Intermission

by Graham Hurley

  I can hear Dessie clattering about in the kitchen. He’s whistling ‘Stormy Weather’, and then starts on the lyrics as something hits the hot fat in his frying pan. I’m eyeing my kit bag. Jessie has been careful to secure the drawstring, and I loosen the double knot and take a peek inside. Thick bundles of notes are bound together with blue elastic bands. I bend to the bag and give it a shake. There must be dozens and dozens of them. Fifty-five thousand pounds, I think. I’ve never seen so much money in my life.

  I re-tie the double knot and leave the bag beside a piano leg. Moments later, Dessie is serving up, and I join him at the table. Full English, indeed. After eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, tomatoes, and beans, I stop counting the ingredients. Even the bottles of sauce and jars of show-off pickles have a little tray of their own.

  When I ask him whether he eats like this all the time, he shakes his head.

  ‘Only when I have company,’ he says. ‘Which these days means never.’

  ‘Mrs Wren?’

  ‘Lives elsewhere. Was our parting messy? Not really. Was the divorce my fault? Yes. Did I get screwed financially? I’m afraid so.’ He stabs at a sausage. ‘You’re gonna be asking about kids next. They never happened, thank God, though we spent a lot of time trying.’

  ‘Thank God?’

  ‘Kids and divorce don’t mix. And believe me, I should know.’

  I love his candour. It carries a hint of recklessness. So far, Dessie hasn’t expressed the slightest interest in why I’m here, and for that I’m grateful. Best to get to know him first. Pavel, as ever, had a word for this moment in the script. He used to call it ‘foreplay’.

  ‘Those pictures on the piano.’ I’m chasing a mushroom round my plate. ‘Were you on submarines?’

  ‘I was. It was an accident, really. When you join up, they give you preferences. Someone put my name down for submarines. I never sussed who it was, and he probably didn’t mean well, but in the end he did me a favour. Ordinary Seaman Jenny Wren? Submariner? I loved it.’

  ‘Really? Being underwater all that time? You’re telling me you’re some kind of agoraphobe?’

  ‘Christ no, quite the reverse. It was the blokes, really. You’re right, you’re banged up for a long time and none of it feels very natural to begin with but get the right mix in a boat like that, and you really bond. Submariners are the best of the best. We had to depend on each other, and we did. Think fighter pilots underwater. Bottom Gun.’

  Bottom Gun. Top Gun was one of Berndt’s all-time favourite movies and I must have seen it at least three times. This man is quietly very funny.

  ‘Did they really call you Jenny?’

  ‘Of course. The Navy runs on nicknames. Jenny Wren. Dusty Miller. Smudge Smith. You call a bloke by his nickname for so long you forget his real name. Jenny Wren. Just think about it. If you survive that, you can survive anything.’

  ‘And your job? What were you actually doing?’

  ‘Mainly nailing the Russian subs. It’s a game. Cat and mouse. We’d go to sea for three months and get up to all kinds of stunts.’

  ‘I meant you personally. What were you doing?’

  ‘I was a sonar operator. Underwater you do everything by sound. Navigate. Make life tough for the Russians. You’re staring at a screen, and listening very hard, and trying to make sense of all the clues. What are these guys up to? What does this manoeuvre tell you? Why has he gone to that depth? How come he’s stopped dead in the water? It’s chess. It prepares you for anything. Everything that helped me in the Job, I learned in submarines. Motive, patterns of behaviour, weaknesses. The lot.’

  ‘The Job?’ I’m full already and barely halfway through my plate of food.

  ‘I left the Service in ’94. Put in ten good years but everything was changing. My old girl was put out to grass.’

  ‘Out to grass?’ I’m getting seriously lost.

  ‘Decommissioned. Courageous was knackered, falling apart, way too noisy, bit like me. My dad was a copper and he had a great time in the Job, so it seemed the obvious move. You join as a probationer, learn the ropes, wear the uniform, get the boring shit done, but I was CID within a couple of years. Never looked back after that.’

  ‘Motive? Patterns of behaviour? Weaknesses?’

  ‘You’ve got it. I was still on that bloody sub. And in some respects, I still am. First, hunt for the clues. Then work out what they’re trying to tell you.’

  Work out what they’re trying to tell you.

  ‘Someone told me you were on Major Crimes for a while.’ I’m toying with the rest of my egg. ‘They said you were in charge of intel.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘H?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s right. That’s exactly what I did. Ex-skate Jenny Wren. The guy with his fat ear to the ground.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I’ve retired. Again. First the Navy. Now the Job.’

  ‘But you’ll still have contacts?’

  ‘In the Job? Of course. Coppers are getting younger by the day and a lot of them aren’t to my taste but there are still some players in there, and you’re right, we still have a pint or two.’

  ‘Socially, you mean?’

  ‘Sometimes. Sometimes not.’

  ‘Not? Meaning you still do …’ I shrug, hunting for the right word. ‘Business?’

  ‘No comment.’ He holds my gaze. I can’t take him an inch further. Pavel, I know, would be disappointed.

  At length, he pushes his plate aside. To my relief he, too, has been defeated.

  ‘So why did you come here?’ he says. ‘Why the call in the first place?’

  I tidy my plate and take my time. Something tells me I’ll only have one decent chance at getting this right.

  ‘How well did you know H?’ I ask. ‘Be honest.’

  ‘I knew him very well. I knew him much better than he ever suspected.’ He taps one ear. ‘That was my job.’

  ‘So why didn’t you …’ I shrug. ‘Arrest him?’

  ‘Take him down, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because he was very clever, very sharp, and because he knew most of our moves way in advance. He owed that little favour to Dave Munroe, but he’s dead now so I guess there must be a God. Believe me, we tried very hard to put H back in his box but it never quite worked out.’

  ‘And that frustrated you?’

  ‘It pissed us off. I know all about you and H. I know about Antibes, and that superyacht where it happened, and that boy of yours. I know what H did with most of the money he made, and I have a shrewd idea what happened to the rest but proving all that stuff in court is what matters, and he knew we never had quite enough to make it stick. I hear good things about Flixcombe. The views, the estate, the house itself. Am I right?’

  ‘Flixcombe is beautiful. There are friends of mine who’d call it divine.’

  ‘I bet. It’s also bought with the proceeds of crime, which I know is a tiresome detail, but it’s true nonetheless.’

  ‘You may be right.’ I concede the point with a smile. ‘But the same would be true of most of the National Trust properties H and I have ever been to. Slavery? Piracy? Taking what’s not yours from Johnny Foreigner? This is H’s line, not mine.’

  ‘H is right.’ Dessie’s smiling now. ‘Blood and treasure? Never failed. Especially in a place like Pompey.’

  At this point comes a strange pause in the conversation. Pavel would call it a caesura. My Breton mum would talk of an angel passing. What both of them meant was a moment when you stop, take stock, and then – just maybe – take the opportunity to nudge the conversation in a new direction. I quite like this man, and he knows it. I like how open, how trusting, he seems to be. I like his playfulness, and he has the kind of artful patience I’ve learned to associate with big men. He’s also an acute listener, which is very rare in either sex, and even more unusual if you’ve built two careers on that single talent.

 
‘You’ll remember names from the old days,’ I suggest.

  ‘You’re right.’ He taps his head. ‘All filed away.’

  ‘And now? How much do you know about what’s going on now?’

  ‘Here, you mean? In Pompey?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Try me.’

  I nod. From here, I tell myself, there’s no going back. Fais attention, as my mother might say. Take care.

  ‘A woman called Shanti?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Of her, yes. Beyond that, no.’

  ‘So what do you know of her?’

  ‘That she’s in the game, or has been. Is she any good? I’ve no idea. Does she have the connections? I gather she does, though maybe not down here. Would she be on H’s radar? Assuming he’s after a punt or two? Very probably. Beyond that, you’d know more than me.’ He pauses for a mouthful of cold beans. Then his head comes up again. ‘You’re here to tell me that H is in touch with this woman? I’m amazed he’s got the time. I thought he was dying.’

  ‘No comment.’ I lightly touch the corner of my mouth. ‘Tomato sauce. Not a good look.’

  We both look at each other, and we both laugh. This is a moment of genuine complicity, and I take maximum advantage.

  ‘The name Sammy,’ I murmur. ‘Ring any bells in that big, big memory of yours?’

  Dessie frowns, making a real effort, but he knows I know he’s faking.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Sammy? Complete blank. You’ve got a surname?’

  ‘Sadly not.’

  ‘So why Sammy? Why table the name?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Is it something H said?’

  ‘H is out of it most of the time, and what he says is mostly nonsense.’

  ‘Most of the time?’

  ‘Most of the time.’ I nod. ‘You know why I’m really here?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Someone’s trying to get at H, and I’ve no idea who.’

  ‘Get at?’

  ‘Kill.’

  I tell Dessie about our two power failures, someone fiddling around with the master switch in the control box, someone ill-disposed to Mr Hayden Prentice.

  ‘Christ.’ This time Dessie isn’t faking it. He wants to know more.

  ‘There is no more. Not until he does it again and gets a result. Catch H at the right time, turn off the oxygen, and he’s dead within minutes. At least that’s what they tell me. I’m frightened, Dessie. If you really want an explanation, that’s why I’m here. Frightened and – to be frank – a little helpless. Malo and I have been doing our best under the circumstances. Now, Pompey seems to be getting the better of us.’ I push my chair back and stand up.

  ‘You OK?’ Dessie sounds alarmed.

  ‘I need the loo. Not your fault. Mine for being so greedy.’

  ‘Door on the right before you get to the kitchen.’ He nods at my plate. ‘Can I take it you’re done?’

  ‘I am. It was delicious.’

  I make my way down the corridor. The loo is like a sentry box and I squat for a minute or two of the purest relief. There are more photos on the wall, in clip frames this time, and I’m guessing that these come from Dessie’s CID days. In one of them, whoever took the photo has caught him at his desk. He’s crouched over his phone, making notes on a pad with his other hand, and I stare at it for a while. Whoever he’s talking to, whatever he’s just learned, may well have been in connection with Malo’s dad. H was, for a long time, one of Major Crimes’ prime targets in Pompey, a source of some pride for H himself, and it’s very strange to be sitting here, in this same listener’s bungalow, imagining how that conversation might have gone. What’s the little bastard up to now? How come he knows so much about us? What the fuck’s going on?

  Back at the table, to my surprise, the plates are still there. Dessie has evidently been on the phone because his mobile lies at his elbow.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Immeasurably. And I mean it. If all else fails, you could run a café. Fabulous breakfast. Absolute classic.’

  He nods. The smile strikes me as genuine. Then, in a way that feels entirely spontaneous, he reaches for my hand.

  ‘You mind me asking you a question?’ he says.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Why are you carrying all that money?’

  I look away a moment, robbed of an answer. I should have guessed that he’d take a peek in the bag, but I didn’t. My hand is still in his and I’ve no great desire to reclaim it.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say at last. ‘H is running up debts. They have to be met.’ I start to tell him about the nursing agency, and Mr Wu’s fees, and all the rest of it, but he interrupts me to say he knows all this already.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Tony told me. The rest I could work out for myself.’ His big hand briefly tightens around mine. ‘I expect you’re en route to the nursing agency.’

  ‘I am, of course.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No other plans for all that dosh?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So it’s all going to the nursing agency?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looks at me a moment longer, a smile on his lips.

  ‘Just as well. Do it now. It’s probably more than you owe them but that doesn’t matter. Call it an investment. Call it whatever you like.’

  An investment. How ironic.

  ‘You mean that?’ I have to be sure.

  ‘I’m afraid I do. One other thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This Sammy. I’ll have a bit of a think, maybe make a call or two.’ He studies me for a moment, then nods back towards my bag. ‘You owe me already.’ He gives my hand the softest squeeze. ‘It might be nice if we met again.’

  I nod, say nothing. He shepherds me out into the narrow little hall and opens the front door. As he does so, I notice a wooden plaque on the wall. It features two golden dolphins, meeting head-to-head beneath a regal crown. Nothing else.

  When I ask what it is, Dessie studies it a moment, then tells me it’s the badge you get when you pass your Part III exams to become a submariner.

  ‘Like aircrew wings?’

  ‘Exactly.’ I know he wants to kiss me. ‘Bottom Gun.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  Back in the car, Jessie’s bag stowed safely in the boot, it takes me no time at all to get through to the nursing agency. Happily, Mr Wu is on the premises, in conference with the agency’s Director of Operations, and the woman on the switchboard assures me he’ll still be around if I come at once.

  ‘And this is in connection with …?’ she asks.

  ‘The money we owe you.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll pass the message on.’

  The agency is in Port Solent, a marina I’ve only seen previously from the motorway. The car park that serves the commercial area is virtually empty, and I retrieve the bag from the boot and walk to the row of office units that overlook the marina basin. This space, unlike the car park, is overflowing with craft, most of them smallish yachts – a consequence, I’m guessing, of lockdown. Until further notice, owners are forbidden to use their boats.

  I’m about to take the stairs to the first floor, when I notice a boat at the far end of the marina. It’s much bigger than everything else in the basin and has an entire pontoon of its own. Unlike the surrounding yachts, this is a motor cruiser. The last time I saw anything of this size was two decades ago in Antibes. I’ve got the kit bag hoisted over one shoulder, and the sheer weight of the money is starting to wear me out, a rich metaphor that would have delighted Pavel. Later, I think, making a mental note to check out the boat.

  The agency’s offices are at the very end of the timber walkway on the first floor. There’s a list of directors on the brass plaque beside the entry bell. The three names are in alphabetical order, and Mr Wu is at the bottom
of the list. Not just a respiratory consultant, I think, but a businessman as well.

  I give my name to the speaker phone and get buzzed in to find Mr Wu sitting beside the receptionist, going through a list of must-do items. Within seconds, I’m next door in an adjacent office, saying yes to coffee and no to biscuits. Mr Wu, as ever, is the soul of discretion. I sense at once that he wants to discuss the second power failure, but now I’ve realized his larger financial interest in H’s care, I’m working to a different agenda.

  The office appears to belong to the Director of Operations and has a conference table as well as a desk. I untie the drawstring on the bag and empty the contents on to the table. Half a dozen bundles of notes end up on the floor and Mr Wu is still gazing at all that money as I retrieve them.

  ‘Where does it come from?’ he says quietly. ‘I have to know.’

  ‘A property sale in West Dorset.’ With Dessie’s help I’ve anticipated this question.

  ‘You have all the paperwork?’

  ‘Of course. Not now, but later.’

  ‘I see.’ He seems happy enough and summons the receptionist to help with the counting. The receptionist used to work in a building society. Her fingers are a blur as she counts the notes, and she fetches more elastic bands and sorts them into wads of a thousand pounds. Twenty minutes later, we’re looking at £55,000, bang on. Chapeau to Jessie. She’s played a blinder.

  By now, it’s quietly obvious that Mr Wu is very pleased indeed. From his pocket, he produces an up-to-date account of exactly how much we owe. Including his own fees, per-diem charges for the nursing cover, plus a trillion extras, it comes to nearly £23,000. Add the fee for the deep cleaning, and we’re looking at £24,500.

  ‘Perfect.’ I carefully separate twenty-five wads of banknotes and put them to one side. This sum will clear our current debt. Mr Wu is watching my every move.

  ‘And the rest?’ he asks.

  ‘You have a safe here?’

  ‘Not here. Elsewhere would be better.’

  ‘Then you keep it. Let’s call it a deposit against your next invoice. I’ll need a receipt, obviously, and the liability for storage is obviously yours.’