The John Milton Series Boxset 3

by Mark Dawson

  After a selfish life, now he would be selfless. He wouldn’t risk someone else in order to allow himself happiness. That would be unfair.

  He was brought out of his self-absorption by the sound of raised voices from the flat next to his. That was unusual: the mother and father of the two small children who lived there were quiet and respectful, and he rarely heard them save for a warm burble that was muffled by the wall that separated them. Their children, both young, were quiet and well behaved, too, and, as he paused, he realised that the voice he had heard was from someone else. There was another volley of angry conversation, the sound of a woman protesting, and then the sound of furniture falling to the floor.

  Milton stopped, caught between staying where he was and investigating: he didn’t know whether he should do something, offer his help, or whether that would be overstepping a mark. He hadn’t decided what to do when the door to the flat was yanked open. There was a man in the hallway whom Milton had not seen before and, behind him, a second man. They were both in early middle age, dressed in cheap suits and cheap shoes. The first man was big, maybe six three, but padded out with fat rather than muscle. The second man was short and wiry, with tattoos that were visible on the skin of his neck above the collar of his shirt.

  The fat one glared at Milton. “What you looking at?”

  Milton glanced beyond him and into the flat. The door to the sitting room was open and Milton could see that the crash he had heard was from a set of bookshelves that had been pulled over. The floor was littered with disturbed books, photographs and the fragments of shattered ornaments.

  The fat man stepped out into the vestibule. “I said what you looking at?”

  Milton shortened his focus and regarded the man. He had a large face, with folds of fat that hung down beneath his chin, and thin stripes of whiskers that he had missed while he was shaving. He had hair in his nostrils and ears, and his skin had an unhealthy pallor, washed with a light sheen of sweat. Milton looked down, saw that the man had a large ring on the pinkie of his right hand and another on the index finger of his left. He noticed that his hands were bunched into fists and noticed that he favoured his right.

  Milton felt the familiar tickle of adrenaline. He clenched his own fist, his right.

  The man stepped up, raised a hand and pushed Milton on the shoulder. Milton took a step back. He let it happen. It wasn’t a bad thing. The extra space would be useful for generating extra force when he retaliated.

  The man was oblivious to the danger he was in. “What is matter with you? You don’t talk?”

  His accent was harsh and guttural. Eastern European. Polish? Russian, maybe. Milton felt the twitch in his arm. He had noticed that the man held his jaw loosely, and knew that if he struck him with even half of his usual force, he would be able to shatter the bone. The man had raised his hand to him, had pushed him; that would normally have been the trigger for Milton to respond. But he glimpsed the couple who lived in the flat. They were in the hallway, both rigid with fright, the mother in her colourful hijab clasping their young son against her legs. They were looking at him with big eyes, with faces that were full of fear, and he knew then that they did not want him to get involved. They wanted these men to leave them alone, to go away with no reason to return. Milton could have taken them both out, and he was sorely tempted to do that, but that would have been indulging himself. The family would have paid for his indulgence.

  “I live here,” Milton said. “I don’t want trouble.”

  “Then get into the flat,” the man said, “and stop looking at me like that.”

  Milton did as he was told. He closed the door behind him, but watched through the spyhole. He waited twenty seconds, opened the door a crack, and saw the two men heading out of the vestibule and down the path to the street. He waited another moment and then followed them outside. They were at the end of the path and, as Milton watched, the fat man blipped the locks on a black BMW 5-series with tinted windows and they both got in. The engine revved loudly and the car pulled out into the road and drove away. Milton watched it, remembering the plate, and then went back inside.

  Chapter Seven

  THE GENERAL ordered Hicks to collect him from a pub outside Hereford railway station the next morning. Hicks knew that, as the most junior member of the Feather Men, it would fall upon him to chauffeur the old man around until he had proven his worth. He was happy enough with that, even if it meant that he had to get up at five in the morning, as he had done today. Leaving his wife in their warm bed was tough, and the certainty that he wouldn’t see his children today was difficult, but what he was doing was for them. He reminded himself of that as he let the water from the shower play over him, scouring away the sleep until he was fully awake. He dressed, prepared toast for a cursory breakfast, and went through into the garage.

  He had allowed himself three hours for the one-hundred-and-fifty-mile drive back to Hereford from Cambridge and had added another hour so that he could make sure that his Range Rover was clean and tidy. Higgins was fastidious about cleanliness and appearance, a hangover from the military that they all shared. He took a vacuum cleaner to the car and spent twenty minutes working the nozzle over the upholstery. He polished the wooden accents, wiped the dirt from the mats and washed the windows. The car was spotless when he was finished.

  The journey was straightforward until he ran into traffic just before Junction 7 of the M5. There had been a collision on the opposite carriageway, and drivers on his side of the road had slowed to gawp, causing a bottleneck that took an additional twenty minutes for him to negotiate. He made up a little time on the A4440, but he was still a little late as the buildings of Hereford appeared around the final bend.

  The railway station was an old Victorian building and had probably been grand at one point in its life. These days, it was clogged with parked cars and ugly red industrial refuse bins, the walls pocked by fly posters for a travelling circus and advertisements for local bars. Hicks drove onto the one-way approach, looped around an island that had been carved out for cyclists to leave their bikes, and stopped outside the entrance. Higgins was sheltering from the wind inside the main building. He saw Hicks and came outside. He was dressed impeccably, as ever. His charcoal suit was newly dry-cleaned, with sharp creases running down his trousers. His shirt was freshly laundered and his shoes so polished that the sun’s dim light gleamed against the caps. His face was distorted by a dark frown. Hicks looked at the clock on the dash and saw that he was two minutes late. He gripped the wheel a little tighter.

  Higgins opened the rear door and lowered himself inside. “When I say to pick me up at ten,” he said, “I mean ten. I don’t mean a minute past ten. I don’t mean two minutes past ten.”

  “I understand, sir. Traffic was—”

  “No excuses. You wouldn’t stand for it in the Regiment, would you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I won’t stand for it now.”

  “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t.”

  Hicks put the car into first and pulled away. It would take around three hours to drive to London from here, more if the traffic was poor. He had never spent that much time in Higgins’s company and he found the prospect a little daunting. The general was quiet as Hicks drove them out of Hereford and onto the M50. Hicks glanced in the mirror and saw that the old man had opened his case and was reviewing a paper file. He set his eyes to the road and concentrated on the light traffic.

  They had just passed the exit for Newent when Hicks heard the sound of the briefcase’s clasps snapping shut.

  “You did well last night, Corporal.”

  “Sir?”

  “With Öztürk. It was good work.”

  Praise from Higgins was a rare occurrence. “Thank you, sir.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “The operation, sir?” Hicks wasn’t sure where Higgins wanted to take the conversation. “It was fine. It was very well planned. I don’t
think they had much of a chance.”

  “You had no issues?”

  “Issues?”

  “Ethical considerations.”

  “No, sir. None.” Hicks had done a little of his own research on Öztürk and had satisfied himself that the man deserved his fate. He had been involved in extrajudicial killings before—IRA chieftains, foreign agitators—and, since those men had deserved to die, too, it was something with which he had been able to make peace.

  “How many men did you kill in the Regiment?”

  The number was at the front of his mind and easy to recall. It was the same with most soldiers that Hicks knew. “Twenty, sir.”

  “There’ll be more, Corporal, now that you’re working with us. As long as you’re comfortable with that, you’ll do well.”

  Hicks didn’t answer, and the general fell silent again. “Doing well” meant making money, and perhaps a lot of it. That was the only reason he was doing what he was doing. It wasn’t because of greed, either. It was because of necessity.

  They approached Gloucester and slowed into a clutch of slow-moving traffic. Hicks glanced up into the mirror and saw that the general was looking ahead. Their eyes held for a moment. Hicks felt awkward again and spoke to break the silence.

  “Who are we going to meet, sir?”

  “Leo Isaacs. Have you heard of him?”

  Hicks tried to remember the name. “It’s familiar.”

  “He was an MP. He was Secretary of State for Defence, too, back in the eighties. He used to be a very influential man.”

  “So why are we seeing him?”

  “Because we are protecting him.”

  “From what?”

  Hicks glanced into the mirror and saw the old man clench his jaw. “From some unfortunate personal weaknesses.”

  “Sir?”

  The general folded his arms and looked back out at the grey morning. “Keep driving.”

  The drizzle kept falling, the wipers swiping it from the glass. Hicks concentrated on the road ahead.

  Chapter Eight

  WATSON SQUARE was a grand and imposing building. It was built in the 1930s, was seven storeys tall and took up almost the entirety of Chichester Street. There were 1,200 apartments within its walls, and the grounds extended all the way down to the banks of the Thames. It was a short walk to the Houses of Parliament from here, a proximity that meant that the building had always been popular with MPs and peers. Hicks parked the Range Rover in a vacant bay and went around to open the door for the general. The old man got out, buttoned up his jacket, smoothed down his trousers and crossed the street to the entrance. The main door was found beneath an impressive marble portico, the doors sliding aside as they approached.

  There was a man waiting for them in reception. He was old, too, older than the general, and dressed in a slate grey suit, a black tie decorated with white stars, and a red pocket square. His hair, once a shock of blond, had turned white with age. His brow was furrowed and there was a restiveness in his eyes as he rose from the chair in which he had been sitting and crossed the space to meet them.

  Higgins took the man’s hand and shook it firmly. “Leo,” he said.

  “Richard.” He turned his head and looked at Hicks. “Who’s this?”

  “One of my men. He’s just joined us.”

  “I didn’t—”

  Higgins interrupted him. “Shall we go somewhere private?”

  Isaacs took the hint. “Yes, of course. My apartment.”

  The old man led the way through the reception and into an elevator lobby. They stepped into the first vacant car and rode it all the way up to the seventh floor. Hicks watched Isaacs in the mirrored wall of the car. The man was nervous, the fingers of his right hand toying with the cufflink that fastened his left sleeve. Higgins, on the other hand, was impassive. His face was severe and he stood straight as an arrow, all business.

  The doors opened and the three of them exited the car into a luxuriously furnished lobby. Isaacs led the way along a quiet corridor, their feet sinking into deep pile carpeting that muffled the sound of their progress. They reached the door to number eleven; Isaacs opened it and led the way inside. It was a two-bedroom apartment. Hicks assessed it as he passed through the small hallway. There were two doors that he assumed were bedrooms. They went through into a large sitting room containing pieces of furniture that looked as if they had been in place for decades. One wall held an old-fashioned serving hatch through which the kitchen could be accessed.

  Isaacs went over to a large French door that offered access to a narrow balcony beyond. He laced his fingers behind his back and looked outside, his back turned to them. Hicks noticed that the man was nervously squeezing his hands together.

  Higgins looked over at Hicks and gave a slight shake of his head. “What’s happened, Leo?” he said.

  Isaacs turned back to them. He pointed at Hicks.

  “This man. I don’t know him.”

  “His name is Corporal Hicks. He’ll be helping with this.”

  “I’d rather just—”

  “I’ve vouched for him, Leo. That should be enough for you. Move on. What’s the issue?”

  It was even clearer now that Higgins was in the position of authority here. Isaacs might well have had the glittering parliamentary career and the lordship that denoted it, but, between the two old men, Higgins was in control. There was something about the relationship that made Hicks feel uncomfortable. He would have been very happy to have been sent outside, but, instead, he stood quietly at the edge of the room, his arms folded across his chest.

  Isaacs cleared his throat. “I’ve been approached by someone who claims to have known me during the eighties.”

  “In what capacity does he know you?”

  The older man shuffled in his chair and clasped his skeletal hands together. “He says he met me here.”

  “The parties, Leo?”

  Isaacs coughed. “Yes. The parties.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I have no idea. It’s all very random. He’s a taxi driver. He picked me up in Westminster after a session at the Lords and drove me here. He was looking at me in the mirror as if he knew me the whole way, but he didn’t say anything. But then I saw him again a couple of days later. He was waiting for me outside the building in the morning. In his bloody cab. He got out and came over to me. He told me he remembered who I was. He said he remembered the building.” His voice trailed away. “The parties.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Well, I didn’t recognise him, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Why would you? He would’ve been a boy.”

  The retort was delivered with just enough scorn to condemn Isaacs, and it provided enough context for Hicks to fill in the blanks. He felt a sudden blast of disgust.

  “Well, yes…” Isaacs said, his voice falling away.

  “Do you believe him?”

  “How else would he have known to say that?”

  Higgins didn’t answer. He walked across to the coffee table and picked up a paperweight that was anchoring a pile of papers.

  “What am I going to do?” Isaacs pleaded.

  Higgins replaced the paperweight. “First things first, Leo. What did he say? What exactly?”

  “He said he was going to go to the press.”

  “With what? Does he have any proof? Did he say?”

  “I don’t see how he could.”

  “Then it’s just rumours and innuendo.”

  “But what if he’s believed? You know how it is. What if he gets someone to publish what he says? There’s no smoke without fire, that’s what they’ll say, especially with what happened before.”

  “Yes,” Higgins said. “That would be unfortunate.”

  “You said you’d look after me.”

  “And we will.” Higgins looked over at Hicks again and then turned back to Isaacs. “This man—what else do you know?”

  “His taxi badge. I remembered the number.”
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  “That’s better. Corporal—take a note, please.”

  Hicks took out his phone and opened the note application.

  “56381.”

  Hicks tapped the numbers and saved the note.

  “Anything else?” Higgins said.

  “He’s late thirties, early forties. Overweight. Not much hair. Looked nervous. That’s all.”

  “Very good, Leo. You can leave it with us.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Take care of it. You don’t need to worry. That’s what you pay me for, isn’t it? Peace of mind.”

  Payment. The politician paused, confusion wrinkling his brow before it was replaced by understanding and then a brief moment of resentment. Higgins noticed, and Hicks saw the anger that flashed in his eyes; Isaacs quickly mastered himself. He walked to a bureau and opened the lid. He took out an envelope and, telling them to wait a moment, went through into the bedroom.

  Higgins didn’t speak. He allowed a little of the distaste he so obviously felt for Isaacs to manifest itself on his face and went across to the window and gazed out. Hicks waited where he was, thinking that it would be a simple enough matter to find out the name of the man who had been given that taxi licence number. The thought of it, and what might follow, made him feel uneasy.

  Isaacs returned. The envelope had been filled, and it bulged in the middle. He handed it to the general. The end was unsealed, and Higgins made a show of reaching inside and withdrawing the contents. There were several bundles of bank notes secured with elastic bands. Higgins examined one of the bundles. The top note was a fifty, and Hicks estimated that there must have been thirty or forty notes in the bundle, with at least one other bundle in the envelope.