A Time to Lie

by Simon Berthon

  ‘Did I have any choice?’ he asked.

  ‘I told them not to force you to come.’

  ‘They didn’t. Except for illegally kidnapping me, I can’t fault their conduct. Their “safe house” is comfortable and well-equipped. They even offer a cleaning service. Though I didn’t appreciate being blindfolded.’

  ‘No doubt they have their rules.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘Come on in.’

  Sandford led him through a door leading off the hall into a double sitting room, the protection officer taking up his seat outside. He gestured Fowkes to an armchair and sat himself on a sofa beside it.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘I trusted you,’ said Fowkes, not responding. ‘Like I always have. And now you do this. Deceive me. Not just some tiny deception. I watched the speech today. That’s it. That’s me done. Career… life over.’

  ‘You were blackmailing me.’

  ‘Blackmailing you! I was telling you the truth.’

  ‘You weren’t, Jed. There’s another truth. God knows how long it goes back, but you’re in the pay of IPRM. Mercenaries killing for profit. You knew that if their big China deal came off, you’d be in for millions. But then I announce I’m going to clip their wings. And you come up with your lie to try to stop me. Was it really worth M-C dying for that?’

  Silence fell. A buzzing fly hit a window pane. The buzz ceased. The rumble of traffic reduced to a distant echo from a different world. Jed Fowkes glowered. ‘Do you seriously, honestly think, knowing me all these years, remembering where we go back to, that’s what this is all about? That I have even the slightest interest in money. As for M-C, you killed him. Your squalid little deal led to that.’ He paused. ‘I thought it would only be a warning. Get him back in line. But stuff happens. Those sort of people can get carried away.’

  ‘A warning?’

  ‘You made it necessary. You were the cause.’

  ‘Jed, are you saying you knew about it in advance?’

  ‘We’re past all that. What does it matter now?’

  Behind the closed double doors of the sitting room, Quine swiped the edge of his hand along his neck to signal to Isla to switch off the recorder. She returned the gesture with a frown. He grabbed a piece of notepaper. He’s confessed. We’ve got him. No more on record. She shrugged her shoulders and touched a button.

  ‘’Fess up, Robbie,’ continued Fowkes. ‘I grant you, M-C was at one remove. But that poor girl, that was hands-on.’

  Sandford sighed. ‘You’re not going to revisit that fantasy, are you?’

  ‘We’ve been over it. It’s not fantasy. I don’t know exactly what happened in your bedroom. Maybe you were into weird stuff. Maybe you just happened to go further than intended. You killed her, Robbie. And I saved you.’

  Sandford allowed a silence. On all accounts, he must keep calm. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet,’ he said. He left the room, to be instantly replaced by the protection officer.

  Fowkes eyed him with contempt. ‘I’m not going to set fire to the house.’

  A couple of minutes later Sandford returned with Quine, the protection officer retreating. Fowkes’s face dropped. ‘I imagine you two had dealings over the years,’ said Sandford.

  ‘Occasionally,’ said Quine, offering a hand to shake. ‘Hello, Jed.’

  Fowkes didn’t move. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? In the car. The girl too. I felt sure of it. Then she came back to the office. So it couldn’t have been her.’

  ‘As you said, Jed, we’re past all that,’ said Sandford quietly. ‘Take a seat, Joe.’ He gestured to a chair. ‘Jed, your lie began at the party conference. I needed the truth. I asked Joe to help me. A few days ago he made a visit to Hungary. To a village called Pusztaszabanya. Joe, please tell what happened.’

  Quine described his meeting with Abigél Takacs. As he finished, Sandford rose from his chair, walked over to a bureau, opened a drawer, returned with a photograph and handed it to Fowkes. ‘Take your time.’ Fowkes inspected the photograph for several seconds and put it down. ‘It’s a gravestone,’ continued Sandford.

  Fowkes swallowed. ‘I can see that,’ he said quietly.

  ‘It’s the physical proof of what Joe has just said.’ Fowkes took back the photograph and stared silently at it. ‘The proof that Andrea Takacs did not die in our flat or my bed. The proof that the remains in Deptford Dockyard are not hers.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fowkes, putting the photograph down again. ‘I know.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Sandford.

  ‘I know what happened to Andrea Takacs. Nothing that’s just been said is news to me. It just wasn’t factored in that you’d ever track her down.’

  ‘Jed, could you stop playing these games?’ Sandford looked at Quine, who shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Not games, Robbie,’ said Fowkes. ‘My friend who came to the rescue was well-connected. Andrea’s return to Budapest was observed by one of his company’s associates in Hungary. At that time, in the early days after the collapse of Communism, there were opportunities there. Not any longer, its present leader can look after himself. This associate followed Andrea and her sister to her home. He kept an eye on further developments. We were informed of her sad end.’

  ‘Then what the…’ Sandford stopped himself. ‘Then the skeleton, the severed hand, has nothing to do with anything.’

  ‘In one sense, you’re right. The identity of the body’s irrelevant. You killed Andrea just as surely as if you’d plunged the knife into her heart. Her suicide is one hundred per cent your responsibility.’

  ‘There’s a simple fact,’ said Sandford. ‘It’s not her remains that were found in Deptford.’

  ‘I agree. So tell me whose they are,’ said Fowkes.

  ‘I don’t know whose they are.’

  ‘I believe you, Robbie. That’s why we’re talking about Andrea instead.’

  ‘My God,’ said Sandford almost despairingly, ‘you’re some trickster. I’ve kept asking myself why you’ve made these false accusations against me. Because I couldn’t have done these things. I know I couldn’t – and didn’t. I’ve thought long and hard about it. Tried to overcome the loss of memory and work out what must have happened. Over the last few days, it’s finally come to me.’ Fowkes briefly caught his eye, then looked away. Sandford stayed focused on him. ‘You were always interested in the power of drugs. Weren’t you? You used to talk about them. Benzodiazepines for example. Remember them?’

  ‘What is this, Robbie?’

  ‘Flunitrazepam.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It was branded and commonly known as Rohypnol. It began to become infamous in the early 1990s as the so-called “date rape” drug—’

  ‘You are heading so way off—’

  ‘Girls went for me, they didn’t go for you. It must have been difficult for you. Painful. But, maybe just once or twice, maybe more, you found a way round that.’

  Sandford stood and began to walk up and down the room, now the barrister delivering his closing address, glancing between Quine and Fowkes.

  ‘It was you who always brought the drinks from the kitchen. And it was always just after that I totally lost my memory. Went into the black hole. It wasn’t only my pills and alcohol, was it? It was Rohypnol – or whatever benzodiazepine you were using – to knock me out. And a smaller dose for the girl so that for the next couple of hours she wouldn’t resist and later wouldn’t remember. Then you did whatever it was you liked. But what you liked doing caused one of them to fall unconscious, panicking you into thinking she was dead. It all makes sense. Remember those porn mags you had—’

  ‘What the fuck—’

  ‘I saw one once, you’d left it out by mistake. You’re the one who’s mentioned weird stuff, not me.’ Sandford returned to his seat, his voice softening. ‘I finally get it. Yes, I had a problem, but in reality this was your problem. You did that to me, Jed. You harmed that girl and organized the cover-up. And thirty years later you tried to turn
it against me.’

  Silence fell.

  ‘You’re a persuasive man,’ said Fowkes. ‘Always were. Something of the escapologist about you. Maybe you’ve even persuaded yourself. But your idea is delusion. Pure fantasy.’

  ‘Jed, stop the lying.’

  ‘Why would I lie? I’ve lost.’

  ‘I think it’s because you always wanted power over me.’

  Fowkes shut his eyes and, clenching his fists, lowered his head. An oppressive silence fell. It was interrupted by a bang from the square. A car backfiring.

  Fowkes stretched out his palms. ‘Don’t try to provoke me.’

  A further silence. ‘Truth.’ Quine had been quiet long enough for that single word to cut through the ice. It was only a theory and he had wondered whether to raise it. What happened was just part of the story. This could prise open why.

  51

  ‘Sometimes we look at things the wrong way round,’ continued Quine. ‘Upside down. Often because we’re blinded by a wrong assumption.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Joe?’ asked Sandford. This was not in the script. Not that there had been time to prepare one.

  ‘There’s still a body. Or parts of one. Who is she? The burial is dated to between twenty-five and thirty-five years ago. A full ten-year spread. Why not cast the net wider?’

  Quine removed his wallet from an inside jacket pocket and extracted a small black and white photograph. He walked over to Fowkes and handed it to him. ‘Do you recognize her?’

  Fowkes screwed up his eyes. ‘It’s poor quality.’

  ‘It’s taken from a photograph of postgraduate students sitting around a table at the University of Leipzig in 1987. Does that help?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘When you were on summer vacation in Leipzig, doing a short course at the university called “The Humanity of Socialism”.’

  ‘I remember it well. I wrote about it.’

  ‘You did. Earlier this week I read the article. I found it fascinating.’

  ‘I’m glad you liked it. That visit changed my entire outlook on life.’

  ‘I’ve since made some checks. I understand that British intelligence read your account and asked to see you. You agreed and told them, with complete openness, that the Stasi recruiter was a certain Dieter Schmidt and the young woman was called Anneliese Bluthner. In early 1989 Anneliese, now a committed Stasi officer, was seconded to London. She would have renewed contact with you. Times were changing. Some more flexible Stasi like Dieter Schmidt saw what was coming and made plans to suit themselves. Others, like Anneliese Bluthner, remained committed to the socialist paradise. I suspect she felt betrayed that you’d sold your soul to capitalism.’

  ‘Intriguing,’ said Fowkes.

  ‘Perhaps you were even lovers. And, one night, there was a reckoning. She accused you of betrayal and double-dealing. Or threatened to chuck you. Either way you attacked her. Even raped her. Did you kill her? What’s known for sure is that Anneliese Bluthner disappeared in late 1989 during her secondment to London – never to reappear. This has been confirmed by the German embassy.’

  ‘She wouldn’t be the only Stasi officer to make themselves scarce,’ said Fowkes.

  ‘Have another look at the photograph.’ Quine handed it back to Fowkes, along with a magnifying glass. ‘I have copies. There’s no point in destroying it.’

  Fowkes peered through the glass. ‘I see nothing. Her hands are cupping her cheeks so you can’t even see the face properly.’

  ‘That’s the point. Look at the fourth finger of the right hand.’

  Fowkes had a quick look, then handed the photograph and magnifier back to Quine. ‘And?’

  ‘That looks to me remarkably like the ring found on the fourth finger of the hand unearthed in Deptford Old Dockyard. There’s a further connection. Why is it that in recent days, thirty years on from these events, you’ve been seen with Dieter Schmidt? You’re close to him now, you were close to him then. If Anneliese’s body needed getting rid of, he was the one person you’d think of in London who had the know-how to do the job.’

  Fowkes was wearing a most unusual expression. It was a smile. A real smile. ‘I have to congratulate you. That’s good. Completely and utterly wrong. But really good.’ He chuckled, seeming genuinely to enjoy the moment. ‘You began with the word “truth”. I actually like truth. As I said earlier, what’s there to lose anyway? I didn’t think I was going to do this, but why not? The full truth.’

  Quine exchanged glances with Sandford. He seemed nervous again, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.

  52

  ‘Let’s go back to 1987,’ continued Fowkes. ‘I went to Leipzig in the German Democratic Republic. As I wrote in my Cherwell article, the visit changed my life. But not as I wrote. Here’s the truth. I loved it there. It had its faults but essentially it was a country of equals. I met Anneliese Bluthner. I liked her very much. She introduced me to Dieter Schmidt. I swore a lifelong loyalty to the socialist ideal and agreed to work for the Stasi. We made a plan which would allow me to infiltrate the British Conservative Party.’

  He turned to Quine. ‘You’ve read its first move – the article. After it, MI5 did indeed ask to see me. As agreed with Dieter and Anneliese I complied with that request and answered all their questions. The MI5 interviewer took me at face value. I suspect they were interested in recruiting me.’

  ‘But they decided you were unreliable,’ said Quine.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Fowkes. ‘It’s for you to listen now. Anneliese came to London, we resumed our friendship. After the Wall fell, she told me she was reinventing herself and returning to Germany to become part of the new nation. Schmidt stayed in London. Our professional relationship was over, my retainer lapsed. But he and I kept in close touch. I remained the socialist, he became the capitalist. It didn’t matter. We understood each other. He introduced me to his CIA friend, Lyle Grainger.’

  He turned to Sandford. ‘After you raped and almost killed Andrea, Schmidt and Grainger personally came to our flat to take care of her.’

  ‘You mean you raped her,’ said Sandford.

  ‘I’ll ignore that,’ said Fowkes. ‘From that moment on Schmidt, Grainger and I were allies, whether we liked it or not. As it happens, we did like it. We knew each other’s secrets. If they needed my help or I needed theirs, there was never any hesitation.

  ‘There was one difference. They exploited capitalism to make money. I had no interest in that. My political ideals never wavered. As we’re having this conversation, there’s a further secret I’ll let you in on. Back in 1987, the Stasi recruited a second English student. I was tasked to the Conservatives. His – or her – job was to be their agent within the Labour Party. That person is still there, like me, committed to real socialism. Nobody knows the name. Except Schmidt and me. Look how that party was turned into a vehicle for revolution. Look how close it came to power. Sadly it failed. But there are other means of creating upheaval and revolution. Attack not from the left but from the right. The extremes meet around the back, don’t they?

  ‘Wind the clock forward thirty years. My one-time friend, Robin Sandford, becomes Prime Minister. Nine or so months in, I begin to realize he has no ideology at all. He’s a man of straw. But I know this is my one opportunity to do something incredible. His party, if not him, is now hard-core far right. So is his Chancellor who I control. This Prime Minister, this government, this party can impose a radical agenda that will bring such division and strife to this wounded nation that the revolution truly might come. Initially from the right. Then triggering a counter-revolution from the left.

  ‘I have a hold over this Prime Minister because I – Schmidt and Grainger being the only others – know of an incident in his past. They also know of the remains of a young woman buried in Deptford Dockyard around the same time. They are in possession of one part of the body, a hand with a ring on its fourth finger, for possible future use. Maybe they got that idea from the Mafia and horses’
heads. Maybe it was standard Stasi practice. I don’t know.

  ‘I propose a plan which will allow me to put a gun to the Prime Minister’s temple and persuade him to follow my agenda. It suits my friends as their business benefits from political volatility.

  ‘My friends retrieve the severed hand, repack the bones to display its shape clearly and bury it beneath a mains water pipe laid just a couple of feet below a service road in Deptford Dockyard. They leave evidence of a dangerous sinking in the road and alert the local council to it shortly before the party conference. It’s one of the very few occasions when I know I can get an audience, however brief, with the Prime Minister.

  ‘I create a narrative from this hand and, as will appear later, the body it was severed from. I choose to centre it around the incident with a young Hungarian woman called Andrea. I make that choice because I myself was there from beginning to end and remember the details. I also think the Prime Minister will be able to remember this girl and at least some of that evening. Enough to know that what I’m telling him may be real. And, as it happens, is real to all intents and purposes. After all, there is no point in choosing an alternative incident which he may not remember at all and I have not fully witnessed. There’s no threat in that.

  ‘My plan brings an unexpected bonus. In his speech the Prime Minister, out of the blue, makes a proposal about arms sales and the private security business that could have a damaging impact on IPRM which my friends partly own. Another owner is Quentin Deschevaux with whom I have occasional dealings. They all, Deschevaux included, ask me to ensure this proposal is dropped. I’m happy to oblige. But for me it’s a side issue. I will gain nothing from any advantage to their company. I have no financial interest in it whatsoever.