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by Freddie P Peters

  Pole took note. That was out of character.

  “In fact, I am almost certain she knew the contents of the Will. I find this amazing because Mr Albert was very particular about keeping the new Will from his wife. In any case she was prepared. She immediately declared she would contest the Will.”

  “When did Mr Albert decide on the changes?” asked Pole.

  “Less than two months ago.”

  Pole exchanged a few more words with the solicitor then the conversation was over. He had picked up the phone again to call Dolores when the humour of the situation hit him. There had never been any real discussion between Adeila and Brett about Anthony Albert. All must have happened through innuendos and half-spoken words. Brett thought he was wooing a woman who might become rich, she was hedging her own bets trying to attract a man whom she thought was wealthy. If Adeila knew about the Will, which now seemed likely, she certainly did not want her husband’s death. Allner-Smith did not know but it was now unthinkable he would have planned the murder on his own. All this amounted to a laughable game of deceit, smoke and mirrors. Adeila was, Pole had to admit, pretty good at it. He looked at his watch. It was time to reconvene with Henry.

  * * *

  “We don’t have much time, Henry,” pressed Pole. “This is Bobby’s deposition, take a look.”

  Henry lifted an eyebrow and took the piece of paper with a lack of interest. He could imagine Bobby’s disjointed mind coming up with some insane storyline. A convenient tale the police would pursue but easily torn to shreds by his lawyer.

  Both Nancy and Henry started reading. They read all ten pages in absolute silence. Henry put the document down before Nancy did. She was surprised. Henry could still, under exceptional strain, retain a distinct capacity for absorbing and interpreting information.

  “Bobby is insane,” said Henry softly but it did not sound like a reproach to his friend rather a realisation that was long overdue or perhaps a reproach to himself.

  “What do you mean,” said Pole perceiving the unexpected change in the tone of Henry’s voice.

  “I need to think, Inspector,” carried on Henry, “… alone please.”

  Pole was about to mention again that time was running short but thought better of it. Something was happening. He tugged at his goatee and signalled to Nancy that they should leave the room for a few minutes.

  The scales of justice were now starting to move imperceptibly, a momentous decision was about to take place. She knew. She had witnessed it before. The turning point in a life that had suddenly veered off course. She shivered and longed to be back among her uplifting art pieces.

  Pole arrived with coffee, which they drank in silence. When they had finished, he gave a small sign that it was time.

  “Give him a few more minutes, please,” said Nancy.

  “We are cutting it very short.”

  Nancy nodded but did not reply.

  “Since we have a few minutes Ms Wu, may I ask what happened to Jacques Vergès? You worked with him once upon a time.”

  If Nancy Wu was prepared to dig in his past, he sure was in a position to do the same to her.

  “Who?” asked Nancy in earnest.

  “Jacques Vergès,” said Pole.

  Nancy’s look of surprise gave way to a short laugh.

  “Well Inspector. Serves me right for digging around people’s past.”

  “You still have not answered my question.”

  “It is a long story Inspector and you said it yourself, we don’t have that much time.”

  Pole was about to protest when she continued.

  “Those were dark days in which I learned a lot about being a barrister, about myself too. I worked with Jacques once, when he defended a war criminal called Klaus Barbie. I was a very young lawyer then.”

  “An affair in Bordeaux, in the late eighties,” said Pole.

  Nancy looked at her watch.

  “You’re right, let’s go.”

  “How about a contact with Vergès in late 2008?”

  Nancy was already walking down the corridor.

  When they had reached the room Pole opened the door, gallantly pulling back to let Nancy go first. She acknowledged him with a small movement of the head.

  “I had introduced Bobby to Anthony Albert,” said Henry as both Nancy and Pole sat down.

  “It was a completely fortuitous meeting,” he carried on in a knotted voice. “We were celebrating a closing in Dublin, we found ourselves all in the same pub. Albert was there and I could not care less anyway. I had just closed the biggest god damn deal ever!”

  Henry stopped, it now sounded so meaningless.

  “Bobby caught onto us I vaguely remember, although by that stage we were all pretty drunk.”

  Henry’s eyes stayed focused on his friend’s written confession.

  “Albert had invited himself to the party, we were closing the transaction with HXBK. Hardly anything to do with him but it was a profile deal. This little shit had to pretend. We went for drinks after the closing dinner. Liam has a job now in Dublin, turns out he was at the same pub as we were with Bobby. Still we hardly spoke. He does not feel comfortable outside Belfast and does not like me in my work clothes.”

  Henry could not help a sad smile.

  “You mean Bobby and you hardly spoke?”

  “Mmmm, he just wanted to know who the guy was who was left on the side. I gave him his name. I probably told him he was a waste of space,” continued Henry.

  “Did Bobby speak to Albert?”

  “I don’t know Inspector. As I said, Bobby does not feel comfortable outside Belfast. I certainly can’t remember him going, I don’t even think I said goodbye.”

  Henry sat back for a minute. His hands had not left his friend’s confession. He kept looking at it.

  “I think I might have …”

  Henry stopped and Nancy stood up.

  “Henry, we need to discuss this,” said Nancy. She had to control the next few minutes.

  “Bobby seems to dislike Albert a great deal, there is an entire page on why it was a good idea to do what he did.”

  Pole was ignoring Nancy. He knew Henry was wavering, almost ready to talk.

  “Bobby has never had a clear view as to why he hates. It is a rant, a long-lasting suffering condition, he simply hates, with passion and without reason. I am surprised he could be so precise,” answered Henry.

  “Henry, I need to speak to you in private,” said Nancy, in a final attempt.

  “He said he spoke to you a few times and got instructions through voice messages. He could have dreamt it but then again it takes a lot to circumvent the security of any bank, let alone of an airport. Henry?” Pole was pushing on.

  “Inspector that is enough!” interrupted Nancy.

  “Nancy, this is OK,” said Henry.

  “I need to know Inspector. It could only have taken a few hints.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Pole looked at his watch, they had five minutes at the most. If Pole was to extract Henry from the clutches of the Counterterrorist Squad, Henry had to admit to the unthinkable. Nancy knew Pole was right, she had no time left to coach Henry. She changed tack.

  “Henry, speak to us if this is truly your choice, we don’t have much time,” urged Nancy.

  Pole turned towards her, amazed.

  “Is that the QC’s advice?” said Henry.

  “And your friend – you do NOT want the Squad to take over.”

  Henry nodded

  “We had a plan, it was such a long time ago. At university,” Henry hesitated. “It now sounds ridiculous, arrogant or simply crazy, but during the Troubles, in Belfast it was so – normal.”

  “You mean the bombings?” asked Pole, pushing Henry back to darker times.

  “Politicians used to fly a lot from small airports. Getting a bomb through was not all that difficult.”

  Henry paused and a sense of clarity took hold. He knew what Bobby had done, and he now knew what it meant to
him.

  “I was a student at Trinity College. I took it as a challenge, a way to see whether I could outsmart them all. I don’t even remember whether I believed they would actually do it – I didn’t care.”

  Henry stood up unexpectedly.

  He was deliberating, his thoughts nearly palpable. For so many years he had skirted around the issue. Was he in, was he out? Could he truly have done what Liam and Bobby had done? The time had come to find out. He wanted it, at this very moment and in this room, with a passion he thought had deserted him when he left Ireland.

  “Is the Squad on its way?”

  Pole nodded.

  “You can still save yourself, Henry.”

  “No. Not any more. Bring them on.” Henry’s eyes blazed with hatred.

  Pole faced Henry. Henry held Pole’s gaze – the desire for a fight in the air. Henry wanted to feel the sweet taste of blood, just once more, the crush of bones underneath his fists. What respect could he have for a man who wanted to compromise, a man he realised was trying to save him?

  Pole understood immediately, it took a few more seconds for Nancy to see it. He opened his mobile and dialled Nurani’s number, a few words were exchanged. He would not reason with Henry any longer. Pole felt strangely disengaged.

  Henry was at the gates of Hell and wanted a taste of it – so be it.

  It took all but the best part of a minute for the Counterterrorist Squad commander to arrive with four more men. Henry was handcuffed roughly but did not wince.

  Nancy and Pole left the room and shook hands without exchanging a word, there was nothing else to add. Pole walked back to his office. His view of the situation had been proportional. Yet a moment ago he had stopped caring. Now an infinitesimal feeling of regret, an imperceptible sense that the job was not altogether finished started troubling him. Pole hesitated and changed direction, time for a quick catch up with Dolores.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Henry was sitting in the police van that was taking him to Paddington Green station for interrogation. He was preparing himself, anger pumping through his veins, the rage of years long past rising once more. Had he been so careless? he wondered. Everything had worked so well: the financial arrangement, the multi-tier structure, the tax havens, the numbered accounts in Switzerland. Did he not want to escape? Did he truly want this fight? A fight with Pole was not worth it but the Counterterrorist Squad was. Excitement replaced anger. How far could he go? He looked at the three men who were sitting in the van with him. They knew violence all right. They had seen death too. He carried on inspecting them. A strange form of combat had already begun. He had been pushed to the far end of the van, the three men were near the door. Henry tried to remember Belfast, the Troubles, the sounds of the bombs and the blasé remarks of those who had escaped.

  “It’s near College Square.”

  “Na, it’s Victoria Street, they have done the Europa again.”

  And so it would carry on for a while until the news confirmed the location.

  Henry moved position to discover that the back of his shirt was wet with sweat.

  Not that tough anymore, Henry. A small ironic smile curled his lips, a good thing he had learned from the English – the power of self-deprecation.

  He moved again. The three guards looked at him and decided he wouldn’t be trouble. The cuffs were pretty tight, very small but so effective a tool. The van was taking an eternity to cross the red light, this time Henry shuffled his feet. Were they stuck in a traffic jam, surely they could sound their siren and get through?

  It all happened in an instant, a surge of energy never experienced before. An uncontrollable force threw Henry against the walls, the floor, the ceiling of the van, his ears incapable of taking in the noise. Space had been torn open and consciousness ripped from him.

  Yells of agony and anguish brought him back. With all his might Henry willed himself awake, drawing from a depth he had never suspected existed inside him. He drew deep to stay alive.

  For an instant it all sounded quiet again as if nothing had happened. The cries started again, a siren in the distance, then a second one. Amid the suffocating smell of burning flesh, Henry wanted to open his eyes, he wanted …

  A hand shook his shoulder and someone was shouting.

  “I need to move you, mate, can you hear me?”

  Henry mumbled, he could see a vague shadow over him, an awkward shape, a heavy weight was pinning him down as he was trying to move.

  “Can’t,” he tried to articulate, his eyes still out of focus.

  “You must, mate, the van is on fire, it’s about to explode. Come on, you can do this,” the voice was pressing.

  Two hands grabbed his shoulders and started to drag his body. Henry moaned, and summoning all the energy he could, pushed something away from him. He opened his eyes, finally able to focus, to look at what was preventing him from moving. The severed body of one of the guards lay on its side, the explosion had ripped open the door, tearing apart his torso. Henry’s mouth opened, his eyes bulged. He was looking into the eyes of the guard, empty and glazed. A scream that never came suffocated Henry. He crawled forward ignoring the helping hands that were trying to move him out. The van rocked heavily on its side. Two hands pinned him down to stop the van toppling over altogether. Someone else dragged him onto the road. One of the other guards, who had been fiercely searching for his keys, released Henry from his handcuffs.

  “The driver is still trapped in the front,” urged the man, “help me.”

  A small woman, a passer-by, ran towards the scene. Henry did not move, she followed the guard to drag the driver out. The smell of burning petrol was overwhelming.

  For all his years in Belfast Henry had never been close to a bomb blast as it happened. He had heard them, seen the aftermath, read about them. He had imagined them in a gory and voyeuristic fashion. He had become blasé about them to the point where his only concern was to pinpoint with precision the site of the explosion from the sound it made. He had always been prepared – the mangled bodies, the smell of burning flesh, the yelling of the wounded. But reality had now dug its claws into his belly, twisting and turning like a hook. He fell to the ground, limp. People were running around him, strangers helping strangers. Henry thought he should be there too, his eyes turned towards the van, he bent forward and threw up. It was not easy to kill a man. Henry tore his jacket away from his body and wiped the blood and vomit from his face. He stood up, looking but seeing nothing. Henry started walking, his mind filled with images he needed to escape.

  He walked past the screaming ambulances, the howling police vans. He walked, blinded by emotions. Faster and faster he went, chased by the furies of destruction. Henry was running, escaping what had always been a part of his life. He was running when a cold sensation hit his face. He could not understand it to start with, a thousand needles attacking his skin. The rain fell harder; he welcomed it, its vicious bite bringing him back to life, his chest burning. The torrent drenched him, blinded him, pushed him to run faster. Where was he? He did not care.

  Henry turned onto Marylebone. He was running. His clothes clinging to his wet body. But suddenly the rain stopped, subsiding like an ocean wave, its violence gone and with it the promise of relief. Henry’s pace slowed. His hand found the cold strength of an iron gate, he was spent. He clung to the metal frame with a ferocious grip, gasping for air. He was wrecked, just as those men must have been who clung to the Medusa’s raft. There was no hope left.

  A black Mercedes stopped beside him. The driver door opened and a gloved hand grabbed Henry, pulling him into the car. Henry collapsed on the back seat.

  “Mr Crowne, I think you need a lift,” said a familiar voice, a voice that came from a past not so distant and yet belonged to another life.

  Charlie started the car again and drove off. He looked with kindness at the heap collapsed on the back seat of his car, the man he had so often driven to one airport or another. Henry knew he was safe, he did not know why. F
inally, he sat up, articulating with great difficulty.

  “Charlie, you should not …”

  “Nonsense,” replied Charlie. “I would be a poor limousine driver if I could not offer a much-needed ride to my best client.”

  “You don’t understand,” protested Henry, each word requiring a crushing effort.

  “What don’t I understand – that you are a wanted man?” Charlie kept his eyes on the road ahead. “It takes one to know one. I was once in a very bad place too, as you well know.”

  “You don’t owe me, Charlie,” said Henry.

  “It is all about respect Mr Crowne, that which you give and that which you receive.”

  A comfortable silence fell in the car.

  “There are some fresh clothes in the boot of the car and I won’t take no for an answer,” said Charlie still looking ahead. “Where are you going to go Mr Crowne?”

  “Charlie, I think you can drop the Mr.”

  “As you wish, Henry.”

  “I don’t know is the answer. I just don’t know.”

  The comfort he had felt vanished. He thought about Nancy but the police would know. He had no money, no ID. He was bare.

  “I have finished my day. We could go for a drink.”

  Charlie spoke slowly in a manner that seemed hesitant. Not knowing whether it came from discomfort or anxiety, Henry was about to decline the offer. He met Charlie’s eyes in the rear view mirror. There was genuine sympathy.

  “You know that the cops are after me?”

  Charlie smiled at Henry, a generous smile that said it all. He became serious.

  “As I said earlier, Henry, very few bankers were prepared to give an ex-con much of a chance.”

  “You don’t have to repay me. You have always done your job well. In fact, more than well.”

  “Have you done time?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “But you know what that means …”

  “I am probably about to find out sooner than I would have wanted to.”

  Henry closed his eyes and inhaled. Could he ever give up being an arrogant ass?

  “If you need to get out of this country, you have very little time.” Charlie’s tone had changed. It had a palpable urgency.