State Sponsored Terror

by David Carter

  ‘Oh, I shall be there, for sure, you can count on that.’

  ‘What time is it now?’ asked Colin.

  Martin flicked his wrist and stared at the green luminous hands that seemed to be rushing round ever faster. ‘Twenty to ten.’

  ‘God, how time flies when you are enjoying yourself,’ said Colin. ‘Come on, we better get away, the last thing we need is running a problem with the bloody curfew.’

  ‘What was that!’ said a jittery Martin, standing up and smoothing his coat over his flat stomach.

  ‘What? I didn’t hear anything.’

  ‘I thought I heard a dog bark.’

  ‘Don’t worry; it won’t be the SPATs, not up here, not at this time of night. They will be getting pissed in the police clubs, there’s no restriction on alcohol there, lucky sods. Serve good stuff too, none of the gnat’s piss muck we are forced to drink. It was probably just some late night dog walker looking for a little peace and quiet away from the missus,’ said Colin, and he eased toward the entrance and peered out into the darkness. The rain had stopped and the wind had lessened.

  ‘I think we should meet again,’ said Martin. ‘Share notes, kind of thing.’

  ‘I don’t think we should ever see each other ever again, for our own safety,’ said Colin, ‘but I know that we will.... and we must.’

  Martin nodded, and playfully punched his friend in the chest.

  ‘Don’t worry, mate. We have done nothing wrong. Same time next week? A date?’

  ‘Yeah, OK, I guess. You get away first, you young bastard, you have further to travel,’ said Colin. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes to get clear. See you soon, and remember, not a word to anyone. Not family, not a soul. No one.’

  ‘You can count on that,’ whispered Martin, already on his way out of the hut. ‘For sure.’

  Colin watched him disappear into the black hole of the night and gave him five minutes to get clear, and then made a move.

  Eleven

  The Cornelius family lived in a 1920’s mock Tudor dormer bungalow in a prestigious road off Wick Lane in one of the swankier parts of Christchurch. Colin had inherited the property from his mother and it was just as well, because they could never have afforded to live in such a lavish property on his pay. The house was a little tired, but that was more testament to the long hours Colin worked for The Messenger, than his lack of interest in property management. He would sort out the house good and proper one day, in his own time, but not yet.

  The rain had cleared by the time he arrived outside the house at two minutes to ten. He was wet through, as he unlocked the front door and went inside.

  ‘Hello, love,’ shrilled Jemima, ‘good meeting?’

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ Colin mumbled, ‘Is Joss home?’

  ‘No, not yet, you know what teenagers are like.’

  ‘She’s running it a bit close.’

  ‘Nothing new there then, want a cocoa?’

  ‘Erm what.... yeah all right.’

  Colin stayed by the open front door, nervously glancing at his watch every few seconds. The streets were deserted for it was not the kind of night many people would have ventured out. A black and white mongrel dog ran past the front gate. The curfew didn’t appear to apply to dogs, though there were crazy jokes circulating that gun toting officers occasionally took their target practice out on the straying canine population. It certainly wasn’t unusual to see a dead dog lying in the gutter first thing in the morning.

  More heavy rain was expected during the night, and gazing up at the frantic clouds scudding across the face of the moon, it was easy to agree with that thought. Both the local rivers were bubbling up to the rims, and another bout of flooding was on the cards. From across the River Stour the Priory clock began chiming the hour. He checked his watch again. Spot on correct, there was something to be said for a reliable timepiece. Wristwatch sales had rocketed, courtesy of VCS.

  ‘Voluntary Clean Streets,’ muttered Colin, almost spitting out the words. ‘What would my old mum and dad have made of it?’

  Two police vehicles in convoy swept past the front door, heading down toward the coast, and as they did so they switched on their flashing lights and sirens, and soon disappeared from view, and he was glad to see them go.

  Seven, he had been counting the strikes, eight.... nine.... and at that moment Joss came round the corner, panting and spluttering like some old steam locomotive from his grandfather’s time.

  ‘Hi dad,’ she called out breathlessly, as she approached the garden path. ‘I am not late, am I?’

  ‘Not yet you are not,’ her father grinned at his eldest daughter. ‘Another minute and you would have been, you crazy girl.’

  Joss bustled up the path and past him into the hallway, still puffing and spluttering.

  ‘This curfew is a bloody menace!’ she said, shrugging off her beige raincoat, and shaking it, before hanging it up to dry.

  ‘Don’t swear, love, there’s really no need.’

  She fixed her dad with that defiant look of hers and said, ‘There’s every bloody need!’ and she turned tail and headed for the kitchen at the back of the house.

  ‘Cocoa! Great, stick some sherry in it,’ she bawled, ‘anything to eat?’

  Cocoa fortified with sherry had long been a tradition in the Cornelius household. Some said it went back to the blitz of World War II, when the family lived up in Hampstead in London, when they all needed a big dash of Dutch courage, though Colin thought it went back further than that, to the trenches of World War I, where the great-grandfathers kept up their spirits and massaged their courage, with hot cocoa.... and sherry. It was a good story, and believable too, and either way, cocoa with sherry had become a deep part of the Cornelius psyche, and no one was in any hurry to abandon the tradition.

  He took one last look around outside; there was no one about, as he closed and bolted the front door. The whole town seemed deserted. No cars, nothing. Thankfully, all the Cornelius’s were now safely locked up in the coop, though that achievement did not guarantee him a good night’s sleep. Donald was already asleep, the lucky lad, he hadn’t yet acquired the taste for sherry-laced drinks, and late nights, as Eve came down, after finishing her homework, and joined them around the kitchen table.

  ‘So how was lover boy?’ Eve said, grinning across at her big sister.

  ‘Shut up you! Nosey!’

  ‘No,’ said Colin, ‘now, now, I think it’s time we all heard about this handsome chappy you have in tow. What did you say his name was?’

  ‘I didn’t say,’ said Joss abruptly, as she began twisting her shoulders one way and the other. ‘And what’s all this chappy business? God, dad, sometimes you sound so bloody old, positively ancient. No one says chappy anymore for Christ’s sake. Geezer, guy, bloke, git, even mush, or man thing, but chappy.... give me a break!’

  ‘Don’t speak to your father like that,’ said Jemima, almost as if she was on autopilot. ‘And watch your language. You really don’t know when you are swearing these days.’

  Joss ignored her mother and gulped her drink. Then she said, ‘His name is Frank Preston, if you must know,’ and oddly her cheeks suddenly appeared more inflated then before.

  ‘And how old is this Frank Preston chap.... guy person?’ said Colin.

  ‘Same as me.’

  ‘So, he will be going away on the EWP too?’

  ‘Yep, we are hoping to go together.’

  ‘And what does he do, this Frank Preston fellow?’

  ‘He’s at school, dad, like me, I told you. What do you think?’

  ‘And where does he live?’

  ‘Christ! Are you in training for the SPATs, or something?’

  ‘Don’t speak to your father like that,’ butted in Jemima. ‘I simply won’t have it!’

  ‘Well honestly, Mother, this is worse than being in detention at school!’

  Eve giggled, and grinned at her sister’s discomfort. Schadenfreude resided in the Cornelius household like a purring cat.
Joss pulled tongues.

  ‘What your father means is....’ said Jemima, carefully considering every syllable, ‘what are his aims in life, this Frank? And I would like to know where he lives too.’

  ‘He lives at Riverbanks, if you must know.’

  ‘That figures,’ muttered Colin.

  ‘Everyone off the estate isn’t bad,’ said Joss. ‘There are some very nice people living there these days.’

  ‘Mmm.... if you say so,’ muttered her father.

  ‘And as for what he is going to do,’ said Joss, swigging the last of the laced cocoa, ‘he is very ambitious, very ambitious indeed; he wants to be a politician.’

  ‘A politician?’ said Colin, sitting up in his seat. ‘That’s different. So he’s in the Party?’

  ‘Suppose so,’ said Joss, ‘I hadn’t really thought about it.’

  ‘Well perhaps you should think about it.’

  ‘He’s a big bloke,’ butted in Eve, a mischievous twinkle in her young eyes. ‘He likes to think he’s killingly attractive to all the younger girlies, doesn’t he, Joss? Eh? Always hanging around outside the school, grinning at the short skirted kids, with his hands in his pockets, playing with himself, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, you!’ yelled Joss.

  ‘Where do you get such silly ideas?’ said Colin to Eve.

  ‘I think he’s gross!’ continued the younger sister, anxious to get her six pennyworth into the conversation.

  ‘He’s well made, if that’s what you mean,’ shouted Joss.

  ‘He’s huge!’

  ‘Eve! Where did you learn language like that? Certainly not in this house. Just cut it out!’ said Jemima. ‘I have never heard the like.’

  ‘He is not!’ said Joss.

  ‘Christ, you must need glasses, oh sister of mine, if you can’t see that. He is the fattest boy in the class! Probably in the school.’

  ‘He is not fat! It’s all muscle!’

  ‘Is he now? And how would you know that?’ said Jemima, a smile not far away.

  Joss blushed, and rushed from the table, yelling, ‘I like Frank! And Frank likes me! I don’t care what you say. You can all....’

  ‘That’s quite enough of that kind of talk,’ interrupted Colin, before looking back at Eve. ‘You shouldn’t bait her so; she is going through a difficult time, and I don’t ever want to hear you using the F word in this house again. Is that clear, young lady? You wait until you start courting, and going off on the EWP. You won’t think it’s all so much of a laughing matter then.’

  ‘Who says I’m not, courting that is?’ Eve shot back, beaming like a manic badger.

  ‘You’d better not be!’ said her father.

  ‘You are not, are you?’ said her mother.

  ‘Aha, that is for me to know, and you to wonder about, and now, if you don’t mind, I am going to my bed. Goodnight mater, goodnight pater, and I promise I shall not use the F word, as you so cutely call it, ever again.... at least in company, in this house. I thank you,’ and she performed a mock smirking curtsey, and disappeared.

  Her parents watched in silence as she stood and twirled and left the room.

  ‘She can be such a cheeky little thing, that Eve,’ said Jemima.

  ‘Yes,’ said Colin, ‘but I wouldn’t want her any other way. She is so full of life; I love the bones of her. Sometimes I wonder what will become of her,’ and he wanted to add: I wonder what will become of us all; but managed not to, for he thought that was man’s worry, worry that only he should shoulder. The man goes to war everyday on behalf of his family, and come what may, he must never show the strain of it.

  ‘I hope that goes for all of your children, Mister Cornelius,’ murmured Jemmie.

  He reached across the table and cupped his hand over his wife’s.

  ‘Course it does, and their mother too, you know that, darling.’

  ‘I may know it, Colin, but I still like to hear it now and again.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, standing and moving behind her, and kissing her on the nape of neck. ‘I know you do, doll.’

  ‘Don’t do that,’ she whispered, ‘I like it too much.’

  ‘I know you do,’ he repeated, ‘I know all your secrets, Jemima Cornelius, Jemima Wilson, as was. I am your husband, remember.’

  ‘Not all of them, you don’t,’ she whispered. ‘Not all of them.’

  ‘Really? Then perhaps I should carry out further research.’

  Jemima shivered and smirked, and went upstairs.

  INSPECTOR SMEGGAN ARRIVED at his desk early. It was still before eight o’ clock. Hewitt was already there, and Hewitt was the only reason that Smeggan had checked in at that godforsaken hour. Smeggan brought with him two plastic cups of dishwashey coffee, a small payoff for his sergeant’s late efforts that, according to him, had reaped a huge reward.

  ‘So?’ said Smeggan impatiently, passing one of the cups across the desk. ‘You’ve traced her, the woman?’

  ‘Just about,’ said Hewitt, unable to keep a note of triumph from his voice.

  ‘Well? Spill the beans!’

  ‘I had a thought....’

  ‘Bet that hurt,’ interjected Smeggan, unable to stop himself interrupting. ‘Sorry Trev.... you were saying?’

  ‘We couldn’t trace her down here, so I took a punt that she was commuting all the way up to London. Had the Met boys get hold of the CCTV stuff at Waterloo, and send it down the line to me. Take a look at this....’

  Hewitt flicked on the big screen and pressed play on the state of the art digital system. ‘There she is, that’s her, ain’t it?’

  Smeggan ignored Hewitt’s dreadful estuary grammar, and crept closer to the screen.

  ‘It is, Trevor, it bloody well is, walking across Waterloo station, by the look of it. Confident walk, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Correct sir, and there’s more, Guv, much more. CCTV now covers every street in London, in some areas it takes a bit of tracking from one camera to the next, but eventually I have her here, look, entering this building, up five stone steps, passing on her right, you will note, the big brass nameplate of....’ and he fell silent, waiting for his boss to complete the sentence.... and he did.

  ‘The National Bank. Well, well, bloody well.’

  ‘Correct again, sir. Her name is Elizabeth Mariner and she is a currency trader in the dealing room for the National Bank.’

  ‘She is probably not so busy at the moment,’ joked Smeggan.

  ‘Why? You mean with the pressure on the pound, and all that trouble?’

  ‘Now, now Hewitt, don’t over-egg the cake and give our opponents any ounce of succour. There is no pressure on the pound as you call it, just a natural financial adjustment, you know that well enough, the kind of thing that takes place every now and again.’

  ‘Yes, sir, whatever you say. This girl, woman, whatever, in question is aged twenty-six, and single by all accounts, and before you say anything, I most definitely would. Very well paid job too, apparently. What more could a man possibly want in a girlfriend?’

  Smeggan ignored speculation about the woman’s attributes, financial or otherwise, and focussed on the detail of the case.

  ‘Do we have her home address?’ he muttered.

  ‘I am just waiting for a phone call now to confirm it.’

  Right on cue, the purple phone before them burbled into action. Hewitt snatched it up as if it were made of gold.

  ‘Yes.... yes.... yes, I have that....’ he said, scribbling notes on his well doodled and dated looking blotter. ‘Thanks so much, you have been most helpful. We’ll take it from there.’

  Smeggan sat and stared at Hewitt. ‘Well? Where?’

  Hewitt nodded aggressively. ‘Blue Reef Point, number 20, third floor, it’s one of those with a balcony overlooking the surfing reef down towards Boscombe pier, very nice too, and bloody expensive. I wish I could afford one like it.’

  ‘Good, Hewitt, good,’ said Smeggan quietly, rubbing his thin hands together. ‘Just
as we thought.’

  ‘So, Guv, do we wait for her to return home tonight, and pick her up at the flat, and the lad too, if he is staying there, or do we scoop her up in London?’

  ‘A good question, sergeant. It would be so much easier down here, that is true, but if we leave her at large, even for another day, there is the risk, no matter how slight, that she might disappear again. We don’t want that. The pressure on my neck over this case is quite unbelievable, you wouldn’t believe....’ and as he spoke, Smeggan unconsciously reached behind his head with both hands and began massaging his scrawny neck.

  ‘Let’s go up to London, why don’t we? I could do with a trip out on British Rail. It’s a nice bright day, a lovely day for an arrest or two, wouldn’t you say?’

  Hewitt grinned at the thought of an easy day away from the office.

  ‘Sounds good to me, sir.’

  ‘When you have finished that coffee, go and get the rail warrants sorted, we’ll get the ten o’clock train. Miss Mariner is going to have more than she bargained for, for her lunch today. It could bring on a touch of indigestion, don’t ya think?’

  Hewitt smiled at his boss again. ‘It could that, sir, bellyache too I shouldn’t wonder, but I am looking forward to it, and questioning her afterwards.’

  ‘Yes quite, bellyache, sergeant, as you so adroitly put it. As for questioning her later, I admit that could provide some fun. One other thing Hewitt, send two officers to the apartment right now. Send that Perry fellow, he’s keen, and that bugger, Margerison; he’s a bit thick, but big and capable. We wouldn’t want to miss the kid either, just in case he is still there, though I doubt he is.’

  ‘Consider it done, Guv.’

  ‘I do Hewitt, I do.’

  Twelve

  Smeggan and Hewitt swept into the head office of the National Bank, and on toward the sleek reception desk where the Inspector flashed his red white and blue ID card. At the sight of it, the dark haired girl sat to attention in her chair. It often had that effect, his multi coloured synthetic card, and Smeggan took pleasure at her reaction. It reminded him of why he adored his job so much, and why he wouldn’t change it for the world.