State Sponsored Terror Page 20

  Just after twelve Eve came out of the school, alone. Jemima crouched down behind a pile of newly delivered plastic packed bricks. Eve was carrying a fat satchel. Jemima watched her take one hard look round, as if checking she was not being followed. Then she set off purposefully toward the river bridge. Jemima followed at a distance, anxious not to lose her, anxious not to be seen.

  At a similar distance behind Jemima, a slight man in a faded blue knee-length raincoat followed. It never once occurred to Jemima to check if she was being tracked too.

  Eve crossed the bridge, headed up to the roundabout, and turned left and slipped along Wick Lane, heading down beside the river. She left the road and walked through the public gardens where young mothers were walking their toddlers, as they laughed and joked together, where old men sat and read newspapers and dreamed of happier, youthful days, where solitary old ladies lolled on the benches and talked to their long dead husbands, while drinking stewed tea from battered thermos flasks, where roughly dressed single people sat and rotted and stared at the air, and dogs gambolled unattended without a care in the world, though woe betide any such mutt that overstayed its welcome after Voluntary Clean Streets.

  Eve ignored them all and walked on; through the whole length of the parkland until the Corporation maintained ground gave way to the unkempt scrubland that led to the wet and reedy territory where rare birds nested, that in turn, led down to the boathouses, and the rowing club beyond. Jemima kept her eyes firmly on Eve’s head and whenever she made to turn to check if her progress was being monitored, Jemima would duck behind the last of the trees, or into the willowy undergrowth that was capable of hiding anyone, even in winter.

  Behind Jemima, the man kept his distance.

  He was a local man, a first year SPAT. He knew the area well enough from his Boy Scout days from years before. He had grown up in these parts, playing Cowboys and Indians and Hereward the Wake in those very reeds, not knowing that one day he would do it for real. He knew too that there was only one way in, and one path out, other than a narrow twisty and overgrown wet footpath that cut away in the direction of the golf course, and Hengistbury Head, and he correctly guessed the woman would know nothing of that.

  Eve arrived at the boathouse. She stooped and grabbed and began throwing pebbles at the window. A moment later, the door downstairs opened, and a young man smiled at her and peered out like a blue-tit from a bird box, as if checking for an absence of danger. Jemima crouched in the reeds, her brown and green jacket providing excellent camouflage. She congratulated herself on her choice of garment. She had seen enough.

  Her daughter was taking food to a young man holed up in the boathouse, though why she should be doing such a thing remained a mystery, for now. Was he an outlaw, a renegade, or a terrorist, as the daily news reports insisted such people infested the country? Or was he an EWP escapee, evadee? Or could it be simpler than that? Could Eve have a chap? She was nearly fifteen, after all. She, Jemima, had met Colin when she was fifteen, and she’d slept with him when she was barely sixteen, at home when her parents had gone to see Crocodile Dundee. Just as well it was a decent length movie, though she would never dream of telling her daughters about that. She hadn’t told anyone about it, not even her own mother, least of all her own mother, and as far as Jemima knew, Colin had never told anyone either. Some things were best kept secret.

  Eve would be fifteen soon, on Christmas Eve, hence her name and the world was changing fast. Young people today did things differently, but hadn’t they always? Would it be so much of a surprise if Eve had a chap in tow, an admirer, in that boathouse? Jemima’s mind conjured up images she tried hard to dispel, yet she couldn’t, and more than once she stopped and turned about, as if to return to the river. Yet even if her worst thoughts were true, did she really want to burst in and interrupt whatever it was that was going on down in that maroon and mucky garage for old canoes. She did not. She could not. She would return home and when the time was right, she would talk to Eve about it, sensibly, mother to daughter, as sensibly as one could ever talk to a teenager about anything.

  The man watched Eve come out of the boathouse half an hour later. He watched her stand on tiptoe and kiss the young man on the cheek. The kid didn’t reciprocate, but neither did he push her away. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, more of a See you later kind of kiss. The slim schoolgirl in the short skirt walked happily away, carrying a much-reduced satchel.

  Eve didn’t see the man crouched in the last of the rhododendrons in the public park, a position to which he had retreated to avoid discovery. As soon as she had gone he flipped open his mobile and rang the office. Three minutes later, around the time when Adam was spitting out cloves, as he munched the crusts on the homemade apple pie, reinforcements were on the way.

  Twenty-Nine

  So this is what being Sent to Blackpool really meant, thought Martin, as he stared into the blackness of the night from the top of the Tower. ‘I think we have wasted enough time on this prick,’ whined Smeggan. ‘It doesn’t look as if my new boss is going to get anything new after all. Get on with it!’

  Devlin and Evans grabbed Martin’s wrists and led him to the brink. A ship out at sea caught Martin’s eye, its lights twinkling colours like Christmas baubles from long ago. Why couldn’t life always be like childhood Christmas’s?

  ‘Final words?’ moped Smeggan.

  ‘I don’t know anything!’

  The SPAT rippled his strangely feminine eyebrows.

  ‘Suit yourself. On the count of three....’

  ‘No!’ yelled Martin.

  ‘One....’

  ‘You are making a big mistake!’

  ‘Two....’

  ‘Oh Jesus!’

  ‘Three!’

  ‘No!’

  Too late. They threw Martin over the edge.

  He thought his heart might explode.

  They did not let go of his arms.

  He kicked out at the turbulent air. The night was full of salt and sand and the dankness of a northern seaside town. He imagined they would drop him at any moment, and he kicked out again for solid ground. Nothing. He was kicking the wind in the teeth. He glanced down. Far below, he saw the ambulance guys cleaning up the mess in the street. Were they waiting for him? He stared up at Devlin and Evans, who were clutching his wrists, leering down like demons.

  ‘All right, all right!’ he panted. ‘I’ll talk! I’ll talk!’

  Smeggan standing behind them grinned. A twisted thought had entered his mind. What would happen if he gently eased all three of them over the brink? It would be so easy to do, attack from the rear when least expected. He’d done that kind of thing before, the surprise sneaky attack, and wouldn’t they be surprised? And why shouldn’t he? Devlin and Evans were just so much slush. Expendable pish to be ordered about and disposed of once they had outlived their usefulness. They were nothing to him, an irrelevance, and as for the prisoner, he had it coming. It would only be a matter of time. But that would all have to wait, and anyhow, Reamse, or whatever his name was, was at last begging for his life, pleading to reveal all he knew, and that was sufficient reason to spare him, for now.

  ‘About time!’ said Devlin.

  ‘Land the catch,’ mumbled Smeggan, as he dug into his right ear with his little finger.

  They tugged Martin up and inward, until his feet caught on the metal structure. Old George had returned from his sojourn in the lavatories. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, and he wasn’t going to let his blood pressure get the better of him. They were street trash, these people; they must have committed heinous crimes to warrant such treatment, and it wasn’t any of his business. He’d become immune, and anyway, there was the considerable overtime to consider.

  ‘Shall I lock up, sir?’ he said to no one in particular, gesturing at the doors to oblivion.

  ‘No!’ said Smeggan. ‘Not yet, not until we hear what Reamse here has to say for himself.’

  The four of them stared at Martin.

&
nbsp; He shivered. ‘All I know is.... what a man told me.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘Colin Cornelius.’

  ‘The prick who works for The Messenger?’ said Smeggan.

  Devlin interrupted, ‘Hold on a second, isn’t he the dick that interviewed the Leader on TV?’

  Martin nodded.

  ‘The guy who made a complete idiot of himself, by all accounts,’ added Smeggan, ‘I didn’t see it myself, but I heard all about it.’

  Martin nodded again.

  ‘We’ve been onto him for years,’ said Smeggan. ‘We left him running. Wanted to see where he’d lead us, though that might have been a mistake. You’ll have to do better than that.’

  ‘There’s more,’ said Martin.

  ‘Thought there might be. I think we need to go through all this back at the camp,’ said Smeggan. ‘Lock up, George. We’ve finished for now. Not a bad night’s work, if I say so myself. Take him away.’

  Back at street level, firemen had arrived to sluice down the road. The paramedics were fastening the back doors of the ambulance, before heading off to God knows where with what remained of Weston and Owens. Devlin and Evans threw Martin into the back of the van. He guessed that before the day was through his pal, Colin Cornelius; would be under arrest. Martin cursed and punched the side of the vehicle for he feared for his friend.

  ‘Shut up in the back there!’ yelled Devlin.

  ‘Up yours!’ said Martin, under his breath.

  THE DAY AHEAD WAS SPENT going through everything Martin had told them. Time and again they would start at the beginning in the hope that a retelling might reveal more information, or inconsistencies in his story that might yet tease more intelligence. They wanted to know all about Martin’s job at the BBC, and delighted in the office tittle-tattle that surrounded some so-called celebrities and personalities, particularly those of dubious sexuality. Not that Martin minded that, for while they were fishing for bedroom secrets on the latest comedian, or actor or actress, or singer or weathergirl, they were neglecting their real purpose.

  At the day’s end, Smeggan called for a sandwich for the prisoner. A stale ham barm-cake appeared ten minutes later. It was the first thing Martin had eaten all day, and yet he still wasn’t hungry.

  ‘It would have been so much easier if you had told us all this in the first place,’ muttered Smeggan.

  ‘Maybe,’ conceded Martin.

  ‘There is no maybe about it. If you had done your duty and revealed what you knew earlier, Owens would still be alive. That is a lot to bear, the knowledge that you are solely responsible for that man’s death.’

  Martin spat out a mouthful of chewed bread and ham, spraying Smeggan in the face.

  ‘There is only one man responsible for Owens’ death, and that is you, you arrogant prick, and one day you will pay for it!’

  It was as if a total stranger had barked the words, and Martin wondered from where he had dredged up such courage.

  Smeggan sniffed and wiped his brow. He withdrew his right hand, balled it into a fist, and smashed it into Martin’s left eyebrow, demolishing the skin and the thin layer of flesh that protects that part of the face.

  ‘Ow!’ yelped Smeggan in mock annoyance, glancing at the blood on his hand. ‘You hurt my hand, you crazy bastard!’ and he grinned across at Devlin.

  Martin had fallen to the floor, tipping right over in his chair. He lay there like a tortoise on its back, his feet flailing in the air.

  ‘Get up, you prat!’ ordered Devlin.

  ‘Return him to the hut,’ snapped Smeggan. ‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall when he has to explain the absence of his buddies to the rest of them.’

  Devlin laughed.

  Smeggan glanced at his watch. It was almost six in the evening.

  ‘I’m going for a pint and a steak at the Red Squirrel,’ he said, standing and stretching. ‘Blood rare, just as I like it. Fancy joining me?’

  Devlin grinned and bobbed his head.

  ‘Be right with you boss, once I have returned this chicken to his cage.’

  I’m going for a pint and a steak.

  Those words lodged in Martin’s mind.

  I’m going for a pint and a steak.

  What Martin would have given to relax with a pint of good beer and a lean and juicy steak. He wondered if he would ever see such things again.

  ‘I’ll see you there,’ muttered Smeggan, and he sauntered off toward the Squirrel.

  Things were looking up. He had finally obtained new information that would kick-start his relationship with his new boss. It wouldn’t do him any harm because he was looking for another promotion. In his mind it was long overdue, and fact was, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to achieve it. What was the point of being any other way? You only live once, and as his mother always hammered into him: You must always make the most of every opportunity that comes your way. Never sell yourself short, Jarvis. He had no intention of doing that. Jarvis Smeggan had inherited the climbing gene, and in his eyes, he was only halfway up the slippery slope.

  Thirty

  The Cornelius family sat down to dinner just after seven. Jemima had prepared a small joint of rolled shoulder of pork, together with roast potatoes and parsnips and apple-sauce. A warm and welcoming aroma bled through the house. Eve was a sometime vegetarian, or pretended to be, but the smell of her mother’s roast cooking melted her resistance. She was a fussy eater, but she wouldn’t be so fussy that night.

  Colin carved the small joint and placed three slices of meat on each of the plates, as Jemima passed round the roast vegetables and gravy.

  ‘Lovely,’ he said, ‘lovely jubbly!’ glancing down at the steaming dinners. ‘You can’t beat an English roast. Can’t beat it. You’ve done us proud, Jem.’

  His wife smiled. She could take a compliment. The gravy was thick and dark, just how Colin liked it; and he proceeded to spoon on a little more than necessary. He picked up his knife and fork and licked his lips. The doorbell rang, piercingly, the sound travelling down the hall like an arrow.

  ‘Who the hell’s that?’ he snapped, banging down his flatware.

  ‘Don’t answer it,’ said Jemima, sucking in gravy and roast meat. Then she looked questioningly at Eve, and wondered if it could be anything to do with her little shenanigans down by the river.

  ‘We’ll have to answer it,’ said Eve softly. ‘It might be for me.’

  Yes, thought Jemima, precisely what I was thinking, but she found herself saying: ‘It will probably be that kid next door wanting his damn ball back.’

  ‘I’ll go!’ snapped Colin, suddenly imagining some spotty youth calling for his younger daughter, and that really would have to be investigated, roast meat or no roast meat. He stamped down the hall; throwing his serviette on the old oak chair, licking his top lip clean, and smoothing down his hair with his hands, before pulling the door open.

  Two middle-aged men stood there, and beyond them, an unmarked dark green saloon car. Colin didn’t like the look of them.

  ‘Mister Colin Cornelius?’ said the fatter of the two, cheerfully enough, Colin thought, watching the guy sniff food up the hall.

  ‘Yes,’ said Colin, hoping and praying they were Jehovah’s Witnesses or some such thing.

  ‘We are SPATs officers,’ said the younger, slimmer of the two, almost grinning. ‘We have a warrant for your arrest,’ and he shook open a folded piece of paper and wafted it past Colin’s alerted eyes.

  ‘I am just about to have my dinner,’ he moaned.

  The fat one guffawed.

  ‘We don’t care if you are just about to have sex with a rhinoceros, Mister Cornelius. You are coming with us, and by that, I mean, now!’

  Colin looked back over his shoulder. ‘Jemmie!’ he shouted. ‘Jemmie!’

  The thin one reached inside and clipped a shiny set of handcuffs to Colin’s right wrist.

  Jemima came rushing down the hall.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’

  ‘I
am being arrested,’ protested Colin, holding onto the doorframe to give him an additional moment.

  ‘What the hell for?’ screamed Jemima.

  ‘God only knows!’

  ‘Where are you taking my husband?’

  ‘SPATs HQ, Bournemouth, madam. He shouldn’t be too long.’

  It was well known the SPATs always said: He shouldn’t be too long whenever an arrest was made, as if those words of comfort would smooth the way. That phrase had entered popular usage, plugged again and again by half-baked comedians in dingy clubs throughout the country. He shouldn’t be too long, nudge-nudge, wink-wink, when in reality those words meant: You’ll be lucky if you ever see the bastard again!

  The thin one’s eyes were caught by another figure standing at the far end of the hall. It was a girl, a slim and pretty girl, framed in the doorway like an angel, staring at him through saucer blue eyes, a look of consternation on her young pink face.

  He winked at her.

  Eve couldn’t stop herself smiling.

  Men often winked at her, she had noticed that. It was a recent thing. Either she hadn’t noticed it before, or it had only just begun happening, but every time it did, it made her flush inside, it was unnerving. Truth was; she liked it, almost regardless of who was doing the winking, though somehow it felt dreadfully wrong. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  ‘We won’t be too long with him, love,’ soothed the younger SPAT, aiming his compassionate comment at the girl. He had nice blond hair in a sleek modern cut; she noticed that well enough, as she chewed and swallowed a piece of roast potato, and nodded at the policeman, and watched as her father was led from the house, in handcuffs. Colin turned back to the fat SPAT and said: ‘It is just me you want, isn’t it?’