by Mark Sennen
‘You were never one to be scared. You got a commendation for bravery on your first tour.’
‘I’m not talking about what’s out there.’ Silva swept her arm and turned back to her father. She tapped her forehead. ‘I’m talking about what’s up here.’
‘It was an accident. They tend to happen in war. Nobody was to blame.’
‘Funny how you didn’t come to my defence at the time. “No comment” was all they could get out of you.’
‘I couldn’t be seen to question the chain of command, but now I’m retired from the Ministry I can speak the truth. You weren’t at fault.’
‘What is this, “kiss and make up” time? Has Mum’s death brought about a new sense of your own mortality? All of a sudden you feel responsible for your little baby?’
‘Nothing like that.’ Her father lowered his shoulders and shook his head.
Silva turned back to the lake. A rowing boat slipped into view from behind the island. A man sat in the boat, pulling slowly for a small jetty next to the boathouse. The boat slid across the lake and came alongside the jetty and the man climbed out. He was a similar age to her father, perhaps mid-sixties, with short grey hair. He wore a light-coloured suit at least one size too big. A floppy green hat which had seen better days sat on his head. He bent and lifted a fishing rod and a creel from the boat and walked across the lawn towards them.
He came up the steps to the terrace with a smile on his face. He dropped the fishing gear, removed the floppy hat, and made a small bow. The hat was adorned with a number of colourful feathers. Fishing flies.
‘Matthew Fairchild,’ he said, pulling a business card from a pocket and pressing it into her hand. ‘I am so pleased to meet you, Ms da Silva.’
‘You can call her Rebecca or Becky,’ her father said. ‘Plain Difficult once you’ve known her a while.’ He reached for the jug and began to pour the lemonade. ‘Any luck out there?’
‘Oh yes, a nice brace.’ Fairchild sat on a spare chair and bent and lifted the flap on the fishing creel. Two large rainbow trout lay inside. ‘Do you fish, Rebecca?’
‘No,’ Silva said.
‘You should learn. There’s a certain satisfaction to it. Choosing the correct fly, finding the lie, executing the perfect cast. You have to be patient though. Cast and cast again until the fish bites. Then you have him. Or her.’ Fairchild winked. ‘Once the fish is hooked all you have to do is reel the beauty in.’
Silva looked at Fairchild. Wondered if he was the sort of older guy who would make a play for a woman less than half his age. If that was his game he could forget it.
‘Who exactly are you, Mr Fairchild?’ Silva said. ‘More importantly, why has my father asked me here to meet you?’
‘She’s bright, Kenneth,’ Fairchild said, almost as if Silva wasn’t there. He closed the flap on the creel. ‘Very bright.’
‘No comment,’ Silva’s father said. ‘But don’t forget she was a minute late.’
‘It was a two-and-a-half-hour journey. A minute is less than one per cent. Such a small margin of error. We can overlook that, I’m sure.’
‘Who are “we”?’ Silva said.
‘Something has come up.’ Her father hunched forward and tapped his nose. Lowered his voice again. ‘Regarding your mother.’
‘Mum?’ Silva turned to Fairchild and back to her father. ‘Is this to do with the probate?’
‘Not exactly,’ Fairchild said. ‘I have a proposal for you, Rebecca.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’s not what you think,’ her father said. ‘This is work.’
‘If it’s a job offer, you can forget it. I’ve got a job.’
‘Not a real job. You’re a postman, for God’s sake.’
‘I’m not a postman, actually.’ Silva’s patience was wearing thin. Visiting had been a bad idea. ‘Although you’d probably be quite happy if I was. You’d have an heir then, wouldn’t you? A proper heir. A male heir.’
‘Should I leave you two for a while?’ Fairchild shifted in his seat. He bent to pick up the fishing rod. ‘You sound as if you need a few minutes to discuss things. Family matters. I quite understand, after all it’s been a distressing time for both of you.’
‘Nonsense.’ Silva’s father dismissed Fairchild’s suggestion. ‘Take her out on the boat, Matthew. Drop the mud weight overboard and don’t come back until it’s sorted.’
‘Rebecca?’ Fairchild shrugged. ‘Shall we try that? Just so you can hear me out?’
Silva looked from Fairchild to her father and back again. Sighed.
‘Whatever,’ she said.
* * *
After taking his enforced break, Holm returned to work to find his new role meant a shift to a different office. The place was a tiny box room under a staircase. A couple of computers sat on what appeared to be desks from a school classroom, and a brown filing cabinet stood sandwiched between them. The two office chairs had seen better days and the single telephone was so ancient it looked like it was made of Bakelite and had come from the Cabinet War Rooms in Whitehall. There was, Holm noted with some dismay, no window.
He went over to the filing cabinet and pulled open one of the drawers. It was empty aside from a solitary typed index card that bore a reference to the IRA and Bobby Sands. Holm left the card where it was and slid the drawer shut. The events mentioned were from before his time in MI5, before his spell in Special Branch. He’d been a mere PC on the beat back when the Northern Ireland conflict had been at its height, but there was something appropriate about the card being in the drawer, him being in this room. Time had moved on and what was once relevant became nothing more than rubbish. Or, in these days of heightened concern for the environment, was slipped into the recycling bin. That was it, Holm thought. He was a product that had come to the end of its useful life and Huxtable had decided to send him off to the shredder to be pulped.
He moved across to one of the chairs and sat. To be fair to Huxtable, at least she hadn’t pushed him out the door. He’d been given a chance to make amends, to work out the final couple of years he had left, to earn the right to leave without a cloud hanging over him. Holm adjusted the position of one of the computer monitors, and as he did so he thought about his new role. Basically she’d given him free rein, with the only instruction being to stay well clear of current operations. That meant he was to focus on areas other than Islamist extremism. Taher was strictly off-limits.
Which left what? Huxtable said she wanted weekly updates, but Holm knew he only had to fill a few sheets of paper with bullet points and wave them under her nose. The whole exercise was something of a charade, just a way to employ him until he could get his full pension, perhaps a means of keeping him sweet so he didn’t make trouble. Yes, that had to be the truth of it. When you knew where the bodies were buried everybody was either your very best friend or your most hated sworn enemy. He’d worked for the intelligence services for long enough to realise nothing was ever quite as it seemed, but what Huxtable’s ulterior motive might be didn’t really concern him.
He was contemplating the fact there were two desks, two chairs and two computers when there was a rap on the door. Without waiting for an answer, Farakh Javed breezed in.
‘Morning, boss.’ Javed held a sheet of A4 paper in his right hand, in his left a cardboard tray with two coffees in disposable cups. He put the tray down on one of the desks and passed the piece of paper to Holm. ‘A privilege to be involved.’
‘You’re not…?’ Holm’s mouth dropped open as Javed slipped into the spare chair and gave it an experimental swing back and forth. Any thought Holm had entertained about being able to sit in his office doing nothing except listen to a jazz CD or read a book had gone out the window. The non-existent window.
‘This isn’t funny though,’ Javed said, gesturing at the piece of paper. ‘It was stuck to the door. If I was the sensitive type I’d be taking it to my line manager and calling it harassment.’
Holm glanced down at the tex
t written in felt tip: The Top Top Top Secret Department. Somebody’s idea of a joke at his expense. Holm looked back at Javed. Another joke. This time, though, it could only have been played by Huxtable. He suppressed a groan.
‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Javed lifted the lid of his coffee and slurped. He turned his head as if he was only just noticing the spartan conditions. ‘What the heck did poor Farakh do to deserve this?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I guess I was guilty by association. Still, I seem to be the only one, huh?’
‘There’s isn’t room for anyone else.’
‘Right.’ Javed took another slurp and then put the cup down, pulled out a pair of nail clippers and began to trim his nails. Holm could see he was going to have to set some ground rules. Javed smiled across at him. It was a smile that would have made the fairest maiden swoon into his arms. A trick played by Mother Nature because those fair maidens didn’t stand a chance with the boy. ‘So, what’s the story? The only thing Spiderwoman told me was this was a special unit and we’d be operating with a wide brief. Sounds like a whole lot of fun, yes?’
‘Fun?’ Holm spat out the word. Farakh wasn’t to blame, but Holm had the beginnings of a headache brought on by the lack of natural light and decent ventilation. ‘Are you fucking joking?’
Chapter Six
‘I’ve known your father a long time, Ms da Silva,’ Fairchild said as they walked down towards the lake. ‘We go back.’
‘The army?’
‘The army. He was a fine soldier. We were in some scrapes together in the first Gulf War.’
‘You were special forces too?’
‘I was. I understand the difficulties you’ve both faced.’
‘My father has two problems with me. First, as you may have noticed, I’m a girl. Second, when I do what he would have wanted a son to do, I fuck up. Not only that, but the whole thing becomes public. I’m court-martialled and he’s so embarrassed that in the end he takes early retirement from the Ministry.’
‘I’m sure he’s proud of your achievements. You’ve got an Olympic medal for shooting and were a world-class sniper, after all.’
‘Class is easily lost. I should know.’
They reached the boat and Fairchild gestured for Silva to climb in. ‘You might not fish, but do you row?’ he said.
‘Sure.’ Silva clambered into the boat and sat. Fairchild took the aft seat. He pushed off from the jetty and Silva used one oar to turn them around. Once they were facing out into the lake, she dipped both oars and pulled.
The boat glided across the water and Silva pulled again. She was facing to the rear so she could see her father sitting at the table. Mrs Collins had come from the house with a newspaper and a pen. Her father was intent on doing The Times crossword.
‘He loves you, of course,’ Fairchild said. ‘You do know that?’
‘It’s every parent’s duty to love their offspring and my father would never fail to carry out his duty.’
‘I’m sure it’s more than duty.’
‘I’m not. He loves me because it’s in the rule book. Page one hundred and fifty, subsection six, paragraph two.’
Silva took several more strokes and then shipped the oars. The lake was only small and they were already nearing the centre.
‘Forget about the mud weight, we’ll just drift,’ Fairchild said. ‘See where we end up.’
‘You like metaphors, don’t you, Mr Fairchild?’
‘I like intelligence. And, yes, wordplay. What about you?’
‘I don’t like waffle, so if you don’t mind, could you please get to the point?’
‘The point. Yes.’ Fairchild looked across the lake to where a coot busied itself with a strand of green pondweed. ‘She’s after the snails.’
‘Hello?’ Silva waved an arm at Fairchild. ‘I didn’t think I was out here to learn about waterfowl.’
‘No, of course not.’ Fairchild turned back to Silva. The chit-chat was over and his face wore a serious expression. ‘I was shocked when I heard about your mother’s death. Very shocked. It was an appalling crime.’
‘I’m done with condolences, Mr Fairchild. Sincere or not they don’t help. I’m trying to forget what happened and concentrate on remembering my mother as she was.’
‘Of course, that’s understandable, even commendable. However, what if I told you the circumstances surrounding the attack in Tunisia aren’t quite as simple as they first appeared?’
‘I don’t care. I can’t change anything, I can’t bring my mother back. Speculation is a waste of emotional energy and I don’t have much of it to spare.’
‘What do you know about what happened?’
‘I told you, I don’t want to go there.’ Silva reached for the oars. She’d spent several weeks trying to banish the images she’d seen on TV and now here was Fairchild dredging it all up. ‘I’ll take us back to the shore. You can have a nice long chinwag with my dad about the good old days and I can get on my bike and go home and forget this conversation ever took place.’
‘You haven’t heard what I have to say yet.’
‘I’m not interested.’ Silva dipped the oars and began to turn the boat. She could feel a rising panic, emotion about to overcome her. She swallowed and gave a half smile. ‘I’m sorry you’ve made a wasted journey, sorry you’ll have to disappoint my dad. I guess he put you up to this. He can’t help interfering. If I thought it was love, I’d be touched. Sadly, it’s pride.’
‘I think you misunderstand what’s going on here. Your father came to me because we’re old friends and he knew I’d be able to help. Well, I was only too happy to. The next logical step was to try and get you on board. He figured I’d be better at that than he would.’
‘So this is about a job? Well, I’m grateful for the offer, but I’m going to pass.’ Silva began to row. ‘At least you caught some fish.’
‘Perhaps I should elaborate.’
‘Elaborate all you want,’ Silva shrugged. ‘But the answer will still be no.’
Fairchild ignored her. ‘My work involves security. After I left the army I set up as a consultant of sorts. That’s a loose description, anyway. I tend to work abroad, the Middle and Far East. Occasionally South America and Africa.’
‘Let me guess, you run mercenaries, right?’
‘I knew you were clever.’
‘Not clever enough, apparently. And I doubt I’d be clever enough to work for you. I’m a risk. It wouldn’t look so good for your company if I killed a swath of innocents on one of your protection jobs.’
‘You shouldn’t blame yourself for what happened in Afghanistan. Most people would have made the same call. The probability was the boy was a threat and you acted decisively to remove the threat and protect the patrol. To do any differently would have been negligent. In my mind you should have been given a commendation.’
‘Funny, I don’t remember the commendation. I do remember being court-martialled and thrown to the wolves.’
‘Politics. It was important for the system to be seen to be working. You were a pawn in a game. Pawns are sacrificed so the queen can triumph. Ask yourself was it right for you to face sanction when a prime minister can give the order to kill tens of thousands and escape scot free?’
‘I’ve done that many times. The only conclusion I’ve come to is the common people get stepped on while the big beasts get away.’ Silva shipped the oars. They were a little way out from the jetty and the boat coasted in. ‘Could you?’
Fairchild reached for the jetty as they slowed. ‘They haven’t caught the terrorists who killed your mother, have they?’
‘No.’ Silva pulled the painter from the front of the boat and tied it off. ‘But I’m sure they will. It’s just a matter of time.’
‘You sound quite sanguine about it.’
‘Look, if I was on a tour and I got the chance to slot the bastards, I would.’ Silva lifted the oars from the rowlocks and stowed them in the boat. She stepped out onto the
jetty. ‘The problem is, I’m not, and if there’s one thing my father taught me, it’s don’t sweat the stuff that isn’t in your orders because there’s nothing you can do about it. I’ve got to live with the way the world is.’
‘Very noble.’
‘Not at all, it’s simply a matter of survival.’ Silva bent and held the boat as Fairchild stepped out. When he had, she straightened. Tried to conceal her anger and appear gracious. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Fairchild. Give my regards to my father.’
Silva turned and walked down the jetty. She headed across the lawn and round the side of the house. As she walked she heard her father call her name. She ignored him. At the front of the house she took her helmet from the bike and pulled on her leather jacket. As she was putting her gloves on, Fairchild came out of the front door. He’d taken a shortcut through the house. Silva sat astride the motorbike and fired it up. Blipped the throttle.
‘Rebecca!’ Fairchild stood alongside. He shouted above the grunt of the engine. ‘We need to talk!’
‘We just did. Goodbye.’
‘Your mother wasn’t simply a journalist caught in the crossfire.’ Fairchild placed a hand on Silva’s shoulder. ‘The news you’ve been fed isn’t the whole truth.’
‘What?’ Silva shouted too, not able to fully understand Fairchild through the padding of her helmet.
‘Your mother was killed deliberately. The fact the head of the women’s charity was hit was a blind to throw the authorities. Your mother was the intended target and she was murdered because of a story she was working on. There are dark forces at work, Rebecca, but I know who was behind the attack and their motive. That’s what I was, in a roundabout way, trying to tell you.’
‘Who?’
‘Turn the engine off.’ Fairchild gestured at the key. Silva hesitated for a moment and then hit the kill switch and the engine died. ‘That’s better.’
‘Who?’
‘Sorry about earlier. I should have come clean instead of trying to approach the subject from a tangent. Let’s go inside.’ Fairchild turned to the house. ‘I’ll explain everything.’
