Percy Crow

by Daniel Kemp

  “Come on, my love, while I think of it. Let's get you to Farlows, in York, and kitted out for the grouse. Doubt you've got shooting clobber anywhere on our mainland. The birds do appreciate smartly attired sexy women firing and missing them,” I laughed! Serena pointed two fingers at me imitating the two barrels of a shotgun.

  “Bang, bloody bang, Harry P.”

  * * *

  In the hulls of ships on Detroit's dockside, longshoremen stewed in a different way entirely from the Portuguese version of Serena's desired dish. The sweltering heat of summer inside cargo holds, with the minus zero and beyond degrees of winter, took their toll on men's resolve and tempers. Fights were not uncommon with verbal disagreements being the norm of a working day. Patrick Simms was a hard-drinking, red-headed Irishman to whom fists were at the end of muscular arms for one purpose only; to be used as often as possible. Micky Pat's graduation from union member to union leader, then onto Mafia associate, was far from seamless and as easy as the fights he won, nor were there only bruises to treat and heal. He had survived two gunshot wounds and eight knife attacks on the way to the powerhouse that he now controlled.

  Across the Great Lakes, and through Detroit docks, were shipped every single consignment of weaponry destined for the Republican Irish Army that either Charlie Reilly or Joshua Ryan procured in Canada, all first labelled as 'Motor Parts'. It was a two-way link that Simms had orchestrated to perfection. His demise in the middle sixties left a gaping hole in the dreams of Republican Irishmen that, had not Percy Crow been blessed with foresight and pragmatism, might never have been filled. That was why Charlie Reilly met Patrick Simms in New York on that wintery day that he was spotted! At least that's how Charlie viewed it, but then Charlie never knew all of what I eventually did.

  Micky Pat's devotion to the onward shipping of arms to Ireland needed diverting away into more lucrative shipments and ones that could engage the American Mafia's curiosity; that of drugs. But Charlie was not there to negotiate the passage of any old drug, only those exclusively developed in the laboratories overseen by Douglas Simmons were on the agenda. Percy had a different agenda to those involved, and his was being handled by men who thought themselves far cleverer than those three.

  * * *

  The final details to the most important yearly social event held on the estate took longer to settle than I had imagined. The previous year's shoot had to be postponed due to the effects that the winter's rain had on the available stock. Many of the regular participants believed that I was God and could conjure up grouse from one of my many hats, but alas, that was not possible. The reputation of the estate now lay firmly in its manager, and his ability to provide good sport over the two days, in just under two weeks' time. It was my role to smooth out any edges that stood in his way.

  I was fifteen or so minutes behind schedule when I entered the drawing room, to be pleasantly surprised that my delayed appearance had not been noticed. George was busy entertaining Serena, regaling tales of his mother and his early childhood. However, by the time that my second whisky was being poured I had not heard any mention of his father, Paulo. I raised this matter as we walked along the corridor on the announcement of dinner.

  “Great storytelling, George, you had Serena spellbound. Hanging on to every word, weren't you, dear? But tell me, why nothing said about Paulo? You're not ashamed of him, are you?”

  “Not ashamed, Harry, no! How can I be when I know so little about him? You know much more than me, but you've never spoke of him, nor Loti come to that. I know only what she told me and that didn't amount to much. All in all I'm a bit lost in the Paulo history story.”

  I had never thought of that. Which I guess only went to prove just how self-absorbed I really was. The word egotistical sprang to mind, and a phase of my life in which it was mentioned that I was desperately trying to forget.

  “That's something I must rectify, George, starting now. Not only was your father a brave man, but he possessed astuteness beyond the realms of most of his contemporaries. The excuse he made to his superiors about your mother's eyes that enabled her to be included in the 1956 Soviet visiting party when Khrushchev came to this country, was pure genius with fantastic spirit and verve. Only he could have done it and got away with it. He went on to great things in Russia, you know.”

  “So, you were born abroad then, George, I thought you were born over here, in England.” We were seated, and Serena wanted to join in.

  “Well, no, on the England bit, but abroad is not exactly true either, only if you count southern Ireland as foreign parts, which I've never done. Should do of course, but seems wrong somehow.”

  “Do you know what, George, I'd forgotten that. The fact you were born in Ireland. Always thought of you as a true red, white and blue Brit, but you've got green, white and orange hoisted up your mast as well.” The light dinner conversation was going well, I thought, until the grenade exploded with a deafening bang.

  “Where in Ireland were you born, George?” An innocent enough question but with repercussions that Serena could not have realised on asking.

  “In a Carmelite convent just north of Dublin. Place called Whitecliffe,” he announced.

  “I've heard of that place. I do believe my father had a place there. Didn't you visit Nicolás whilst I was away searching for a machinist, Harry? What was that all about?” Serena had pulled the pin.

  “I was simply on a friendly visit to confirm his participation in next week's shoot, Serena, I'd forgotten about Loti and never knew about his property in Whitecliffe. Why would I have put the two together?”

  “Would that have been your father, Nicolás Abenazo, whose name was on the party list, Serena?” This time it was George with a scathing question. “I thought it too coincidental, but Harry never commented when we were discussing the list. Perhaps he knew those two Irish members of Parliament?” Serena either chose not to answer his question, or could not.

  “Much more important than that, George, is the question of my shooting wardrobe. Farlows of York is one thing, but that trip into London is now of paramount importance, Harry P.” So spoke my boar killer.

  Chapter Fourteen: Beside The Water

  “Well, well! I almost never recognised you, Harry. You look positively normal in a shirt and tie. Suit to boot eh! Never seen the great you so well presented. Trying to impress the chef, are we?”

  Sir David Haig was not an intelligence tradesman by qualification, more by the ability to tick the right boxes at the right time, but he was no one's fool. His rise to overall head of that service had come about chiefly through me, however, that did nothing to endear me completely to his heart. He was wary of me, having not understood, nor fully accepted my reasons for withdrawing from front line service on conclusion of the inquiry into which I was forced to enter. Blame and praise are often dependent upon the direction of the wind blowing through the corridors of Whitehall and what windows are open at the time. David was a survivor first, and a consummate maintainer of his own reputation second. Being the great-grandson of Field Marshall, Earl Haig, of First World War notoriety, both attributes he had adroitly refined.

  “I have no one to impress, David, other than Serena here, and she knows me far too well to be taken in by mere appearances. I only seek to complement her beauty and obviously I need as much help in that direction as I can find. There are some women who one can give a Ferrari to and they wouldn't know where to put the key, but others would know how to gun the engine and keep it ticking over all night. Serena is just such a girl.” I'm sure I detected a slight blush on my companion's face, but maybe I was being egotistical again.

  “Still the silver-tongued Lord Harry Paterson, I'm very pleased to see. What brings you to this part of the world then, Harry? It was Harry here, my dear, whose father and brother's murder led to the hailstorm that struck the department when the roof was wide open with very few umbrellas going free. Before my time at the top but I'm sure I told you of it. Have you met my wife, by the way, Harry? Rosemary
, my dear; may I introduce the Earl of Harrogate and his escort Serena. Lovely name, that! Come with a surname, does it?”

  “Abenazo, and it's a pleasure to meet you both.” If there had been a blush on her face it had disappeared, as handshakes were exchanged.

  There was no recognition by David of Serena's name, and he wasn't gifted enough to disguise that had there been any.

  “We're down for the Yorkshire Cup meeting at Ascot starting Tuesday, David. On friendly terms with some of the owners. We're billeted here for a few days. Drove down earlier, then changed into the suit. Thought I'd give it an airing! I didn't realise you frequented the establishment,” I lied.

  “Won't hear of you staying here, Harry. You'll stay with Rosemary and myself. Dine here with us tonight. I'll speak to Alain and have two chairs added to my regular table.” I was just about to thank him when Serena spoke

  “I'm afraid I have a slight dilemma.” Up until this moment she had remained quiet and removed from the conversation. “I'm Jewish, and the particular sect I belong to forbid the name of Mary being used at all. Not even in the synagogue. I can only call you Rose, I'm afraid.” She held Rosemary's hand as she disclosed this hitherto unknown fact.

  They both accepted her protest without question, but I didn't. It wasn't until a good time later that I found out it was just a story she had invented to amuse herself. It wasn't the only game she played, as I found out later that evening in the Haig home at nearby Oakley Green.

  “Tanta and Fiona are popping over, Harry. Rose has asked for an entire makeover in return for an invitation to Milan with a ticket to the show. The press will go mad seeing his lord high's wife covered head to foot in crimple! I'll have two lords to present to Franco. He'll love me forever, or at least until the Santa Maria sails again.”

  “Sir David will never allow it, Serena.” For a fleeting moment I was jealous that the mysterious Fiona was to visit David's wife and not me.

  “What an injustice you do me, H. I have his motor ticking over quite nicely. It would only take the tiniest thrust of my foot to have him racing through the chicane and over the finishing line. They are due to arrive Monday.”

  Throughout our three day stay, my trust did not extend to the mention of Percy Crow's name nor did my chauvinistic tendencies overpower my judgement and ask about David's secretary, but other names were mentioned. Belief in someone's integrity, as I did with David's, is one thing, but being an analytical scientist had taught me to believe in only what I know for certain, or could see. It was on the Sunday morning walk, around the grounds of his home, that David opened up.

  “You're after something and I must say we could do with your help. Sir Michael came to me, you know, to clear it as it were, but it was informal and passed through no other department. This is a purely private concern between you and them. What are they after, Harry?”

  “I might get to that, David, but first I would like all you have on Lord Montague and the fire that killed four people at his Irish home of Grange Manor. As for my ultimate quarry, it may be better for you that I don't disclose his name at this stage. Best to keep your name out of things for a while.”

  “Someone is well informed, Harry! It's very hands-off stuff and pretty gruesome. Most definitely not material for broadcast. I can't give you anywhere near a full résumé and frankly I'm amazed that the Americans have an interest. There is nothing to suggest he had divided political loyalties of any nature. Let me just add this though, to whet your appetite, a little. I would imagine that if any of your family regularly attended the House of Lords then they would have sat as far away from that particular person as they possibly could. Now for your question. The four who died were all mutilated before being burnt. Their identities were meant to have been concealed, and in the case of two, it stayed that way for many years but with the improvements made to DNA, pertinent discoveries were made in the late eighties with detailed evaluation materialising. Irish matters have baffled the layman and professional analysts, in our trade and others, for centuries, Harry. The only thing we all were certain of was that no amount of violence would end the troubles, it would have to come about though dialogue, as painful as that may be. Montague escaped that fire only because he was told it was to happen.

  Deduce what you will from that, as I will not be elaborating. We had an operative during the fifties who, for want of a better word, was a complete arsehole. Worked outside the system using methods that could not be sanctioned, although it brought about huge benefits, or so it was looked upon by I think it was Meredith Paine, that was then 'C.' Paine's man worked every side that was going, including child prostitution. Now, do not draw any inference from that, Harry, because it will be your head in the Tower, and not mine if you do. The four bodies were all connected to the IRA, also the international trade in child smuggling, prostitution of children, and all were suspected paedophiles.

  One was the only relative of Lord Montague, his sister Grace, and another, a young male serving member of the Eire government. Yes, his sister was involved in what I have just mentioned. They had been murdered in particularly nasty ways and one would have thought a lot of unnecessary gratuitous pain. Speculation within the international press was rife at that time over who had perished in the fire, but heads of departments here in London, and corresponding ones in Ireland, decreed that was to be stamped on. And so it was! 'D' notices and the like were issued. The Irish authorities and London covered the story and I'm not telling you how, Harry. The other two remained a mystery until, I think, round about 1989/1990, when not only were they identified through that DNA link I spoke of, but the fact that all four were alive when burnt. All four bodies, and parts of bodies, were exhumed and discovered to have been injected with some form of hallucinogen. The exact component not being labelled.

  Montague denied all knowledge of how they were murdered. One of those that we were then able to determine was one of ours. The female secretary to Olivier Lyttelton, department head of the Colonial Office, and the other….” I stopped him short before adding a suggestion of my own.

  “The mother superior of the nearby St Mary's orphanage, David?”

  “My, my, you are well informed, Harry. You know of the orphanage. I guess I won't have to look far to know from where! But no, not she! When the fourth body was identified Montague was questioned again by Home Office operatives about his relationship with a certain high-ranking public figure, but to no avail, he simply pleaded privilege and we could do nothing. I cannot give you that fourth person's name, Harry. It is the Holy Grail beyond all our reach, but it was decided then that as the subject matter of any incriminating photograph was now dead it ceased to be relevant.”

  We were seated in an arbour, out of sight and away from the hot August sun, when he switched on a beacon of light that danced in the shadows of Maudlin's path.

  “Sir Michael Riven must have enjoyed your hospitality, Harry. If you know of St Mary's then you most likely already know of two players in this game. One of those was given a new background by us at about the same time as that atrocity took place. Whether that was before or after I'm not saying, you must draw your own conclusions as you may already know his name and have formed some interpretation as to his character. It was he who had that photograph of our fourth man that he had used as a lever within our circle. The department was told that any copy should be found, confiscated and burnt. None was found, Harry. It was hoped that the whole episode surrounding what this saga represented would die away naturally with the death of our man in 1983. It was also evaluated that had a copy then emerged, it was an unfounded allegation against a dead man which could easily be denied or squashed. My elevated desk, closer to the house of England's great power than those of an equivalent altitude south of the river at The Box, has no mail advertising a sausage-dangling pornographic snapshot of blatantly under-age females being forced fed sex of any nature to garner favour, or shroud past acts of abomination whatsoever! Alas, however, there are more cases of abuse of children being
unearthed daily by the newspapers and now I fear, by you.”

  I remained facially impassive, but my stomach was turning at the intimation contained in David's homily.

  “Tell me what you can about Douglas Simmons, David.”

  “You're after Percy Crow, Harry, aren't you? He should keep you busy for a considerable time. I wonder how Maudlin came to hear his name and in what capacity? Wear strong protective clothing, Harry, you could get badly injured on this journey of yours! And be vigilant in your treatment of your American allies. They also could be in danger in dredging up shit, the fetidness of which will permeate through the whole of Washington!”

  Chapter Fifteen: All Things Secret

  I spent the most part of Monday with David, who filled in some missing holes in Douglas Simmons's history, but he left out any reference to the Panama City address that Nicolás Abenazo had told me of, the same one that George had discovered, and any more connection to Percy than I already knew. Sometimes the real important details are not in what's told, they're in what isn't; being only alluded to. Sir David Haig was playing a waiting game, loading my gun with enough bullets to blow my foot off.

  George had discovered that the rent on Percy's City of London photographic gallery was paid for from the Panama address. Operatives employed by HM Government were paid through an account at Coutts Bank, not from some money laundering account in Panama City. One part of the information was misleading and further confused by what Sir David had said.

  “The last we knew of Simmons was that he had landed in Brazil, Harry, in the early sixties, tying in ends for what was called; the Russian trade delegation. We suspected he used a little coercion, and blackmail where appropriate, but that was never proved, just suspected. He neither bothered nor interfered with us. So, we left him alone.”