by Tom Riggs
She looked at Rudd and then looked away, concentrating her gaze on a point behind them both. She started in a low monotone, as if now on autopilot. “They said he had been murdered, beaten to death. They said the motive was probably robbery, but that they couldn’t be sure. They gave me a policeman’s name and the number of the local police station dealing with the investigation.”
“Do you still have that information?”
“Not on me, but yes, I do still have it somewhere.”
“We will need that, as well as the name of the charity that your son was working for in Brazil,” said Rudd making a note in his pad, before continuing, “Did you call the Venezuelan police?”
“I tried, but my Spanish is not great. I eventually managed to find an officer who spoke English and he said that they would call me back. They never did. Then two weeks ago, the same girl from the Foreign Office called. She said that the police had identified Richard’s murderers.”
“Identified?” said Munro, “Who were they?”
“Two foreigners she said. Colombians. The girl told me that the local police had strong evidence linking them to Richard’s murder.”
Munro leaned forward. “Did they arrest them?”
“No. The two men had left the country by the time the Venezuelan police had identified them. They say they cannot get them in Colombia apparently, so the case is closed. After two weeks.”
Rudd scribbled down notes furiously. Ms Stanfield was clearly nervous and exhausted, and her poised façade was close to breaking. But Munro had questions.
“Ms Stanfield, we’re sorry about the death of your son, we really are. But – and please don’t take this the wrong way – what exactly do you want from us?” he asked. “If you will excuse me, it sounds like there’s not much we can add here. If the suspects have been identified, then there is little that a private investigator could help you with. The justice system in Colombia can take time, but it is generally sound, especially for a case like this. If your son’s murderers are in Colombia, it will, I am afraid, be just a matter of waiting for the wheels of justice to turn there. It is something that the Foreign Office could help you with I’m sure. But I am not sure that we can be of much use to you.”
She turned to look at them both and her gaze sharpened.
“I need peace of mind Mr Munro. If my son really was murdered by these two men, then I want you to go to Colombia to find them. I will then lobby the Foreign Office myself to have them deported. But I’m not sure these two men really did kill my son.” She paused and leaned down to open her large leather handbag. Pulling out a mobile phone, she continued. “I’d like you to listen to this Mr Munro,” she said pressing buttons on the phone. Coming out of the phone a surprisingly loud and clear voice informed them that Ms Stanfield had one saved message. They all three went quiet as she placed the phone on the table.
After what seemed like a long time, but was probably only a few seconds, the message played.
“Mum… Mum, it’s Richard,” said the voice. It sounded like he was a long way off, on a very bad line, and very scared. “Mum, I’m so sorry, I’m really so sorry. I’ve fucked up mum, I’ve really fucked up… I…” suddenly the line went dead and instead of Richard’s remote voice, a tinny Spanish voice told them that the call could no longer be connected, please try again later.
“That was the first I had heard of my son in months and the last I ever heard of him. The message was left the evening he was killed. Would you call that a coincidence Mr Munro?”
Munro said nothing and she continued.
“You heard that message. Richard sounded terrified, terrified of something far more than a couple of robbers. Perhaps I am a paranoid grieving mother, and if so fine. Take my money and put my mind at rest. But I have a mother’s intuition and my mother’s intuition tells me that something is not right. I cannot go on…” She paused, closed her eyes and continued. “I cannot go on unless I know that the people who killed my son are behind bars. The right people. I want you to investigate my son’s murder yourselves.”
Rudd started to speak. “We understand, Ms Stanfield, and this is certainly something that we can help you…” But Munro cut him off.
“I’m afraid that this isn’t really our line of work,” he said, ignoring Rudd’s look. “We act for companies, Ms Stanfield. Large corporations that may have a corrupt employee or who are going into business with someone in the developing world whom they’re not sure they can trust. We spend most of our time going through public records and computer files, talking to local journalists. An investigation like this would be best handled by a private investigator here, along with a local Venezuelan outfit, preferably with some contacts in the police. They will also charge much less than we have to. Unfortunately our overheads are quite high which means we have to charge more. We can certainly recommend a private investigator here. I know one guy, ex-Flying Squad, based in Purley, down in Surrey. I’m sure we can find you a name in Venezuela too. We can put them together and I am sure together they can find out more.”
Sarah Stanfield paused and looked at them both.
“Mr Munro,” she said icily. “If I wanted a private eye in Croydon, I would have gone to Croydon. I am here because a very dear friend of mine recommended you, and you in particular. I know something of your record Mr Munro, I don’t know how much of it is true. But if even half of it is, then you are the man for me.”
“Thank you Ms Stanfield, most of it probably isn’t, but thank you anyway.” replied Munro. “Can I ask … who gave you my name?”
“You were personally recommended by Linda Phillips, the wife of General Mike Phillips.”
“Ah,” said Munro, pausing. “General Phillips was a good man. One of the best. Please send my regards to Lady Phillips when you next see her.” He turned to Rudd and said by way of explanation, “I worked for General Phillips in Bosnia, when he was NATO commander there, ran his personal security among other things.”
“So you see, Mr Munro,” continued Ms Stanfield, “you come highly recommended. I understand that this may not be your line of work, that you may prefer going through company records in Nigeria. But quite frankly I don’t care about that. I need someone that I can trust to work on this. I cannot stop grieving for my son until I know who killed him and that one day, they will be brought to justice. I am prepared to pay you very well for your services, even if you do not find anything out. I just need to know that someone has tried.”
“We can certainly do our best Ms Stanfield,” said Rudd.
She paused, and looked at Rudd, as if for the first time.
“Mr Munro was recommended to me. I am not entirely clear as to who you are, though?”
Munro suppressed a laugh as he saw Rudd visibly shrink, cowed.
“This, Ms Stanfield, is my partner Charles Rudd, we’ve been working together for the last two years. Charles is the investigative brains of our little outfit. He was in the Security Service, MI5, for 26 years, and has vast experience – most of which he is of course not allowed to talk about. We briefly worked together in Northern Ireland, when I was just starting out and Rudd the experienced old hand, even then.”
“Of course, Mr Rudd, my apologies.”
“Think nothing of it, madam,” replied Rudd coolly.
“In the circumstances Mrs Stan-field, I think we can both say that we would be happy to try and help you,” said Munro.
As Mrs Stanfield got up to leave, Munro asked her.
“One more question Ms Stanfield. Your ex-husband, Mr Lipakos, does he share your view that something is not right with the investigation?”
“Constantine grieves in his own way Mr Munro,” replied Sarah Stan-field. “We buried our son, and for Constantine that was it. He cannot look back, only forward. I tried to talk to him about it, but he thinks that I am wasting my time and my money… which I accept I may be.”
“Are you and Mr Lipakos still close?” asked Rudd.
“We are not, no. It was an amicabl
e divorce, as amicable as these things can be. But he has a new wife and more children. To be honest, we had lived separate lives for a long time before, so it was not that much of a break.”
“But he and Richard were close.”
“Of course. Constantine takes having sons very seriously. It’s a Greek thing. He sees himself as some kind of Alexander and his sons as his generals, sent out to rule his empire for him. Richard’s death will have destroyed him, but he will not show his grief to anyone. I find it harder to hide my grief.” And with that Sarah Stanfield passed the two men a large photo of a young boy, maybe 12, laughing into the sun.
Munro and Rudd watched Sarah Stanfield walk down the street to a waiting Mercedes. Large, silver, blacked-out windows. A uniformed driver got out before she arrived at the car and opened the passenger door for her.
As the car drew away, Rudd was the first to speak. “That phone message could have been about anything. You believe this ‘mother’s intuition’ stuff?”
“Not really no. But she clearly needs some closure and doesn’t look as though she’ll take no for an answer. Not from me anyway.”
“Of course, not from the famous Captain Munro. What were you really doing out in Bosnia? I didn’t even know you were in the Balkans, or that you knew General Phillips.”
“I wasn’t there for long, it’s a pretty nasty part of the world. Or was then anyway. Phillips used my unit to track down war criminals who had escaped into Serbia.”
“Track down and then what?”
Munro ignored the question with a look. “The NATO staffers got wind of the operation after a few months and closed us down. Decided to go down the judicial route.”
They both sat down at their desks, facing each other between computer screens. Rudd picked up the ripped brochure on his desk and tossed it into the wastepaper bin that Munro had been using as a basketball hoop.
“Nice shot,” said Munro after it landed square in the bin.
“Thanks,” replied Rudd. “What are we going to do about this job? Normally I would say we should subcontract it out to some local boys. Get them to knock on some doors and see what they come up with. Possibly make some phone calls.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Munro’s shoes were back off and he was starting his paper basketball game again.
“She seemed pretty keen for you to be involved though.”
“I will be. I’ll run the case, make some calls, keep a distant eye on the local boys. I know a guy we can use in Caracas. He usually does oil company investigations, but I’m sure he’ll turn his hand to a backpacker murder for the right price.”
“You don’t fancy going out there? I think our new client might prefer that”
“No chance. I’ve been to Caracas before and I swore never to return. We can do a good job from here can’t we?”
“Of course we can,” replied Rudd. He looked at Munro lounged over his desk and chair slowly ripping out another sheet of paper from another report. He knew his partner well and looking closely at him he could see through the relaxed City businessman. He looked at the dark lines under his eyes and the three empty mugs of coffee on his desk.
“Of course we can handle it from here” he repeated, “I just thought you might fancy a change of scene…when was the last time you had a decent night’s sleep?”
Munro looked up at his partner slowly, wearily. The coffee had worn off sooner than he had hoped and he felt an overwhelming rush of exhaustion. He said nothing.
3
Munro left the office at six. He still had work to do - reports to write, emails to answer. But nothing that couldn’t wait. Normally he made the fifty-mile journey from London to his cottage in Hampshire by motorbike. He had a Norton Commander 961. The first of a new generation of British motorbikes, its carbon black chassis was a thing of beauty. It had a 961 cc engine; so powerful, you could go faster than you’d ever want to, quicker than you’d ever need. On a good night Munro could do the journey in forty-five minutes, door to door. But not tonight. Someone had tried to steal it, ineptly and in the process one of its wheel axles had been bent out of joint. So no bike.
Instead of turning left out of the office to where his bike would have been, he turned right – north – towards Bank underground station. A short walk along clean, well-kept, pavements. And then down into the tube.
By the time he got to Waterloo Station, Munro remembered why he rode a motorbike. The underground train had been delayed and crowded. The passengers dead-eyed and surly. The over ground train didn’t look much better. Munro walked the length of the cold grey platform to find a seat. The station was freezing cold, but still retained the smells of too many people and diesel fumes. Cold but stuffy.
Finding no seats in standard class, Munro turned around and walked back to the first-class carriage. He was not a snob when it came to transport and had spent many a twenty-hour journey crammed into the back of a troop transport, with only the view of another man’s armpit for company. But there was something about the London commuter trains that inspired a dread in him. At least in first class, he would probably have the carriage to himself. With no dead-eyed commuters to look at, he could imagine that he was somewhere else.
Munro sat down in an empty compartment and settled into a corner seat. Although he had been exhausted all day, he now felt oddly awake. Awake but unable to concentrate, he quickly gave up on the newspaper he had been skim-reading and stared out of the window instead. As the train sped through South London, he saw fragments of people’s lives. A man cooking alone, a family eating together, two figures smoking out of a dark window. But the train quickly cleared London and the view turned to darkness.
The walk from his local station took him twenty minutes. Twenty minutes and he was into a different world. No streetlights, only trees, fields and grass. As he breathed in the cold fresh air he felt even more awake, his senses coming back after the dulling of London.
Munro’s cottage was on the side of a small valley, round a bend so that it was not visible from the nearest lane. The final approach was up the steep slope on the other side of the valley, making it difficult for all but the toughest bikes and four wheel drives. Even his Norton had difficulty if the rain had turned the field to mud. But it was dry that night and Munro made the final ascent on foot in good time.
He was at the cottage by eight pm. He took another deep breath of the fresh Hampshire air and looked at his house, the only one for miles around. It had a beautiful view down the valley, of steep fields and woods.
The cottage itself was an ancient building - there had been a structure of some sort there since the reign of Henry VIII. Over the years parts had been added and parts had been knocked down. The results were inconsistent: each room a different shape and size than the other. The fireplace in the small living room was more suited to a baronial dining hall than the small living room of a cottage. When lit it gave out all the heat the cottage needed.
Munro put his files and laptop on the kitchen table and checked his phone. He smiled when he saw that there was no reception. Off the grid.
But still on it. His landline rang.
“Mr Munro?”
“Yes?”
“Sir, this is the bike shop. About your Norton.”
Munro felt a creeping dread.
“What about it?”
“There’s been a problem, sir.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I’m afraid one of the brake valves has broken.”
“A brake valve?”
“Yes sir.”
“I put it in to have the wheel fixed.”
“I know sir, it was an accident. We’re very sorry.”
“So when will it be ready?”
“That’s the thing sir, the Norton Commander is a new model. It being such a new bike, such a rare bike, it’s hard to get the parts.”
“I thought it was only hard to get parts for old bikes.”
“Old bikes and rare bikes sir.”
“So when
will it be ready?”
“Two weeks sir. We’ll have it all ready for you in two weeks.”
Munro put down the phone and poured himself a drink. Whisky, Scotch. Single malt, lots of ice. He drank it down in two long slugs.
He looked at his files and laptop on the table. Reports to write, emails to send. He looked into his living room, cosy but empty. Two weeks. Two weeks of trains, over ground and underground. Two weeks of commuters, dead-eyed and miserable. He opened his kitchen door and stood on the porch, looking at the sky and the valley below. The orange glow of Winchester twenty miles away meant that the sky was never entirely clear. Too much light pollution. He thought of the skies above the deserts of Afghanistan and the jungles of Central Africa. Two of the only places on earth where the sky was not polluted by electric light. He turned back into his kitchen and poured himself another large whisky. More ice.
It was still early but the night loomed ahead of him. His mind cast back to the night before and to so many before that. He could take the lack of sleep. He had been trained to function on three or four hours a night. In theatre, on operations, you were sometimes lucky to get that. It was not the lack of sleep that made him down his second whisky in three more long gulps. It was what came with sleep.
He looked around his cold kitchen, empty except for the bottle of whiskey and a mangled strip of sleeping pills. Picking up his landline phone he punched in ten familiar digits. The line rang twice before it was picked up.
“Rudd, its Munro.”
“What’s up Jack?”
“I‘ve changed my mind. Get me on the next flight to Venezuela.”
4
La Isla Margarita, Venezuela
There was no direct flight from London to Porlamar, the capital of Isla Margarita, off Venezuela’s Caribbean coast. Munro had to change planes in Lisbon and then Caracas. The extra hours were welcome and gave him time to read the file that Rudd had prepared for him.
