The Burma Legacy (12 page)

‘Supported?’

‘In the fight against the big cor-corporations … We were there, Perry and me. London. In June.’

Sam blinked. He’d read about the anti-capitalist protest which had degenerated into violence and vandalism. ‘Are you still in touch with the Master?’

‘You
are
a reporter, aren’t you?’ Her face screwed up with suspicion. ‘Or a pleece’man.’

‘No way.’

The lights of the manor were visible beyond the low, roadside hedge.

‘Goin’ home now.’

‘We’ll see you to your door.’

‘No!’ She lashed out at him and began to walk faster. ‘Leave me alone. Rape!’

‘She’s bonkers,’ Julie whispered, grabbing Sam’s arm.

The torch beam picked out reflectors on the gate posts marking the Bordhill drive. Melissa reached them, lurched to the right and staggered up the gravel.

Julie hooked her arm through Sam’s to stop him following. ‘There’s no point. Let’s go back. I’m freezing to death out here.’

Sam stared at the house. The lights were still on upstairs, but at the
left
-hand end this time.

Someone was in Harrison’s private quarters.

Ingrid Madsen?

Or could it be Perry Harrison himself – not missing after all, but in hiding?

Ely

Sunday, 9 January

The reason for the jumpiness at Bordhill Manor the previous day became abundantly clear when Sam read the Sunday papers. The story in the
Telegraph
was representative.

CONCERN OVER MISSING WAR VETERAN

Cambridgeshire police are worried about the apparent disappearance of former World War Two POW Peregrine Harrison, aged 77. He was last seen at his home on December 30th, the day before a letter from him was received at
The Times,
attacking Mr Tetsuo Kamata, the Japanese saviour of the Walsall car factory
.

Mr Harrison heads a controversial Buddhist education centre at Bordhill Manor in Cambridgeshire. Yesterday a representative of his community told reporters they had no idea where he was
.

The Burma veteran served with the elite Chindit force set up by Brigadier Orde Wingate in 1942 to operate behind Japanese lines. Many Chindits died in action and a few, including an injured Lieutenant Peregrine Harrison, were taken prisoner. Fellow veterans told the
Sunday Telegraph
he has never forgiven his former enemy for torturing
him and others during their captivity
.

In his letter to
The
Times, which was not published, Mr Harrison suggested that now Mr Kamata had been identified as his one time torturer, ‘his sudden and bloody removal from this life can only be a matter of time’
.

Asked whether this was being construed as a threat against the Japanese industrialist, a Cambridgeshire police spokesman said, ‘Mr Harrison is an elderly man. We are concerned he may be unwell and in need of assistance. That is why we’re trying to find him.’

A Downing Street source wouldn’t comment on suggestions that now Mr Harrison’s attack on Mr Kamata was public it could put the Walsall car factory deal in jeopardy
.

‘
The purchase of the factory is a commercial matter and nothing to do with the government. As to Mr Harrison’s whereabouts, the police are conducting a missing persons inquiry
.’

‘So what’s your role in all this, exactly?’ Julie asked after she read it. She looked puzzled.

‘To find him before he does any harm.’

‘And the fact they’ve roped you in means they think he’s gone to the Far East?’

‘They’re guessing, but yes.’

She paused, thinking about it.

‘You believe he
does
intend to do harm?’

Sam hesitated before answering.

‘That’s the trouble, Julie. I can’t make up my mind.’

After a late breakfast, they checked out of the Waterman’s Arms and set off for Bordhill again,
ostensibly to enquire about the well-being of Melissa, but with the intention of having another chat with her. When they drove into the courtyard, they found the shop closed and a board hanging on the door saying the community was not receiving visitors. Sam had called his controller the night before to request a search of Harrison’s private apartment. Now all he could do was wait for the results of it.

They lunched in the pub again in an unsuccessful attempt at hoovering up useful gossip, then set off across the flat East Anglian countryside for Woodbridge. Julie had persuaded Sam to take her to tea with her mother and son on their way back to London.

The place where Julie usually spent her weekends was a converted brown-brick mill, sited by the river from which it had once drawn its power. Lawns stretched to the water’s edge. As the car pulled up on the pea shingle drive, eight-year-old Liam threw open the front door of the house and ran to greet his mother. He stopped dead when he saw she was accompanied by the other male in her life. Before being posted to the Far East, Sam had managed to break down the boy’s hostility towards him, but the months of not being around had undone all his efforts.

They went inside to a warm welcome from Julie’s mother Maeve, a former nurse who spoke with a light Irish accent.

‘You look lovely and brown, Sam. I suppose all you do is sunbathe and play golf out there in Singapore.’

‘That’s precisely what they pay me for, Maeve.’

She laughed throatily. ‘It’s good to see you again, anyway.’ It had been obvious for some time that she wanted his relationship with Julie to last.

While Maeve set out plates of cake and biscuits and poured tea into bone china cups, Sam squatted on the floor with Liam and challenged him to a Game Boy contest, which he proceeded to lose.

The time passed swiftly and before long Liam lost interest in the grown-ups, turning his attention to the TV. As soon as was decent, Sam suggested they make a move. Julie took leave of her son quickly, nuzzling his ear while he was still absorbed in his programme. The boy waved her away.

Outside, night had closed in. The headlamps picked out wintry hedgerows on the curving road to Ipswich. Julie was silent. Sam knew what she was thinking – that being a weekend-only single parent was a lousy way to bring up a child.

After a while she turned and thanked him for taking her to Woodbridge.

‘It meant a lot to mum that you brought me over. Even if Liam isn’t easy with you.’

Sam knew the visit had been for Julie’s benefit rather than her mother’s. She was testing him. Still trying to decide what sort of father he’d make, should they finally decide to settle down together.

For the rest of the journey to London, they talked very little. Sam’s mind kept hopping back to Thailand and the unresolved case of Jimmy Squires. And he thought about Midge, a little guiltily.

They arrived back in Ealing shortly before eight. While Julie bunged a frozen pizza in the oven and
prepared a salad, Sam took another look at Waddell’s background file on Peregrine Harrison. The Special Branch had done sound, solid police work. Four close-typed pages. It was the section on Harrison’s family he wanted to look at again. His English wife had died ten years ago, but they’d had a son, Charles, born in 1950. Like everyone else, he’d told Special Branch he had no idea where his father was. Hadn’t even spoken to him for over a month.

Gave the impression he didn’t care much either
, the report concluded.

Charles worked as a barrister in the Inner Temple, it said. There was an office phone number and one for his home. Sam dialled it.

The call was answered by a woman with a deep, languid voice that conjured up headscarves, the countryside and the bark of hounds.

‘May I ask who’s calling?’ she enquired.

‘I work for the Foreign Office. The name won’t mean anything to him. But tell him it’s to do with his father.’

‘Oh … Has something happened?’

‘Not that I know of. Expecting something?’

‘Um …’ She sounded off-balanced by his question. ‘Hang on and I’ll get my husband.’

He heard the click of heels on a wooden floor as she walked down a corridor in what must have been a very spacious home. A few moments later he heard heavier footsteps returning.

‘Hello?’ A male voice, soft and inquisitive.

‘I’m so sorry to trouble you on a Sunday night, Mr Harrison.
My name’s Maxwell from the Foreign Office.’

‘What department?’

‘I deal with international issues …’

‘You mean some of your people
don’t
?’

Sam ignored the sarcasm. ‘Look, I’d be very grateful for a chat about your father. We’re a little concerned.’

‘I’ve already spoken to Special Branch.’

‘I know. Any chance we could meet tomorrow?’

‘I’m in court all day.’

‘In your lunchbreak perhaps?’

‘God, I only get about twenty minutes …’ He broke off and Sam guessed he was calculating something. ‘Well, all right. I shouldn’t need to confer with my client unless things go horribly awry. It’s at the Old Bailey. There’s an Irish pub almost opposite called Seamus O’Donnell’s. I could meet you outside it. About one o’clock? How will I recognise you?’

‘I’ll be carrying a copy of your father’s book.’

‘Heavens … I’d hoped it was out of print by now. All right. Until tomorrow then. But I should warn you, my father’s a law unto himself. I don’t think I’ll be able to help.’

As he put the phone down Sam smelled burning. He walked into the kitchen.

Julie had the oven door open and was pulling out their smoking supper, conscious of Sam’s eyes on her.

‘There’s something wrong with this thermostat,’ she insisted, uncomfortably aware that her culinary skills could be listed on the back of her thumb. ‘You’re a man.
Do
something about it.’ She slid the
pizza onto a board. ‘Anyway, it’s not too bad. And charcoal’s good for the digestion.’ She smiled feebly at him.

Sam wondered if it mattered that the woman he was thinking of marrying couldn’t cook.

Wednesday 05.55 hrs

Harrison was unmistakably his father’s son, even if Sam had only seen his old man in photos. The same lean features and indecent growth of fair hair. And the same intently searching eyes.

The lawyer strode across from the Old Bailey and pointed unhesitatingly at the book Sam was clutching.

‘Mr Maxwell, I presume.’ He projected his voice as if still in a courtroom. He had rid himself of his robes and wore a plain, dark suit over a blue shirt and golf-club tie.

‘Good of you to spare the time,’ Sam mumbled.

‘That place is desperately noisy,’ Harrison commented, pointing at the pub behind them. ‘There’s a Prêt-à-Manger round the corner, but it’ll mean standing. How are your legs?’

‘Should be up to it.’

Harrison strode ahead like a teacher. ‘I’ve got about half an hour,’ he explained, turning his head, ‘which should be plenty since there’s not much I can tell you.’

They entered the crowded lunch spot, selecting packaged baguettes from a refrigerated display and
small bottles of water. Sam insisted on paying, then they perched at a chest-high, zinc-topped counter.

‘Now …’ Harrison eyed Sam like the trained interrogator he was. ‘What sort of Foreign Office bird, are you, my
friend
? Maxwell’s not your real name, I imagine.’

Sam flicked open his sandwich pack without looking up.

‘I deal with security issues, if that’s what you’re asking.’

Charles Harrison nodded, pleased he’d guessed right. ‘And the powers-that-be have been thoroughly rattled by my father’s letter to
The Times
?’

‘That and the fact nobody wants to tell us where he is.’

‘In my case it’s not a matter of
wanting
, I simply don’t know. After you rang last night I phoned Bordhill. Ingrid Madsen’s usually been straightforward with me, but this time she was abrupt, almost to the point of rudeness.’

‘The press were on her back at the weekend,’ Sam commented.

‘So I saw. Downing Street stonewalling pretty effectively.’

Sam took a bite from his baguette. All around them office girls were gossiping, but out of earshot.

‘Has he ever done this before? Disappearing.’

Harrison sighed. ‘You see, that’s where I’m not going to be much use to you. I really have no way of knowing, since he and I only speak once or twice a year. He may do this sort of thing every other month for all I know. Or maybe he’s had a sudden onset of
Alzheimer’s and wandered off into the woods somewhere.’

‘Is that a serious suggestion?’

Charles Harrison shook his head. ‘Nothing wrong with his memory as far as I know.’

‘You sound as if you’re not too concerned.’

‘It’s not easy to care about a man who only ever made a token effort at being interested in
my
existence. Someone who made my mother’s life an absolute misery.’ He said it with vehemence.

‘She died ten years ago?’

‘Is it that long?’ He sounded surprised.

‘Did she stay in touch with your father to the end of her life?’

‘No way. Wouldn’t countenance it after he walked out on her a second time. Finally learned her lesson.’

‘When did
you
last see him?’

‘About six weeks ago.

‘Where?’

‘He was in hospital.’

‘Oh?’ This was news. ‘Why didn’t you mention that to the police?’

‘They didn’t ask the question. And
I
wouldn’t have known he was ill if I hadn’t let my teenage daughter goad me into dropping in at Bordhill on my way back from a job in Norwich. Said it was disgraceful how little contact we had with her grandfather.’

‘What was wrong with him?’

‘Old man’s disease. Prostate. Although to get him to tell me about it was like squeezing water from a stone. For someone whose life has been driven by sex, he found the mechanics of it hard to discuss. Only
when I tracked down his doctor did I learn he’d been made impotent by the operation. The cancer is fuelled by testosterone apparently. Stopping production of the hormone by cutting his balls off was the only thing they could do to prolong his life.’

Waddell’s words came winging back to Sam – Harrison’s lawyer thought his client didn’t expect to live long. Now they knew why. And contrary to the conclusion his controller had come to, it had nothing to do with Tetsuo Kamata.