Authors: John Macrae
Robertson's frown deepened. "And did they say what happened to the last occupant?"
Fielder was going well now. “Our Mr Wright, you mean?"
He turned a page of his notebook. "According to the lady downstairs, Mr Wright - a ‘very private sort of man’, she described him as - Mr Wright hasn't been seen for a month. Then, just about a fortnight ago up rolls a Hoults removal van and took away all his stuff. Three days later - bingo - new tenants. Mr and Mrs Webster, of the jolly old FCO."
'Do you think they're in on it?"
"I can't say for certain, but I'll bet they're part of the cover up. He's certainly FCO, I've checked. He's in the list and works in their Middle East Department. Came back from Beirut three months ago."
'Did you check Hoults?"
'Yes. The furniture is in store in their Nottingham depot, on their client's instructions while he’s out of the country on business. Written instructions. Dated over a week
before
Fritz claimed he left London, by the way.
Before
. Very fishy."
'Hmph." Robertson scrunched out his cigarette. 'What about this civil servant type ... Lamston?"
"Lamaison, Chief. Oh, he exists, too. He's in the Civil Service yearbook." He read out, 'Page 469, between 'Domestic Economy Sector Economic Unit' and the 'Financial Institutions Division (Overseas)', what do we find? 'The Special Projects (Economics) Unit', Head: Assistant Secretary William Alex Lamaison, CBE." He looked up, triumphant.
"Did you phone him?"
"Of course. His secretary answered." He read from his notebook. "'SPE; Mr Lamaison's telephone. Black and white; he exists. And the Civil Service government website shows he’s head of a Special Economics Advisory team working for the Treasury.”
Robertson was unimpressed. "So he exists. You've done the basic checking. So what?".
Fielder was exasperated. "Come on, Chief. What more do you need?"
"Proof. That's what
you
need, Mike. Proof."
"Christ, how much proof do you want?" The reporter gestured at the tape. 'How much detail do you have to hear to convince yourself? The exact number of stitches in Spicer's balls?" He stopped, eyeing his Editor, who sat silent. "Look, boss. I even phoned his sister. She backs his story word for word. She wonders where he is. She thinks he's out of the country. I've talked to the stamp dealer that Wright traded the stamps with. Michael Canning. He nearly wet himself with fright - he thought I was the Fraud Squad from the Inland Revenue at first. I've talked to the Hotel across from the Italian embassy, and they know all about Mr
Hunnicutt
, about the Roberts killing, and I've talked to a friend of mine in MOD who's on a posting to the Defence Intelligence Staff."
"Oh? And what did he say?"
“I had a drink with him round the corner in the Charing Cross hotel. The upstairs bar; you know the one where
Doctor Kelly
….”
The Editor cut him off. Yes. I know. Now get on with it….”
“He said 'Back off. Stay out. Don't get involved. Quote, "These are codeword people even to the codeword people. Even DIS isn't cleared for them. Just don't get involved."
Robertson nodded. "Yes." He paused. "You have been a busy little bee these last few days, haven't you?" A thought occurred to him. "Have you spoken to that policeman ... what's his name?"
'Harry Plummer." Fielder looked uncomfortable, paused and rubbed his face. The News Editor waited. "No, I haven't. But I've spoken to a friend of mine in the Met, an instructor at Hendon; old Flying Squad type."
“And what did he say?" Robertson probed, sensing his reporter's hesitation.
'Well, he clammed up, once I mentioned Harry Plummer's name. 'Leave it out', was the message."
'Why?"
Fielder shrugged. ' I dunno. Because Plummer's SB, I suppose?"
His editor’s brows knitted together in puzzlement. "So what, Mike? We've got contacts in the Branch. Especially after all this terrorist malarkey. We've dealt with them often enough in the past. I even know some bent ones who'll tell you anything for a drink or two... What's so difficult about Plummer?"
Again Fielder hesitated. "It's just something my Squad contact said." He looked away from his News Editor, and stared blankly at the wall.
'Well, what?"
" 'Just don't get involved. Plummer's the Branch's Branch. He's not even to be gone near if you want to stay healthy.' Anyway, that's what he said." He looked embarrassed.
" Stay
healthy
? What? And did you believe him?"
'Not at first." Fielder closed his notebook softly. "It seemed a bit, well, melodramatic. Bullshit. But then I had a drink last night with a friend of mine in the Home Office ...
Millbank.”
"The Security Service? MI5 ?"
Fielder went on. "This bloke said the same." He looked Robertson straight in the eye. "Actually, he said that if I started sniffing round Harry Plummer and his Special Operations Teams I'd more than likely have an accident."
"Did you believe him?"
"His actual words to me were,' if you'll take my advice, Mike, you'll leave well alone. You’re meddling in dangerous territory..' "
"And you, the great investigative journo - you believed him." It was a statement.
"You're damned right I did."
Robertson cocked his head. 'Why so certain all of a sudden?"
"Because I talked to Tom Hemming on the phone afterwards."
"Hemming? Well you’re definitely mixing with dangerous folk there, Mike. Very exalted company. That’s for sure. And?"
Fielder
’s
mouth was sour. "And the great Tom Hemming doesn't know anything."
Robertson was surprised and sarcastic. "The ace Int & Sy journo not in the know? Not even after the Jonno Briggs' stuff?
Bollocks!
He really isn't interested in being the one who breaks 'The Vengeance Man' story? Hemming? The truth about Jonno Briggs? And the real identity of the Vengeance Man?...
That doesn’t sound like
the
Tom Hemming
we all know and hate
. The bastard’d kill his old granny for a chance of a good story and a fat cheque. I find that hard to believe
, Mike.
"
"So did I," said Fielder. " Hemming actually said to me, 'there's no real story there. I'd leave it if I were you; it's dead.' He was scared. Didn’t want to know. Couldn’t get away fast enough. He's been nobbled too. He has... And I reckon there was someone watching him. Or us. Sitting in the corner, reading his paper. Watching us…"
This time the Editor didn't sneer. He just nodded thoughtfully.
The little recorder's whirring became higher-pitched as the tape speeded up. Robertson looked down at some notes on his scribble pad. He frowned.
"Did the police say why the other copper, Denness, called round the night of the Roberts shooting? Who put them up to it?"
Fielder brightened.
'Yes. That's quite funny, really. The story is that there had been a break-in on the ground floor flat that evening. Someone had got in through the kitchen window and had a video and some other stuff away. The local nick called on every flat in the building that night."
Robertson shook his head, disbelief written on his face. "What? So Scotland Yard send an Inspector round? For a little local burglary? On a local patch. Balls. I don't believe a bloody word of it " A thought occurred to him. "
Was
there a burglary that night? "
Fielder consulted his notebook "Yes. There was. Downstairs.”. He read out, all in one breath. “
Mr Denness had been visiting the Divisional Commander at the time and had asked to come along out of interest on the investigation to see how the local coppers dealt with minor crime. as part of his review paper for Bramshill on street crime in urban areas….’ ‘A pure coincidence
.' That's what they said. But Wright wasn't to know that. As far as he was concerned, he was the only heavy visited on the night of the Roberts shooting."
'Because all they were looking for a couple of quick entry burglars?"
"Or that's their story. And that side of the story sort of checks out, too. There was even a piece in the local paper." Fielder smiled slightly. " Someone's gone to a lot of trouble over this, chief. A lot. It's a good tale."
"And you believe it?" Robertson was waspish. Fielder’s smile faded. "So. If it wasn't after the Roberts shooting, when did this bloke, Wright,
Fritz, whatever
, think they got on to him?"
Fielder
fidgeted
and thought before answering. "He reckons that they sussed it out by elimination. He said he was
too
slick; his tradecraft was too good ... that's what gave him away; he reckons, anyway. They must have realised it was a professional."
“Reckoned," said Robertson, emphasising the past tense. He looked at Fielder closely. "But you don't think so," he prompted.
'No, I don't. I think it's even dirtier." Fielder stopped.
"Go on."
Fielder was almost apologetic. 'Well, you've got to remember that the guy was almost incoherent. He'd put away a lot of whisky, he was upset about his bird back home and he knew he was going up country next day. He knew he'd been set up. He knew he was for the chop, I think. He knew ... " he repeated softly, his eyes far away.
"The Scots have a word for it," said Robertson.
"Oh?" Fielder came back to reality.
'Fey. They say a man's fey when he sees his own death."
Fielder shrugged, then went on. “Anyway, he was maudlin drunk, he was confused and he hadn't got his act together. At times I don't think he really knew what he was saying. But he did say that his boss, Mallalieu, had known all about his trip to France, when he slipped back to do Spicer, the paedo."
"So? I thought you said Wright, whatever his name is, had used that to establish some sort of alibi: to prove he was out of the country at the time he snipped Spicer's goolies. How could Mallalieu… ?"
"Right
." Interrupted Fielder. "Right. So he got really worked up about something he claims Mallalieu had said to him at the airport as he was being escorted out of the country. Something about 'slipping back into UK
on your Belgian ID card'.
He got really upset about that. I mean really. It’s all on the tape.” He gestured at the recorder. “He was more sorry than angry, I think. He kept saying
,
'he knew about the Belgian ID card. How did he know that? He must have known all along... What else did he know...?" Fielder sighed. "He was in a hell of a state, boss. He didn't know what to think."
"And you, Mike, what do you think?"
Fielder looked round the room, seeming to take in the piles of papers, coffee cups and news photos on the wall for the first time. Behind the glass door the clamour of the busy news room could be seen and faintly heard.
He measured his words without enthusiasm, deliberately slow. "I think we've solved th
e great Vengeance Man mystery.
I reckon we've found him.
I’ve
found him. And we can prove it. I think it's the dirtiest thing I've seen since I started in this game. I think that Wright went quietly psycho in the SAS. He obviously worked for some dirty tricks brigade. Shoot to kill and no questions asked. He told me he'd been under some trick cyclist before he was kicked out of the Army. Wouldn’t tell me his name. I asked him why, and he said that when he got back he’d break the bugger’s neck. I think he meant it, too. In the end, our friend - Fritz, Wright, Boyd, whatever - couldn't tell the difference between topping people for Whitehall and killing for what he'd decided was a good cause himself."
Robertson sat silent. Fielder glanced up at him from under his eyebrows, and went on.
"I think they must have sussed out a long time ago what he was up to. Then they used him. They cold-bloodedly exploited a guy they'd driven half barmy to do their own dirty jobs; then they used every trick in the book to control him, and when he wasn't any use any more, they ditched him. Worse - they let the Afghans or someone get rid of him nice and quietly a long way from home where there’d be no fuss. I wouldn't put it past them to have tipped them off that he was coming, just to make sure he was got out of the way. They expl
oited him," he repeated, "And
at the end, when they saw their chance, they killed two birds with one stone - literally."
"Two birds...
? I
f your story's true, Mike, there's a lot more dead birds than that. According to your version, this is more like one of Phil the Greek's Sandringham pheasant shoots."
Fielder growled his assent. "The whole rotten bloody stone wants turning over, that's for sure. What a story! There really is some nasty little dirty tricks outfit hiding out there. Christ, it makes 'shoot to kill' look tame! How can we allow people like that Mallalieu creature, and what's his name, Lamaison, to get away with it? I mean, murder, literally? Civil servants? The bloke, Fritz, even told me exactly how he'd killed Briggs, their own man. He said, 'record it all !' And we're supposed to be a democratic, free country? That's a bloody joke. It's sensational. If people only knew half...."
There was a loud 'snap' as the tape-recorder finished its winding back. The following silence hung loud in the room.