by Oliver Tidy
Bishop indicated a pair of chairs in front of the window. ‘Let’s sit down, shall we? How is your wound healing?’
‘Well, thank you, sir.’
‘Good. Good,’ said the politician.
Bishop placed his elbows on the chair’s arm rests and set the tips of his fingers together, bouncing the ends of his digits gently against each other. He stared at Sansom, appraising him, and the soldier had little choice but to stare straight back.
‘I’m going to be completely honest with you, Lieutenant,’ said Bishop, as though still weighing up decisions in his own mind. ‘There really is no other way that I can see.’
Sansom sat patiently, intrigued now by the visit and the visitor. With his senses settling down after the surprise, he slid his hand into the pocket of his gown and, without quite knowing why, pushed the record button on the dictation machine.
‘I’ve listened to the tapes that you’ve made with Captain Harris with great interest,’ said Bishop. ‘It’s a hell of an experience.’ Sansom sat expressionless, his mind churning over the reasons for Bishop to be there, wondering what he was building up to? ‘A harrowing experience,’ went on the politician. ‘You have my most sincere sympathies for your personal loss. It is a truly terrible business.’
Sansom nodded once. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Bishop took a deep breath, a signal that the necessary condolences were out of the way and the time had come to move on to the purpose of his visit. ‘I’m not here in any official capacity, Lieutenant. This is purely personal. And, if the truth be known, what I’m about to discuss with you would cost me everything if it were to get out. So, before I continue, I would like you to give me your word that whatever we discuss here will be kept between ourselves. If you don’t like what I have to offer, what I suggest, I’d like to think that I can leave without worrying about it coming back to bite me in the arse. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, sir,’ said Sansom, hearing the tension of his confusion developing in his voice.
‘Besides,’ said Bishop, his face grim, ‘I’m too bloody old to waste what little time I have left pissing about.’ A strained and serious look clouded the politician’s features. ‘You weren’t the only one to lose somebody out there, Lieutenant.’ His tired grey eyes looked up at Sansom from under neatly-trimmed eyebrows.
Sansom tried to read the emotion that was being projected towards him and found himself wondering whether the intense sadness that he detected was genuine or a practised politician’s tool.
‘I lost a son,’ said Bishop. ‘My son was one of the crew. Do you remember David?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Sansom, as shocked by the revelation as he could have been by anything that Bishop might have said. ‘Tall lad, early twenties, mop of curly blond hair?’
‘That’s him,’ said Bishop. His features softened slightly and his eyes assumed a moistness that was new.
‘I had no idea, sir. I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you. No reason why you should.’
‘He was a nice lad, smart, patient with the passengers, I remember, and a competent sailor. He clearly loved the sea.’
Bishop was nodding and smiling back at him. ‘You’ve understood him well, Lieutenant. Indeed, the sea was in his blood. His grandfather spent his whole working life in the Royal Navy. Admiral by the time he retired.
David was living out a dream on that ship. He’d come down from Oxford the year before with the world at his feet. Could have gone anywhere, done anything, but wouldn’t consider his future until he’d put some time in under sail – said it was something that he needed to do.’
He paused, collecting himself. ‘So you see, I share your loss. I understand how you must feel, how angry you must be, the need for revenge for their needless, senseless deaths.’
Sansom sat motionless now, wondering where the former Minister was driving the conversation. He detected an undertone of something dark and menacing in the man’s speech. ‘What is it exactly that you think I can help you with, sir?’
‘Yes, Lieutenant, of course, the point. I have your word that this will be kept between ourselves? Man to man, so to speak?’
Sansom nodded. A convoy of heavy ordnance rumbled by in the distance, gently reminding the soldier of where he was.
‘I want revenge,’ said Bishop. ‘For a terrible crime, for an unbearable loss. I want whoever was responsible for what happened out there to pay the price that they made my son pay for harming nobody, for living his life and fulfilling his dreams. I want them to pay for snuffing out not just his life but my own, too. You must know what I’m talking about.’
Sansom could feel the charge of energy between them, could see Bishop’s self control slipping. ‘I’ll never get over this loss. Will you? I want revenge,’ he repeated, ‘cold, merciless revenge.’ He allowed his remarks to hang in the air a moment, trying to gauge the soldier’s reaction. Eventually, breaking the silence, he said, ‘Do I shock you, Lieutenant? Have I misjudged you?’
‘I’m not shocked by what you’re feeling,’ said Sansom. ‘As someone who lost his wife and only child out there, I know exactly what it’s like. I’m just not sure that I understand what you’re suggesting.’
Encouraged by Sansom’s continued engagement, Bishop leaned forward in his seat. ‘What were you doing at that man’s house – armed? You wanted answers. You wanted to find whoever was responsible. You wanted revenge. And you wanted to make it personal, direct and quick. Am I wrong?’
Not waiting for Sansom’s response, he said, ‘That’s what I want. I want biblical justice. I want those responsible, each and every one of them, to suffer the same fate that they meted out to my son, to your wife and child and every other poor soul on that ship.’
Struggling to accept what he was hearing, and from whom, Sansom said, ‘Why not go through the proper justice systems?’
The politician snorted derisively. ‘Why didn’t you? Because you know what chance of bringing these people to justice exists even if you can ever track them down. And even if they were identified and brought to justice, what kind of justice could we expect for them: a few years in some comfortable prison, if some clever lawyer didn’t get them off altogether? What evidence is there apart from your testimony, Lieutenant? What chance of a conviction? It will be your word against theirs, if you can ever find them, if you can ever bring them to court.
‘And forgive me, but a year on a desert island, by your own admission suffering bouts of mental illness, do you think that any half-decent lawyer wouldn’t tear your testimony apart, destroy your credibility to get their client off?’ Bishop sagged back into his chair, shaking his head at his perception of it all.
‘But in your position,’ said Sansom, ‘with your connections and influence, surely you could accomplish something, get justice for your loss.’
Bishop grunted. ‘Acer,’ he said. ‘Up until you re-surfaced, I didn’t even know that I should be looking for someone in connection with my son’s death. Then I find that there are two people who might know something, only thanks to you one of them is dead – probably the one with the most answers.
‘Besides,’ – and again the former Minister became intent, a vicious glint in his eye – ‘the kind of justice that the system could mete out isn’t what I’m looking for. I want blood and retribution, not bullshit. I don’t have the time it would take to pursue this through the proper channels. I can help you and you can help me.’
‘What do you mean? In what way?’
‘Look at your position. What do you think is going to happen to you when you are discharged from here? You killed a man and you’ll have to answer for it through the British legal system.
‘Consider the time and publicity. Do you believe that the opportunities for finding those responsible for this heinous crime will still exist when you’ve been through all of that? And that’s assuming that you are not found guilty of murder and given a custodial sentence. From what I understand, you were found at the victim’s ho
me with the murder weapon still in your hand.
‘What would you plead? Self-defence? You might think that you had good reason to have been there, in that situation, but will a jury believe you? Will the law accept your reasons? Can you prove Harper’s involvement in anything? Can you take the chance?’
There was nothing new for Sansom in the arguments being made by the politician. Since regaining consciousness, he had found himself, naturally, anxiously preoccupied, considering his situation.
Whichever way he sliced it, he feared the worst. What Bishop was saying was all perfectly reasonable and right. Sansom recognized that his position looked anything but encouraging. He knew too that if he was to have any chance of avenging the death of his wife and child – the only thing that now mattered to him in his life – he must stay out of the public eye and out of detention.
But what was Bishop suggesting? What was he prepared to involve himself in? How far was he willing to go and what was he prepared to risk for his revenge?
‘Why me?’ said Sansom.
‘Because you were there, you have some idea of these people, and you’re personally and emotionally involved. You must want what I want. Why else would you have been at Harper’s with a gun?
‘You’ve proved that you’re motivated; motivated to a goal common with my own; motivated to do whatever it takes. Officially, these days my standing counts for very little in opening doors and getting people to act.
‘Unofficially, I’m not without influence; I have contacts and resources that I could supply you with. With that and our shared losses tying us together, we could trust each other. And you’re obviously a survivor, driven, skilled, resourceful and experienced.
‘The question is not why you, Acer, it’s why not you? We can help each other. Together we can avenge our loved ones.’ He continued to stare intently at the soldier, searching his face for a sign that he was willing to involve himself, to bind himself to what was being suggested. ‘And don’t forget that you have an ace up your sleeve,’ he continued, ‘you’re already dead.’
Sansom smiled at Bishop for that as the penny dropped for him – expendable and deniable, more like.
***
5
‘Besides, the kind of justice that the system could mete out isn’t what I’m looking for. I want blood and retribution, not bullshit.’ Sansom forwarded the recording. ‘I can help you and you can help me.’ The machine whirred. ‘Look at your position. What do you think is going to happen to you when you are discharged from here?’
And again. ‘Unofficially, I’m not without influence; I have contacts and resources that I could supply you with.’ Bishop’s malevolent purpose seeped out of the recorder. Sansom, lying on the hospital bed, replayed, listened, considered, and made his decision.
*
For three days, hospital staff aside, he had been without visitors or means of communication with the outside world – probably at Bishop’s instruction, he believed. His only company was a small television with a poor signal. He imagined the anguish that Gerald, Alison’s father, must be experiencing, waiting for word. However, the rest had been good for his body and his mind. He felt almost fully recovered.
No doubt verifiable aspects of his story were being validated. He had nothing to fear there, providing those involved in events he had described had reported them.
Bishop was right: he was in the shit, trouble about as serious as it got with both the police and the Army. Being realistic, he knew that he was facing the probability of a lengthy custodial sentence. Any chance that he could escape punishment through legal channels seemed slim and not worth the risk.
There was also the inevitable media sensationalism that would follow his exposure in a trial to factor into his decision-making. Those responsible for his losses would be alerted to his existence, and given recent events, guarded against his obvious intentions. The precious element of surprise would be lost. His opportunity for retribution would be made even more remote.
The longer he dwelt on matters, the more he came to realise that not only was Bishop offering him immunity for his actions and an opportunity to pursue those responsible for the atrocity of a year ago but also assistance towards that end. Thoroughly illegal and fantastic though it might all be, even by his own recent life experiences, Bishop’s offer seemed like the only hope he had.
And why should he not trust the politician? He too had suffered an obviously devastating loss. Why should he, like Sansom, not be seeking biblical justice? He would know as well as anyone the realistic chances of pursuing, finding and prosecuting to a satisfactory end criminals in other time zones and other political as well as legal jurisdictions.
Even if he should find himself suddenly free, Sansom reflected, without resources, contacts and assistance, any hope of hunting down his family’s killers could be an immeasurably-lengthy if not impossible task. Whereas joining forces with Bishop could provide him with assets, benefits and advantages that could help him fulfil his purpose. Was Bishop right? Did they need each other? Could they help each other?
Not for the first time, Sansom found himself wondering why Bishop would put himself in such a position. Why put himself in league with someone who was now, doubtless, branded a dangerous criminal? Why consort with someone who, if Sansom was to accept the politician’s offer, would be wanted by both the police and the Army?
What could be worth that risk to someone in his position? Why did he not take the information that Sansom had provided and use it in whatever way he chose to pursue justice that would satisfy him?
A sardonic smile spread across Sansom’s features as once again he came back to the only reason – accountability. While Sansom readily accepted that the two men shared a common goal, however illegal that may be, bound together and motivated by extreme grief, Sansom knew that to the politician he would be dispensable. He was isolated and, if Bishop managed their association like he expected, he would leave no evidence or trace of their alliance.
*
On the evening of the third day, a nurse Sansom hadn’t seen before delivered a package to him. Inside was a mobile telephone. He could not call out on it. He set it down and waited. Two hours later it rang.
A voice that Sansom didn’t recognise said, ‘Who is this?’
‘Sansom.’
‘My name is Smith. I’m to liaise with you should you be willing to accept my employer’s offer. Can you confirm acceptance?’
Smith, thought Sansom, how unoriginally clandestine. ‘Yes, I accept his offer.’
‘Leave your room in ten minutes. Turn left. Take the fire escape through the door at the end of the corridor. There will be a car waiting for you. Be prompt.’
The line went dead.
Sansom allowed himself a smile. And so it begins, he thought. They certainly weren’t giving him time to think. He had no clothes to wear other than the hospital gown he stood up in and nothing to take with him other than the miniature tape recording he had made and the phone. He fingered the wedding band that hung once more from the thong around his neck and thought of Alison.
When Sansom stepped out from his ward there was not a soul in sight. He took the route described to him. Finding a car with the rear door open at the foot of the fire escape, he got in.
‘Smith?’
‘No,’ said the driver. ‘Phone.’ He held out his hand for it. Sansom passed it across. ‘Now get down and cover yourself with that blanket.’
They sped across the tarmac to the exit of the barracks. Once clear of the base’s security check-point, Sansom uncovered himself and settled in for the ride.
They drove in silence until they eventually reached a row of Victorian terraced houses in a London street. The driver pulled in sharply at the kerb.
‘Number fourteen.’
The car left him alone on the pavement, barefoot. Pulling the flimsy gown around him, he approached the house and knocked. The door was opened by a stocky man somewhere in his fifties. His close-cropped hair and somet
hing about the way he held himself gave Sansom the idea that he was ex-military. He stood aside and Sansom entered.
The interior was sparsely furnished, dimly lit and needed modernising. He followed the man into the lounge. Seated in one of two armchairs was Bishop, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. He stood and came towards Sansom, his hand offered again in that practised politician’s way.
‘Welcome, Acer. Thank you for choosing this,’ he said. He dismissed the other man with a nod. ‘Drink?’
‘Thank you.’
‘Sit down, won’t you?’ said Bishop. He poured two fingers of whisky and passed it across. Sansom sipped it and savoured a favourite taste.
‘How are you feeling?
‘Fine, thank you, sir,’
‘Good. I understood that you were recovered enough. Sorry about the cloak and dagger stuff. I’m sure you understand. We’ll have a quick chat and then you can get out of that outfit. I understand there are clothes in one of the bedrooms that should fit you.
He looked seriously at Sansom. ‘Before we go any further, I’m going to be open and frank with you about a few things just in case you have any intentions other than those we have already discussed. I have to protect myself in all of this, you understand.’
Sansom understood. He nodded and sipped his drink.
‘There is no record of my visit to you in the hospital and this will be the last time that we meet. All contact will be made through Mr Smith, the gentleman outside. If you have intentions of contacting anyone, your father-in-law for example – yes, of course we know about the assistance that he gave you on your return,’ he said, in response to Sansom’s change of expression – ‘please, think again. It would be safer for all concerned if you were to let sleeping dogs lie. Do I make myself clear?’
The thinly-veiled threat to Gerald was obvious. Again, Sansom glimpsed what the man in front of him was capable of and resolved to treat him with professional respect. After all, he didn’t have to like the man to work with him, use him.
