Authors: John Macrae
"You want me to confess," I said, bluntly. I was going to rattle this bastard.
He looked pained. "My dear chap, not at all. I just want to... well.... to understand what's been going on. So that if we have to recommend any..." he searched his mind, "...any Executive actions, then I know all the background. That's all. I'm sure you understand." I understood all right. He gave me what he obviously thought was an encouraging smile. I found it alarming. A bit like a smile from Dracula, on being asked what he'd like to drink.
"It's all very simple. I'll give it to you without frills. You first met me after I got back from Iran..."
"That was when he was ill, " interrupted
Mallalieu
, unnecessarily.
"Anyway, after Iran, when I came out of hospital, I did that job for you." I stressed the 'you.' "You know, stealing the book from the arms dealer. The one you asked me not to kill, but you told me that it didn't matter if I had to, if I had to choose to save myself. The book was more important, you said. You remember." I prompted.
Lamaison nodded, unmoved. "Quite so..."
"Well, when I got back from your arms dealer job in Italy, I went out and castrated a man called Spicer. He was a
known
paedophile. You can check the police files. It was a one-off. I didn't kill him; it was a public service. Everyone said so." I paused to see what effect to this had. Lamaison waved me on.
"Later on, my sister told me she'd been swindled by some shark in the City. They lost a lot of money. She was going to be thrown out of her house, new baby and everything. I couldn't have that. She asked me to help. So I did. At first I said I wouldn't, but eventually I went to the bloke's house and got in,"
"Varley? that was Varley? The ex-MP?"
"That's the one. As I said, I broke in. I only wanted to take something back from him of equivalent value, for Barbara. That's my sister. After all, it's family. You've got to look after your own people, if they can't go to the law. In the interests of justice and fair play," I added ironically.
"Quite," agreed Lamaison. "Absolutely." He sounded as if he believed it.
"Varley came in. He disturbed me. There was a bit of a hassle. I taught him a lesson. I wasn't armed; I just bent him a little. Then he suddenly pulled a gun on me. I grabbed the first thing I could. It was a poker. And I stuck it in him. I didn't mean to, but I had to prot
ect myself. It was an accident.
" A furnace door of memory opened in my mind. A searing image of Varley screaming, of the blood, of running panic-stricken through the woods roared for a second. Its intensity silenced me. "As God is my judge I never meant to kill him," I repeated. "I wish to God I hadn't.
But I thought he’d pulled a gun on me. Turned out it was a fake. Cigarette lighter.
"
The silence dragged on. "Go on," prompted Lamaison, quietly.
"Well, after that it didn't seem to matter. I'd already killed someone; Varley. Even if was an accident. So I decided to do it properl
y next time. As I was already”
- I struggled to find another word for ‘guilty’ – “
compromised
– I might as well do people a favour."
"So that's when you decided to have a go at those three juveniles in Brixton?"
"That's right. They seemed the right sort of target. I studied them for weeks." I looked him straight in the eye. "I don't feel bad about hitting those yobboes, you know. They deserved it."
"I agree," Lamaison said, to my surprise. "It had an astonishing effect on muggings in South London. Did you know that the figures for robbery against the person went down by sixty percent in the Met area in the three months after you attacked them? Sixty percent," he repeated. He slapped a file on the desk. "The Metropolitan Police called off a major anti mugging operation. Saved over three million pounds...."
Why did he have that information on his desk? I raised my eyebrows. "It obviously works."
Lamaison didn't flinch. "Yes. There's no doubt about that. Whether we should recommend it to the Home Secretary and the Cabinet as an official government policy, however," he trailed off, dryly. A silence followed. "What happened then?" he prompted.
"Not a lot," I replied, coming out of my reverie. "Then I did Lord Roberts for Co
lonel Mallalieu. On his orders.
" He nodded, so I went on, trying to shock him. "And after that I killed Briggs for the pair of you." He didn't look shocked. He just made 'hmm' noises and fiddled with his tea cup. Mallalieu stared out of the window and made a harumphing noise.
"Yes, you did a good job there. It saved a lot of embarrassment." Lamaison fell silent for a bit. "And that's it?" he added finally.
"That's it."
"Hmm." Mallalieu and I sat there for what seemed a long time.
Eventually Lamaison spoke,
"Tell me; what made you start? I mean, why did you do it?
”
I looked at Mallalieu and then back to Lamaison. He'd steepled his fingers, looking at the wall.
"What made me do what?" I asked.
"Start doing things off your own bat," he responded tersely, "start taking matters into your own hands. Why did you suddenly decide to castrate Spencer, or whatever he was called?"
"Spicer," I corrected him. "Haven't you ever heard of natural justice? You've only got to stand in a London pub for five minutes to understand what real people think is right. I suppose I did it for them."
"Is right? Justice? I thought you believed in revenge?"
I looked at him slowly, "To me there's not a lot of difference. If people can't get justice then they look for revenge."
"So you saw yourself as some kind of avenging... individual....er.... agency?"
"Not just revenge. There's more to it than that. Sometimes people get away with murder -- literally. I just thought that it was time some of them got what they really deserved."
"So you saw yourself acting for Society as a whole - is that it?"
"Yes; if you like. "
He absorbed this reply as he'd absorbed everything else, without visi
ble diversion. “
But did you really believe in this 'Vengeance Man' nonsense? I mean, the newspap
ers and so forth
?"
"Of course not. I don't believe I've got some kind of Mission, if that's what you're trying to say. I don't see myself as God. I'm not nutty, you know. Like I said to Colonel Mallalieu, I'm not bloody Joan of Arc."
He permitted himself a brief
wintry
smile, exposing yellowing teeth. "Oh no," he said softly, "I don't think for one moment you're ... nutty... or even disturbed. You only did what you thought was right. Correct ?"
I nodded. "I just did what I do best. I never picked anyone who didn't ask for it: in spades. I never started out meaning to kill anyone." I looked at him hard. "Except, of course, the ones you asked me to do in the line of duty.”"
For the first time, Lamaison dropped his eyes. "Except in the line of duty," he echoed dully. He stared blankly at the heavily curtained window. "Like Roberts, Briggs and so forth?" His last remark wasn't really a question. He was talking to himself. There was a silence.
I pressed the point. "You see, I don't really see the difference between the people Colonel Mallalieu
-
and you
-
wanted me to deal with. Murder, if you really want to put a name to it," I continued brutally, rubbing it in. "They're just the
official
targets. But someone has to deal with the real targets too. ..."
Lamaison was surprised, "Real targets?"
"Creatures like Spicer, Varley and those muggers. They're the real ones who threaten the people on the street. Just as much as Roberts and Briggs frighten Whitehall and people like you. More, I reckon. Ask the pensioners and the young mothers collecting their money from the Post Office. The Asian corner shops being trashed by wild gangs of kids – and getting away with it. That’s what pisses people off. They don't have some fancy charter sorting out their problems, though. Do they?"
Lamaison bent forward, "And that's why you did it?"
"Of course; why else? Like I said , I'm not barmy. Everything I've done is rational."
Lamaison didn't respond. He exchanged glances with Mallalieu, then placed his cup and saucer from his desk to the tea table on the side. “What did you
feel
?” He asked. “Just out of curio
sity. What did you feel?”
“Feel?”
“When you were doing these things”
I shrugged. “Nothing really. It’s just…
well, like I felt when I malletted Roberts. He was just a target. Varley wasn’t good, but that was an accident. I don’t know…” I trailled off, lamely. “You don’t feel anything…
otherwise you couldn’t do it…”
There was a long pause. Lamaison shook his head. “You don’t feel anything”, he muttered like an echo. I could hear the traffic in the street.
"Very well," he said. "Let us now turn to another thing. Did you believe that Specialist Insurance Services Ltd. was a genuine company?"
"Well, yes. I thought we were some kind of genuine defence contractor. I thought we just did the occasional dirty job for Six or someone in Whitehall. The sort of deniable job that you couldn't ask the SAS to do
-
officially. I never realized it was
official
. "
"A most important part of our official response capability," he mused. "A most important part. Amazing," he concluded, "Quite amazing. I really must congratulate you, Tom, on your cover. A remarkable feat. "
I stole a glance at Mallalieu. The compliment
-
if that's what it was meant to the
-
was lost on him. Colonel Tom Mallalieu looked extremely put out.
“One final question," Lamaison to addressed himself to me. "Does your sister know what you do? What you did?"
"No. I passed on Varley's money once I'd sold it for some stamps. She never knew where it came from. She still thinks I invested in stamps. "
Lamaison looked at me without smiling. "In a way, you did. And your... ah ... girlfriend? Joy, I believe?"
How did he know that? "No," I said quickly. "She knows nothing. She thinks I'm an insurance risk assess
or for overseas contracts."
He nodded slowly. A long pause followed.
Finally, he returned to the charge. Slightly unwillingly, I thought. "No other surprises?
No books in the offing?
No great exposés of 'My Time in the SAS!' sign
ed up with greedy publishers?
No serialisation deals with the Sunday papers? And no cosy little envelopes tucked away with lawyers to be opened only in the event of your death?"
I looked at him as cool
l
y as I could muster; "As to your first question:
No. As
to your second," I shrugged and looked him straight in the eye, "That's for me to know and for you to find out."
He looked at me back, then nodded slowly. Unsmiling, thoughtful.
"Well, I think I've heard all I need to hear," he said briskly, like a judge summing up.. He looked up at me. "I think you've been incredibly stupid and a bit undiscriminating to put it mildly, but that's partly our fault." He sought for an analogy, "After all, if you have a particularly savage and vicious guard dog, trained to attack intruders, then you mustn't bleat when he occasionally bites the postman."
It's not very flattering being compared to a Doberman. I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to say 'woof, woof'’ or something, so I just sat there and nodded. After all, it sounded like a reprieve. I glanced at Mallalieu. He'd relaxed and was looking around.
Lamaison broke the silence. He stood up and stretched. He looked relieved and tired.
“
It’s clear that there are some unusual features in this case that probably could be thought of as mitigating circumstances….
Hmm. But it still leaves us with a problem.” He stared blankly at me then out of the window. I looked at Mallalieu who shook his head warningly. Lamaison focussed down at me and pronounced sentence.
“Right. I think we all need a large whisky - Tom, do the honours, will you? We've got a lot to sort out."
It was another hour befo
re I left the City. Mallalieu and Lamaison were companionably
e
n
sconced
drinking whisky. I had been given a reassuring view of my future; provided, of course, I was a good boy and didn’t undertake any more freelance work. It seemed that I was far too valuable an asset to lose. We spent a long time agreeing that Global Terrorism was a real threat, I remember. Apparently my views on that were sound. I walked out into the square mile torn between relief, rage and resignation.
To be honest, I suppose relief dominated. I just had a sneaking suspicion that I was going to be given a lot more postmen to savage on Whitehall’s behalf. I didn't feel good about that, and tried to shut the thoughts out of my mind.