The Falklands Intercept (4 page)

Jacot climbed the wooden staircase to a set of rooms fifty yards or so away from the scene of Verney's death. He entered a small hall with a tiny kitchen running off it with a small mullioned window looking out onto the roof at the back. To the left was a bedroom of the usual Cambridge Spartan appearance with a tiny loo and shower room somehow squeezed in. For some reason the set came with the added amenity of a four-poster bed – a luxury in years gone by and still a useful antidote to the bitter Cambridge winters. His suitcase was on a chair to the side. To the right the sitting room was plainly but pleasingly decorated in white and gold, with prints of scenes from the frankly rather sad life of Marie De Medici, including one of her standing with her arch-enemy and nemesis Cardinal Richelieu portrayed almost as a pantomime villain. Two large sash windows overlooked the Cam – this part of the college appeared to have been reworked in the eighteenth century. It was a rich college and rather like staying in a smart but slightly old fashioned hotel in Venice.

Jacot locked both the outer and inner doors. The closing of the outer door indicated that he did not wish to be disturbed – in the slang of the University his “oak” was “sported”. A raw and freezing Cambridge evening, the mist was rising from the Cam almost to the windows of the room. It was time to start ferreting around the life of the college so that he understood its personalities and routine. There might be something
significant
. He settled down in front of the gas fire (but it looked real) to compose his thoughts.

There was a knock at the door which Jacot opened to the Fellows' Butler immaculate in a dark black suit.

‘I'm sorry to bother you Colonel, but I just thought I'd check that you had everything you need.'

‘'74 good to see you.' They both smiled broadly but did not go on to shake hands, despite having been in the same platoon years before. Instead, they held each other's shoulders briefly like a couple of middle-aged French generals at a Liberation Day Parade. They had both been burned on the
Oliver Cromwell
. Everyone's hands had been just too painful for many months for the usual act of human greeting. Even after they were all recovered the habit stuck.

‘Come and have a drink and tell me how you are getting on. Golly, it's thirty years ago this year since we were all blown to kingdom come and more than five or so since my
fellowship
here.'

‘Very good sir. I've got half an hour before I have to get High Table organised.'

Jacot fetched a newly opened bottle of Veuve Clicquot and poured two glasses.

Jones laughed. ‘Do you remember that we would bring Veuve Clicquot to your room in Germany? Five pounds a bottle in those days.'

They talked of this and that – regimental gossip, the lives and achievements or
otherwise
of those they had served with both in the Falklands and the Rhine Army. Their opinions on most people seemed to coincide and both were appalled that one of their least favourite creatures had gone on to become a general.

Jones said ‘Total charisma bypass as I remember but became a top general. No
discernible
personality at all most of the time. Nasty piece of back-stabbing work and not much good down South either.'

The glint in Jones's eye reminded Jacot that Jones held unforgiving views about on those he felt were not up to scratch. He had been on glittering form during the Falklands and selected highlights emerged from deep inside Jacot's memory. His summing up of Mrs Thatcher after one of her sub-Churchillian orations broadcast by the BBC World Service was a Swiftian masterpiece of character assassination. His views on the Americans and US Secretary of State Al Haig's efforts to broker a deal with the Argentine military junta were unprintable. It was as if the United States of America, far from being the shining beacon on a hill of post war legend, was responsible for most of the ills of the world. But Sergeant Jones reserved his real slashing hatred for the BBC World Service.

As they sailed south on the QE2, the 50,000 tonne Cunard liner more used to
cruising
the Caribbean, initially Jones' mood had been genial. Like everyone else in the
regiment
he wanted to go to war. People had been returning from all over the world in an effort to go south. It didn't seem to matter whether you were flying a desk in Hong Kong or trudging the streets of West Belfast undercover with raincoat and revolver, everyone wanted to be part of it. But as he listened each night to the BBC's take on the Falklands crisis, sitting on his backpack and sipping sweet tea, Jones' mood darkened. He could not understand that the BBC, in whatever guise, appeared to treat the British task force in the same way as it treated our opponents. The tone of the newscasters was neutral. The progress of Her Majesty's armed forces was described and then the activities of the
occupying
forces of the fascist Argentine junta were described. It sounded like the
commentary
on a particularly dull football match with the commentators entirely indifferent to the eventual outcome. Jones was appalled and cursed them in colourful terms. It was more than soldiers' black humour. It was a revolt by a rough but simple spirit against what he saw as treason. Jacot could not explain it to him. He was as puzzled as Jones himself.

‘Worse than the IRA. At least they don't want to be British. It's as if these bastards actually don't mind if the Argies win.' And then Jones would crack obscene jokes about the imagined and highly irregular sexual proclivities of the various newscasters he had seen on television back home. But as the voyage South continued he stopped cursing them in
English. The offence was too great. He reverted to his native Welsh which Jacot did not understand. The curses and expletives were so strong that they seemed to shock the
Welsh-speaking
guardsmen. Everyone knows that Welsh is a good language to love or sing in. It is also good for hating – Jones invoked the curses of the Druids, apparently learned at his mother's breast – in thunderous contempt for what we had allowed our world to become. It was simple for Sergeant Jones and indeed for everyone except the BBC – the Falklanders were kith and kin. Jones was particularly offended that he had to pay the licence fee to fund what he described as ‘treasonous crap'. He had proudly shown Jacot a paragraph at the end of a letter home instructing his wife not to renew their television licence – a big step. Llanbedr, the remote village in Snowdonia that he came from may have been poor but it was still god-fearing and law-abiding.

Jacot laughed a lot. It was, as always, good to see Jones. The bonds between them forged in the Falklands remained strong. They had led a platoon together in difficult
circumstances
. Jacot was acutely conscious that Jones had pretty much saved his life. Gratitude was a positive emotion. But he also felt guilt. If he had agreed to Jones'
perfectly
sensible suggestion to get the men on deck a few minutes before the missile hit everything would have been different – at least for their own platoon.

Once, while they were recovering in hospital he had begun both to apologise and to thank him, but Jones turned quickly away his eyes signalling both embarrassment and anger. Some things were better left unsaid. Nevertheless, a great unspoken military
intimacy
still existed between them. They laughed and chatted and drank their champagne.

‘I need some answers 74. I need you to help me. You volunteered for special duties in the 1980s and you know the kind of world I currently operate in. I can rely on you not to blab.'

‘No worries, Colonel.' Jones grinned and took a long sip of his champagne.

‘OK let's start with the basics. Did you see anything unusual when you took Verney up his breakfast?'

‘Well, no. The door was locked. Odd in a private house but not in a hotel or a Cambridge college. I banged on the door for a while and when there was no reply I got worried very quickly. The general had asked me specifically to wake him and bring him breakfast. The St James', or more properly the Charles the Second Lecturer, is a big deal so of course I was happy to help out but breakfast in bed is not normally something we would do. General Verney knew that so it was strange that he didn't come to the door. I am a big bloke, as you know. I tried pushing quite hard but it was clear the door was locked and bolted so I had to get the head porter to help.'

‘You went to the porters' lodge to get him?'

‘No, I called him on my mobile. It's a lot easier in these big colleges. So, yes I was outside the room from that time until the head porter arrived.'

‘Could anyone have got into General Verney's room unseen?'

‘I doubt it very much. You never know in these colleges. I suspect girlfriends were
smuggled in using some imagination about the routes until all that was swept away in the 1960s. But there are no secret passages as far as I know. Tunnels would be difficult this close to the river anyway. There is also a great tradition of night climbing in the
university
. Dates back to the Thirties I believe. I have on occasion seen young male
undergraduates
scaling walls and gates that would make me nervous. But actually getting into a double locked set of rooms directly overlooking the river – well nigh impossible I would say. And remember too we are a tourist attraction. The Bridge of Sorrows is the second most visited sight in Cambridge. It's lit up at night, all night. Oh and there's a live webcam. Fanatical Jamesians have it set as their home screen on their computers – and they have it too at the porters' lodge.'

They had half finished the bottle by now.

‘What about someone sneaking upstairs with Verney after the feast?'

‘Colonel, you've clearly remembered what I was doing before the Falklands. I wangled my way back to the battalion from special duties in Northern Ireland. You know what that means?'

‘Yes, of course – 14 Company', said Jacot. ‘Or more properly 14 Intelligence and Security Company. Now I think called the Special Reconnaissance Regiment.'

‘Precisely. A year's training in 1980 and nearly a year out there – noticing things. That's what we did. Can't say I was particularly sharp at the surveillance and my size was always a problem. I wasn't even so beefy then. So normally I was the guy in the car, although I got quite good at covert entry techniques. Do you remember how basic the army was thirty years ago?'

‘I think the world was more basic full stop. No computers. Either not enough or far too much central heating.' Jacot laughed and re-filled their glasses.

‘Nissen huts. I remember being taught about locks in a Nissen hut in North Wales. You walked into the room and there were lots of army desks covered in army blankets. And on top of each one six different types of lock. Every day for a month as the rain pissed down outside. The nearest pint was about ten miles away and no one had a car. Not even the officers.' Jones laughed and his eyes lit up at the memory. ‘By the end of the month most of us could pick a lock in seconds. It got quite competitive between the lads. And the IRA never worked it out. They had all sorts of precautions. You know bits of hair on the door like in a James Bond film. Useless Paddies. But the point of my story is that I notice things and I understand locks. I just can't see how anyone could have got into General Verney's room, killed him and then got out again locking and chocking the door and closing the windows. Can't be done.'

‘All right, all right. Let me move on. What about Dr Pirbright, General Verney's
academic
assistant and a fellow of this college?'

‘Yes sir.' There was a trace of wariness in Jones' voice.

‘What sort of a person is she?' asked Jacot.

‘Well what you see is what you get really. Very good looking and very clever young
lady. Very good looking.'

‘How good looking?'

‘Well sir. You know what I mean, and no doubt you will be meeting her this evening or tomorrow morning.'

‘Good looking enough for it to cause trouble.'

Jones smiled. He was basically an honest soldier. ‘Exactly sir. She's a nice girl. Always polite and considerate to the college servants. But looks like that…'

‘Who is or has been after her?'

‘Well in the college everyone likes her. I am not aware she is stepping out with anyone just now. Although she is said to be something of a “femme fatale”, I think the phrase is.'

Jacot knew well the effect of a very beautiful girl within a closed community. ‘Anyone else?'

‘I don't think so. But some of our young men are prone to take a strong fancy to her. She has only been with us eighteen months.'

‘Look 74, I'll cut to the chase…'

‘Don't worry Colonel. I'll find out everything you need to know about her love life and her researches with General Verney, if you like. There have been some strong rumours that they were on to something interesting about Captain Scott. You know the explorer.'

‘Good man. And anything else I might need to know about. Come on let's finish the bottle.'

‘How are things back in Wales?'

‘Mam soldiers on. Luckily for her as you know we were a large family. But I don't think she has ever got over Bryn's death. He was her favourite. Not in a bad way. He was the youngest and it seemed natural to the rest of us. My brother Bryn and all those men. I was there the other side of the door. I could hear him dying. We couldn't get through. You were there and I bet those hands still hurt in the winter.'

Jacot said nothing.

‘It still comes back to me sometimes in the night.' Jones was shaking a little now as if he was shivering. He moved towards the window overlooking the Bridge of Sorrows. ‘What about you sir?'