You Think You Know Someone

by J B Holman

  Stone explained how he had pursued the supposed gay-bashers, how the fight had gone down and how he got Foxx out of there. His head was ringing, he was hurting and his clarity was not helped by the drugs, but he covered all he could remember. He knew the next question.

  ‘Did you kill them?’

  ‘No, sir, I did not,’ he replied, in a sincere and military tone. ‘When I left them, they were alive.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I have laid enough people down in pub fights to know what kills and what doesn’t. I’ve taken people out in hand-to-hand combat in Helmand. I know when someone is dead and when they’re not; and I didn’t kill them. They were breathing and squealing when I left. One of them was out, but not dead.’

  ‘Did Foxx do it?’

  ‘He must’ve done. I had my back to him when I was heading to the car, but he must be a cool fucker, because he didn’t look like a man who’d just killed someone.’

  ‘He is,’ said Hoy feeling it was time he contributed again. ‘He’s as cool as . . .’ They both ignored him as Storrington cut in,

  ‘What happened when you left?’

  Stone explained that he was going to take the transvestite to London, but changed his mind. Conscience got the better of him. He’d heard on the radio that the assassin was in Brighton and he had to go back to see if he could find him. Ironic. He was a vigilante, who wanted to play his part in trapping and capturing an assassin – and the assassin had been sat behind him all the time.

  ‘I took him somewhere quiet, so he could change out of his girlie clothes. I was gonna drop him at Gatwick, to take the Express up to London. As I stopped the car, he twisted his stockings tight around my neck and strangled the fuck out of me. Next thing I know I’m in pitch dark at the bottom of a quarry, head hurting like a bitch and my leg gushing blood. I landed on glass, bent metal, all kinds of shit. I stemmed the bleeding the best I could, but lost so much blood I couldn’t get out and lost consciousness. I was there for days. Eventually, I did climb out and lost it again when I got to the top. Next thing I know, I’m in hospital and you show up giving me grief. So where’s my flowers? Did you bring me grapes, chocolates?’

  ‘Why did you punch a traffic warden?’

  ‘Cos he was a jumped-up jerk that needed punching. That’s why.’

  ‘And why did you hit your Commanding Officer?’

  ‘Ditto. See above.’

  ‘You have a problem with authority?’

  ‘Not if the right people have it. I just don’t like lions led by donkeys.’ That had resonance. Storrington smiled, almost. His voice softened.

  ‘I have a young friend, a captain. She feels very much the same way, but she doesn’t punch the donkeys. That’s the difference. You, Mr Stone, are in some deep trouble. Enjoy the hospital. It’s luxury compared to where you’re going.’

  ‘If it‘s not worse than being captured and tortured by the Taliban, I’m sure I’ll be fine.’ He closed his eyes, rolled his head and started to sleep.

  Outside the room, Hoy spoke. ‘We don’t know if any of that’s true.’

  ‘I do,’ said Storrington. And there was no more to be said.

  Julie woke up, her head still snuggled deep into Foxx’s shoulder, feeling intensely cared for as her naked body softly entwined with his.

  ‘Good morning,’ she murmured, sleepily to his neck.

  ‘It’s afternoon,’ said Foxx gently and squeezed her closer to him. She liked this Mr Foxx.

  Her mind replayed the scenes of the night. She had been standing by his bed, knife in hand, anger running through her veins.

  She had been wrong, very wrong about Mr Foxx. But only about his guilt; she had not been wrong about wanting to escape his allure. He was irresistible, like heroin to an addict. Trouble was her magnet. She didn’t want him and definitely didn’t want to care about him. Men hurt, and she knew this one would hurt more than most. That’s why she was angry. She was angry with herself. The knife was a symbol, not a weapon. Her head knew what she ought to do and her heart knew what she was going to do. She lowered the knife and put it back on the dressing table.

  As she did, unseen to her, Foxx lowered the gun that was pointing at her under the sheet and clicked the safety back onto lock. She stood by her side of the bed and slowly slid her tee-shirt over her head. Slipping under the sheets, right over to his side of the large two-metre bed she laid a line of sensual kisses on the unsuspecting and unsleeping Mr Foxx. She knew if they had to work together, they needed to trust and they needed to bond; though right now, none of that mattered - lust ruled her loins. He turned to her in the silent rustling darkness, surreptitiously slipping the gun under the pillow and returned her affection. He felt her body next to his: cold, slim, smooth, wanting. He was strong, muscular, manly, but gentle. She felt him growing on her. They bonded.

  And again two hours later, and an hour after that. And again, in the morning. And now, here she was, entangled in every way with this dangerous, controlling man of inevitable trouble. A slim shaft of radiant sunlight gleamed through the window and glinted on the shaft of the knife. The penis is mightier than the sword, she thought to herself ruefully.

  Foxx got up and flicked on the news channel. Julie showered away the exertions of the night.

  The police have found and arrested a man in connection with the Brighton killings. A spokesman reported that he is recovering in hospital from a brutal attack from the same man who carried out the Brighton killings. But he will himself be charged later today with aiding and abetting the murder of the two off-duty policemen and with causing grievous bodily harm to a third who is still fighting for his life in Intensive Care. It’s believed that he has information about the identity and whereabouts of the man who carried out the murders. We’ll give you more as we have it.

  He flicked it off and started to plan his day.

  Forty-five minutes later, they were sitting in the morning sun at a tiny table outside a French bakery dunking croissants and drinking flat whites and orange juice. They were the only customers and more relaxed with each other than they had ever been, but that wasn’t hard. They sat and chatted, almost like lovers, a real couple, as real trust and friendship started to move from bud to blossom.

  With croissants consumed, Julie slid her hand across the table to lay her fingers on his.

  ‘He was your accomplice, wasn’t he, the man in hospital who’s been arrested? Did you try to kill him too?’

  ‘He wasn’t my accomplice. And I didn’t try to kill him. I thought he was part of the plot to capture me, so I just choked him out.’ She looked quizzical. ‘I cut off the blood in his carotid artery. He would have been out for about ten minutes. I should’ve just left him. He would’ve been fine, but I chucked him down a quarry; about twenty feet. He hit his head on the way down. I was improvising.’

  ‘So you can choke people out?’ she said, as her fingers played with his. ‘Maybe you can try that with me later.’

  ‘Is everything a sex game to you? It’s not the same as erotic asphyxiation, y’know.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said with evident disappointment. ‘So he’s not Steve, the guy who’s sitting outside my mum’s house? The guy who’s going to . . .’ It wasn’t anything in Foxx’s face; he gave nothing away. Maybe it was the augmented closeness that had developed after sharing intimacy or maybe it was just a slow realisation that had finally tumbled.

  ‘There isn’t a Steve, is there? You don’t have an accomplice. My mum was never in any danger. You’re a blagging bull-shitter.’ He said nothing, just smiled the faintest smile. ‘I hate you, Mr Foxx,’ said her mouth, as her fingers squeezed his hands and proved she didn’t. ‘Next thing, I’ll discover you never gutted a bear in Norway and didn’t kill a thousand storm troopers in Azerbaijan or whatever it was.’

  He smiled a broader smile. ‘Are you questioning my manliness?’

  Her look said, Yes.

  ‘What,’ he said in mock defensiveness, ‘after my triumphs of stamina las
t night? No way.’ Fair point, she thought.

  ‘Now, focus,’ he continued. ‘We have work to do. I don’t know if you’re ready for what’s coming. The next few days are going to get . . .’ he paused as he looked for the right word, ‘operational. It will be dangerous. We have to find the killer and go right up against him. That’s not what you’re trained for. I have a place you can stay, keep your head down, until I’ve sorted this mess out.’

  ‘No. We’re in this together. I’m not running away. If it has to be done, I want to do it with you.’

  ‘Be careful what you wish for.’

  ‘No. I’m in. I want to do this.’

  He leant forward and looked deep into her eyes. His whole countenance changed as a stony seriousness solidified the expression on his face and a menace shrouded the conversation.

  ‘This is not a game. He’s a committed killer. The danger is real. We don’t know who he is or where he is. If you come with me, I can’t guarantee to protect you. Julie, he’s desperate and he wouldn’t think twice. He’ll kill you if he gets the chance.’

  ‘Better to die a hero, than live a coward,’ she said, and then quoting Dylan Thomas, ‘Anyway, After the first death, there is no other. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘You’re a strange one, Julie Connor.’ He sat back, his tone turned from menacing to informative. ‘There’s something else I haven’t told you. It’s about Assassination Attempt Number Seven. It’s brilliant and, unfortunately, foolproof. I can’t stop it. I can tell the police, the army, the PM himself and my mum, but none of that will make any difference. Attempt Number Seven is unstoppable. We have twelve days.’

  Storrington was not normally a man motivated by anger, but this whole affair had raised his blood. Foxx had invaded the sanctity of his home and stolen the privacy of his intimate, illicit memories. Connor had phoned, he had offered to help her - or would have done had she not hung up so fast. She was playing with him. He had thought her innocent. How wrong could he be!

  ‘Hoy,’ he said abruptly down the telephone, ‘The Brighton autopsy, hurry it up. I want it now! And give me the status on the third man. I need to talk to him. Get the QM that signed out the gun to Foxx in my office. And find Foxx.’

  His next call was to a team leader in the Planning Department, a colleague of Foxx’s. His name was Merikowski. Storrington fired questions at him.

  ‘How long have you worked with Foxx?’

  ‘How tall is he?’

  ‘Well, guess!’

  ‘Would he be anywhere close to six foot four?’

  ‘No? Are you sure?’

  ‘And what about his belt? Did he wear a belt?’

  ‘So who would remember?’

  ‘Ask them. Yes, all of them. And if they think he did wear a belt, ask them what kind of buckle it had? And get back to me today.’

  He hung up and reformulated his thoughts. Julie Connor, what are you playing at? What have you got to do with all this? Do you want to help me or not? Did you signal me from the flat with his phone? Did you want him arrested in St James’ Park? Or was that just a ploy? His mind focused on Julie Connor, on Serafina Pekkala the high ranking officer in GCHQ-2, holder of secrets, and accessor of any private information she wanted. She might be listening to him now.

  He didn’t care if she was. He made one more call.

  ‘Maria? I have an answer to your question. Julie Connor . . . she’s foe. Shoot her on sight.’

  Anderson-Bevan Report was all that was written on an otherwise blank sheet of paper. It was a puzzle. Julie had spent the morning googling. Nothing. She had made a dozen calls. Nothing. Why had Nickolas Tenby got so het up about a report that no one had heard of?

  Foxx sat opposite, slowly repeating the names Tenby, Hoy and Brekkenfield.

  ‘Agreed,’ interjected Julie.

  ‘So you don’t think the DPM should be on the list?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Buchanan has motive. If he kills the PM, he inherits the kingdom, but I just don’t see him being entwined enough in the world of espionage to be able to pull it off. But I don’t know how to find out for sure.’

  ‘I do,’ said Foxx. ‘It’s simple. Ask him. I’ve been thinking about it. He’s new to security protocols and potentially more naive than the others. So the plan is this: he gets an email from his secretary or one of his trusted assistants telling him that his GCHQ-2 account is being changed because of potential security breaches and if he wants a new one, he has to email a high security GCHQ-2 email address immediately confirming it’s him by enclosing his old email address. That way he tells us if he is Dominion1431.’

  ‘OK,’ she said in acknowledgement, not agreement. ‘I guess you think you can create a bogus email address with GCHQ in the name, but how do you plan to get one of his staff to send that email?’

  ‘I don’t. You do. You walk into their office, flash your high security badge and say you’re doing security checks. When they go to get you the cup of tea you ask for, you write the email and send it. Sorted.’ Julie said nothing. He prompted her for an answer. ‘Well? What d’you think?’

  ‘No. I think no. The only word I can find in my head when I think of that idea is “no”. If we ever get stuck on a desert island together for fifty years, or more likely share a prison cell for a hundred and fifty, I still won’t have quite enough time to go through all the reasons why it’s a bad idea. It’s a no. So what’s next on the list?’

  ‘I’m trawling Friends Reunited,’ he said, his face betraying a little hurt at the vigour of her denouncement.

  ‘Friends Reunited? It was closed down years ago.’

  ‘Yes, but it was just too good to waste. Special Branch hacked a copy of all the files before it went. It’s a gold mine.’

  Julie went back to calling friends about Anderson-Bevan, while Foxx phoned half a dozen names linked to the suspects, on the pretext of arranging a birthday party for a ‘mutual friend’ and wanting to dig up some amusing dirt from their past for a spoof speech.

  Julie ran out of people she wanted to call. Her contacts had told her a lot about many recent reports, but none of them were the Anderson-Bevan Report. She wrote down what they said - you never know.

  Foxx phoned a non-entity called Greg. They chatted for half an hour, Foxx listened intently.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said when Greg told him things he knew already; Foxx always did that, but raised his eyebrows when a new topic emerged. He probed deeper, listened more, took notes, then hit gold. He jumped up and grabbed his coat.

  ‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘We’re going to meet Nickolas Tenby’s wife.’

  ‘What . . . again? We’ve already met her: Charlie, she’s lovely.’

  ‘No, not her. His other wife, his real wife - the genuine Mrs Nickolas Tenby.’

  19

  Farringdon Churney

  ‘Bonjour, ma Cherie!’

  Tenby spoke with letch in his voice and mobile phone in his hand. ‘I’m coming to Marseille next week with the PM for the Brexit meetings. Are you ready for some fun? I’m going to push the timetable forwards. We’ll come down a day early, so I’ll be arriving on Friday not Saturday. The PM and I have some pre-meetings and,’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘that means I will have an extra night en France. Will you be there, in Marseille? And your husband? Non? Formidable! I’m going to do to you what Wellington did to Napoleon’s army at Waterloo. You’d better be prêt à manger! And come prepared,’ he said with a dirty grin in his voice. ‘You know they called me Nickolas, because that’s how I like my girls.’

  He chuckled. She missed the pun. He didn’t care. Au revoir ma petite, À bientôt!’

  ‘So who is this lady?’

  ‘Her name is Elizabeth Tenby. She and Tenby got married in their early twenties when he was still in the RAF. Greg was in Tenby’s Squadron. Two or three years into the marriage, they were driving along a country back road in Yorkshire: he was driving, fast, probably drunk, in whatever sports car he had at the time. It was getting dark. A lit
tle girl was walking her dog along the road. He almost hit her, swerved, lost control, demolished a dry-stone wall and ended up in a tree. It put his wife in a wheelchair and she has been in it ever since.’

  ‘And what? He walked away scot-free?’

  ‘Of course. He was charged with a whole list of driving offences, but his daddy’s lawyers got him off, based principally, according to my new mate Greg, on her lying in court. But that’s not the worst bit. As soon as he was free, he dumped her! She was no longer a suitable wife, so he binned her off, set her up in some chocolate-box cottage in Farringdon Churney, out of the way of his London life, and picked up with another woman.’

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘No, not at first. He had a whole stream of them. By the time he joined the Foreign Office, people thought he was single and dating anyone he could get his hands on. He never spoke of his wife. Then he met Charlie and the rest is history.’

  ‘Oh my god! Do you think she knows?’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘He shouldn’t be allowed within a thousand feet of a woman. I don’t know why his wife - I mean his first wife – has kept quiet about it.’

  ‘Well, you can ask her yourself. We’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  Being spoken to by Storrington was like standing on the front line under a barrage of heavy shelling.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the nervous and diminutive Quarter Master’s clerk who’d been on duty that day and was responsible for the orderly running of the gun racks in the SSS private arsenal. ‘I signed it out to him. I have his signature here. It’s been cross-referenced and it is his signature.’

  ‘Did you see him sign it?’

  ‘I checked that it had been signed.’

  Storrington glowered. Heavy shelling was about to become nuclear, his tone gained more insistence and greater menace. Each word came out as a single staccato salvo.

  ‘Did you see him sign?’