The Burma Legacy (13 page)

‘How long did they give him?’

‘The doc was loath to commit himself – you know what medics are like. But they were talking months rather than years.’ The lawyer snorted with derision. ‘Poor sod. No more injecting his worldly wisdom into his female students through their nether regions.’

‘At seventy-seven, he can’t have done much of that in recent years,’ Sam remarked.

‘Don’t you believe it. Until the op he claimed to have the libido of a young man. Told me once that he hoped to die in the act with a woman young enough to be his granddaughter. He was being deliberately provocative,’ he added, seeing Sam’s raised eyebrows.

Sam fiddled with the cap of the mineral water bottle. If Harrison was terminally ill there could be a tragically simple explanation for his disappearance. He might have driven somewhere remote and piped the car exhaust through the window.

‘How was he when you saw him? Depressed?’

‘Hard to say. Still hadn’t grasped what had happened I suspect.’

Sam scratched his head. ‘I can’t understand why
the people at Bordhill didn’t mention this to the police.’

‘Under strict instructions not to, probably. And there’s no reason why anyone other than Ingrid Madsen would’ve known. My father was quite remote from most of the residents.’

‘Apart from the ones he was sleeping with.’

‘Quite.’

‘Any idea who his latest was?’

‘None at all. The only woman I know at the manor is Ingrid, and I’ve always got the impression that when it comes to earthly pleasures she’s not in favour of them.’

‘It amazes me he got away with it for so long,’ Sam commented.

‘Masters write their own rules. Anyway, for my father, Bordhill Manor was never about religion or philosophy. It’s about having people on tap to play his own private games with.’ He looked at his watch, a reminder that their time was short.

‘I’m trying to get a feeling for how his mind works,’ Sam said. ‘So we can anticipate what he might do.’

‘That letter really got to you people, didn’t it?’

‘In the context of his disappearance we
have
to see it as a threat,’ Sam said solemnly. ‘I’m curious. When you were a child, how aware were you of what he’d been through in the camps?’

‘Never knew anything about it until that book came out.’

‘You astonish me.’

‘I was only three when he abandoned my ma first
time round and went back to Burma. Didn’t really meet the man until he returned in ’62. I was twelve.’

‘Your mother …?’

‘Avoided mentioning him. Certainly never talked about his past.’

‘So when he returned it was a bit of a shock.’

‘Highly unsettling. Until then it had just been her and me at home. A family of two, with a few photos to remind me I’d once had a father. Then, suddenly he turned up. And instead of mum telling him to bugger off after dumping her like that, she welcomed him home. Settled him in front of the fire like he’d merely popped down to the post office. I felt thoroughly displaced. Particularly as my father had no knack with children. We had polite but meaningless conversations for a year which felt like a decade. And never any mention of what had happened in the war. Then he left again to set up the Bordhill Community. My hapless mother tried to pass this second desertion off as father having been called by God to live in a monastery. But I wasn’t fooled. I could see the defeat in her eyes. He broke her spirit, Mr Maxwell. It was a bad time for us.’

‘I can imagine. But surely, at that stage, your mother must have told you what the Japs had done to him? As a way of explaining his strange behaviour.’

‘Nope. I’m telling you, it simply didn’t feature in my childhood. Like sex, it was a subject one simply didn’t discuss at home. It may have been because she didn’t dare tell me about it. I was a rather precocious twelve year old, with very firm views. To me, the dropping of the atom bombs on Hiroshima and
Nagasaki was a far greater obscenity than what the Japs did to the likes of my father.’

‘So what did you think when he spilled it all out in
Jungle Path to Hell
?’

‘I was shaken. Naturally. I was twenty-five when the book came out, my mind rather more open by then.’ He took in a deep breath, as if trying to prevent some deep-seated emotions coming to the surface. ‘Mixed feelings, you could say. The details of his childhood I certainly found fascinating, but I felt cheated having to learn it from a book.’

‘Of course.’

‘And the descriptions of the war in Burma, his capture, the torture and so on … it brought it all home. To discover someone related to me had been through all that and survived – well, you simply have to stand up and salute, don’t you? Whatever your reservations about the man in question.’ He squeezed his jaw. ‘You’ve read the book? All of it?’

‘Not all. But a lot.’

‘I wonder if you can guess the part I found hardest to take?’

Sam said he couldn’t.

‘Learning I had two half-brothers. That he’d had two more sons by a Burmese woman after abandoning my mother that first time.’

‘You never knew that?’

Harrison shook his head.

‘Your mother …?’

‘Didn’t know anything about it either. That’s what resolved her never to speak to him again.’

‘Not surprisingly.’

‘He’d admitted having relationships during the decade away, but nothing about children. Nothing about having lived with one particular woman all that time, even going through a form of marriage with her.’ Harrison exhaled through pursed lips. ‘It was bigamy. My parents weren’t divorced.’

‘These half-brothers – you’ve met them since?’

‘No. Don’t even know their Burmese names. He uses English ones in the book. George and Michael.’

‘Never tried to make contact?’

‘No. Too far away, both culturally and geographically. I’m not a great traveller, Mr Maxwell. We prefer our summers in Cornwall or the Lake District. Only go long distances if we really have to.’

‘And your father made no effort to put you in touch.’

‘None. I have a feeling he felt bad about his Burmese woman. More so than he did about my mother. Tried to shut it out. But … well, his attitude to women is absolutely outrageous, as you know. He uses them with great selfishness. And yet they forgive him.’ He tapped his fingers on the book which lay next to their sandwich wrappings. ‘When this little time-bomb came out, the
News of the World
did an exposé on Bordhill. Tracked down a couple of young women who’d spent a few years there. Each told the same story of a secret and highly intimate liaison with my father, which ended when he moved on to the next young initiate. Both took it without protest and said they felt privileged to have been chosen by him. Now, that’s
power
, Mr Maxwell, when you can get women to love you so unconditionally.’

‘Enviable power,’ Sam muttered. ‘His women may have been forgiving, but what about your father himself? Any sign he’s prepared to put the past behind him now he’s nearing his end?’

‘Not when it comes to the Japanese, no.’

‘You ever discuss that with him?’

‘In recent years, yes. I told him his refusal to buy Japanese goods was daft. But he wouldn’t be shifted. He hates them with a passion and won’t do anything to benefit them financially, or in any other way for that matter.’

‘Is he still having nightmares?’

‘Oh yes. The same dream every time. The face of the man torturing him. You know the worst thing for him?’

‘The utter brutality of it?’

‘No. They were fighting a war and dreadful things were done by all sides. No. What he couldn’t forgive was that the Japs destroyed his self-respect.’ The lawyer leaned forward, lowering his voice while strengthening its intensity. ‘They reduced him to a level where he was forced to confront his own weakness, Mr Maxwell. Once, a few years ago in about the only moment of openness I can remember, my father told me he’d cried like a baby when they tortured him. Wept with self-pity and self-loathing. And that man, Tetsuo Kamata, had just watched. Looked down at him with utter contempt. That’s what my father can’t forget. They cut out his pride, you see. Systematically. Like excising a tongue. Something that could never be restored. That was the reason he had those breakdowns after the war, the
ones my mother nursed him through. Because the Japs had made him feel completely worthless. And,’ he added with one eyebrow raised, ‘it didn’t help that his fellow countrymen showed no interest whatsoever when he and his fellow POWs returned home. Oh yes. His hatred of the Japanese makes perfect sense to me, even if I wish he’d been able to get over it.’

‘You believe he’ll try to kill Kamata?’

Harrison pursed his lips and upended the mineral water bottle into the plastic beaker. He stared down at the bursting bubbles, warily watching each one as if it were a new piece of evidence he’d not expected.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Could he do it?’ Sam pressed.

Harrison flicked a glance upwards. ‘He killed Japanese soldiers during the war. Used a bayonet on several of them. Hasn’t got the same physical strength today, but you don’t need brawn to end a man’s life. You need brains and determination, and he’s got plenty of those.’

‘So where’s he gone? If he were going to kill Kamata, where would he do it?’

The lawyer shook his head. ‘Guessing’s not my thing.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘Now I
really
have to go.’ Leaning forward one more time, he added, ‘I’ll tell you one thing for free, though. Now he knows about his cancer, uppermost in my father’s mind would be the realisation that he has to act soon.’

‘Because …’

‘… if he doesn’t,
he’ll
die before Kamata does. And he wouldn’t like that, Mr Maxwell. Wouldn’t like it at all.’

As they walked back towards the Old Bailey, Sam asked Charles Harrison if he’d known about his father’s involvement in protests against the multinationals.

‘No, but it doesn’t surprise me. He’d join any organisation that meant fresh totty to get his hands on.’

With that final burst of cynicism he bade Sam goodbye and hurried back into the Central Criminal Court.

The sun had come out, but there was a cold wind. Sam continued towards St Paul’s underground station, then took a diversion into a quieter side street to phone Duncan Waddell on his mobile.

His controller sounded out of breath and admitted to having run up several flights of stairs after going for a sandwich. Sam told him about Perry Harrison’s terminal illness.

‘Ah,’ he exclaimed, sounding almost hopeful. ‘You mean you’ve found him in a hospice somewhere?’

‘No such luck. Has Kamata left the UK yet?’

‘Still in London. Flying back to Tokyo tomorrow.’

‘And after that? You’ve got his diary?’

‘We’re still working on it. His hotel room’s been searched, along with those of his staff, but nothing was found about his future travel plans. Tokyo station is trying to recruit someone inside Matsubara.’

‘It’ll take too long.’

‘And we don’t have the resources, to be honest.’

‘What about the search of Bordhill?’

‘That’s being worked on.’

Sam heard shouting in the distance. He swung round to see where it was coming from, but the street was boxed in by offices which blocked his view.

‘Duncan, I need a full breakdown of everything the Matsubara Corporation does. And a list of the countries it’s involved in. Every last tentacle, down to the smallest subsidiary.’

‘We’re collecting that already. I’ll email it to you. What are your immediate plans?’

The shouting was getting closer. Chanting too.

‘There seems to be a demo. I’m somewhere near St Paul’s.’

‘That’s the anti-global mob,’ Waddell told him gruffly. ‘The City police have pulled hundreds of extra men in on overtime. Don’t you
ever
read newspapers?’

Sam ignored the remark. ‘Perry Harrison took part in the last protest in June. Did you know that?’

‘Nothing surprises me with that man.’

‘Think I’ll go and take a look.’

‘For God’s sake, he’s hardly likely to turn up there …’

‘No, but some of his friends might. I’ll ring you in a couple of hours.’

Melissa Dennis sensed that today’s demo would end up being a waste of time. The turnout was poor and the atmosphere lacked the electricity of the last time she’d marched against the global corporations. She kept wondering if it would have been different had Perry been with them, but she suspected that even his enthusiasm and inspiring words would have failed to lift the glumness that hovered over her and her companions like a cloud of midges.

Three of them had driven up from Cambridgeshire that morning. Toby had hardly spoken to her since the incident on Saturday, save to remind her precisely what had happened at the pub in case the alcohol had wiped it from her memory. And the other man in their group, with whom she’d never had much in common, was a moody schizophrenic, whose stability depended on remembering to take his medicine.

So the morning had consisted of a rather silent drive south, followed by a miserable plod through the cold, damp fumes of London’s streets. Today, however, she didn’t mind the surly silence of her immediate companions. Welcomed it even, because her mind was far too busy with plans to want to be distracted by idle chatter.

The procession rounded a corner and she spotted the dome of St Paul’s. She had half a mind to break away from the demo and pop into the cathedral for a rest and to get warm. And to give the pain in her insides a chance to ease up.

Sam walked towards the noise. Emerging onto Newgate Street and facing north towards the tall, grey towers of the Barbican he saw the head of the procession approaching, its banners and floats tailing back. A police incident-control van crawled a few feet in front, an officer watching the crowd from inside a perspex bubble on the roof.

The protest looked small and unthreatening. Sam stood at the kerb as it passed, studying faces and banners. Some slogans were rants against the Big Mac, others were old-fashioned Marxist dogma. Their target list was wide – globalisation and almost anything bad that could be attributed to men with million-pound salaries.