She was to watch and not attract notice, and she was to tell him what she saw.
She imagined that by now her grandfather would be hyperventilating at the failure, that a message was on its way to HMP Wandsworth and her father’s cell block. She thought a report on the failure would have reached Lenny Grewcock, and
would be homing in on some village in Eastern Europe. That it was Robbie who had failed amazed her. Not her father or her eldest brother: little Robbie.
She knew where he’d be. She wasn’t supposed to but she did. With Vern, she was the only member of the family who was privy to where he’d be – and a fat lot of fucking good it would do him.
She stood up and started walking. She went past the museum, past a group of walkers in shorts and country shirts with ruck-sacks, past small houses with bright window-boxes. She saw the gates and the voice grille and stood rooted. A suitcase came over the gates and split open when it landed, clothes spilling out and— She spun on her heel.
So, his wife had quit on him, hadn’t told him they’d ‘see this through together’. She had done a runner and wasn’t expected back, and Harvey Gillot, with her Robbie, was in the pits.
‘From what you say, Benjie, Blowback is apt.’
‘The trouble with Blowback is that every little man, with the benefit of hindsight, can lob a brickbat.’
‘Stuck in you, as a dose of garlic is?’
‘Don’t get me wrong. I merely offered advice. It was his decision. It’s not me that has Blowback.’
They ate in the dining room at the Special Forces Club, a discreet address in a road behind Harrods. Benjie Arbuthnot liked to support the place as the credit crunch and declining membership squeezed its finances. His guest could have belonged, might yet succumb to arm-twisting, and qualified through his commission in the Royal Marines and secondment to the Special Boat Service. They had met at that god-forsaken hole, the Iraq–Iran border, the old fighting ground of those countries in the 1980s, and twenty years later, Benjie had seen off the assets over the waterways that marked the frontier. They’d gone in RIBs with suppressed engine noise, and had been the responsibility of Denys Foster – Captain, Military Cross, the citation not published. It was an indulgence of Benjie’s to stay in loose contact with younger men: they freshened him, kept his mind alive.
‘Where we were – Iraq et cetera – that was a Blowback.’
‘Of course. We armed the old butcher, fed him intelligence, empowered him and it all blew back in our faces.’
‘And Afghanistan.’
‘Right again. I had a little part in that – fourth-rate ground-to-air kit was shipped in, and my young friend Gillot did what was asked of him. We helped expel the Russians and now we’re up to our necks in that awful place, toasted by the hairy blighters we encouraged.’
Benjie seldom met anyone in the bar these days whom he had known on the road. In the ranks of the SIS, he had served in Pakistan, Syria, Argentina, the Balkans and, of course, had done time as a cantankerous veteran in Iraq. There, he had not tolerated incompetence and had valued the friendship and humanity of the young man now opposite him.
‘You could say, Benjie, “They sow the wind, they shall reap the whirlwind”. Your Gillot sowed then and reaps now.’
The waitress hovered, and he indicated that they needed more time on the menu, but not on the wine list. A nicotine-stained finger stabbed on a house white, a chardonnay.
‘Book of Hosea, Jerusalem version of the Old Testament, chapter eight, I think verse seven. Yes? In my career – God, I sound pompous – I believe I tried to respond with fairness towards our assets. What do I owe him? Tell me.’
‘What are the police offering?’
‘Told him to hide in a ditch and keep his head down.’
‘Family stiffening his backbone?’
‘I doubt it. He’s a loner. All arms dealers are. They’re pariahs, on no one’s invitation list. Bizarre business, this blowback. The Americans slipped it into the lexicon to highlight the scale of the foul-up when they backed the Shah of Persia and created the monster of modern Iran. It was clever at the time, and they’ve cursed it for thirty years. The unintended consequences of an operation. Harvey Gillot made a fair profit out of that deal – set him on his feet, let him walk tall. Now it’s the ditch and maybe right into a wet culvert. I asked you, what do I owe him?’
‘In his case, put crudely, I’d want my hand held.’
‘Figuratively, literally?’
‘Maybe both – and something more in the way of advice.’
‘Spit it.’
‘He can’t hide for ever. Agreed? Can’t go into a ditch for the rest of his life. With me?’
He waved the waitress forward again. ‘Think so … Thank you. I make an abominable host. Can we order? I always go for chicken, safest, I think … Yes, with you. I hear what you say.’
It was enough to sap the enthusiasm of a convert. Megs Behan had always found those recently ordained into new branches of the clergy – or to the ranks of the anti-nicotine Fascists or the ones making the globe greener – nauseatingly saintly in the degree of their enthusiasm. Herself? The prospect of a trip to the coast had roused in her a rare sense of excitement. She had a giant canvas bag, containing her bullhorn, which was loaded with fresh batteries, and wads of leaflets describing the evils of the arms trade. Her enthusiasm drained away with a points failure west of Winchester. The convert’s loyalty to the cause suffered as she sat in a crowded carriage and watched nothing much happen outside. The coast, and the home of Harvey Gillot who sold weapons that killed innocents, was far away and the points stayed unrepaired. She had wanted to be there by midday – would be lucky now if it was late afternoon.
The battle raging inside her was fought along familiar lines: did she dare to poke her head out of the window and light a cigarette, or lock herself into the toilet and puff into the pan? She did neither, sat on the train and endured. Her mind was a jumble of statistics on weapons and ammunition exported, the destinations they went to, the schedules of flights out of Ostend, the ancient, unserviced aircraft that limped across continents in search of conflict, and men such as Gillot who met cronies and contacts in dark bars and select restaurants. None of them knew her name or what she looked like. He would, though. Too fucking right, he would. He would see her at his front gate, would hear
her anywhere in his home and … Thinking of the blast of the bullhorn was almost better than dragging on a cigarette. A miracle. An answer to the faith of the convert. The carriage lurched. The train crawled forward.
‘Quite pretty, some of them,’ Bill said.
‘Nice choices, good styles,’ Suzie added.
To Mark Roscoe what littered the lane and hung from the top of the gate, the thorn and gorse bushes, looked too pricey to be dumped as rubbish. They were all out of the car, but the engine had been left to idle. They picked their way among skirts, dresses and blouses, summer jackets and tweed ones for winter, outdoor coats for the city and anoraks for the island. There were boots and shoes in most colours, and a quality set of leather suitcases. The cases were not fastened, only partly zipped – some garments still bulged out of them while others had fallen clear.
Suzie said, ‘Looks like she had a full knicker drawer.’
Bill said, ‘Surprised she needed so many. I’d swear there was a washing-machine.’
The knickers made the best show, Roscoe thought. Maybe a slight wind had lifted the thinner ones because some were lodged in the lower branches of a couple of ash trees and on the upper foliage of the gorse. They made a bright display.
Then, sombre.
‘Do you reckon she’s all right, boss?’ Bill asked.
As they picked their way through the clothing there had been gallows humour, which police liked to peddle when they intruded on personal catastrophe. It was the protective armour they had all put on as rookies. It helped them through the worst road-traffic accidents and the deaths in housing-association flats where the cadaver had lain for a month or two and attracted enough maggots to … Roscoe had been a constable for less than a year, working in north London, when he had stood at the rail of a bridge from which a woman had jumped – fifty feet or more – into fast-moving traffic. She was splattered, some tyres had gone over her, and he could have heaved, but a veteran had said, ‘Did
you hear about that bloke who went to the lethal-injection thing in the States? They took him into the execution chamber and laid him down and he said, “Never a stunt double around when you want him.” Got it?’ It was a fair question.
Suzie said, ‘Doesn’t look as though he’s as rational as he might be, boss.’
Bill killed the car’s engine and flashed the lock. He was first over the gates. Roscoe gave Suzie a boost; he made his hands into a stirrup and shoved. Then he scrabbled for a grip, clung to the top, sweated, panted and went over. He landed hard, the breath knocked out of him. Good thing about the holster he wore: the Glock stayed firm inside.
The front door was open and the dog came out, only a Labrador and not a threat, but it ran at them and barked. Roscoe reckoned they’d find one of three things. She would be in the kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom or the living room and her blood would be on the walls and the carpet, and he’d be huddled in a corner, trembling. She would be dead and he would be in the garage with the engine running and the pipe over the exhaust, or slumped with two empty bottles – painkillers and Scotch. She wouldn’t be there, and he’d be struggling with the broadsheet crossword.
There was no blood on the dog’s coat or paws.
Suzie said, ‘He doesn’t have a shotgun licence, but he does have a firearms one. It’s on the record.’
‘What’s covered by the firearms?’ Bill demanded.
Suzie grinned, and her Glock was out of her bag. It seemed too big in her hand. ‘He has a deactivated AK-74 and had a usable AK-47. He also has an RPG-7 launcher, but not the grenade to fire from it, and there’s a Lee Enfield Mark 4 rifle, a collector’s piece. He has a handgun too, but I can’t remember what make. I suppose I should have told you up-front, but it didn’t seem important. There’ll be guns in the house. He’s an arms dealer, right?’
‘Does he have ammunition?’ Roscoe asked.
She said he had permission for limited stocks for the Kalashnikov and the Lee Enfield, but had never applied to hold
any. Meant nothing. Maybe he had ten rounds, or five, or maybe one and it was in a breech. Enough? Enough for the three of them. The Glocks were drawn, armed. Couldn’t estimate what degree of lunacy they’d confront. No more humour. Not even ‘Did you hear about the condemned guy who was taken into the room where the electric chair was and he said, “Are you people sure that thing’s safe?”’ It always made him laugh – but not now. Bill first, then Suzie through the front door, the dog with her, bounding about like it was a goddamn game, and Roscoe at the back.
Through the hall: no body, no blood.
Into the kitchen: no body, no blood, but the dog pawed at a big cupboard door. Opened it. No body, no blood, but a see-through plastic bucket two-thirds full of dried dog food. Suzie pulled it out, lifted off the lid and kicked it over. Roscoe saw on the table the two spent cartridge cases and the voice on the phone had blurted that two shots were fired. Dog behind them, eating off the floor, they did the rush tactic. One to each doorway, and two covering, then one entering, one in the doorway and one in a ‘ready’ position with the Glock held high and two-handed.
The bedroom was empty. The bed was made, the counterpane smoothed, but all the wardrobe doors were wide open and the drawers were on the carpet, stripped bare – but no body, no blood, no empty bottles, pills or whisky.
Roscoe heard the voice. Too faint at first to identify or to hear what was said. The three gathered at the door of a room that was at the back and led off the dining area. All three, all straining.
‘… No, I’m assured the end user isn’t a problem. The UK has good relations with them. Frankly, we can ship stuff into Oman with no difficulty. It’s only communications gear. I’m talking about what’ll fit on to three pallets, and it’ll be under a total of five hundred kilos. What are we looking at if I get delivery to Ostend? Does the price dip if I get delivery to you at Bratislava? Look, friend, I’m trying to push the business your way. You’re saying, then, that Bratislava isn’t as convenient as Ostend? … Ostend it is then, usual rates. Which are you using? That TriStar
or the Antonov? … The Antonov still gets into the skies? … Bloody amazing … Yes, I’m fine. Everything’s rosy, and thanks, it’s a pleasure to do business.’
Roscoe called Gillot’s name and gave his own.
The door was opened.
He would have seen the guns and the postures. The dog must have cleaned up what had been tipped from the bucket and it came from behind them, fast. It cannoned into Bill’s legs and he was jolted towards Suzie. Roscoe laughed – just for a moment, then stifled it.
He was brusque. Where was Mrs Gillot?
‘Gone, quit, took the gardener with her.’
Why were Mrs Gillot’s clothes scattered outside the gates?
‘She said she’d come back and get the rest of her stuff and that’ll make it easier for her.’
The laughter he’d stifled was about a hoary anecdote that had run the length of his crowd, Royal and Diplomatic Protection, Special Branch, Firearms in London and most of the provincial forces that supplied protection officers to politicians: a minister had had a West Country constituency, and the sniffer dog had run through the man’s home to check for explosives. It had jumped on the bed and crapped on the duvet. It had been shut back in the van while the team had hustled to the nearest launderette. Always made him laugh, but not for sharing with a Tango.
By dumping her stuff on a public highway, was he not making an exhibition of himself? ‘Not that fussed – good enough for you?’
What were his plans in view of the attack? ‘To reject the advice you’re about to trot out, stay put and consider options.’
Rising impatience and anger. Would he show them the location of the attack? ‘Yes.’
They went out into the sunshine. Roscoe saw that Gillot was limping – he had eased his feet gingerly into old sandals. Both Bill and Suzie went into a practised routine in which she was at the front and he behind. Roscoe had slipped in alongside the
Tango. They approached the gates and a smile, almost a sneer, was on Gillot’s face. Suzie asked, not taking her eyes off the shrubs, the gates and the top of the wall, whether he had taken out any of his weapons from whatever secure store he kept them in. He replied easily that he had not, and threw questions back at her. Did she know that the AK-74 was deactivated? Did she know also that the AK-47 was not deactivated because it had actually been run over, in the Panshir Valley, by the tracks of a Soviet main battle tank? And the RPG-7 launcher had a half-bucket of Sinai sand in its tube, had rusted through and would kill anyone who tried to use it. Last, did she know that the Lee Enfield Mark 4 had been buried in a shell blast in the
bocage
battle of Normandy in 1944 and not dug up until the skeleton was recovered in 1998? It would need more than engineering oil to free up its working parts. There was a Luger pistol, from the Great War, and the barrel had been drilled. It didn’t work and she should check why her paperwork did not provide the up-to-date situation with the near-historic weapons. They were kept under the living room in a safe mini-bunker, reached by a trapdoor and hidden from view by the carpet.