap! It was a good job Jonno was dead – otherwise he could have made a fortune for libel or defamation, whatever…
For the next two weeks, my life was more peaceful and tranquil than it had been for a long time.
I saw a lot of Joy and for one weekend she stayed at the flat. We had a good time. I liked Joy, and not just in bed, either. Just doing things with her, sharing a little bit of my life with her, added something. There was a kind of magnetism between us that made me stare at her when she wasn't watching. She wasn't really beautiful; but there was a kind of light, an inner animation, that made me want to look at her. Sometimes I would catch her just looking at me too. Everything seemed so natural with Joy; from scrubbing her soapy sexy back in the shower to holding her hand in public. There was definitely something going on. I'd need to think about it; but Joy added a dimension to my life that had never been there before. Like Vicky, but better. Much better. This was an intelligent – she could knock crosswords quicker than anyone - fun lady who was good company and clearly adored me. I thought she was lovely.
At the office, things were a bit disorganised but it was a quiet time. Neil
Macariewicz
beamed at me when we met, but John Morgan avoided my eyes. So did Andy. His Bull Pen was undergoing a dramatic clean-out. Within a week of Briggs' death, James Bellingham had gone, too. His resignation was on Mallalieu's desk the day of Briggs' funeral and no-one lamented his passing.
I saw him on his last day, in the corridor; a pale, blue
-
jawed figure, nervously fingering what looked like an Etonian tie of all things as he flattened himself against a wall to let me pass. I tried to talk to him, but it was a wasted effort. From his attitude it was almost as if he was frightened of me. God knows why. I'd always been civil to him. It wasn't his fault. He knew he had to go
. There was no farewell drinks party, I noticed.
I shrugged and moved on. Later, I asked Mallalieu if he trusted Bellingham. "Oh, yes." His eyes flicked up from the sheaf of signals and internet printouts. "We can trust him to be discreet." The eyes slid over my shoulder to scan the girls working away at their desks. "Why don't you come into my office for a second? We need to have a chat."
That was the understatement of the year. The weekly staff meeting had been cancelled the week of Briggs' death; that was understandable. But this week's meeting had been a travesty. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. Mallalieu's chairmanship had been brusque and monosyllabic and the other departments, sensing trouble but unsure of the reason, had allowed their carefully-prepared arguments to peter out into pale imitations of our normal spirited exchanges. Andy had watched me as if I were some alien animal, I'd thought.
God knows why - Andy's hands weren't exactly clean. Before he'd come to us he'd been Mr Visiting Embassy Security, and it was rumoured by those in the know that the mysterious disappearances of some blackmailing drug smugglers in Central America always seemed to coincide with Andy's visits. So he was hardly in a position to play holier than thou with me. Mind you, in all fairness to Andy, no terrorist or drugs gang ever tried to kidnap a British Ambassador twice.
Apart from that staff meeting, Mallalieu had avoided me for the rest of the time. I desperately wanted to talk to him about to the Roberts affair. I had a hundred questions. The repercussions of Roberts' demise needed talking through. For no good reason I was irked by the word ‘Assassination’, which is what the papers still called it. I didn't like that: it made him sound like some kind of Head of State or VIP. Maybe that's what he was.
Anyway, the implications for his empire were becoming daily more obvious. The business pages were full of articles about the breakup of his huge conglomerate, stock market crashes and all kinds of things going on that I couldn't even begin to understand, but guessed that they were somehow related. I needed to talk to Mallalieu.
He just m
ade himself unavailable. He'd
even taken three days' leave and then seemed to spend the rest of his time out of the office, or checking with his contacts in Whitehall or the City. So now I followed him into his office with a mixture of anticipation and excitement. There was, I felt, a lot we had to discuss. He felt so, too. "Sit down. There's a lot we've got to discuss," He echoed my thoughts.
"Yes." I thought that I'd better get our new relationship staked out early. "How did Briggs' funeral go?"
He had the grace to look uncomfortable. "Ah, yes - that. All right, I suppose; as these things go." He sounded diffident. The eyes looked away and he fiddled with his desk ruler. "A sad business."
"A sad business?" I exclaimed, but Mallalieu pressed a finger to his lips and shot me a warning look. I subsided, puzzled. He shook his head violently and kept the finger in front of his lips.
"Yes, a very sad business," he continued. "Poor old Jonno. A tragic end. Of course, I blame myself."
I was speechless. What was he playacting about? Did he think someone was listening? "Blame yourself? Why?"
"Well, you won't know this, of course. No reason why you should. You see, I had dismissed Jonno Briggs on the evening he was killed." I was open-mouthed. What was he saying? And why? "Yes, he had to go," he continued, shooting me a warning glare, "I called at Jonno's place and told him the bad news. Of course, we couldn't possibly continue employing him after that nonsense at the Sherlock Holmes. He took it very badly, I'm afraid." He sighed a heavy, theatrical sigh. "So he must have gone on a bender, got boozed up and run off the road. A tragic waste." Astonishingly, an eyelid winked at me over one bright blue eye and the finger came back up to his lips. "A tragic waste," he repeated.
I was flummoxed. "Er, yes, well, Chief. I'm sure you're right...." What the hell was he up to?
He looked at his watch. "Look, why don't we take an early lunch and go and drink a glass to poor old Jonno's memory, eh? What do you say to that?
Poor old Jonno? "Oh, yes - what a good idea," I spluttered.
Outside in the street, I rounded on Mallalieu. "What the hell was that pantomime all about?"
"Bugging," he answered, succinctly, taking his long strides towards the park. "I think my office is bugged."
I was appalled. We strode on through the network of streets behind Victoria , while I digested Mallalieu's suspicions in silence. Occasionally he would glance sideways at me, head cocked, his eye bright. At Birdcage Walk he spoke again. "Shocked you, eh?"
"A bit. But who would want to bug you? And why?"
"Good question." He stepped out firmly into the river of traffic thundering by.
"Are you sure you're being bugged? Who'd want to do that? The competition?"
Mallalieu did a casual
jeté
with a passing taxi that would have brought a Madrid Bull Ring to its feet in appreciation. Warily I followed him across the busy road. I'm all for death in the afternoon, but not
before
lunch. "No," he said judiciously. "This is too crude. But I'm almost certain we are. I'd put my money on either the Branch or the Box. That's where the heat's coming from."
"Heat? From the police? From Five?" I was incredulous.
"Yes. There's a lot of pressure coming back at me." Mallalieu's lips pursed. "Yes, someone's chasing us and I can't fathom why..."
"From Whitehall?"
"Parts of it. The rest is keeping its head down."
"What? Even your Cabinet Office contacts?"
"Yes - particularly the Cabinet Office. They don't want to know. So there's no help here.
Which could leave us rather exposed to Special Branch and their controllers in Box if they’re up to something?
"
We were strolling round St James's Park now, down towards the Palace. "But why should Box want to bug us?" I asked.
Again that bird-like glance flicked speculatively over me. "Well, let's not forget that the Security Service has never been exactly enthusiastic about us. Let's face it, private security firms - even government contractors like us, - are a bit untidy in their view. Oh yes, given half a chance they'd try to fix us. If only in the interests of a tidier world. Not everyone in Whitehall approves of the private security contractor, you know; especially with this lot at present."
"But over what? Briggs?"
"Perhaps."
His coolness was irritating. "Well, over what, then? Roberts?"
"Ah, Lord Roberts. We haven't really talked about that, have we?"
"No, we haven't; not a dicky bird. I've been waiting for a debrief. Don't you even want to hear how it went?"
"Not really." Mallalieu stopped and gazed across the flood of traffic thundering in front of Buckingham Palace. His face was expressionless. "You did a good job. That's good enough for me. Everything worked. You returned the weapon. It all worked out as we hoped. You read it all in the papers, I'm sure. A real nine day wonder." He smiled at the pavement. "In fact, I should be privileged: talking to the most famous man in the world, 'The Lone Assassin'. Well, certainly the most sought after..."
"I'm glad you're pleased. But I ticked the box marked 'no publicity' - remember? Did it achieve everything your people hoped for?"
Mallalieu nodded emphatically. "Absolutely; did you see the Financial Times this morning?" Not waiting for an answer he went on, "The share price of GHi has gone down by 171 pence on the stock market. Devastating. The whole rotten structure is falling apart without Isaac bloody Roberts. The individual companies are fighting among themselves. So's all his kids. The papers are even calling them the Diadochi...."
"What the hell is that?"
"It's what Alexander the Great's generals were called after his death, and when they all fought for his empire. The Diadochi." I should have known that Mallalieu liked to air his classical education. Or had he just learned it from the paper?
"Personally, I rather like the parallel." He beamed at me. "And I understand that the whole organized global drug game has gone into confusion - collapsed pretty well worldwide as they all bicker among themselves. All the big fish are fighting among themselves for control, apparently. All those wicked drug barons peaching on each other to the Feds and anyone else who'll listen. The wires to Washington are humming. Box 500 are like dogs with two tails. It seems the Yardies in Jamaica had been importing handguns as well as drugs for an uprising. Five are having a wonderful time briefing ministers and making themselves look good, I gather, and the bloody spin merchants are about to present our lords and masters with an offer the government just can't refuse: 'Ministers in unprecedented drugs clamp down', or somesuch nonsense. Oh, yes. At last all those clever little girlies in Millbank can justify their expensive existence," he sneered.
I remembered Paddy Croft's indiscreet remarks about the 'new FBI'.
"There's no-one in charge now, you see; they'll fight among themselves until some other lump of shit floats to the top of the cesspool. The Russian Mafia are up in arms, the Saudis have gone ballistic and no-one knows who’s going to take Roberts’ slot. And, when one does, maybe this time the Americans will listen to us." Mallalieu stopped to look at me. "No. You did a good job. No loose ends."
I thought of the dead policemen and bystanders. Were they loose ends? Obviously not. I looked again at Mallalieu’s long dark face, now staring thoughtfully towards the Palace.
I thought that he was looking at the seat of cons
t
itutional power and thinking deep thoughts about the political implications of the shooting, but then realised that he was probably only calculating our chances of making it across the road unscathed. He turned away with a shake of his head, as if realising that the challenge of the Mall’s traffic was too great, even for his talents. Thankfully I followed him back into the Park.
"On the Roberts shooting," he went on. "I've read the papers, and when I say papers, I mean I've been shown some real documents, not just the 'Sun'."