The Burma Legacy (16 page)

He watched her spread the dark crimson gloss onto her nails.

‘Julie …’

‘What’s that you’ve just printed?’

‘Oh, a newspaper article.’

‘About?’

‘Tetsuo Kamata.’

‘The car factory man.’ She applied a few more brush strokes.

The fumes from the varnish were getting to him. Her very presence was challenging. She was trying to provoke him into asking the goddam question straight out.

‘Who was your message from?’

She stopped painting.

‘What – on the answering machine?’

‘Ye-es.’

‘It’s not important.’

‘Then you won’t mind telling me.’

‘You don’t need to know, Sam.’

‘Yes I do.’

‘No. Believe me, you do
not
.’

He swung his chair to face her. She reddened under his glare, but continued to defy him.

‘Obviously someone you know well,’ Sam pressed, ‘because he didn’t leave a number.’

Julie put the brush back in the varnish bottle, despite there being two toes to go.

‘So I know his number – so what?’

Sam looked for guilt on her face but saw only anger.

‘Does he have a name?’

‘What’s your problem with this, Sam? We have an agreement. What we do when the other’s not around is our own business.’ She stared fixedly at her toes, then with great deliberation reopened the bottle and applied the brush again. ‘His name’s Jack, if you must know.’

‘Jack.’ He nodded, as if the name told the whole story. ‘Odd name for an east European.’

‘He anglicised it. He’s from Latvia originally.’

‘And you’ve seen a lot of him?’

‘I’ve seen him a few times, yes.’

‘Slept with him?’

‘I shan’t even dignify that with a reply.’ Glowing with fury, she finished the little toe, swung her leg off the arm and placed the foot squarely on the floor. ‘It’s none of your damned business, Sam. I don’t ask about the women you’ve fucked in Singapore …’

‘They don’t leave messages on our answerphone.’

‘So you’re admitting … Whadyamean
our
answerphone? God almighty! In the last nine months you’ve spent less than two weeks here. I know you pay half the rent, but to you this is just where you doss down in London. To me it’s my
home
.’

He’d hurt her, yet he didn’t feel bad about it.

‘And no, I haven’t seen him that often.’ She was having to work on her voice to keep it under control. ‘He’s well aware I have a partner and would never have rung if he’d known you were here.’

‘In
our
bed?’

‘
Sa-am!
’ Her face flushed. ‘It’s none of your fucking business. Can’t you understand that?’ She stormed from the room.

Sam bit his lip. Stupid. Incredibly stupid. She was right. A man called Jack … He’d have been better off not knowing.

He picked up the
Straits Times
article again, but the words were a blur. He got to his feet, knowing it was lunacy to leave things like this.

‘Julie …’

No response. He stopped in the hall to listen. The bathroom door was open and she wasn’t inside. He went to the bedroom and found her sitting on the duvet, painting the toes of her other foot.

‘I’m sorry …’

She ignored him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.

‘You had no damned right to interrogate me like that.’

‘No.’

‘We’re not married.’

‘No.’

‘You don’t have any long-term plan for us, so far as I know.’

‘Well, I …’

‘I mean you can’t have, can you? The life you lead.’

She looked up at him, damp-eyed.

‘It won’t always …’

‘Yes it will, Sam. It’s the way you are. The way most men are …’

‘Including Jack?’

‘Bugger Jack!’ She let out a long, exasperated sigh. ‘There’s nothing there, Sam. Can’t you get it? He’s just someone I happen to have spent a few evenings
with for reasons I’m not prepared to explain at this point in time, and I’m simply not going to talk about it.’

‘Okay.’

‘The person I want to be with is
you
. Can’t you understand that?’

He felt wretched. But relieved too. Her sincerity seemed beyond doubt, but he was on the spot again. The onus on him to tell her when they could live together instead of just having visiting rights. He approached the edge of the bed and squeezed the back of her neck.

‘I’m a jealous idiot,’ he muttered, trying to glide over the issue. She reached behind her neck and pressed a hand onto his.

‘Where are we headed, Sam?’

He ran his tongue round the inside of his mouth.

‘I was going to ask you to think again about coming out to Singapore. There are some great schools …’

‘You know I can’t do that. Liam’s settled where he is.’

He swallowed hard. That little plan hadn’t got far.

‘Then I’ll try and get a posting back here. The dust should’ve settled.’

‘Is that what you really want?’

‘To be with you? Of course it is.’

She squeezed his hand.

‘I wish I was certain you meant that,’ she whispered.

He kissed the top of her wet head and wrapped his arms around her.

‘Let me … let me just finish what I’m doing in there. Then I can concentrate on you. On us.’

Back in the living room, he felt in need of a breathing space before ringing Waddell again, so he reconnected to the Internet. There was new mail from the IT men. More responses to Harrison’s postings. And two of them talked about Khin Thein.

The man had trained as a lawyer, it transpired, then become a part-time official of Aung San Suu Kyi’s National League for Democracy. Arrested three years ago, charged with speaking ill of the regime – and with illegally owning a modem. A ten-year sentence. He was forty-five.

But why did Harrison care about Khin Thein?

He had an idea. Grabbing hold of
A Jungle Path to Hell
, he turned to the section on Harrison’s life in Burma in the ’50s and ’60s, looking for names. Flicking through the pages he found very few that were Burmese and none of them was Khin Thein. Disappointed, he put the book down again.

Julie poked her head round the door. ‘I picked up some lamb chops on the way home. Suit you?’

‘Great. I’ll open some wine in a minute.’

But he wasn’t done with the book. Another thought had come to him. After a short search he found what he was looking for.

George, Peregrine Harrison’s first child with Tin Su, had been born in 1955.

Khin Thein was forty-five. Born the same year.

It fitted. The pieces were clicking into place.

He disconnected from the net and phoned his controller.

‘It’s Myanmar,’ he told him.

‘Explain.’

Sam did.

‘I could get on a plane tonight.’

For a few moments Waddell stayed silent. Sam imagined cogs turning.

‘We need harder evidence than this, Sam. Remember, we checked all the flight manifests. Harrison wasn’t listed heading in that direction.’

‘He could have travelled under another name.’

‘False passport? He’s an old man for Christ’s sake, not a character out of
Day of the Jackal
. No. Let’s see what happens tonight. In a few hours time the burglars will be in. With a bit of luck …’

‘Instinct tells me we’ll need more than luck if we’re to stop him, Duncan. A hell of a lot more.’

‘Changed your tune, haven’t you? No longer the doubting Thomas? You actually believe he’s going to do it?’

Sam hesitated, but only for a moment.

‘Yes. Unfortunately I do.’

Bordhill Manor

Around midnight

Melissa Dennis listened to the nocturnal noises of the long, red-brick house known as Mandalay Lodge, which stood about 50 metres behind the manor. She was biding her time.

She heard a cough from the room next door – the walls separating the spartan single bedrooms were of thin plasterboard. Her neighbour had a cold. She worried it might keep the woman awake. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to hear when she stepped into the corridor in a short while from now.

Melissa was already well acquainted with every loose floorboard on the way to the stairs, having learned to avoid them when returning late from being with Perry. Despite his years, he’d been extraordinarily fit two years ago when he’d asked her to become his new personal assistant. Not an ounce of excess flesh and still doing regular 10-mile walks. She’d known his reputation, known exactly what the role was likely to involve and had been more than ready for it. When he’d failed to make the expected advances, however, she’d been disappointed, and so, she’d sensed, had he, having to acknowledge that age was finally catching up with him.

Melissa looked at the luminous clock glowing on her bedside table. How long should she wait? One o’clock? Two?
That
, she’d heard, was the hour when most people were in their deepest sleep. Yet if she waited too long she risked nodding off herself.

She heard the distant clock on Sidgefield church tower chime once. Half past midnight. She’d give it another thirty minutes.

Three hundred metres away, down the lane heading out of Sidgefield, a dark Vauxhall Astra turned off the tarmac into the muddy entrance to a field. The two
men inside wore black trousers and trainers and thick black pullovers. As they prepared to leave the car they donned balaclavas and tied thick waterproof canvas bags over their shoes.

They’d checked out the area earlier in the day, investigating a footpath running along the side fence of the Bordhill estate. Easy access to the grounds. Soon they’d be lifting the sash at the back of the house, whose security lock they’d disabled that afternoon.

The phone company had been as good as gold, disconnecting the lines so they could bowl up in a telecoms van to look for the fault. A short-circuit they’d said. Often hard to find. They’d insisted on checking every extension. Even those in the private quarters of the community’s absent founder. The Madsen woman had watched them like a hawk as they’d done their business there, but they’d already got what they needed – the combination she’d used to open the door.

The ground crunched gently under foot, a sharp frost having encrusted the damp soil with ice. They moved steadily forward, relying on starlight to see the path. Both men had excellent night vision.

In a few minutes they were at the back of the house, crouching and listening. From some far away copse an owl hooted. Behind them the residential block was in darkness – the Bordhill Community was at rest.

They removed the black bags from their feet and stuffed them into pockets, then pulled on thin latex gloves. Finally, with a flick of a screwdriver the
bottom sash was lifted. One after the other they rolled over the sill and dropped soft-footed and clean-shoed onto the floor inside.

Impatience got the better of Melissa. There had to be
something
in the apartment – some scrap of information that would reveal Perry’s intentions, and she was desperate to find it.

As she swung her legs to the floor the bed springs twanged. Cocking her head she listened for anyone else stirring. Nothing. Even her neighbour’s coughing had stopped.

She stood up and put on the fur-lined boots and long, quilted coat left ready at the end of the bed, then edged towards the door. The starlight was just enough for her to see by. She’d left the curtains open deliberately. The handle turned easily – none of the rooms was ever locked. And in fact several were empty, the result of the community going through a lean patch with recruits. Holding her breath she crept along to the staircase and a few seconds later was outside in the cold night air.

A door slammed somewhere causing her to jump. Not in her own block, nor the main house. The sound had come from the stables area where Ingrid lived in style amongst a handful of old farm cottages used mostly by couples.

She heard a distant cough – a man’s. Her mind took off. There’d been gossip that one of the couples was on the verge of breaking up. Perhaps they’d had a row and the chap had gone outside to cool off. She decided to stay put for a few moments in case he took
it into his head to go wandering about. Hugging herself in the doorway, she was glad of her coat. The moon was up, its light illuminating her breath.

The combination lock had clicked softly when the men tapped in the numbers. Once inside, they turned on narrow-beamed torches. The layout they knew from before. A self-contained flat with a small kitchen and bathroom. Comfortable. Pleasantly furnished. The bedroom had a kingsize and a bookcase holding works on Buddhism and Hinduism – and a copy of the
Kama Sutra
, one of them had noticed that afternoon. Next to the books was a TV with built-in VCR.

Their instructions were clear. The visit was to be undetected. In the far corner of the living room stood a small table with a computer. One man made a beeline for it, swinging the small rucksack from his back and placing it next to the keyboard. He turned the PC to get at the connections. After unplugging the printer cable, he extracted a portable hard-drive and a small scanner from his rucksack and connected them up.

While the computer specialist loaded software, the other man shone his torch looking for papers. Finding none, he set to work on the filing cabinet beside the computer desk.

Melissa hurried towards the south wing of the manor where the kitchens were, her fingers gripping the mortise lock key in the pocket of her coat. There was
a white dusting of frost on the path. Her instinct was to run, but with her luck she knew she would fall on her face.

The key turned easily in the lock. Inside, the kitchen smelled of fried onions, a warm, comforting odour. The cooks did a good job at Bordhill and she would miss them when she’d gone. And she
had
made up her mind that evening. When she left here in two days’ time she would never be coming back.

Moonlight filtered through the high windows of the great hallway. She turned towards the grand staircase. Some of the treads creaked but it didn’t matter because there’d be no one else in the house. At the top she paused, listening. There’d been a noise outside. A fox perhaps. There was a plague of them locally. She still hadn’t got over the sight of that poor goat kid a few days ago, its belly ripped from one end to the other.