Her parents had said they understood he had nothing to do with her death, that he shouldn’t feel guilty, but he knew they didn’t mean it. The instant he’d seen her mother’s face he’d known she held him completely responsible for her only daughter’s death. It hadn’t upset or surprised him, not really. Why would it? He was responsible for her death. Her father had seemed a little more understanding, if that was the word, but Hunter expected this was in part due to the shock he was obviously still suffering. Fathers and their daughters.
Hunter opened the front door and entered the empty house on Danforth Road. Sartre had said that hell was other people. Well Sartre had been wrong. Signs of recent events were still very much in evidence. Loops of blue and white police flutter tape hung loosely, furniture and fittings had all been disturbed in the intensive police investigation which had followed Joth’s murder. Windows, tables, any surface still bore the remnants of the white powder they had dusted with. Hunter simply hadn’t had the energy nor the inclination to tidy up. He pulled down his tie and undid his top button. His suit wasn’t quite black, but it was dark and he’d had no money for a new one. He shuffled into the hall, taking off the jacket as he went, in his hand a supermarket bag heavy with cheap scotch and cigarettes. In the kitchen cups and plates piled on the table as they had been the week before. The paper Joth had been flat hunting from had fallen to the floor where it remained.
He put the bag on the kitchen table, next to the Glock. He’d toyed with the idea of ending it all of course, on one occasion going so far as to rack the slide and place the gun’s cold barrel in his mouth. But then he would have been no better than Sinclair, worse perhaps. Afterall Sinclair’s life had been drawing to an unpleasant close, but Hunter’s was just beginning, although a less auspicious start he was struggling to imagine.
He found a teacup in the sink. It was dirty but empty. He rinsed it quickly under the cold tap, before running his index finger around the rim, rubbing away the stain, then he poured himself a healthy slug of whisky. Gone all the mystique and romance of the drink. Hunter hardly even noticed the taste anymore. That was not why he drank. It could have been anything he poured into the cup as long as the numbing sensation was there too. Soda, ice, neat, he’d given it no thought, no consideration whatsoever. It went into the glass and he threw it down his greedy throat as quickly as he could fill the next one. He took the bottle through to the sitting room hesitating at the spot where he had found Joth’s body. Another large gulp from the teacup.
On the welcome mat lay a brown manila envelope. Hunter regarded it through tired, bloodshot eyes. He hadn’t the strength, the will nor the courage to pick it up. He took another drink. Perhaps if he drank enough it would go away?
In the sitting room he sat and stared at the antique Anniversary clock his father had so lovingly restored. It took pride of place on his mantle piece. An obscure reminder of his parents from a time he didn’t recognise and a man he barely knew. The whisky bottle slipped from his grasp and came to rest on the carpet between his feet.
He had not imagined it and it would not go away. He would have to deal with the envelope which threatened to dominate his house and his life. He rummaged in the bag and found some cigarettes. He’d smoke one first before venturing into the hallway. He hadn’t smoked since his first year at university, but now he couldn’t think of any sensible reason not to.
The envelope lay face down. Hunter picked it up and examined it. With a horror of recognition he realised it was exactly the same as the one which had brought him the code. The same neatly typed white sticker and the same absence of postmark. That meant someone had waited until he was home to deliver it and they could still be outside, but deep down Hunter knew they weren’t. That wasn’t the way these people, whoever the hell they were, worked. He slipped his finger under the flap and peeled it open. A quick glance was enough to tell him it was not another code. They looked like photographs. Black and white photographs, perhaps thirty in total. He was going to need another drink. He took them back into the sitting room and sat on the floor next to the whisky bottle and makeshift ashtray, his back propped against the sofa. The envelope’s contents fell to the floor where they fanned out, the slick surface of the paper sending them skidding chaotically over one another.
Before him lay a pictorial history of the previous seven days. There he was standing on the doorstep of the house, in his hands an identical envelope to the one he currently held. Another of him bounding up the steps to Wiseman’s flat in Kensington. Then with the old man in Hyde Park and there, lit only by the porch light, he was waiting to be admitted to his father’s house in Sarratt. Then he saw the sequence of Amy. The pair of them arriving in Kensington, the morning she had disappeared and the moment her life had ended. Hunter couldn’t take it all in. He hurled the teacup across the room. Who was playing this macabre game with him? Why had they chosen to ruin his life, strip him of everything he held dear? He clutched the photographs close, trying to gain some last contact with Amy.
As he sat, surrounded by the remnants of his life, the house phone rang. He brushed away a tear, wincing as the scar at his eyebrow bit and burnt and grabbed the telephone from the table where it lay. Resuming his position on the floor he lifted the receiver.
‘Mr Hunter?’
‘Who is this?’
The voice on the other end of the line was cultured and considered. Hunter imagined its owner had probably been to one of London’s more exclusive private schools, then, no doubt independently wealthy, had spent his life smoking expensive cigars and drinking expensive brandy. He also had the distinct impression he’d heard the voice before.
‘Hello, Mr Hunter. This is Lazarus. Please don’t put the phone down. I’m sorry to bother you at such a time. As you can no doubt see I have been following your progress with a considerable degree of interest.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I am a friend, Mr Hunter, that is all I can tell you. I believe at this time you may be in need of a friend and I’m not talking about the kind you find at the bottom of a cheap bottle of whisky.’
‘You followed me?’
‘Yes,’ Lazarus’s voice rumbled.
‘Why didn’t you help? If you’re a friend, why didn’t you help us?’
‘I’m sorry, I was not in a position to help you. Events, tragic though they undoubtedly were, had to be allowed to unfold. I am offering you my help and friendship now though.’
Hunter took up the bottle by his feet, unscrewed the lid and drank. ‘Go to Hell.’
‘I do understand.’
He had to struggle not to laugh. Nobody could understand where he found himself now. Nobody.
‘Scott, you should know that we are grateful for everything you’ve done. In fact we are in your debt.’
‘We. Who’s we? Who are you?’
Appearing not to have heard, Lazarus continued, ‘I am going to make you an offer. I shall make it once and if you reject it you will not hear from me again. I would very much like it if you would come and work for me.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Again, I am sorry Mr Hunter, but that information is strictly need to know.’ The phrase the old man had used. ‘Let me just say that whilst I have been observing you I have been greatly impressed by some of your talents...’
‘Go to Hell.’
‘and believe you would be a considerable asset to our organization.’
Silence.
Hunter was about to put the phone down. He looked around him. He was sitting in a crime scene, he was drunk and alone and he knew what Amy would have said.
‘I’m sorry you do not feel able to work for me, you shall not hear from me again. Goodbye, Scott.’
‘Wait, wait. All right, I’ll take your job.’
It was Lazarus’s turn to hesitate.
‘I am very glad to hear that, Scott,’ he said after a long beat, and then the phone went dead.
✽✽✽
In his office on the South Bank, Sir Joh
n Alperton allowed himself to smile. He tried to remember when he’d been Hunter’s age, to recall a time before the strain of ambition, the mendacity of work and the constant dissemination. He tried to remember if he had been quite so strong, quite so courageous. He closed the file marked Sinclair and threw it on top of Wiseman’s. Brigit would know where to dispose of those. A crisp new folder lay open and waiting. In went copies of the photographs and the code he had sent Scott Hunter. Then there was Wiseman’s manuscript, that went in as well. Closing the file he took a key and opened the secure drawer at the bottom of his desk. None of this, he reasoned, need trouble Brigit nor anybody else, not just yet.
Acknowledgements
I should like to take this opportunity to thank the following;
Dr. Alison Turner for helping me when she should have been enjoying her holiday.
Lena Zeliszewska for checking my Polish.
Rob Williams from ILMC for his friendship and yet another beautiful and stylish front cover.
Terry Boyd for her excellent taste in Christmas books and gifting me the idea.
Grant Boyd for his encyclopedic knowledge of the fine arts.
My mum for being a truly great writer and reading and re-reading passages until they must have lost all meaning.
Leo, Corin and Georgia for their endless patience and support.
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading
Birth of a Spy
Could I ask you to please leave a review, however short.
Thank you.
Birth of a Spy Page 20
