The Vengeance Man (43 page)

CONFESSIONAL  

“You know?” I was incredulous

“Well, let’s say I suspected, if you like.”

I sat down with a thump. Mallalieu
knew
I was the Vengeance Man? How? Since when?

He slowly turned his head towards me , like a tank turret traversing.  He stared at me for what seemed like minutes and was probably seconds.

"So it really
was
you, they were looking for, all this time eh? Is that what you're telling me?" Mallalieu's  calm shook me. 

I said nothing.

"You idiot," he went on in a reasonable conversational voice. "What on earth made you do it?"

"Do what?" I was floundering. He was treating it as if I'd said that one of the secretaries was pregnant and would be away for six months.   No, he'd be more pissed off about that.  Much more.

"Do those things that the police were talking about. I'm assuming that's what you're saying?    I presume you're saying that it really was you who did those things?  When they first came I assumed it was Briggs they were ferreting about for. Or have I misunderstood you?"

Again I said nothing.   He stood and stared at me.

"Why? What on earth possessed you to go doing stupid things like castrating that bloody inadequate - Spencer, whatever his name was ..."

"Spicer," I choked.

"Spicer, that's it. Whatever for?"

"And the muggers," I added to his list. "Don't forget those three muggers."

"Of course." His eyes widened. "Of course.  That had to be someone like you. I should have guessed." He nodded, stared away, unseeing. "No wonder they've been giving us grief.....    Why?" He shook his head. "Why?"

“Why what?”

“Why did you do such bloody stupid things?”

"Because I wanted to get back at them." It came out in a rush.

Mallalieu was amazed. "Whatever for?" 

"Revenge. Getting my own back. Not my own; clearing off some people's debts. Someone has to stand up for people."

There was a long pause while he looked at me. I felt foolish, uncomfortable. "Revenge, eh?"

"That's it; revenge." It sounded pathetic in the big, high-roofed office.

“But revenge for what?" he insisted. "What for?" He paused, shaking his head. "Who do you think you are? God?  Do you feel you've some kind of divine mission? Are you mad?"

"No, I'm not mad
: but someone's got to put things right. Pay off the debts. I had the
qualifications, that's all. And I'm not potty."  I couldn't help but laugh.

He looked hurt, affronted. "Well this is no bloody laughing matter, I can tell you."  He began to pace up and down. "So you've got the qualifications, have you? And you took it on yourself to even the score, is that it?"

"That's right. They all deserved it, they were all slags."

"And that makes it right, does it?"

"Why not? Ask the voters. After all, you're the one who gave me the big
spiel
about democracy. Or have you forgotten?"

"Yes, but cold blooded killing, murder, maiming people.."

"Not people, Colonel. Scum.  Perverts; people like those muggers; Spicer,  Roberts.  I did the Roberts thing for you and a lot of innocent people...You’re hardly in any position to moralise, let’s face it? Are you?”

He looked at me and cut me off. "You amaze me. You of all people. But Lamaison did warn me." He sighed.

"Lamaison?"

"Yes.  He warned me a long time ago
-
before the Briggs Business
-
he told me that you were a potential risk. The psychiatrist said you would be unstable. I told him he was wrong.” He shook his head sadly.  "I should have known."  We stood silent, glumly contemplating his own poor judgement. It almost made me feel sorry for him.

He gazed blankly out of the window, then knelt down and prodded the hole where the bug had been.  More plaster dust trickled down.  "What made you start?"

His question, addressed to the hole in the wall, surprised me.  He stood up, brushing the white powder from his  hand.

"I just felt that someone had to do it. "

He nodded.  He was still taking it all in.  "You felt that someone had to. . . "

"Had to punish the ones who thought they could get away with it.  Balance the books.  For the little people they'd hurt.  The police couldn't touch them, remember. Like Spicer; the paedophile..."

"An eye for an eye?  Is that it?"

“It was his
balls.   But, yes: if you like.
" It sounded trite.

He didn't sneer or say anything clever; just nodded, comprehending.

I'd expected anger, even rage.  I wasn't prepared for his calm appraisal of the problem.  It was un-nerving.  But Mallalieu haven't gone as far as he had without learning to deal disaster calmly.  "Who the hell do you think you  are?" he said in a sad voice. "Bloody St. Joan?"

I made no answer.  There really wasn't much I could say.

There was a long pause.  The silence hung heavy in the office.  Mallalieu walked  around touching things, straightening pictures, and saying nothing.  Eventually he rounded on me, and continued in the same conversational tone, "You realize that, if what you say is true, that you are guilty of very serious criminal offences, don't you?"

My mind was taken up with Security, Intelligence and the whole Special Operations world.  "Criminal?"

He looked surprised.  "Of course.  Murder, GBH, assault, theft even?  I'd say that castrating someone, removing their testicles without their consent, counts as Actual Bodily Harm at least, don't you?    Perhaps even
grievous
bodily harm?" 
He
added dr
y
ly.  "And
as for shooting those muggers,"
his voice trailed away. "Psychopat
hic...  Bloody psychopathic...
"
H
e shook his head. “They’ll crucify you…”

It was time to bring  Brother Mallalieu back to reality. I didn't want him saying things we both might regret on some  wave of misplaced moral high-mindedness. After all, he was as guilty as I was. "Yes, nearly as bad as arranging Briggs' death for you."

He didn't look put out at all. "No. What you've done is far worse."

"Worse!" I exploded. "Worse?!"

"Oh, yes." He cocked his head on one side. "When you killed Briggs, you were acting on my orders. It was a necessary act."

The sheer effrontery of his reply took my breath away. "A necessary act ? Orders? Now who's playing God?"  My voice had risen.

"I'm not playing God." He looked angry, too. "But I act on authority, the Charter..."

"Authority? Charter? What the hell are you on about? "

He sighed. "Oh, dear, oh dear, oh dear. I thought you of all people had the wit to realise what we're all about here. Didn't Bill Luxton tell you?" He didn't wait for
an answer. "If I order someone
... " he searched for a less distasteful word, "To be dealt with – terminated - I at least, act with some kind of authority. But you ... "

"Dealt with?" I was angry now. "Terminated? Is that what you call it? Is shooting Roberts 'terminating' him? And the copper? And the reporter?" He stared at me, pale but calm. I warmed to my theme. "And Briggs? Is 'terminating' him all right? Because you say so
?
"

"But my dear boy, don't you realise ... "

"Realise what?!"  I roared. "So it's all right for you to order Lord Roberts, one of the most famous people in the world, killed, together with a London policeman on duty thrown in for good measure, not to mention a crippled hack and a couple of innocent bystanders and that's OK, is it? It's even OK for you to murder - yes,
murder
-," I spat out, "Briggs, one of your own men in cold blood to save your own skin,
but when I take out some of the
... the filth, the bloody scum of society, you come back at me all high minded. Eh? Don't you bloody talk to me about charters, Tom Mallalieu. You haven't got a leg to stand on. You're as guilty as I am.  We did your dirty work for you.  On your orders!"  I stopped, chest heaving, shaking with rage.

He stood staring at me, spots of anger in his cheeks, lips compressed.

When he spoke, an acid note was in his voice. "Right. Well, now you've finished that moving and obviously deeply felt little outburst, let me make you aware of a few things. One: yes, you did kill Briggs on my orders. But then  I am authorised to take certain action against... "  he paused, hunting for the right euphemism; "against persons deemed prejudicial to the Crown. But not off my own bat; by the personal authority only of the Prim
e Minister, the Intelligence Co
ordinator and counter-signed by the
Attorney General of the day."
I must have started. "Yes. That surprises you, doesn't it? But it's true, nonetheless ... "

"But you said Briggs ... "

"Oh, yes, I said a lot of things about Briggs at the time. You don't think I'd tell you everything, do you?  For your  own sake as much as anything. It’s much better for all concerned if people think they're up to their neck in some kind of a criminal conspiracy, it's much easier to make sure they keep their mouths shut, isn't it? For ever."

"But I was the one who suggested that we ... "

"
Get rid of
Briggs? Yes, you did. And I was most grateful for it. But he'd have had to go, anyway. You only spoke first. We already had the authority from the PM. He was a most dangerous individual.

I was puzzled.  Briggs the dangerous buffoon, Briggs the dangerous loose cannon; these I could understand. But  Briggs as a really dangerous threat was difficult to comprehend. Mallalieu looked  sharply at me.

"Yes: I thought that would surprise you.  Briggs was a plant.  We still don't know who he was working for.  They worked  him over for two days in that flat and he still wouldn't come clean. They think – no-one knows – that he was some kind of terrorist plant.”

“Terrorists? Al Qa’ida? Muslim extremists?”

“We really don’t know. He had some links with them, out in Basra, we discovered. Shi’a, Iranians.  But he was also up to his neck in Animal Rights at one time. The nasty end of the ALF. That we did get out of him.” He shook his head. “We never did find out what he was really up to. Or working for. But he was certainly a plant. No doubt about that. Collecting all kinds of stuff. You should see what they found in his flat. Bomb-making, propaganda for ALF attacks
and
Fundamental Islam…. Weird. A weird mix. Even stuff nicked from your office.” He smiled without any humour at me. “ Yes…
he was even ru
nning a file on you.
”

I was speechless.

“So you see, he had to go. PM’s orders….”

"You mean when I went to collect him and drug his milk. . . "

Mallalieu dismissed me with a wave of his hand. "Yes, yes, I know you thought you were doing something secret.  But  we had been trying to make him tell us.  How on earth  do you think we keep to a man like that under house arrest?  Because that's what it was. I mean, just think about it a little…"

I was silent, digesting the enormity of what he was saying.

Mallalieu went on. "Yes, he was planted  by someone all right.   Roberts?  Moscow?  The Americans? Terrorists? Even ALF fanatics?  We'll never know.  He never talked.  Maybe he wasn't working for anyone.  It’s a mystery. Fortunately, he blew it that night he went over the top in the pub. He even gave us a clear chance to get rid of him - by an accident, as it happened, so we didn't compromise our source. You only did your duty when you ensured his little accident."  He smiled. “That was well done , by the way.”

"You mean, it was ...” I groped for the word; “
legal
?"

He shrugged. "Yes, if that's the word you want to use. 'Authorised' is better, I suppose." 

I was stunned.   

"And as for the Roberts job, that was a cast-iron act of
national
policy. Christ, man, I told you that at the time. What do you think I am, some kind of wild man rushing around ordering killings at random?"

It was all beginning to sink in. I tried to defend myself. "So it's all right for you to kill on behalf of the Prime Minister... "

"And with the approval of the Cabinet Office Intelligence Coordinator and the Attorney General. ... "

"Yes, all right, on behalf of some cosy little Whitehall secret committee, but if
I
do it on behalf of society, that's wrong? Is that it?"

He looked surprised. "Of course. That's precisely the point. You've made a complete arse of yourself.  Stupid. Moronic."

I tried again, but I could feel the fight going out of me, like water drying on a hot pavement.

He went on. "So, one: I'm authorised to act on behalf of the PM to deal with people like Briggs when there's no  other way. Secondly: we do it under the Charter that's cast iron and goes back to 1940. You hav
e to take tough decisions in
war time and some bits of The Defence of the Realm Act were apparently just too useful to be let  go in 1945.  Even by the ‘New Jerusalem’ of our idealistic socialist friends.   Third, and last:
none
of this gives you
carte  blanche
to go around meting out your particular and idiosyncratic brand of half baked citizen's justice to the undeserving poor or whoever else you happen to have a personal
grievance against at the time.
  Thank God
I
didn't give you some passing offence. What would you have done to me? Cooked me over a slow fire?  Cut bits off me...?    Eh?" His fluent contempt was magisterial, crushing.