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by Freddie P Peters

  “The hospitals near Paddington are not responding either. Frankie always calls me after an interview. He was so proud. He thought he may get the job.”

  “He is a good son, your lad.”

  The man next to Henry took his handkerchief out of his pocket again. His mobile rang and he froze. He hesitated for a few seconds. Did he really want to know? He grabbed the phone and listened. The voice on the other side was clearly familiar as his entire body slumped.

  “I don’t know yet. No, Frankie hasn’t come back. Look, I need to keep the line clear.”

  He ended the call and placed the mobile slowly on the counter torn between the respite of hope and the despair of not knowing.

  Henry’s food had arrived but remained untouched, his glass still full. There would be no escape. He closed his eyes in an effort to still himself. He could stand and leave but where to, another bar, another club, another country? None of these would bring him peace. He felt the agony of the man sitting next to him. No cause was good enough to inflict so much pain.

  How far and why had he been involved in this madness? He wanted to know, the money, the planning? A few hours ago, Bobby’s statement had read like a jumble of incoherence. Bobby, always the weakest link of the three and yet prepared to die for his cause and his friends.

  The two men next to Henry had left. As they did, the barman refused their money. He just wanted to have news of Frankie when it came.

  Henry looked at his food. He had toyed with it, moving a piece of omelette round his plate. He put it in his mouth and chewed it a little. But the taste of food did not interest him.

  Henry’s attention returned to Bobby. His friend’s confession had been madness and yet Bobby was convinced. Albert was a threat, the takeover a rigged exercise – and they had their old plan. Bobby was losing his mind. He had never discussed the impact of the peace process on his friends. Liam and he spoke less frequently than they used to. He had not mentioned Bobby in months. Henry paid his money into the fund. He felt he was doing his bit, a convenient illusion. Bobby had lied. Did he want to know why? The imaginary calls with Henry, the revival of the old plan, the briefcase. Henry rubbed his hands over his tired face. He looked at his watch. It was 4am and the little bar was still half full. Charlie would be waiting for him until the club shut. With both his friends in jail, would he flee again, the way he had when he fled to London, the way he had a few hours ago from Paddington? He looked at his watch again in a mechanical fashion. He still had a few hours before the sun rose.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The weather had changed so dramatically that Henry wondered whether he had walked into a brand new country. The canal path was peaceful, a few people walking their dogs or riding their bikes. The cab had dropped Henry on Upper Street Islington. Henry Crowne was now strolling along the footpath. He knew where he was going. It had come to him gradually – the answer had always been there waiting for him to acknowledge it. He would reach soon his destination and in a few hours it would be over. He was glad of it.

  * * *

  Nancy woke with a jolt. Her phone was ringing. She answered with an unsteady hello and recognised Pole’s voice.

  “Have I woken you up?” Pole sounded exhausted.

  “Do not worry Inspector. At least I have had some sleep which sounds more than can be said for you,” replied Nancy, grateful for his call.

  “Henry has been spotted in Hackney but we seem to have lost him.”

  “I should try to find him before the Squad does,” said Nancy. The idea had come to her yesterday as she’d been searching for clues amongst Henry’s account of his past.

  “Well, if you do find him before we do then please make sure he does not do anything stupid.”

  Despite the dire situation, Nancy could detect the smile in Pole’s voice.

  “Inspector, this is precisely why I intend to find him before you do,” replied Nancy with a pang of pride. Pole was indeed taking her seriously. He was sure she would deliver.

  “I will let you know, and Inspector,” Nancy changed her tone of voice for what she needed to say should be said only among friends. “I could not have had a better person on the case than you.”

  She did not wait for Pole’s reply. Yes, she knew where to find Henry.

  * * *

  The bench was in full sun. Henry had reached his final destination. He had been sitting there for a while now, resting against the back of the bench, his legs folded underneath him, hands stretched over his thighs. His mind had wandered down strange avenues since he had left Paddington. He must soon look, consider, measure the extent of the devastation but for now he was content to bask in the sun. For a few seconds more, he wanted to enjoy the simplicity of life.

  He felt her presence before she laid her long-fingered hand on his back.

  “Am I that predictable?” asked Henry, without looking round at her.

  “No, we spoke about your first few months in London when you arrived from Ireland. You said you had escaped as far away as you could from Kilburn and decided on London Fields,” replied Nancy calmly.

  “Mmmmm,” nodded Henry.

  Nancy sat beside him, she was looking in the same direction.

  “The cops will be here soon,” said Henry in a low voice.

  “We have a bit of time.”

  Henry nodded again.

  “How bad?”

  “You mean the—?”

  “Yes,” he did not want her to speak the word.

  “Last count forty-seven dead, over sixty wounded.”

  Henry grabbed his thighs and squeezed hard, digging his nails into his flesh but pain was no release. A question was burning him alive and yet how could he formulate it?

  “Probably an Al-Qaeda splinter group, videos were posted on YouTube and sent to the press shortly before the explosion,” said Nancy.

  Henry inhaled deeply and forced himself to utter the words.

  “Any IRA connections?”

  Nancy hesitated for a fraction of a second too long before giving her answer.

  “Nothing concrete.”

  “Which means, they supplied some of the logistics,” Henry concluded without hesitation.

  He looked at her for the first time since she had arrived. The intensity and pain of his look startled her.

  “But we are not sure yet,” she replied.

  “You don’t need to be sure Nancy. I know.”

  He shivered, the sun was still shining on his bench but the deepest cold had settled in his chest. It was time. He had been looking for words that could describe the turmoil within. And it had come to him in the dark alley in Hackney, in the little cafe he had never visited before amongst people he did not know.

  He was too tired to be angry, too tired to nurture the will to destroy, a desire so intense that it negated life itself.

  “I am scared, I expect you know that,” said Henry.

  “It is not easy to look at truth in the face, Henry.”

  “I am scared, I am going to pretend again I can fight this.”

  Nancy did not reply.

  “It is time to be honest and I am not sure I know how anymore,” carried on Henry.

  “I could try to give you more advice or say that it takes time but that would be bullshit.”

  Henry managed a smile; he loved it when she swore.

  “Can I ask you for something that sounds crazy? A sort of final wish before they send me to prison and throw away the key,” said Henry.

  Nancy nodded.

  “Buy the painting, The Raft of the Medusa.”

  “Now? Why?” replied Nancy.

  “Because I never want to forget. I understand what you said a few days ago about The Raft. It is the first piece of art that means a lot to me, no, I think it is me.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, and I am tired. Tired of hating so much, tired of succumbing to the impulse that destroys.”

  He no longer wanted to inflict pain, a pain that could never be soothed. Th
e word atonement had come to him with sudden and unexpected clarity.

  Henry’s attention switched to some movement in the far distance. The forms moving towards them had not escaped Nancy either.

  “Shall we do this?”

  “If you are ready, I am ready too,” replied Nancy.

  She had stood up.

  “Remember I am not only your brief,” said Nancy with kind determination, “I am your friend. I am with you all the way.”

  Henry stood up too.

  “Even after all this?”

  “Even after all this.”

  They moved together towards the south side of the park. Men in uniforms were approaching them.

  * * *

  “Did he sign a confession?” asked Nancy.

  Pole started walking the corridor with her.

  “Did the Counterterrorist guys not let you see him at all after his arrest?” asked Pole, half surprised.

  “Henry is not exactly thinking straight at the moment. I had to be the one informing Pritchard, his defence lawyer.”

  Nancy stopped to face Pole. “I don’t think he cares much about what he has actually done but what he thinks he has done.”

  “What do you want me to do? The case is no longer in my jurisdiction,” replied Pole calmly.

  “Do you think it stacks up altogether? I don’t, but I can’t exactly tell you why,” replied Nancy hoping she would catch Pole’s attention.

  “You’re his legal counsel. It’s your job to get your theory checked out,” retorted Pole.

  “Come on Jonathan!”

  “You’ve got your instinct, I’ve got mine. Ms Wu,” said Pole smiling at the elegant woman in front of him. “Come on, you don’t think I am going to roll over so easily do you?”

  “Bien sûr que non.”

  Nancy smiled in return, she could indulge him. Pole blushed slightly but changed the tone.

  “You never finished your story about Jacques Vergès,” said Pole.

  Nancy slowed the pace and took her time to gauge Pole’s intentions.

  “Vergès is one of the reasons I stopped practising. He contacted me when Tariq Aziz, Saddam Hussein’s minister, included him in his defence team. I nearly said yes.”

  “What stopped you?” asked Pole amazed at the revelation.

  “It was one step too far. I was so tempted by the challenge. I tried to reconcile this with my belief that all deserve legal representation but it was pure ego and nothing else I feared.”

  They had arrived at Pole’s office. Nurani stood up to join them but Pole shut the door after Nancy. He would have this discussion on his own.

  “Ms Wu, the facts are overwhelming.”

  “Call me Nancy,” she said.

  “OK, Nancy,” replied Pole emphasising her name. “Let’s recap on the evidence. Henry has for many years contributed to a ‘charity’ which we know is in reality a slush fund for the IRA. Fact. Furthermore, we know that he is the mastermind behind the legal structure, also fact.”

  Nancy nodded in acknowledgement.

  “He has admitted concocting a plan, albeit many years ago, to bring down an executive aircraft with his pals Liam and Bobby. Fact.”

  “Agreed.”

  “We also know that his two friends are members of the new faction IRA and, contrary to expectation, they have not ‘retired’. Liam and Henry have stayed in contact since they were children. OK, the contact with Bobby is less strong but he is always in the background. And we also know that Liam and Henry saw each other only a few days before Albert’s plane came down.”

  Pole was about to continue but Nancy interrupted.

  “Just so we are clear, I am not contesting this. Henry should not have contributed to this slush fund, it was stupid, in fact more than stupid. It was disgraceful altogether, but—”

  “We have Bobby’s confession.”

  “Which I find extremely tenuous,” finished Nancy.

  “In what way?

  “As far as I can tell, they never spoke face to face about it.”

  “You mean always through text or phone call.”

  “Precisely.”

  “That may be a very good technique to distance oneself from Bobby. He is an unpredictable guy to say the least.”

  “Yes, maybe,” replied Nancy unconvinced. “But it still leaves evidence behind and Henry can perfectly well justify at least one other trip to Ireland without arousing suspicions.”

  Pole did not reply. She could feel a shift.

  “Someone else could have made those calls,” she ventured.

  “You would have to be able to fool Bobby very well.” But Pole did not reject the idea as preposterous.

  “Well, Henry has taken elocution lessons to get rid of his Irish accent. This would shape his voice in a particular way. I am a barrister. I can tell the impact these lessons have on someone’s voice.”

  “OK, let’s assume that we have one element of illogical and inconsistent behaviour. It is still unbelievably slim but what else?” replied Pole, this time more encouragingly.

  “Jonathan, you are going to have to help me a bit there. Please?”

  “All right,” Pole replied. “The one element I find not completely conclusive, which is key to this entire story, is the delivery of the bomb.”

  Nancy was all ears.

  “Forensic tells us that the bomb was small but powerful enough to be contained in a small space. Anthony Albert took away a briefcase from Henry’s flat, more precisely from Henry’s block of flats. We can’t confirm that he actually entered the flat.”

  “Bobby says in his statement that he left the briefcase in Henry’s garage but never saw him take it. It is a hell of a risk to leave a live bomb unattended,” said Nancy.

  Pole nodded and extricated a heavy file from the piles of documents laying on his desk. He enjoyed working methodically with Nancy through the evidence.

  “Henry could have, again, calculated that he did not want to be seen with Bobby but I agree it is a huge risk to take. Even for a short period of time, who would want to leave an unattended bomb in the basement? Henry now remembers meeting with Albert to give him the case but can’t tell us exactly what happened. Yet Henry has an excellent memory.”

  Nancy stood up and walked to the window. She was looking at the Thames, letting herself gather her thoughts. She turned around to face Pole.

  “And yet he has confessed.”

  “And yet he has confessed,” repeated Pole, “and the Counterterrorist Squad need to score quickly. The latest carnage in Paddington, right on their doorstep, does not give them much of an option.”

  They remained silent.

  “No other credible leads by the way,” confirmed Pole, anticipating Nancy’s next question.

  Pole suddenly stopped in his tracks. Nancy read the change on his face.

  “Is this worth mentioning?” she hesitated, not wanting to interrupt what could be a vital train of thought. Pole did not answer but grabbed the phone.

  “Dolores, what did Adeila exactly say about the Will? Yes, sorry. Hi.”

  Pole grimaced, indicating a major lapse in common courtesy.

  “OK.”

  Pole took some notes on a pad that was perched on a pile of documents.

  “Could I please have Adeila’s number?” finished Pole, after listening to what Dolores had to say.

  Pole put the phone down and immediately dialled another number.

  “Good afternoon, may I speak to Mrs Albert please?” Pole switched on the loudspeaker.

  “It is she,” replied Adeila’s polished voice.

  “Inspector Pole here, I am sorry to disturb you but would you have a moment?”

  Pole half expected Adeila to put the phone down but she volunteered a short go ahead. Pole decided there was little merit in spinning out his question and went straight to the point.

  “You mentioned to my colleague Dolores Patten that you expected your husband to leave you very little in his Will when he died. It might be a l
ittle too literal in which case I apologise profusely but was there any reason why you thought he might die soon?”

  “No need to apologise, Inspector,” replied Adeila. “I used the term because I knew Anthony was dying. He had a terminal illness which he tried to conceal from everyone.” Adeila continued unprompted. “You may ask how I knew. Well, I am sure you have done your job thoroughly Inspector and you must know that Anthony had an affair a little while ago. I decided to check regularly his conversation after this and had a private agency firm install a recording device in his office at home. A very boring conversation in the main, Anthony really lacked imagination. However, I learned about his illness that way together with the content of his Will.”

  Pole and Nancy were taking in the information, envisaging all the possibilities it contained.

  “Are you still there, Inspector?” asked Adeila, somewhat amused.

  “So sorry, yes of course.”

  “I am glad to hear I have silenced you for once. Anthony was treated in Switzerland.”

  “It would be incredibly helpful if you could–”

  “… give you the address of the clinic?” interrupted Adeila. “Give me a few moments.”

  Pole could hear movements at the end of the phone. Adeila gave him the details he needed and hung up with little more than a surprising good luck.

  “How can this help?” asked Nancy.

  “I don’t know yet, it may be nothing but I need to understand what happened in Switzerland.”

  He stopped, and Nancy realised that her time with him was over. She stood up.

  “You will let me know?”

  “Of course, I’ll keep you posted,” replied Pole with a reassuring smile.

  She put her hand on the door handle and turned back before opening.

  “Why do we believe in Henry’s innocence? Oui, pourquoi?”

  “Ma chere Nancy, je croie que nous avons la même réponse,” said Pole, in his impeccable French.

  Pole dialled the number of the clinic in Switzerland that had been treating Anthony Albert for the past few months.

  * * *

  Henry walked through the doors and the warden removed his handcuffs. Nancy felt a shock when she saw him wearing the standard prison uniform. His hair had turned silver overnight but his face looked calm, maybe resigned, she was not yet sure. A man who thinks he is at peace with himself, a desire to atone.