by Oliver Tidy
‘Perfectly clear,’ said Sansom.
‘Excellent,’ said Bishop, smiling again. ‘Remember that, above all, I want what you want in this. We have to be able to trust each other. Now,’ he continued, ‘why don’t you go upstairs and get out of those rags and then we can make a start on getting you up to speed on what we have so far?’
Sansom was keen to get some proper clothing on. The psychological tactic of having him sit exposed and vulnerable in the hospital gown while Bishop had talked with him had not been lost on Sansom.
Smith was waiting outside. ‘First on the right,’ he said, nodding up the stairs. Sansom followed the direction. He entered a bedroom. Clothes were laid out on the bed, shoes on the floor.
As he was dressing, the front door banged. He looked out through the drawn blinds to see a figure with the hood of a coat pulled up walking away from the house.
Smith was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs.
‘He had to go,’ he said. ‘So do we.’
The two men left the house and walked a short distance in silence to an empty car.
On the tiled kitchen floor of the house they had just vacated the owner lay, now deceased, eyes wide, his throat cut; a pool of crimson liquid surrounded him, already beginning to congeal.
*
Smith drove slowly. ‘Hungry?’
‘I could eat,’ said Sansom. ‘How am I supposed to have escaped from Headley Court?’
‘That’s up to you,’ said Smith. ‘You’re the escapee.’
‘And the police, what are they to be told? If they believe that I’ve escaped, won’t they be looking for me?’
‘Officially, you’re dead again. You died as a result of complications that arose from a combination of your injuries and ill-advised travel. That’s the way we’d like to keep it: nice and simple. Everyone happy. Case closed.’
Smith turned to look at Sansom. ‘If this partnership shouldn’t work out, however, the Army will be forced to admit an embarrassing cover-up and loss of a prisoner. You will find yourself a very wanted man with little sympathy from any quarter, regardless of your personal losses.
‘If you should fuck up, become a threat to us, you’d better hope that the police find you first. That doesn’t come from Bishop, by the way, that comes from me. Are we clear?’ The little speech was delivered matter-of-factly, without malice or viciousness, but Sansom doubted none of it.
‘Crystal.’
‘Good. Bishop’s taking a big chance on you, putting a lot of faith in you. I hope you won’t let him down.’
‘Remember that I’m also putting a lot of faith in you. I hope you can deliver on the promises he has made.’
Smith smiled without warmth. ‘Don’t you worry about us.’
*
They pulled into the car park of an all-night cafe. The atmosphere inside was muggy with the trapped warmth of heaters and kitchen equipment in the unventilated space. The windows ran with condensation, steam escaped the urn, council street-cleaners sat around a pair of tables taking a break from their toil, their dirty fluorescent jackets draped carelessly over chairs. The scent of sweat and fry-ups filled the air.
Sansom chose a place out of the way in a corner while Smith ordered. Settling himself at the table, Smith took a large padded manila envelope from his bag and placed it between them.
‘Don’t take out anything that we don’t need to be seen. Inside is the new you. British passport – not in your name, of course. We borrowed a mugshot from Army records.
‘There’s a wallet with a driving licence and a few quid to get you started, debit card, credit card to a new account that’s been set up for you. Try not to take the piss. Bishop is a very wealthy man, Mr Fallon – your new name, by the way – might as well start getting used to it. He’s prepared to fund you completely until either you achieve some success or die trying.’
‘And after that?’
‘After that, we will have to wait and see. First things first.’
Not for the first time in the last three days, Sansom wondered what Bishop would have in store for him if and when this ended. And not for the first time he doubted that it would be handshakes and slaps on the back. More than likely Bishop would not be comfortable with someone walking around with shared secrets. But like the man said, first things first.
‘Mobile telephone – contract in your name, debited from your account – and charger,’ continued Smith. ‘Never turn it off. And he thought that you would need a watch.’
Sansom withdrew the timepiece. He allowed himself to be impressed by the name and the craftsmanship. He put it on and said, ‘He was confident that I would accept his offer.’
‘Did you ever feel that you had a choice?’ Smith gave him an appraising stare. ‘The loss of his son nearly broke him. He was everything to him. He lost his grip on things for a while. Cost him his Ministerial post. He’s come to terms with it more now but, as you’ve seen, his desire for revenge is very strong. I’m sure he would do just about anything he could within his own reasoning to have those responsible permanently removed.’
The food arrived. They ate.
‘There’s also paperwork in there,’ said Smith, indicating the envelope. ‘We’ve done some poking around in Harper’s business affairs. Seems that he has, had, a rather disreputable business partner – South African, name of Victor Botha.
‘He’s very wealthy, very connected, very determined and a very nasty piece of work. His business modus operandi is to find companies and business ventures that are in financial difficulty – Harper’s tall ship business was in so deep to his creditors he should have traded it in for a submarine – make them a partnership offer and when he has his grubby fingers in their pie ups the insurance premiums, inflates the value of the assets and arranges events by which he can claim huge sums.
‘He has no scruples about how he makes his money. Many have died because of him and his practices.’
Sansom pushed his plate away, though food was still on it.
‘The men responsible for the death of my family were South African.’
‘So I understand. But don’t think that Botha would have been one of them. He has a close and loyal group of his own countrymen – most of them ex-military – who do his dirty work for him. He rarely ventures out of his very well protected estate.’
‘And where is that?’
‘Istanbul.’
‘Why there?’
‘Opportunities and contacts. Huge city with a massive, ambitious and hungry population. Istanbul’s experiencing something of a renaissance as the gateway to the new land of opportunity. It’s cosmopolitan, dynamic, busy and eager for business, whoever’s doing it.
‘In a struggling world economy Istanbul is doing very nicely, thank you. It’s east meets west. Botha has one foot in Europe, the other in Asia. And he can take advantage of one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world running right through the centre of the city.
‘On top of that, money will buy you a lot of blind eyes and anything that your heart desires. There is also the not inconsiderable additional factor that he has a Turkish wife, and children by her. As a good Turkish daughter, she won’t live far from her extended family.’
Sansom fiddled with the ring still strung around his neck, listening to and watching Smith intently. Finally, he was learning something useful.
‘Botha would certainly have had no problems about ordering the massacre that you describe. From his reputation, his right hand man, Lucifer de Beirs, would have no attack of conscience about carrying out such instructions. He’s a sociopath. Diagnosed. You’ll not miss him in a crowd – a huge man, black as the ace of spades.
‘There’s a flight leaving for Istanbul tomorrow from Gatwick and you have a seat on it. Ticket’s in the bag. To be honest, the quicker you’re out of the country the better for all concerned.’
Something troubled Sansom. ‘How much could he have made from killing all of those people and disappearing the ship?’
/> For his answer, Smith pulled from the envelope a copy of an insurance claim detailing the proposed payout to Harper Holdings regarding the loss of The Rendezvous, crew and passengers. Looking at the bottom line, Sansom came to realise exactly how profitable fraud and murder could be. He also saw what price had been put on the lives of his wife and daughter. He folded the paperwork and put it in his jacket pocket.
‘What now?’
‘I’ll drive you to the airport. You’ve got a hotel room booked. Before your flight, buy yourself a few things and a bag. You’ll draw attention to yourself if you try to fly into Turkey with nothing.’
*
They drove to the airport with few words for each other. Smith pulled up in a darkened area away from the airport hotel entrance and any watching CCTV cameras. He left the engine running.
‘Here’s your hotel reservation,’ he said, handing over paperwork. ‘I’ll be in touch with you myself. Bishop will want to be kept regularly updated on your progress.’
‘What about a weapon?’ said Sansom.
‘I’ll arrange it. Get yourself there and settled first. One last thing: you make your own luck. Remember that. Also, remember what you’re doing out there.’
Sansom opened the car door and stepped out, not feeling that he owed Smith anything. For him this had just been a bit of dirty business.
For the second time that night a car drove off leaving him alone on a kerb, alone in the world and his life. He allowed himself a glimmer of satisfaction. The retribution he had survived for, dreamt about, suffered for, was a little closer. He looked up at the hotel, breathed deeply, preparing himself, and walked towards the doors.
*
Later, in his room, Sansom mixed himself a drink from the mini-bar and pulled up a chair at the desk. He took the recording he had made of Bishop’s visit and folded it inside the printed insurance matter that Smith had given him relating to Harper Holdings’ claim and payout. Then he helped himself to the complimentary notepaper from the hotel information wallet. He tore off the heading – no sense in leaving a paper-trail. Then he wrote a letter. When he had finished, he sealed it all inside the padded manila envelope that Smith had given him, addressed it and prepared for bed.
Unable to keep from mulling over the events of the evening and the possibilities of the coming days, sleep did not come quickly for him. He had put his complete faith and trust in men he didn’t know, couldn’t know. But he was free. Free to pursue the killers of his family. He had assistance. And he still had his advantage. For now that was as much as he could reasonably hope for.
***
6
When his phone rang, Captain Harris was at his desk engrossed in a report of a drunken brawl – Green Jackets and members of the public experiencing cultural differences at a London club. Still reading from the sheet in front of him, he lifted the handset, ‘Harris speaking.’
‘Afternoon, Simon, DI Tallis.’
Harris grimaced down the line. ‘Hello, Stan. How are you?’
‘Fair to middling, thanks. I’ve been expecting a call from you.’
‘Of course. Look, I’m afraid I have some bad news. I had hoped you might have learned through other channels, especially with your involvement.’
‘What sort of bad news?’
‘Sansom. He didn’t make it. He died a couple of days after we moved him. Seems it wasn’t a great idea to take him out of the NHS after all. I am sorry. I interviewed him a couple of times. He seemed to be making a good recovery. Medical personnel said he suffered internal haemorrhaging and died in his sleep. Nothing anyone could do.’
‘Sansom is dead?’
‘I am sorry, Stan.’
Unperturbed, Tallis said, ‘Well, there appears to be something of the divine about our Mr Sansom. Maybe we should rename him, something biblical, from the New Testament, perhaps.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Harris, anxiety forming in the pit of his stomach. ‘You’re talking in riddles, Stan.’
‘I mean that he’s now made more comebacks than Lazarus. I’ve just fielded a call from the Met. Apparently, Mr Sansom’s fingerprints match those recovered from a very recent London murder scene.’
‘How recent?’
Tallis told him. There was a long moment’s silence.
‘Impossible,’ said Harris, his eyes flitting around the office.
‘I jest not,’ said Tallis, sounding anything but amused. ‘Are you being quite straight with me, Simon?’
Dropping his voice, the soldier replied, ‘Stan, what I just told you is what I know, what I’ve been told. Look, can I get you on your mobile in a few minutes. I’m in the office right now.’
‘I’ll be waiting, Simon.’
Captain Harris sat at his desk, worry seeping through him. When he had telephoned Headley Court to check on Sansom’s progress, he had been directed back to his own CO, who had told him categorically that Lieutenant Sansom had died of the causes he just outlined to the policeman.
He had also been told that Sansom’s body had already been processed through the system and, seeing as he was technically already dead, it was decided to bury his re-emergence and demise metaphorically, bureaucratically and literally as quickly as possible. The Army didn’t need the embarrassment of his story.
Harris had been instructed to forget all about Lieutenant Sansom, leaving the Captain to wonder whether Sansom had been involved in something quite clandestine on behalf of one of the services from the beginning, which was now being hushed up.
Harris had a wife, family and a career to consider. In the Army one did what one was told and didn’t question the decisions of senior officers unless one wanted trouble.
On a pretext, Harris left the office for a nearby public house. He needed a drink and an anonymous place to talk. Settling himself into a booth away from the few other customers, he dialled the policeman. It rang once.
‘Tallis.’
‘Stan, it’s Simon. What can you tell me about this other incident?’
‘What can you tell me about Sansom?’
‘I give you my word that as far as I’m aware Sansom is dead. But there have been events associated with his reappearance and subsequent disappearance that are, shall we say, unusual. Please, tell me what you have.’
DI Tallis sighed down the line. ‘This morning, the Met attended the home of a journalist, one of those investigative types. He was found in his kitchen with his throat slit. Forensics found Sansom’s prints on a drinks glass and a few other places in the house. A hospital gown with the letters HC was also recovered from the scene. They contacted me because recent police records indicate that he should be in the custody of the Hampshire County Constabulary.’
‘Headley Court. Christ.’ There was a pause while Harris thought and Tallis let him. ‘Right. What are you doing tomorrow?’
‘Nothing that I can’t put off, why?’ said the DI.
‘I think perhaps we should have a proper chat, private and alone and not on the phone. Would you meet me at Fleet Services on the M3 westbound about ten in the morning?’
‘All right,’ said the DI. ‘Ten then, Simon.’
*
Stepping from the air-conditioned interior of Ataturk Airport, the heat of Istanbul hit Sansom like a solid wall. A slow-moving conveyor belt of the city’s distinctive yellow taxis gave him no transport problems. Showing the driver a hotel advertisement in his guidebook, he settled into the back seat.
He had risen early to shop within the precincts of Gatwick airport. After depositing the padded envelope into a post box, he purchased a holdall, binoculars, clothes, sunglasses, Turkish lira and other necessary items to make him look a convincing traveller. He’d also found a guidebook for Istanbul with a comprehensive map.
His selection of recipient for the envelope had not been an easy choice to make. Gerald would have been his first and most trusted option, but after what Bishop had revealed and threatened he didn’t know if it was safe for Gerald to be involved, or if his was
a secure address to receive the package.
Something about Bishop had unsettled Sansom. He wasn’t sure how far he could trust him; he was a politician, after all. Involving Gerald further would put him at risk, a risk that he owed the man and his own dead wife not to take.
Discounting Gerald gave him few options. The man he finally chose had something in common with him. Even from their few meetings, he instinctively felt that he would be an honourable man, a man to trust with the truth and to ask that he do nothing with it until the time arose. He had to hope that he had not misjudged him.
Sansom was roused from his reverie by the sight of the Istanbul skyline – iconic, unmistakeable and evocative. Something sad stirred inside him. He and Alison had dreamed of one day visiting the ancient metropolis, exploring it and basking in its exotic ambience. They had wanted to visit Istanbul for romantic reasons. That was impossible now because of a man who valued money and materials above life. So he was finally here – to kill.
Behind his sunglasses the tears welled in his eyes at the thought of his beautiful, caring, dead wife. The woman who in life had been his greatest happiness had in death become his greatest sadness.
*
The balcony of his hotel room had a good view of the Bosphorus Channel, the natural and accepted boundary between the continents of Europe and Asia and the stretch of water that cleaved the city of Istanbul in half.
Freshly showered, he looked out across the busy waterway. Enormous cargo ships ploughed their way through the waters at regular intervals, numerous smaller fishing craft bobbing like corks in their wakes and washes. A constant motion of ferries worked their way to and fro across the short distance between the continents, disgorging their human freight of tourists and natives. The quays and bridges were lined with dozens of local fishermen jostling for position, packed in like the sardine-sized fish they were trying to catch. He sighed heavily. Alison would have loved this view, would have pointed out everything to him, wanting to share it all, even though he could see it all for himself.
