In the Mouth of the Tiger (122 page)

He paid off the taxi driver and stood for a moment in the shadows by his door, finishing the cigar. He had left the lights and heater on, so the place would be warm and welcoming, but still he hesitated. Once inside, he knew he'd be all right. He'd be cheered by his collection of watercolours on the walls, the warmth of his Burmese carpets underfoot.

But still, it was an empty flat.

He sighed, ground out the stub of his cigar with the toe of his shoe, and selected the correct key.

Something soft but hugely heavy struck him on the back of the neck just as he stepped through the doorway. A light burst inside his head and he tumbled to the floor, his limbs suddenly useless. He lay there, unable to move but for some strange reason completely conscious. He heard voices all around him, felt rough hands lifting his head, and then a powerful torch flared in front of his eyes.

‘Out like a light,' someone said, dropping his head back onto the floor with a thump.

‘He's not dead?'

A finger pressed his neck. ‘Far from it. Heart's beating like an ox. Breathing steady. Bloody good job, Albie.'

He must have lost consciousness then because the next thing he could remember was being dragged out of a car. This time he thought he might be able to move but had the sense not to, lying supine in two sets of powerful arms. He was borne briefly through a bank of swirling mist, and then lifted high. In that instance he saw the grey shape of Cleopatra's Needle high above him and realised he was on the Embankment, that he was about to be thrown into the Thames. He braced his muscles and drew in a huge breath to scream and fight but it was too late, far too late, and he was falling through thin air like a rag doll.

Falling forever, and then the crash of icy water.

Still semi-conscious from the blow, and half paralysed by the cold, it was all Malcolm could do to keep his head above water. He tried to scream but nothing came but a hoarse exhalation of air from tortured lungs. He tried to see where he was going, but all his eyes could discern was blackness.

So this was how one died, he thought. In ignorance and blackness, and for utterly no purpose. It would be a relief to cease the agony of struggle, to
give in, to sink into the calm depths beneath him. Memories came into his head, vivid, fever-bright: a Malayan sunset. A cricket field. Himself as a child, rocking on a wooden horse in an empty nursery.

‘Steady on!' A human voice penetrated the images, snapping Malcolm back from the comfort of the past to the agony of the present, and he began to flail at the water once again.

And then a strong arm grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him bodily out of the water so that he sprawled, gasping and retching, on the slimy bilgeboards of a heaving dinghy.

‘Jesus Christ!' the voice ejaculated. ‘A man! I thought you was a fuckin' dog!'

Malcolm tried to speak but gagged again and nearly choked as water gushed from his mouth. ‘Steady on,' the man said. ‘Hold your horses until I get you ashore.'

By the time they reached a set of stone steps cut into the Embankment, Malcolm was shivering violently but at least he could speak. ‘I'm very grateful,' he said, his voice thin and tremulous and weird in his ears. ‘How did you happen to be where you were?'

The man slung his own coat around Malcolm. ‘Don't ask questions, old cock,' he said brusquely. ‘Just thank your lucky stars I
was
there. You were done for, I reckon. Just your bleedin' head stickin' out of the water and your hands paddlin' like a dog. Fell off the Embankment, did you? I hope you didn't do nuthin' stupid like trying to top yourself.'

There was a dim light above the steps, and Malcolm peered up at his saviour. He saw a big, rough face but it was alight with concern. ‘I didn't try and top myself,' he said indignantly. ‘I was thrown in by a bunch of louts. They must have been out to rob me.' He reached for his hip pocket but his wallet was still there.

‘There's a police post just up the path a bit,' the man said. ‘Get up there quick as you can or you'll catch your death. I can't come with you 'cause the coppers might want to ask me some questions.'

Malcolm hauled himself to his feet on the wave-lapped bottom step. He was shaking like a leaf but able to stand, and able to walk. ‘For Christ's sake give me your name at least,' he said. ‘You saved my life.'

The man grinned, his teeth visible in the gloom. ‘No names, no pack drill. And keep the coat – I pinched it off one of the posh cruisers earlier tonight. Easy come, easy go.' And he pushed his dinghy away from the wall
and set the oars into the rowlocks. He was out of sight almost immediately, invisible in the blackness.

The police were kind but almost bored, as if dealing with soaking wet gentlemen who fell off the Embankment in the small hours were a regular occurrence. ‘I really wouldn't saunter by the river at this time of night, sir,' the young constable taking his statement said unctuously. ‘Asking for trouble, sir.'

‘I wasn't sauntering by the river,' Malcolm snapped. ‘I had just gone into my flat. Somebody slugged me and then drove me to the river . . .'

‘Slugged you – struck you – in your own home and then took you to the river?' the constable asked. ‘Now, why would they do that, sir?'

Malcolm sighed with exasperation. ‘I have no idea, Constable,' he said. In truth, he did have an idea. A tiny little idea that was working its way through his brain like a maggot. But it was such a dreadful idea that he didn't want to admit it even to himself. They had taken his wet clothes and he was wrapped in blankets, an electric fire at his feet, and though the interview room was so hot that he could feel perspiration on his face, he was still icy cold inside. Cold and lonely, and just a little frightened.

The constable finished typing and drew a sheet of paper from his machine. ‘Read that over if you would, sir. The sooner we can drive you home the better.'

Malcolm read the skimpy document and even to him it seemed unconvincing. Arrived home about twelve thirty. Felt a blow on the head as he entered his front door. Tossed into the Thames from the Embankment. Nothing stolen from his person. No known enemies, and could not give any reason for the attack. He signed the document and passed it back.

‘The doctor says you can go home, sir,' the constable said. ‘Skin's not broken but no doubt you'll get a whopping bruise. If you do feel any symptoms in the night, sir, please call a doctor. Bad headache, biliousness, that sort of thing.'

‘They will have ransacked my house,' Malcolm said. ‘Should someone come home with me and make a list?'

‘Sergeant Carter and I will drive you home, sir,' the constable said kindly. ‘If there is anything missing we'll take another statement.'

There was nothing missing from 6E Hanover Gardens. In fact, the place looked preternaturally tidy. Malcolm was asked to sit quietly in his small lounge while Sergeant Carter and the constable explored the two-storey flat. When they returned, the sergeant seemed strangely embarrassed.

‘Nobody at home, sir,' he said. ‘And there doesn't look like anything has been disturbed.' He sat down in front of Malcolm and cleared his throat. ‘One thing I'll have to put in my report is your note, sir. I'm sorry.'

‘What note?' Malcolm asked, and the sergeant drew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and opened it up. It had clearly been typed on Malcolm's portable Royal and comprised a few brief sentences: ‘I apologise for the pain that my decision to end my life will cause my family and friends, but I truly have no alternative. I am a danger to myself and to others. Believe me, this is the only way.'

The signature at the bottom was his own.

Malcolm reached for the document but the police officer quickly folded it and replaced it in his pocket. ‘I really am sorry, sir, but I will need to keep this,' he said gently. ‘You appreciate that it does put a different complexion on things, don't you? Do you recall writing that note, Mr Bryant?'

Malcolm took a long, deep breath. The suspicion that had been growing in his mind had crystallised into a painful reality. This whole incident had all the hallmarks of a D Branch operation.

MI5 had turned against him. They wanted him dead, or if not dead at least so discredited that his work on the Elesmere-Elliott case would be worthless.

‘I didn't write that note, Sergeant,' he said as quietly and as sensibly as he could. He looked the policeman straight in the eye. ‘I know you'll find that hard to believe, Sergeant, but it's perfectly true.' He stood up and stretched. ‘Now, if you don't mind, I think I might try and get some sleep.'

The sergeant seemed disinclined to move. ‘I'm not sure you should be left alone, sir,' he said. ‘I wonder if it might not be better for you to come along to the hospital with us. Just for the night, sir, for your own good.'

Malcolm sighed. ‘Look, Sergeant – if I had wanted to kill myself, would I have struggled out of the water and reported this whole business to you? Wake up, man, I'm not suicidal. Not now, at least. Even if you don't believe me about the note, you must see that I'm quite sane now.'

The sergeant scratched his head, then seemed to make up his mind. ‘I'm going to ask Constable Peterson to stay outside your door for the remainder of the night,' he said. ‘Just in case you do need help. You're not going out again tonight sir?'

‘I'm going to have a long, hot bath and then I'm going to sleep for eight hours,' Malcolm said, trying to sound as normal and as reasonable as he could.
‘I appreciate Constable Peterson's presence. I
was
attacked, Sergeant, whether you believe me or not, and I will feel better that there's going to be a policeman in Hanover Gardens.'

He drew a hot bath, and then stretched himself out with half a packet of Radox in the water and a cigar between his lips. The heat and the cigar helped thaw him out a little but not much. Deep inside he still felt frozen, as if his bones had been turned into ice. The coldness was perhaps more psychological than physical. He felt profoundly betrayed. D Branch, which he admired and had aspired to join, was trying to kill him. And why? Presumably because he had done his duty all too well, and unmasked a traitor.

He lay back in the hot water trying to relax, but his mind was now churning with a hundred different thoughts, each one wilder than the one before. Had someone brought so much pressure on the organisation that it had been forced to turn against its own? Had the whole of MI5 turned traitor? Had the Labour Government itself stripped off its socialist mask and turned rank Communist?

Stupid thoughts. Insane thoughts. He could suddenly stand them no longer and reared up out of the bath, grabbing at his towel and rubbing himself down with almost manic vigour. He caught sight of his face in the mirror, tense and dark, his eyes staring.
Steady on
, he told himself.
This won't do, will it? This way leads to madness
.

Madness. Just saying the word calmed him immensely. He had been like this once before, he remembered. Mind racing, adrenaline pumping, all sorts of weird thoughts pouring through his head. It had been just before his nervous breakdown in Malaya. The memories of that awful time came back to him in vivid detail. Storming into the District Commissioner's office after a sleepless night, shouting accusations. Calling anyone and everyone a Communist spy. Screaming out obscenities, and being wrestled to the ground by Malay orderlies. The psychiatric ward at the Alexandra, seen through a haze of sedatives. Being shipped off to England to recover.

Perhaps worst of all the snide, mock-sympathetic looks from fellow officers on his return. The sense of utter humiliation and powerlessness.

It must never happen again, he told the face in the mirror. Calmness, composure, cold calculation. He took a huge breath. Then another. He waited until the beating of his heart had steadied, then pulled on his pyjamas and combed his hair.

Always comb your hair, he reminded himself. A man with wild hair is
halfway marked a nut case before he even opens his mouth.

He sat down at his desk and splashed whisky into a glass.
Think
, he told himself.
Think
. That's what separates the actions of men from the instinctive actions of beasts. The ability to think things through, draw rational conclusions, act on those conclusions.

First premise: MI5 had tried to kill him. Test that premise. His fingers drummed on the desk. The premise had two elements. First element: that someone had tried to kill him. Second element: that it was MI5.

Had someone tried to kill him? Certainly, he had been knocked senseless and chucked into the Thames. Certainly he
should
have drowned. But he hadn't, had he? A man with a boat had saved him.

A man in a boat in exactly the right place at exactly the right time.

Malcolm got up suddenly and went into the hall where the police had left a washing bag full of the wet clothes he had been wearing. He pulled out the overcoat the man had given him and shook it out. It was an army greatcoat, a ‘warm'. The first thing that struck him was that it was brand new. It even had the price tag still sewn onto one sleeve. He felt in all the pockets but of course they were empty.

The coat had quite obviously not been stolen from a luxury cruiser tied up on the Embankment. It had been bought from a disposal store for a specific purpose.

To keep him warm after he had been fished out of the Thames. Not only had his assailants not intended to kill him, they had even taken care that he not catch cold!

White-hot anger flooded through Malcolm's body, twisting his insides, washing through his mind like corrosive acid. It was now very, very clear. Just when he thought he had won, when all the humiliations of the past were about to be buried in the laurel leaves of victory, Denis Elesmere-Elliott had come along with his battleships and blown him out of the water with contemptuous ease.