The Midnight Swimmer (10 page)

‘W
hat have you done to my brother, you fucking bastard?’

Catesby was actually afraid that she was going to attack him, claw his eyes out.
Her hair was disordered by rain and wind; her eyes were dilated and bloodshot.
She had driven down to the Eastern Shore from New York as soon as she finished her shift at Bellevue Hospital.

‘I’ve just had a patient die from multiple stab wounds – a
beautiful
sixteen-year-old Puerto Rican boy.
God, how I wish it had been you instead.
That boy had so much more right to life.’

‘Caddie …’ A slight middle-aged man was whispering to the angry woman and trying to guide her away by putting his arm gently around her waist.
The man was her and Kit Fournier’s Uncle George.
Catesby could see that George, despite being a retired Army officer, was one of life’s gentle makers of peace.

‘I’m okay, Uncle George.
I’m sorry I created a scene.’
Caddie had started to cry.
The tears seemed to make her more composed.
Meanwhile, George’s wife Janet remained at the dinner table oblivious to the swirling drama and poured herself another drink.

Catesby was surprised at how quickly everything had unfolded.
He had landed at Friendship Airport that very morning.
His intention had been to take a taxi to Washington and book into a hotel under the false name he was using for the trip.
But on impulse, he had phoned the first of Ambassador Whitney’s secret numbers.
It was the least secret of the three because it had been so easily traced by Bone’s operatives.
It seemed that Whitney had almost orchestrated the visit.

Catesby had fumbled putting a dime into the airport payphone slot.
He found US coins small and slippery.
He dialled the number and after ten long American rings, a man with a very gentle voice said, ‘Yes.’

Catesby answered with the code words, ‘Point Comfort Light.’

‘Where are you?’

Catesby told him.

‘I’ll come and pick you up.
We’d like you to stay here.’

‘That’s very kind of you.
But,’ Catesby lied, ‘I’m already booked into a hotel and have hired a car.’

‘What a pity.
My wife and I were so looking forward to having you as our guest.
We don’t have many visitors.
Can’t you change things?’

The sincerity of the voice made Catesby agree.
In any case, he knew that Fournier’s uncle and aunt were the least likely people to do him harm.
When George arrived to pick him up at the airport, it was already noon.
Catesby had forgotten about American distances and regretted tasking a man of seventy with so long a drive.
George’s car was a 1940s grey Chevrolet – the most modest American car Catesby had ever seen.
George was hatless wearing a tweed jacket – the very image of shabby gentility.

As they drove off, George ground the gears.
‘Clutch going,’ he said.

Catesby watched the countryside as they drove east towards the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.
It reminded him of his native Suffolk, except for the endless parade of billboards and advertising hoardings.

‘Your visit,’ said George, ‘wasn’t completely unexpected.’

Catesby remembered Fournier saying that George had made his career in army intelligence.
Although highly respected and influential, he had never got the general’s stars he deserved.
There was a hint that George had retired on a matter of principle.

‘I’m not going to ask you,’ said Catesby, ‘how you knew about my visit.’

‘Thank you, I didn’t want to have to make something up just to be polite.’

‘I suppose you want to know more about Kit?’
Catesby was too tired for small talk.

‘And so does Hilary, Kit’s mother, my sister.’

‘Is she going to be at yours?’

‘No, she lives in France.’

Catesby also knew that George would want to know about something closer, more painful.
He didn’t want to leave it hanging in the air.
He said the words as gently as he could, ‘Jennifer was your daughter.’

George winced as if struck in the back by a sharp elbow.

Catesby suddenly realised that, thoughtlessly, he had used the past tense.
He stared out the car window.
‘I’m sorry.’

‘You must be exhausted.
Have a snooze if you like.
I often doze off in cars.’
George laughed.
‘Usually when I’m driving.’

Catesby closed his eyes to leave George alone with his grief.
The details of the Kit-Jennifer affair were not very pretty.
Kit Fournier had been tortured by a lifelong passion for his cousin.
It destroyed him.
And gave the British Secret Intelligence Service their biggest coup of the decade.
Catesby sank into his seat.
The upholstery was softer and the engine rhythm of the old American car was far more soporific than a British banger.
He was soon asleep.

When Catesby woke up they were on a straight road with fields on one side and thick woods on the other.
The only signs of houses were grey metal mailboxes on posts.

‘How was your nap?’
said George.

‘Good.
Much farming here?’

‘Cattle, pigs, corn, some tobacco.
Around here they call it sotweed.
I refuse to grow it – it ruins the soil.’

‘Have I missed the bridge?’

‘That was long ago.’

The countryside reminded Catesby of the Norfolk Broads.
It was as if he hadn’t come so far after all.

‘As the crow flies,’ said George, ‘we’re only a couple miles away, but because of all the meandering creeks we’ve got another ten miles by road.’

The house, white clapboard built in the 1780s, was just as idyllic and isolated as Kit Fournier had described it.
There was a paddock studded with mature chestnut and oak that sloped lazily down to a deepwater creek with a jetty and a moored sailboat.
The banks of the ‘creek’, a river in Catesby’s terms, were thickly wooded with no sign of human habitation.
It was, he thought, just as virgin as when Captain Smith discovered Pocahontas – and sotweed.
Catesby
wondered
if Kit Fournier had fallen as much in love with the place as he had Jennifer.

Catesby was given the bedroom of Jennifer’s oldest brother, Peter, who had been killed in Southeast Asia in ’45 – a month after the war was over.
It was a confused and regrettable incident that Kit blamed on the British.
And now there was even more to blame the Brits for.
As Catesby unpacked his things he was struck by the utter quiet and isolation of the farm.
If someone wanted to kill him, this was the
ideal place.
No one would hear his screams and, if they had enough anchor chain, no one would find his body.

Dinner began with oysters washed down with Chesapeake Bay Bloody Marys.
The oysters were from George’s own bed in the creek.
Catesby helped dredge them up using an enormous pair of tongs that were ten feet long.
The main course was ham, fried tomatoes and potato salad.
Everything came from the farm or the creek.
‘If you come in summer,’ said George, ‘you will have the Chesapeake’s
pièce de resistance
: the blue-tipped crab.
The crab is the essence of Maryland: be it, soft-shelled fried, steamed, soup or crab cake.’

George’s praise of the crab reminded Catesby of a story that Kit had told him about a drowned tramp who was pulled out of the bay with two dozen plump crabs clinging to his body.
Kit had related the story when he was drunk and tired.
They had just had a big argument about a German double agent that Kit had helped kill.
‘When it comes down to it,’ Kit had said, ‘we’re just meat.’

Catesby liked George and Janet, although she said little.
Her life was a constant
stabat mater.
She had lost both her sons and now a daughter.
Janet used drink to dull the pain and no one blamed her.

It was a wonderful meal, but the drink was completely out of sync.
George was drinking his own homemade cider, Catesby had a dusty bottle of 1935 Spanish rosé and Janet was tossing back bourbon.
George joked about the rosé.
He said it was a present from a friend who had fought in the International Brigade and that it was time to ‘drink the evidence’ before the House Un-American
Activities
Committee turned up.
Catesby understood why Kit had fallen in love.

They had finished eating when the door opened.
It was a stormy night with rain and hail pattering against the windows and no one had heard the car.
As soon as Caddie realised who Catesby was she started screaming.

Things eventually turned calmer.
George had taken Catesby and Caddie to a small sitting room on the end of the house.
Janet remained in the dining room drinking alone.
The sitting room was untidy and much lived in.
There was an open fire warming a dog that looked like a Labrador with tightly permed hair.
George said, ‘Hello Max,’ and bent over to give the dog a scratch and a pat.
Max groaned with pleasure.

‘Is he a Labrador cross?’
said Catesby.

George looked pained.
‘No, Max is a Chesapeake Bay Retriever.
I suppose they are related if you go back a long way.’

Catesby sat in an armchair closest to the fire enjoying the fug of seasoned oak and damp dog.
Caddie and George were on a chintz sofa facing him.
Catesby was aware that Caddie was staring at him.
Her eyes were neither friendly nor hostile, but clinical – as if Catesby were a recently admitted psychiatric patient and she was
considering
medication.
The silence was growing oppressive.

‘I suppose,’ said George in a voice that suddenly had a harder edge, ‘that we have to cut a deal.’

Catesby looked at the dog.
Max had one eye open and was staring back.
Catesby thought it best to deal with the most painful issue first.
‘Shall we begin with Jennifer?’

George nodded, his eyes crossed with pain.
Caddie took his hand in both of hers.

‘I never saw her body, but don’t take that as forlorn hope.
I’m certain that she is dead.’

‘What happened?’
George’s voice was barely a whisper.

Catesby stared into the fire.
He didn’t want to lie, but he wasn’t authorised to tell the whole truth.
‘She was shot, along with her husband, late at night on an English beach while awaiting an
exfiltration
rendezvous with a Soviet fishing trawler.’
No lies, but sanitised.

‘Who killed them?’

Catesby didn’t answer.
He just stared into the fire.

Caddie was on her feet and shouting again.
‘You did.’

Catesby faced her.
‘No, I didn’t – and I didn’t authorise it either.’

‘But you were there?’
George’s voice was calm and perceptive.

‘Yes, I was – as a hostage.’

The other two looked perplexed.
‘What?’
said Caddie.

Catesby grimaced with frustration.
The truth of the matter was more bizarre and less credible than any lie he could concoct.
Sometimes
you lied because the lie was more believable.
‘Jennifer and her husband had kidnapped me.
Their controller wanted them to bring me to Russia with them.’
Catesby paused; then raised his voice.
‘At least that was what I was told, but maybe I was just a dupe in a larger, more complicated plan.’

‘And,’ said George, ‘Jennifer was killed in a gun battle?’

Catesby looked away and didn’t answer.
The whole truth was too hard, too ugly.

Caddie intervened, ‘Why won’t you …’

‘I think,’ said George, ‘we know enough.’

‘She was a beautiful woman,’ said Catesby.

Maybe it was just a trick of the firelight, but Caddie seemed to frown sharply at the remark.

‘And,’ said George, ‘it is completely certain that Jennifer was working for the Russians?’