A Sentimental Traitor (5 page)

The cockpit section had broken in two. As they began lifting the main fragment, it reminded everyone of the iconic image of the Lockerbie disaster, and when it suddenly twisted in its cradle the
crowd began to scream, as though at any moment they might see the body of the pilot still strapped in his seat, waving like Ahab lashed to the whale’s back. They needn’t have worried;
the captain’s body still hadn’t been found.

Harry walked to his next appointment, needing the bite of the air to cut through his melancholy. Four miles, which even at his pace took him over an hour. His destination was the Special Forces
Club, located in a modest Edwardian terrace behind Harrods. Its origins, as the name implied, was to provide a watering hole for those who had served in any of the clandestine forces, as Harry had
in the Special Air Service, and although in recent years the club’s financial plight had forced it to loosen its membership requirements, it still retained its air of mystery. From the
outside the building was as anonymous as any of the other buildings in the street, apart from the nest of CCTV cameras above the door, while inside the receptionist was always welcoming and quietly
observant. A small notice requested members and guests to leave their ‘cloaks and daggers’ in the downstairs hallway, while the modest but elegant staircase was lined with a double row
of photographs, portraits, mostly black and white, of men and women who had served and often died heroically in their country’s service. Small legends beneath each portrait related their
tales and kept the memories fresh. When Harry had made it up to the first-floor bar he had ordered a bottle of champagne, trying to revive some of the Christmas spirit, and waited for his friend,
but he had almost finished the second glass by the time he saw his arrival on one of the CCTV screens behind the bar. He watched as Jimmy Sopwith-Dane, known as ‘Sloppy’ to his many
friends, paused on the pavement, took a deep breath of winter air, then hauled himself up the few steps to the front door, using the railings for support.

Harry flinched. Dark memories spat at him. He and Sloppy had been fellow officers in the Life Guards serving in Northern Ireland during the bad days, colleagues who became close friends –
too close, perhaps, because, one rain-pissing day in the hills of Armagh, Sloppy had taken a bullet meant for Harry. It had busted his knee so badly he’d been invalided out of the Army. Not
that it had broken his spirit, for Sopwith-Dane was the sort who could charm a smile from a stone. People trusted him, warmed to his humour, and only the dullest failed to see the depth of talent
and single-mindedness that lay behind the foppish facade. After he’d been kicked out of the Army he’d migrated to the City, where he now ran a private and very discreet wealth
management service, just a few clients but with more than thirty million pounds of their money to play with. In fact, Harry had been his first client, had to be, Harry owed him, and perhaps owed
him more than ever now, because it had become clear in recent months that Sloppy’s knee was breaking down. Made him just a tad unreliable with his timing. The smile that had been so free and
wild seemed to have grown stiff, as though battling constant pain, but there was never a word of complaint, which made Harry feel worse.

‘See you started without me, as usual,’ Sloppy greeted as he came into the bar, waving, exposing a large measure of pink cuff and regimental cufflinks.

‘Testing it was up to your usual standard.’

Without prompting, the steward poured another glass but Sloppy waved it away. ‘Need something a little stronger than that. Large Bushmills. On the rocks.’ He laughed, trying to turn
it into a joke, but the furrows around his eyes ran deep. He levered himself stiffly onto the bar stool beside Harry.

‘You suffering?’

‘Not much,’ he lied. ‘But I’m thinking of swapping it for a new one.’

‘The knee?’

‘You know me, no half measures. The whole sodding leg.’ He swallowed the whiskey in one gulp and pushed the glass back across the counter for another. Harry sat silent, struggling to
find words. He knew his friend wasn’t exaggerating, he could see it in the red-rimmed eyes and the flecks of grey that had suddenly crept into the hair.

‘Not to worry, you old tart,’ Sloppy reassured. ‘Off just above the knee, they reckon’ – he made a sawing gesture with his hand – ‘and I’ll be
running marathons. Better than ever. Bouncing along like a bloody rabbit on one of those carbon-fibre blade thingies. Cost you a fortune in sponsorship.’ He began to laugh.

‘So stop whingeing and have another drink.’

But already Sloppy was downing his second glass. They relaxed quickly, almost too quickly, the alcohol smoothing away some of the new creases in Sloppy’s face. In the end they didn’t
bother with the dining room but spread themselves on a sofa, while the steward brought them more drink and plates of food.

‘She frowning in disapproval, d’you think?’ Sloppy asked, squinting at the portrait of the club’s formidable patron, the Princess Royal, which hung on the far wall.

‘Just disappointed she can’t join us, I expect.’

‘Or is it a smile? She has a lovely smile, you know. Never thought I’d ever lust after the Colonel of the Regiment. Any regiment, come to that. What do you say, Harry, you think I
need counselling?’

‘Probably just another drink.’

Private banter that betrayed not a hint of disrespect. They’d both put their lives on the line in the name of her mother, the Queen, and carried the scars like a crow carries its feathers.
Yet they were in drink, which was often the case when they were together, and this evening they both had cause. But Sloppy, in particular, drank to forget.

‘I could get wrecked just watching you,’ Harry laughed as another whiskey disappeared down Sloppy.

‘Brilliant idea. But not before we remember our little bit of business. You know I only love you for your money.’ He dug inside his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope
containing three sheets of carefully folded paper. He pushed aside the wreckage of their meal that lay scattered across the low table in front and smoothed the creases from the sheets.

Money. Never a problem for Harry, not since his businessman father had died with nothing but his socks on in the arms of a much younger woman, and left him a fortune that was large enough to
have been seen by many as indelicate and some of which was almost certainly illicit. Harry had suddenly been catapulted from a life where he’d paid his own way through university by working
night shifts at McDonald’s, to one in which he couldn’t be bought, bribed or bullied. He’d never forgotten his years of youthful poverty, didn’t take his financial comfort
for granted, but he was happy to let Sloppy handle the details. It did them both a favour.

‘Need three signatures,’ Sloppy instructed. ‘Use your own pen. You can afford it.’

‘More bloody paper?’ Harry complained casually, rubbing his eyes.

‘You suggested we throw more of your money into the hands of those mercenary little bastards who run the economies in the Far East, remember?’

‘You said they were all sweat shops.’

‘I lied. You know I lie. Why dig up my old lies?’ Sloppy protested theatrically.

‘Get on with it,’ Harry said, leaning forward and trying to focus.

‘Right. The client is always right, even when he’s a small-minded prick like your good self.’

‘Tell me, do you abuse all your clients?’

‘Of course. Please don’t feel picked out for special treatment.’

Harry chuckled and waved his hand for yet more alcohol.

‘Right, concentrate,’ Sloppy continued. ‘I’m delighted to tell you that Nissan, the Bank of China and Matsushita Electric turn out to be highly respectable. Not sweat
shops at all, quite dreary, in fact. But the way the currencies are going they’ll probably make you a small fortune and me a much larger one in all the commission I’m going to skim. So
before you and I drink the entire portfolio, we’re going to throw some of your money around the derivatives field and hedge some of the currency expectations so that—’

But already Harry was waving his hands in surrender. ‘I don’t mind you kicking me to death, but boring me to death’s not part of the deal,’ he laughed, reaching for his
Duofold.

‘But I haven’t even got to the small print,’ Sloppy protested.

Harry’s relationship with Sloppy was one of the most solid and reassuring parts of his life, not simply because of the income it produced but the friendship it reinforced. These were men
who had trusted each other with their lives, and always would. So he signed. Three times.

It would be months before he realized he’d just lost two million pounds. And that it was only the start.

Sloppy hobbled down the street. He’d ducked out of sharing a taxi with Harry, made up some excuse; he needed to be alone. The pain was blinding him. It followed him every
step, of every day, and had done for years. He found what he was looking for, a late-night pharmacy. He wandered past the shelves, picked up a toothbrush he didn’t want, presented it to the
pharmacist at the till, and while she was ringing it up asked for two packets of non-prescription painkillers.

‘I’m afraid I can only let you have the one,’ she said, apologetically. ‘Have you taken these before, sir?’

‘No.’

‘It’s just that they contain codeine and can be addictive. They’re for a maximum of three days. Is that OK?’

‘Sure.’

‘Please read the instructions on the label carefully.’ She dropped them into his bag along with the toothbrush.

‘Of course. Thanks.’ Silly bitch. How many times had he heard this prim little lecture? If only they’d done their job properly in the first place maybe he wouldn’t be
staggering around London, his guts being ripped out with every step. He took the bag, snatched at it, clutched it perhaps too tight, trying to throttle it, and walked out, biting his lip.

He wasn’t quite sure where he was, he’d lost his bearings in the dark. He found himself leaning on a lamp post, taking a deep breath; he grabbed for the painkillers, ripping off the
cardboard cover in his haste.

He popped two pills from their plastic coffins and threw them in his mouth, but it was parched, lined with sand, and he almost choked as he struggled to swallow. When at last he looked up he saw
he was facing the battered gloss-black door of a pub. God was looking out for him, after all. He pushed his way through the door, dragging his foot behind him. It caught on the step and he almost
stumbled, but no one looked up. Just another Christmas drunk. Silently he cursed their ignorance and ingratitude. He ordered a large whiskey, on the rocks, found a corner seat away from the other
drinkers, and found the pills once again and popped out another four. He swallowed them in one mouthful, washed down with whiskey.

The torn packet stared up at him from the sticky varnish of the tabletop, preaching.

For short term use only. Swallow 1 or 2 tablets every 4 to 6 hours. WARNING: Do not exceed the stated dose. Do not take more than 6 tablets in 24 hours.

Six? He was doing sixty of these a day. The entire packet would be gone by breakfast. In fact, they’d be his breakfast.

He glanced around furtively, but no one was watching. No one gave a damn. Why, he was nothing more than yet another City dick in his expensive cashmere overcoat quietly popping a couple of
pills, and who didn’t pop pills nowadays, for pain or pleasure? But with Sloppy it was always pain. Had been for years. The military surgeons could do extraordinary things, sometimes
impossible things, but not miracles. The bullet that had smashed into his knee had shattered, scattering splinters of metal and bone, and some were still there, stuck inside, still trying to kill
him, causing infection, tiny sinuses of pus and agony that had eaten away at the main nerve system to his foot and lower leg so that he couldn’t feel much of anything but pain, which meant he
kept injuring himself, which caused even more pain, and now it had got to the point of so much pain that before long they would have to chop his leg off like a leper. Don’t worry, they had
smiled, we’ll give you the latest Ferrari version. Well, fuck them.

And fuck Harry, too. He loved the man, but why should he still be paying for him after all these years? He was going to lose his leg yet nothing seemed to muddy the course for Harry Jones, MP,
Privy Councillor, George Cross, Military Cross, millionaire, lots of other bits, too. And all because Sloppy had taken that bullet for him. Harry owed him, they both knew it; why, wasn’t it
the guilt that kept Harry knocking on his door, giving his business to a cripple?

And that’s why Sloppy was in so much trouble. From doing his best for Harry. It was for Harry and his other clients that he’d jumped on board a hedge fund that had been rolling like
an express train barely a year ago, with everybody kicking each other’s arses to get a seat. Now it was a train wreck, run out of track, total wipeout. And suddenly he was down a couple of
million. Nothing Sloppy couldn’t manage, but he’d had a mauling and needed a break. Short-term funds that would keep the monthly statements looking fat. Until he could sort it all
out.