The Outsiders (55 page)

The deputy director general, at a lunchtime meeting, brief, without sherry, coffee or biscuits, said to the man they called the chief, ‘It was you who signed this one on, Barney, so I suppose it’s best that you draw the curtain on it. A report for the archive, please, when the dust’s settled. I’d like it on my desk by midsummer.’

The Latvian policeman said, ‘I’m going to do my best but you can see this is a celebration night in the Blue Bottle. I think I’ll have to fight like a street hooligan to get to the bar. So good of you to come here tonight, Dottie . . . there’ll be no questions, no embarrassment for you. It’s good enough for us that Petar Alexander Borsonov is dead and that Pavel Ivanov is in flight. Two major groups are disrupted, but Borsonov, the Major, is a high-value casualty. You were here, and briefed on him, so we believe we played some small part in his destruction. It’s a rare evening for us, and welcome. We’re grateful to you for coming and sharing it with us.’

And the next week . . .

Geoff and Fran Walsh were dropped by the taxi at the front gate. While the driver unloaded the bags from the boot, they stared up at the neighbouring gate and saw the punctured voice grille and the broken camera above it. Tacked to the wall beside the gate was a for-sale sign, and a further sheet of cardboard carried the message that all furniture and fittings would be included in the purchase. The driver carried the bags to the front door, then went on his way. While he balanced on his hospital sticks, she bent to retrieve the key from under the pot, opened the front door and went inside. She walked through the hall, the kitchen and the living room while he stood on the step and drank in the view from his home. She said, ‘That boy and his girl, they’ve left the place impeccable, so clean. Bad news about poor old Thomas, running out of lives, a lovely cat. Anyway, we’re home, and you wouldn’t know that anyone had been here. I hope they had a good holiday.’

The first snow of the winter had fallen in Pskov, and many came to the funeral. A full religious service was performed in the derelict church, smartened and spruced for the occasion. There was, of course, the family, and they appeared to be grieving dutifully, and there were the colleagues from his military times, Grigoriy and Ruslan, who had sensibly given up the laptop to investigators of the Federal Security Bureau. There were dignitaries from the town hall, too, and the fundraising committee for the children’s hospital. Men had come from Moscow and St Petersburg and showed reverence. It was not a killer who was mourned, or a prime player in organised crime, or a punter who went with the more attractive whores of Constanta, Bratislava or Plovdiv, but a patriot who had served his country with honour. A portable organ competed with a throbbing generator, and its notes wafted to the ceiling’s holes through which flakes fell . . . The church secretariat had guarantees that promises would be honoured and a fine farewell was given him, with eulogies.

And the next summer . . .

Aggie was in bed, predictably, with a book, when the chief reached home in the suburbs. It was late but still almost light, and the evening was warm, pleasant after the heat of the day in London and the sealed carriage on his train. That afternoon he had, as asked, drawn the curtain and delivered his report to the deputy director on events in Budapest and an incident in the Costa del Sol town of Marbella. His supper was a salad, left on the kitchen table, and there was an open bottle of Frascati in the refrigerator. He ate slowly and drank a touch more freely than was usual for him . . . He’d survive, hang on by his fingernails, keep his head below the parapet for his remaining years, not make waves. But he felt no satisfaction at the conclusion of the work, and he was anxious about what he had seen that evening when he had left Thames House and done the short detour before heading towards the bridge, the station and his train. He’d talk to Aggie that night. His tongue would have been loosened by the wine, and she’d let him spit it, get it off his chest – or try to. He put his plate, the cutlery and the glass into the dishwasher, did the lights and the alarm, then climbed the stairs, old memories jostling him. In the bedroom he kicked off his shoes and sat on the bed. Aggie set aside her book.

‘Well, old girl, I’ve chopped the beast down and slain it. It’s inside a decent-looking folder in the DD’s safe and, hopefully, very few will get sight of it. There are lessons . . . Initial enthusiasm is not a good trigger for executive action. The desire to right a wrong is natural and should have been resisted with greater firmness than I showed. This one has altered all of us. I think I’ll last out my time but I’ll be on the periphery of decision-taking. I’ll eke out the days till the pension’s due and few will know why but all will understand that I’m tainted. It seemed such a good idea, a cause worth latching on to, when we launched. I said “all of us” and “altered”. The surveillance team were Snapper and Loy – we’ve dropped them. They did nothing fundamentally wrong but they obstructed policy which puts them off the field. They’ll work for Anti-terrorism Command but not again for us. However, I hear they were commended after the Bailey case, which finished last week, the Bangladeshi boy and the homemade pyrotechnic gear. Done in private after the court was cleared, they were said by the judge to have been “very professional” and a “credit to your calling”. But they’re out of our bailiwick. So, the Graveyard Team . . . Little Miss Dottie was transferred to The Hague and does our liaison with Europol. She’s stuck at a desk, moving paper, for three more years. I think you met Kenny at one of those leaving bashes – could have been David’s or Mary’s. Anyway, he’s dumped back in that section where all known life expires, checking expenses claims. I’m told he gets to work somewhat later and leaves a bit earlier than when he did organised crime. Xavier – you saw him at Duncan’s party – is at the Yard and has gone native. I don’t believe he’s been back inside Thames House this year. He’s cut himself off and behaves like a policeman, not one of us. Then there was Caroline Watson. She played a small part – she was on the edge of decision-taking – and declined to speak to me. She didn’t refuse but always seemed to be on leave or up to her nose in life-shattering work. We’re getting there, old girl . . .’

‘And Mad Monk?’

‘All in good time . . . please. The Russian end first. The killer, the Major, where it all started, was removed as a corpse to the mother country, and we reckon they have a line of like-minded, similarly talented people prepared to step into his boots and do the nation’s unpleasantness – as, at the end of the day, did we, but in a slightly more amateurish fashion than they’d have found acceptable. The owner of the adjacent property, Pavel Ivanov, is believed to be holed up in Moldova, suffering severe cabin fever. He made an attempt to relocate to Israel, with a substantial cash transfer and a protective arm, but influence was exercised and he was blocked. We talked to a lawyer he used in Marbella, clever and careful. Rafael has extricated himself and smells of roses. He may stand for the mayor’s parlour next year . . . Patience, old girl . . . Isaac Jacobs and Myrtle Fanning were at the heart of events on that last evening. They, in effect, played the role of beaters and drove the birds on to the guns. More accurately, they created the panic and were motivated by revenge for the killing of Mikey Fanning, old-time east-London gangster and long-term fugitive from the attentions of the Central Criminal Court. He was a best friend, she was the widow. They made a full and frank statement, and all legal matters that might have confronted them have been dropped in the UK. They were married last month by the consul in Málaga. They were vital and rather brave. And, of course, as far as the wider world was concerned they were never involved, neither were any of our people, or the waifs and strays we attracted on the journey. Gangland feuding. Two Russian clan leaders competing. A Russian-built rifle was found in the gardens, and ammunition to go with it, dumped in the flight. The forensics showed it was the weapon that killed the Major. As a version, it was bought hook, line and sinker. So, the Mad Monk. She had the good sense to take a generous package and make herself scarce.’

‘There was huge talent?’

‘I’d hazard that Winnie Monks had the ability to head a branch. I’m not saying she was director-general standard, but next down the ladder. I take responsibility, but was only the functionary who initialled the expense claims dockets. She was the individual who made it happen. She disappeared. Apparently a man had slipped into her life, the Six fellow from Madrid. He’s Dawson – don’t know whether that’s the family name or the given one. He ditched his career. They’ve bought a bunk house in the Hebrides – one of those outer islands, I’m told . . . God, we miss her. I saw her in Fort William – you remember when I went up. She’d little to say for herself, and he didn’t show. She chatted about eagles and otters, red deer, sheep dips, stone-age archaeology and the back-packers who come to them. She’s moved on. Lucky her. It was something that smacked of being old-fashioned, and I doubt it will happen again. Then there were the three who were at the heart of it . . . It’s their story. Others intruded, Winnie in particular, but they determined what happened. I don’t want to go on. We played God with them, and may be cursed or worse.’

It was weeks since he had attempted to interview them and then he had posed the question, simple and straightforward: ‘What happened at the end?’ He’d invited them to the coffee shop at the side of Thames House, believing they’d be more relaxed there than in a police-station interview room or, separately, at their homes. They’d smiled in his face, and none had answered him. He’d seen them that evening, and had felt the responsibility weighing heavily on him. He’d stayed back, hadn’t intruded.

‘Which of them fired the shot, I don’t know. I can make assumptions but have no certainties. They made a wall of fog, and I can’t penetrate it. Each of them looked at me in a different way but sent the same message. It wasn’t my business or anyone else’s but theirs what happened when they looked into the face of the man they had condemned. It was a secret they shared, and I’m in ignorance of the sequence that led to the moment that man was killed. But for all that they harbour the detail, I have to field responsibility.’

‘But you thought it worthwhile? You thought it mattered?’

He began to undress. ‘I did. But it’s an unequal struggle. The war against counterfeiting, narcotics trafficking, or the pimps controlling the underage girls, money-laundering bankers and legal fraudsters has none of the glamour of the anti-terrorism crusade. We’re doomed to second place – and needed the help of outsiders. Which is why I may be damned beyond redemption. Sorry, old girl. Thanks for hearing me out. I saw them this evening and it’s left me disturbed . . . A new day tomorrow. We won a victory, not that it will be claimed – but a price was paid. A high one.’

They sat on the same bench almost every weekday evening.

It was the one where Winnie Monks, never spoken of, had held court, and it offered a good view of the garden that had been a graveyard. The bench was beside the stone commemorating the life of C.H.R. Cass Esq., a master mason, deceased in late May 1734. It had been a week after they had returned that the first meeting had taken place . . . Sparky swept winter leaves at the end of a working day, as a cold dusk gathered and office workers surged on the pavements carrying gaudily wrapped Christmas gifts. Posie, coming from work on a bus, entered the gardens hesitantly. Jonno had taken the Underground, not knowing what he would find. The barrow loaded with leaves in the black sacks, the rake and the broom had been abandoned. Posie’s rucksack and Jonno’s attaché case had been dumped beside the bench. They’d sat on it, and their arms had gone round each other. There was no need for talking. They were there, together, most evenings. There had been snow, ice, the spring evenings when the crocuses were up and the daffodils came into bud, and there was the warmth of summer. Always Sparky sat in the middle, between them, Posie on his left and Jonno on his right. They never examined what had happened. That was the way, they had decided, that healing would take place. In the quiet of the gardens each could confront their own actions, and the consequences. That evening was good, and birds were noisy in the trees. They had stayed late and long after the gates had been locked. When they parted and Sparky opened the gates for them, the promise was implicit that they would be there the next evening – because the wounds were too deep to be ignored. Then they would go their way and attempt, separately, to live their lives.

They clung together, the three. They needed to.

About the Author

Gerald Seymour was a reporter at ITN for fifteen years. He covered events in Vietnam, Borneo, Aden, the Munich Olympics, Israel and Northern Ireland. His first novel was the acclaimed thriller
Harry's Game
, which changed the way the world saw Northern Ireland and the Troubles and was made into a ground-breaking TV series.

His most recent novel was the
Sunday Times
bestseller
A Deniable Death
, published in 2011.

Also by Gerald Seymour and published by Hodder & Stoughton

A DENIABLE DEATH

THE DEALER AND THE DEAD

THE COLLABORATOR