The One a Month Man (14 page)

Genuinely horror-struck, her face contorted by grief and
self-loathing
, she said, ‘Oh my God! Dad was always so stoical; a backbone-of-Britain type. Nothing ever fazed him. He was the sort of man you’d want on an aircraft in an emergency. He’d soak up all the panic and replace it with calm serenity. What have I done? What my poor mother must have been through! And all because of me.’ I didn’t detect any self-pity. ‘How can anyone ever make up for all the misery I’ve generated?’

‘You can’t,’ I said, harshly. The brutal truth was better than a cheap, anodyne lie.

‘But doing the right thing now, which you are, will go a long way towards balancing the books,’ Sarah quickly pitched in, dousing any flames, instead of fanning them, for which I was renowned.

Tina used her serviette to mop up her tears. ‘Would I be welcome in my mother’s home now, do you suppose?’ she asked, hesitantly and rhetorically.

‘A reunion would complete the circle of your mother’s life, I’m certain of that,’ said Sarah, playing the good fairy.

‘Is she still living in the same house, my childhood home?’

‘Same one,’ I said.

For a few moments, a sort of hallowed and sepulchral silence enveloped us, as if we had just entered a holy building, a temple, whereupon all conversations were guillotined, even those in mid-sentence.

‘We could always act as a conduit for you,’ suggested Sarah, looking to me for support.

‘No problem,’ I said.

‘Would you
really
?’

‘Really,’ I reaffirmed.

‘I need time to prepare myself.’

‘Time is the one thing you should have in abundance for the next few days,’ I said.

We retired to our rooms together. A uniformed officer,
semi-automatic
slung over his shoulder, was sitting outside the door to Tina’s room, a soft porn magazine tucked down the side of the chair. He nodded to me as Tina let herself into her room, the door clicking closed behind her, immediately followed by the sound of the bolt being applied and the security chain fastened.

‘Have you ever had to use that thing?’ I asked,
conversationally
, gesturing towards the weapon.

‘Twice. Kid bicycle-thieves. Separate occasions. Got ’em
point-blank. In the back of the head. Dead in an instant. Brains made a mess of the bikes.’

‘What!’ I exclaimed, aghast, at first missing his piss-taking grin.

‘But only in my meanest dreams,’ he added, slyly.

Secretly, he must have been saying to himself,
Gotcha, stupid big-shot
!

Tina’s reunion with her mother was set up by Sarah. I wanted no part of it. Although I was invited along as chauffeur, I declined emphatically. A tea party for a prodigal daughter, accompanied by a feast of cloying, mawkish sentimentality, was not my idea of a joy-ride.

While they were in Bedford, the news came through to me, via one of Sharkey’s acolytes, that a warrant had been issued for the arrest of Richard Pope. The plan was to charge him with the three murders and the assault of Tina with intent to murder.

‘Who will be making the arrest?’ I asked.

The cough that preceded his answer was a mannerism, like a nervous tic. ‘Me, of course. Only right that I should. Protocol, that’s all.’

‘So if there’s a cock-up, the fallout lands on your head and shoulders, right?’

Glory-hunters have to live by the same rules as head-hunters. Sometimes it’s their heads that end up scalped.

‘I have broad shoulders,’ he boasted.

‘I’ll remind you of that, if need be,’ I warned.

A chill was developing in the air between us.

‘I’ll be returning to Oxford tomorrow, but I don’t know when. In the meantime, don’t let our queen bee witness out of your sight.’

I think if I’d disclosed to Sharkey that Tina and Sarah had gone to Bedford, leaving me in Oxford, the only arrest impacting on his life would have been a cardiac one.

‘I’ll keep you updated,’ he said, his way of signing off.

Sarah called me around eight in the evening. ‘We’ll be on the road in about five,’ she said, straight to the point.

‘How did it go?’

‘There were so many tears I feared the three of us would be drowned.’

‘Lived up to my expectations, then. I’ve always been a poor swimmer in emotional floods. Keeping well away from it was a good call of mine.’

‘Tina’s mum’s on cloud nine, still walking on air.’

‘That beats walking on water,’ I said. ‘Who said modern
miracles
lacked biblical panache?’

‘Obviously not you.’

Next morning, we killed time. While the women went to the indoor swimming pool, I worked out in the gym. Late afternoon, I took Sharkey’s second call of the day. Right from the outset I knew that all was not well.

‘Negotiations have been initiated with US ambassadorial staff,’ he stated, flatly.

‘Amicable?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ There was something sardonic in his voice now.

‘No problem, then, about a handover?’

‘Oh, yeah; one very big problem. The Home Office has been informed that there’s no Richard Pope based at the US Embassy. He doesn’t exist. Our “One-A-Month Man” is a phantom. Figment of the imagination.’

I was left contemplating Sharkey’s broad shoulders.

A
depression had descended over Oxford; well, over our little quarter of the cloistered city.

Three long faces.

Not a smile for a mile.

Sharkey hadn’t shaved. I hadn’t slept. Sarah hadn’t bothered with a comb or hairbrush.

We sat around a bare-topped table in the briefing room. Sharkey assumed the role of chairman of the board. Our demeanours and appearances accurately mirrored the collective mood. Morose and crestfallen.

‘We’re being stitched up,’ said Sharkey.

‘Obviously,’ I said.

‘Where’s the fucking coffee?’ Sharkey growled, digressing and thumping the table with a hairy fist. There was passion in his punch. In his mind’s eye, I sensed he was punching to splinter human bone and tissue, rather than wood.

On cue, a rap on the door heralded the arrival of three coffees, in ghastly polystyrene mugs, courtesy of a harassed, uniformed female rookie.

Sharkey’s appreciation was restricted to a grunt.

The coffee-bearing officer’s antennae didn’t need to be very sensitive in order to pick up the vibes. Sensibly, she beat a hasty, muted retreat.

‘He’s
in
there!’ Sharkey boomed, again underscoring his assertion with knuckle on wood.

‘Are you accusing the US ambassador of being a liar, of orchestrating a conspiracy to obstruct justice?’ said Sarah, her temerity evoking a look from Sharkey suggesting that he’d just spied a cockroach swimming in his drink.

‘Stuff the semantics!’ he seethed. ‘What I’m
saying
– not fucking
suggesting
– is that we’re being shat on from high.’

‘Don’t all embassies have to list their diplomatic staff to the appropriate agencies of host countries?’ I said, prosaically, hoping to lower temperature and tension.

‘Of course they bloody do! Of course they’re bloody
meant
to.’

‘So what’s the Foreign Office say?’ said Sarah, not the least cowed by Sharkey’s petulance.

‘Richard Pope entered the UK at Heathrow nineteen months ago to be a part of the US embassy establishment in London. This is confirmed by MI5. Our Intelligence people know about everyone at all the embassies in the capital. They know who are the legits and who are the spooks.’

‘Might it not be a simple matter of Pope being on leave?’ said Sarah.

‘The only
simple
fact in all this is that we’re being farted on – from a great height and with an equally great blast,’ said Sharkey, unrelenting with his vitriol. ‘No, it’s not a
simple matter
of his being on leave. The message was categorical: there’s no Richard Pope on the US Embassy’s books in London.’

‘They can’t deny that he entered the UK and was on the embassy payroll,’ I said, perplexed.

‘They haven’t tried to. They’re being typically duplicitous and vague. By
typically
, I mean fork-tongued, cloak-and-dagger, diplomatic lizards. Shysters all!’

‘Is Pope known to our Intelligence agencies as a CIA
operative
?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘If he’s been repatriated, wouldn’t our people have to be informed?’ I continued.

‘Of course. A matter of protocol.’

‘And that hasn’t happened?’ said Sarah.

‘No.’

‘Has he accommodation in the embassy or has he been living elsewhere?’ I said.

‘If he lived outside the embassy, arresting him would have been easy. No, he’s holed up in
there
, his sanctuary, a bolt-hole, like a church in medieval times, where he can’t be bagged by us. While in the embassy, he’s on US soil, governed by US
legislation
. Diplomatic immunity! Diplomatic impunity, I call it! The bane of
our
lives.’

‘But the moment he steps outside, he’s all ours,’ I said, not with a great amount of optimism, I must confess.

‘In theory,’ said Sharkey, still doleful. ‘But we don’t even know what he looks like nowadays. We have photos of him as a student, but that was all of thirty years ago. He could be fat, bald, bespectacled, and sporting a Father Christmas beard, for all we know.’

‘Surely MI5 will have an up-to-date mug-shot of him on file,’ I said.

‘That’s a thought,’ said Sharkey, perking up a little. ‘But it’s still not going to get us far unless there’s a thaw in Grosvenor Square and a deal is brokered. Scotland Yard won’t be able to watch the embassy day and night for us indefinitely, just in case Pope should sneak out, even if they have a current photo of him. We’re well and truly stymied, that’s the bottom line.’ The gloom had returned.

‘Seems to me all you can do is keep pressing,’ I said.

Then to an issue that couldn’t be eschewed. ‘What shall I tell Tina?’

Emblematic of a pilloried brain, Sharkey thrummed his podgy fingers on the table. ‘What a cock-up! But as things are, we can’t justify keeping her here any longer, funding her stay from the public purse. We’re going to have to let her go.’

‘There’s no guarantee she’ll be prepared to return,’ I cautioned.

‘So be it,’ said Sharkey, throwing up his hands in surrender, a hostage to his force’s budget. ‘For all I know, we could be at a permanent impasse. Break it to her gently. Try to keep her sweet, just in case.’

The meeting was over. Career-wise, this had to be my nadir. Success, so quickly, had turned sour.

As we drove to the hotel, in tomb-like silence, an idea was already germinating in my head, but I decided not to share it with Sarah just yet. Give it time to crystallize.

Tina had remained in her room, with a female chaperone from Sharkey’s stable deputizing for Sarah and an armed guard in the corridor.

‘That was quick,’ said Tina. ‘I was expecting you to be gone most of the day. Something wrong?’

She looked from me to Sarah and back again.

‘We need to talk,’ I said, solemnly. ‘Alone.’

Sarah’s stand-in took the hint, saying, ‘I’ll be off, then. Plenty for me to get on with elsewhere.’

There was no way of softening what I had to tell Tina. A doctor had once said to me, ‘If a patient has terminal cancer, you can’t package the news in tinsel, as if it’s a Christmas present at the top of a wish-list. The kindest way to deliver the blow is straight to the chin, but with a padded glove. “The bad news is that you’re going to die; the good news is that, with luck, it won’t be today.”’

So I followed the good doctor’s prescription. I told Tina
everything
about Pope and his role with the US government and what he was doing in London, and the outcome of negotiations to have him handed over. When I’d finished, Tina said, subdued, ‘So they’re closing ranks?’

‘Looks that way,’ I said.

She was sitting deflated on the side of the bed, head in her chest. I was squatting on the writing desk, alongside the TV, while Sarah stood at the window, a silhouette the other side of the net curtain, her back to us, staring into space.

Tina glanced at the subtle green glow of crystal digits at the foot of the blank TV screen. I realized what she was doing: converting UK time from the screen clock into New York time.

‘There’s no chance of Laura being at home yet,’ she said, as if dictating a memo to herself. ‘I’ll fly home tomorrow. Can you book me on a flight?’

‘Of course,’ said Sarah, swivelling away from the window, unravelling herself from the hanging veil. ‘Leave it to me.’

We’d bought Tina an ‘open’ return ticket in New York as our last waltz in the dance of diplomacy to secure her agreement. Now she just wanted a quick-step out of Oxford.

Oxford had given her a raw deal as a student. Nothing had changed for her. She would call her mother to say farewell, no doubt appreciating that it would also be a final goodbye, a fact that would not be lost on Mrs Marlowe.

Machinations were scuttling around inside my head. With luck I could manipulate a window of opportunity with a
time-frame
of perhaps three hours, which I would definitely need.

‘We’ll only be kicking our heels until tomorrow, so if you want to fit in some last-day shopping, I’m sure Sarah would be happy to keep you company,’ I said, conjuring up nonchalance.

Sarah shot me a look that screamed,
Now what are you up to
?

‘Might as well,’ Tina said, lethargically. ‘I ought to get
something
for Laura. She always brings me back a little pressie every time she’s been on a trip. She’s very thoughtful that way.’ Finally, lifting her head and spirits, she said to Sarah, ‘I’m ready whenever you are.’

‘Take your time,’ I said, provoking yet another searching look from Sarah.

I went down to the lobby with them and watched them drive
away from the car park before making a call to my favourite
mechanic
at the Yard.

‘You busy?’ I said.

‘Always am, seven/seven.’

‘Fancy dropping everything to do me a favour?’

‘Depends where and what.
Dropping everything
isn’t the kind of open cheque I’ll ever sign – you should know that.’

Succinctly, I briefed her of my requirements.

‘Sounds straightforward enough,’ she said. ‘Shouldn’t take me more than five minutes once I’m with you.’

‘That really is a quickie, but you’ll need to get here pronto to avoid being caught in the act. A three-hour time-frame at the most.’

‘That’s OK. I’m wearing my wings today.’

‘Just burn rubber,’ I said.

‘For you, duckie, I’d burn my bra.’

Detective Constable Maggie Diamond, the hotshot
mechanic
, had only marginally overstated her expertise.

Her prophesy that she’d be ‘in and out’ within five minutes was only a trifle over-optimistic. I marvelled at her deft,
sleight-of
-hand skill, almost amounting to sorcery.

‘All done,’ she announced, slapping generous hips trapped inside tailored jeans.

After we’d exited Tina’s room, we walked together to Maggie’s BMW sports car, a present from her dad, a Harley Street forensic psychiatrist, who was often employed by
prosecution
and defence counsels as an expert witness in court cases.

‘You’re
au fait
with the equipment, aren’t you?’ she said, just as she was hoisting herself behind the wheel.

‘If I’m not by now, I never shall be,’ I said, when ‘yes’ would have been sufficient and more economic.

‘It shouldn’t let you down because it’s foolproof,’ she said, her eyes sparkling with innuendo.

‘Obviously made with me in mind, then,’ I quipped, relying on self-deprecation to keep me in the joust.

‘Incidentally, there’s no chance of my burning a bra for you now because I’m not wearing one,’ she said, as a punchline.

‘Now you tell me!’ I rejoined.

She grinned, gunned the engine, and was gone, with a throaty roar.

The red-eyed tail of Maggie’s BMW had only just filtered into the main highway traffic when Sarah’s car nosed sedately, by contrast, into the car park.

Instead of hanging around to greet them, I hotfooted my way to my room to prepare to operate the high-tech equipment that Maggie had installed.

As I lay on the bed, propped up by a bank of pillows, I heard Tina letting herself into her room. I recognized Sarah’s voice, but I couldn’t make out more than a few random words: ‘See you later … after a shower …’ Something was said about having a rest and meeting for an early dinner. The door to Tina’s room closed and the security chain went on.

Seconds later, Sarah tapped on our door. ‘Use your key,’ I called out. ‘It’s not bolted.’

As she stepped across the threshold, she froze. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she demanded, ploughman’s furrows coursing across her forehead.

‘Shush!’ I hissed, a finger pressed against my mouth.

Her eyes followed the flex from my earphones, down the bed, across the floor to the limpet mike that gripped the wall, held firm by suction.

Now Sarah knew exactly what was happening. After slipping out of her boots, she tiptoed towards me.

‘She won’t be making a call to Laura until after dinner,’ Sarah whispered. ‘But I don’t see what you’re hoping to glean from it.’

‘You’ll see.’

The three of us dined together at seven. There was little
conversation
. Tina ate little, while I tucked into three courses. Sarah could tell that I was on another high, but her appetite was little better than Tina’s. We were back into our rooms by 8.30.

The limpet mike allowed me to hear and record every sound from within Tina’s room. Her TV was murmuring on low. ‘I think she’s packing,’ I said. Then, a bit later, ‘Now she’s taking a shower.’ Sarah, lying on the bed reading a magazine, widened her eyes in a sardonic,
Wow! What excitement
response.

Sarah was dozing and I was struggling to keep open my eyes, when I heard Tina start to punch out a number on her bedside phone. The time was midnight: 7 p.m. in New York.

A connection was made. ‘Laura, it’s me.’

Of course I could hear only Tina’s end of the conversation, but I was gambling on that being adequate.

‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be home … How’s my darling daughter? That’s a relief! … Isn’t she pining just a wee bit for her mom?
(hope in her voice) …
Oh, well, that’s kids for you
(disappointment) …
Puts us adults in our place, doesn’t it? We’re deluding ourselves when we think we’re indispensable to them … No, I’m not feeling sorry for myself; that’s a lie, of course … Nevertheless, I am on a real downer … Why? I’ll tell you why: everything’s gone pear-shaped. It’s not the cops’ fault, no blame on the Brits. It’s those bastards at our embassy in London … Yes, the US embassy – that’s where the shit’s based. But they’re pretending he’s not there … Never heard of the guy! All that crap….

‘What am I going to do? I’m coming home and sod it! … Yes, tomorrow … A morning flight, I think. I’ll let you know … Oh, yes, they’ve treated me very well, like royalty; I’ve no complaint on that score, but I’m regretting having got enmeshed in all this. It’s been so unsettling and all for nothing. All those nightmare memories I’d finally managed to bury have been resurrected. I’ve had my nightmares
here: like being at the movies and forced to watch scenes of what I went through all those years ago, and then the realization hits me that I’m back in the city where it happened. It’s been so surreal.