Thunder in the Blood (29 page)

I bent over him, my mouth beside his ear.

‘There’s someone on the phone for you,’ I whispered. ‘Little surprise.’

Aldridge opened one eye. He thought I was joking.

‘Get those fucking knickers off,’ he said. ‘I need you.’

I said nothing, nodding at the phone. He began to pull at my pants again, still not believing me, and I rolled off his erection and squatted by the bed, picking up the phone, giving it to him. He stared at it, totally bewildered, then he picked it up and put it to his ear.

‘Yes?’ he said.

Nothing happened for a moment, then his face began to purple and I wriggled back into my skirt, buttoning my blouse, stuffing my bra into my bag, watching his eyes close, hearing the voice at the other end, nothing specific, nothing I could understand, just the low hiss of air leaving a marriage, the longest sentence in the world, the one that leaves you with absolutely no place to hide.

Dressed now, I watched him put the phone down. He was too shocked to be angry. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, his face grey and sweating, his mouth half open, his erection quite gone. I pocketed the envelope with the photographs and stood by the bed. My hand strayed across his crotch, nails and fingertips. I smiled down at him, thinking of all the other women he must have met in rooms like these. I bent to him quickly, my hand still playful, my lips to his ear.

‘Wesley sends his regards,’ I whispered. ‘Says thanks for everything.’

I was in London by mid-afternoon, in time to catch the bank before it closed. So far, since taking Wesley to the West Country, I’d managed to pay for everything in cash. Even the camper I’d bought with a large handful of fifty-pound notes. Doing it that way, the same logic I’d used in the States, I’d avoided leaving the usual trail of electronic footsteps that agencies like MI5 rely on. Once they’d discovered the break-in at Guildford, they’d have put a trace on my bank account and credit cards. Every transaction would come up on one of the computers at Curzon House, leading them directly to Exmouth and the Riviera Hotel. By using cash, I’d effectively stayed invisible, but now it was running out and I needed more. The best solution was a visit to the West London branch where I had a drawing arrangement, and while this would certainly be reported, I suspected there was no way they’d be able to withhold the cash.

In the event, thank God, I was right. The woman behind the glass window spent long enough on the phone to make several check calls, but when she returned there was no problem with the money. By half past four, I was back in my flat in Fulham, five thousand pounds the richer.

I spent no more than ten minutes in the flat. Staying longer, after my appearance at the bank, was asking for trouble, and I had time to check only the obvious things. A pile of mail I stuffed in my bag. A week-old carton of milk I poured down the sink. A handful of clothes I threw into a sports bag. En route to the front door, I paused by the phone. There were three messages on the answering machine, fewer than I expected. I checked my watch, then spooled quickly through them. One caller had left no message at all. The second wanted to sell me a security alarm. Only the third was of any importance.

I bent to the phone, recognizing my mother’s voice. She obviously hadn’t a clue where I was, which was perfectly reasonable since I hadn’t told her. She chided me as gently as ever for the lack of contact (‘… the odd postcard, dear? Just one?’) and then said that she was organizing a surprise party. My father was retiring in a week’s time. She was trying to get together all his
closest friends. It would be lovely if I could be there. She knew it would make his day. There was a pause, then the kisses she always left on the tape and then she hung up. I hesitated a moment, wondering whether to phone her now, but then decided against it. A week, just now, was an eternity. Literally anything could happen.

I was back in Devon by nine. The traffic had been appalling, and I had a number of other serviceable excuses, but I knew the moment I opened the hotel bedroom door that all was far from well. Wesley was lying in bed, half watching television. He barely turned his head when I came in and refused to answer when I asked how his day had been. At first, silly me, I thought he was sick again. It took me several minutes to realize he was sulking.

‘What’s the matter?’ I said at last. ‘Mummy left you too long?’

Wesley gave me a look, much as a child might, a daughter perhaps, derision and scorn. I went over to the window, shrugging off my coat. I had the photographs out now. I’d had a look at them on the way down. They were ideal for our purposes, all five faces, perfect focus. I pulled the curtains, glancing round. For the first time, I saw the mark. It was high up on the wall beside the door, a big greasy splat, some kind of impact, not at all in keeping with the rose-printed wallpaper.

‘What’s that?’ I said.

Wesley was still looking at the television. He scowled. ‘Lunch,’ he said.

‘But what’s it doing on the wall?’

‘Brett came up. We had words.’

I nodded, beginning to understand. Brett was the assistant manager, the helpful young man who’d installed the video. He was neat, and well-scrubbed, and Wesley had taken quite a shine to him.

‘What happened?’ I said, sitting on the bed.

Wesley looked at me for the first time. He looked, if anything, shamefaced.

‘It was a game,’ he said, ‘that’s all.’

‘You made a pass at him?’

‘Yeah. When he brought the lunch up. Nothing serious. Just a joke.’

‘And what happened?’

‘He told me to fuck off. Said I should be locked up.’

‘And then?’

Wesley shrugged, fingering the buttons on the remote control, changing the TV channel. ‘I threw the plate at him.’

I looked at the door, trying to imagine Brett on the way out. Wesley had missed, but only just.

‘Maybe you frightened him,’ I said. ‘This is Devon. Not 42nd Street.’

Wesley shot me another look.

‘That’s the whole point,’ he said. ‘That’s why I was so angry. I still am. Little turd.’

I frowned, confused now. ‘I’m not with you,’ I said, ‘I don’t understand.’

Wesley looked at me for a long moment, then hauled the blankets up around his chin. ‘He’s gay,’ he hissed, ‘and he called me old.’

Later, when Wesley had recovered his dignity, I showed him the photos. He switched on the bedside light, and half-rolled over, peering at each of the faces. His pyjama top open, I could see again how thin he’d become, skin and bone, the flesh slack and pale. At last, he looked up, his finger anchored on the group by the plane.

‘This one,’ he said, showing me.

I studied the photograph. The face that had attracted Wesley’s interest was second from the right, a shortish man, curly black hair, open shirt, strong chin, dark complexion, plainly an Arab. I’d thought already that I’d seen the face before. Now, I turned the photo over. There was a typed caption on the back, naming the faces, left to right.

‘Rahman Khalil?’ I said.

‘That’s him.’

‘Who is he?’

Wesley gazed at me a moment, then nodded at the video we’d seen earlier in the week, his coverage of the Baghdad Trade Fair.

‘Remember the Supergun?’ he said. ‘The blokes at the table?’ I nodded. ‘Khalil’s the next one along. Beside Ghattan.’ He paused. ‘The two were always together. Bill and Ben.’

‘Friends?’ I frowned, looking at the photo again. ‘Business partners?’

Wesley shook his head, enjoying himself now, back in control, the circus master. ‘No,’ he said, ‘Khalil was his bodyguard. Wherever Ghattan went, he went. Khalil was a little present from the Iraqis.’

‘Meaning?’

‘It was his job to know everything.’

27

Four days later, we moved out of the hotel. Relations with the management had collapsed entirely when Wesley invited Brett to do something particularly unspeakable, and I was obliged to find somewhere else for us to live. In the depths of a recession, with money in my bag, that wasn’t hard and I took a three-month lease on a second-floor flat further down the hill. The place was warm and furnished, and there were two bedrooms. I did the final negotiations on the phone, from the hotel, and Wesley monitored the dialogue with a certain grim amusement.

‘Three months?’ he said. ‘As long as that?’

The following day, settled in, I finally phoned my mother. The party was to be held at the weekend. When I said I’d be delighted to come, my mother was overjoyed. She suggested she pop up to London to see me, do a little shopping together. When I said I was incredibly busy, and liable to be elsewhere, she sounded disappointed.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘we’ll catch up on Saturday.’

‘Of course, dear. But don’t say a word to anyone.
Top
secret.’

‘Cross my heart.’ I smiled. ‘Mum’s the word.’

It was at this point, at last, that I managed to get in touch with Raoul again. I’d been phoning the Dallas number off and on for more than a week, but had never made contact. Either he was out on a job, or away on leave, or just too busy to talk. When I finally got through he didn’t bother to apologize. In the background, I could hear office noises: phones, typewriters, chatter.

‘This thing,’ he said. ‘I can’t talk.’

‘Why not?’

‘Not here. You got a pen?’

He gave me a number. I wrote it down. He made me read the
number back. Then he told me to phone later, his time, half past eight in the evening. The number he’d given me was private. We’d be able to talk.

Our new flat had no phone. Armed with a small sheaf of BT cards, I returned to the call box at half past two in the morning. I’d set the alarm for thirty minutes earlier, but I was still half asleep, wrestling with my trusty recorder, wondering whether the batteries were still up to it. Outside the box, the night was wild, leaves swirling around in the orange light from the street lamps, a bitter wind off the sea. Walking down the hill from the flat, I’d seen no sign of life.

Raoul got to the phone after the first trill. He sounded more relaxed, but still cautious. I peered at my list of questions, the fruit of my intermittent discussions with Wesley, nothing I’d dignify with the word ‘analysis’, simply an attempt to join the most obvious of the dots.

‘Grant Wallace,’ I began. ‘You getting anywhere? All those contacts of yours?’

‘Sure.’

‘And?’

There was a long pause here. I was watching the digits in the little window, the ones that tell you how much time you’ve got left. Silence comes expensive on transatlantic calls, even at two in the morning.

Then, suddenly, Raoul was back. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘you ought to level with me. OK?’

‘Level?’

‘Yeah. Like who you are, and who you’re fronting for, and why the fuck I should be Mr Helpline.’ He paused. ‘Am I making any sense?’

‘Yes,’ I said drily, ‘lots.’

‘Well?’

It was my turn to say nothing. A car had appeared at the end of the street, a rusty old Capri, a big pudding face behind the wheel, unshaven, swivelling to watch me as the car cruised slowly past.

Raoul was into guesswork now. ‘Press? Media?’

‘No.’

‘Police?’

‘No.’

I cut him short, telling him as much of the truth as I dared. I’d been working for British Intelligence. Just now, I was off the case. The whole thing stank.

Raoul broke in again. ‘Stank?’

‘Stinks.’

‘What does?’

‘What I’m into. Please, just tell me about Wallace. And trust me.’

There was another silence. Then, reluctantly, Raoul told me what he knew about Grant. According to police insiders, he’d been killed after a struggle of some kind. There’d been blood under his fingernails, and contusions on his ribcage, though these looked a day or so older.

‘I know about them,’ I said quickly. ‘Beckermann did them. Out on his ranch. With a riding whip.’

‘You kidding?’ I heard Raoul’s soft laugh.

He went on. The gun he’d used appeared to be his own, same make, same model, but there was some confusion about the serial numbers matching the ones recorded on the original sales invoice. He’d been to the shop, the Sun Valley Arms Corp, but it was obvious that the owner had been told to say nothing. When Raoul had asked him whether he’d sold anything similar recently, he’d said he couldn’t remember. When Raoul suggested he consult his records, the man said he was far too busy. Frustrated, Raoul had next tried contacts at the police laboratories, but it seemed that the slug in Grant’s brain had proved useless for forensic purposes.

‘Why?’

‘It was soft nose. You know about these things? Soft nose goes squashy. It’s the favourite for professionals. Leaves nothing but the mess inside your skull.’

I frowned, remembering now the box of shells I’d found in Wallace’s attaché case. Fifty rounds. Full metal jacket. Definitely not snub nose. I told Raoul. The news didn’t appear to surprise him.

‘Homicide,’ he said. ‘Obvious to everyone. Except the guys in charge.’

‘You mean the police?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Who then?’

Raoul didn’t answer and I asked the question again. When he still refused to say anything, I changed the subject, consulting my list.

‘I’ve got a name for you,’ I said. ‘You get this one for free.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘François Ghattan.’ I spelled it. ‘You get that?’

‘Sure. Who is he?’

‘Close friend of Beckermann’s. We’re pretty certain he died earlier this year. Probably some time in June. Probably in Dallas.’

‘What was the problem?’

‘Heart condition.’ I paused. ‘We think.’

‘You want me to check it out?’

‘Please.’

Raoul laughed again, a wholly pleasant chuckle, warmth in the chilly darkness. I could see another pair of lights in the distance. I hoped to God it wasn’t the Capri again.

‘Another thing,’ I said, ‘another name.’

‘Yeah?’

‘This Ghattan, the name I’ve given you, the man had a bodyguard. An Iraqi. Rahman Khalil.’ I spelled the name, watching the headlights creeping up the road towards me. ‘You got that? Only we’d be interested if you could come up with anything.’

I hesitated a moment, certain now that it was the Capri, same big face, same staring eyes, mouth slightly open, head turning as the car began to coast to a halt. I swallowed hard, feeling my pulse quicken. For weeks, I’d stayed one step ahead of the game, taking my chances, pushing my luck. Now, in Exmouth of all places, my luck seemed to have run out. I bent quickly to the phone. Raoul was back on the line.

‘This “we”,’ he was saying, ‘you and who else?’

‘A friend,’ I said, ‘someone pretty special.’

The Capri had stopped a yard or two from the phone box. The door was opening. The man behind the wheel was getting out. I dropped the phone, grabbed the recorder and made a bolt for the darkness. Beside the phone box was a small park. There were trees in the park and shrubs beside a footpath. I clambered over a low wall and pushed through the bushes, crouching in a
flower bed, hidden from the road. I heard a car door slam. Then there were footsteps and the sound of someone bulky crashing through the undergrowth. Already, I knew it couldn’t be surveillance. Even MI5 couldn’t be this obvious, this gross. No. The figure coming at me through the bushes was altogether simpler. Someone big, and probably drunk, and very definitely looking for company. I stayed motionless, convinced he couldn’t see me, not understanding why he kept coming on, straight towards me, unerring. Then I looked down, realizing too late that the recorder was still on, the bright red glow of the battery warning light winking in the darkness, my very own homing beacon.

Too late, I abandoned it, throwing it into the bushes, but the figure was on me now, huge belly, baggy jeans, boots, lunging at me, pinning me to the ground, my face turned away, driven into the wet soil by the sheer weight of his body. I smelled the hot, sour smell of whisky, and I heard the man grunting as he tore at my jeans, the huge hands ripping open the fly zip. I tried to struggle free, knowing I could outrun him, badly frightened now, and then there was an explosion of lights inside my head as he began to hit me, the smack of knuckle on bone, again and again, the man grunting and cursing with the effort. I tasted blood for the first time, the side of my face numb, and as he rocked back on his heels, trying to get out of his own jeans, I rolled over, into the leaves.

He lunged at me again, half naked beneath the waist, unable to move properly, and I spotted my chance, remembering with absolute clarity one of the tricks they’d taught me at Hereford. I could see the black shadows of his groin, and I went for it, one hundred per cent, the way they said you had to do it, total commitment. Astonished, he hesitated for a second, a big mistake, giving me time to grab and squeeze and squeeze harder and twist with all my strength. He began to bellow, an animal roar that became a scream and then a whimper. When he was quite still, gasping for air, his knees drawn up, I let go, both hands finding his neck, up by the Une of the chin, the skin rough with stubble. I put my hands round his neck and drove the thumbs in as hard as I dared, hearing him beginning to choke, the eyes popping in his face, the huge belly writhing beneath me. I hung on for a moment or two longer, then let go, stepping away, on to the
grass, watching his body go limp. I’d no idea whether I’d killed him, and in truth I didn’t care.

On the way past the Capri, I reached in and took the key. If he’d survived, the last thing I wanted was him coming after me again, so I threw the key as far as I could, over the wall across the road, into the grounds of a big hotel. Then I set off, up the hill, back to the flat, pausing twice to be sick in the gutter. Wesley met me at the door, minutes later. He’d been worried about me. Anything, he said, could have happened.

‘It did,’ I said, collapsing. ‘I think I just killed someone.’

Wesley was brilliant, quite brilliant. He sat with me until dawn. He sponged the blood from my face and put together an ice pack with cubes from the fridge and an old drying-up cloth. He raided his supply of drugs for a couple of painkillers and found a quarter bottle of brandy. The combination of the two had an extraordinary effect, loosening my brain from my body, and as the drugs began to blanket the pain, I broke down completely, sobbing and sobbing, Wesley beside me on the narrow little bed, his thin arms enfolding me, his big face in mine.

‘Hey,’ he kept saying, ‘hey, now.’

I shook my head, angry at the tears, all that raw emotion, but quite unable to do anything about it. Finally, at God knows what time, I must have gone to sleep because the next thing I remember is sunshine pouring in through the thin curtains, and Wesley back beside the bed with a huge mug of tea.

I reached for it, grateful. I noticed how ugly my hands looked, the nails broken, cuts and scratches everywhere. The sight of them brought it all flooding back, the smell of the man, the weight of his body, and I began to tremble again, spilling my tea. Wesley fetched a blanket from his own bedroom and wrapped it around my shoulders. I noticed, for the first time, that he was wearing a coat.

‘Where have you been?’ I said.

‘Out.’

‘Where?’

‘Down the hill. Where you said.’

‘And?’

‘The car’s still there. Police all over it.’

‘What about the guy?’

‘Nothing. No sign. Either he went of his own accord, or they picked him up.’ He paused. ‘Supposing he was still alive.’

I stared at him for a moment. ‘Shit,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘The recorder.’

‘What about it?’

‘I left it there. With the tape. Everything… It was in the bushes. They must have found it. Must have.’

I risked a sip or two of tea, swilling it around my dry mouth, trying to remember exactly what I’d said to Raoul. I knew he’d been pushy, wanting to know who I was, who I worked for, and as near as dammit I knew I’d told him. Intelligence, I’d said, British Intelligence. With dialogue like that, the local constabulary wouldn’t need too much prompting. The cassette was probably already en route to London, PO Box 500, one of those neat little HMG jiffy bags.

‘Shit,’ I said again, finishing the tea.

I didn’t leave the flat for the next two days, a combination of vanity and caution. My face ballooned less than I’d anticipated. One eye was blackened, and there was more bruising along the Une of my cheek bone and down the side of my neck, but nothing seemed broken. Even my precious teeth, which had survived the accident in Northern Ireland, had once again come through intact. All in all, given the physical odds, I’d been incredibly lucky.

Not that Wesley had much time for luck. Frail as he was, he’d taken over entirely, a real reversal of roles, and he fussed around the flat, keeping me supplied with never-ending mugs of soup and hot tea. He made occasional expeditions to the local shops, returning with titbits he thought might cheer me up, and after one of these trips, he reappeared with a copy of the local weekly paper.

My little adventure in the park had made page one. The man’s name was Jason Livingstone and he was, thank God, still alive. From his hospital bed, he’d given police a detailed description of the gang that had assaulted him. They were, he’d said, young, a handful of teenagers who’d dragged him from his car, beaten him senseless and left him for dead. The report included a photo of the hapless victim. He was sitting up in his hospital bed with a loose crêpe bandage around his throat and an expression of wary innocence. Beside the report was a paragraph or two of editorial
comment, heavy black type, headed
‘HAS IT COME TO THIS?’
Wesley read it to me, line by line, circling the living room, aiming the odd kick at the furniture. The editorial was full of phrases like ‘motiveless violence’ and ‘teenage thuggery’, and at the end of it – inevitably – there was a call for the return of national service. Wesley waved it at me, outraged.