Tenfold

by Mark Hayden

  ‘Thanks, Rick. How was Pramiti?’

  ‘Arrogant and a pain in the arse,’ said Vicky.

  ‘Completely,’ agreed Myfanwy. ‘A right bitch if you ask me, and it might be a while before you get your car back, if I’m completely honest.’

  ‘I’d say she was a creature of Satan,’ added Desi, ‘except that creatures of Satan are easy to get on with. Until they steal your soul.’

  You will have noticed that the two men at the table had said nothing. Li is very good at hiding his emotions in company, and the poor bloke looked shattered. Rick had stood up and put his mug in the nearly empty dishwasher. Rick must be a nervous cleaner, because the kitchen looked spotless. He must have done all that while we were busy with Thomas.

  ‘Thanks, Conrad. I’d best be off,’ said Rick.

  ‘No toast?’ said Myfanwy.

  ‘Better not. Thanks for the meal. See you all later, guys. Don’t worry, I know my way out.’

  ‘And I know my way to bed,’ said Li. ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Well I’m hungry,’ said Myfanwy.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Desi.

  ‘Me too,’ said Vicky. ‘I’ll bet Conrad’s going for a smoke.’

  I was, with a glass of wine, and I was still out there when Mina appeared, nibbling a slice of toast.

  ‘What did you want with Francesca?’ I asked.

  ‘Her help. I now have the number of someone called the Steward of the Great Work. He’s going to help me with the inflation report. Did I tell you I’d heard from that Dwarf, Hledjolf?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I did, and he said he’d help if the College vouched for me. This Steward person will do the vouching.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  She brushed toast crumbs off her hands and tilted her head. ‘Have we been using condoms unnecessarily before now? Am I really immune from pregnancy away from here?’

  I shook my head. ‘Vicky says the Work in the Dragonstone discharged when I was born.’

  She smiled. ‘Not that I’ve got the energy tonight. I’ve had an email from the prison, too. No leave this weekend because the prison service have finally got their act together. I’m being taken to Preston on Monday morning for a pre-release interview with a probation officer. Are you sure you’re happy for me to put Elvenham House down as my residence?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you anywhere else. Let’s go back in.’

  13 — To the Ends of the Earth

  We had to leave before the others (apart from Myfanwy) were up next morning. If Mina wasn’t back at HMP Cairndale by noon, there would be real problems that not even Dr Mirren could get round. We made good time through the interminable roadworks on the M6, good enough time for a visit to Ribblegate Farm. Before we arrived, Mina spent most of her time staring at her phone.

  ‘This data on Alchemical Gold is fascinating,’ she said at one point.

  ‘Clearly, and clearly a lot more interesting than me.’

  ‘Mmm. If anyone asks, I’ve called it Project Midas, and I need a proper computer. The spreadsheet on this phone won’t do.’

  ‘Do you want me to have a word with the prison governor?’

  ‘No, I … Very funny, Conrad.’

  It was a big day in the Kirkham household: the kitchen fitters had arrived. We got a cup of tea, but didn’t linger. I took Mina to meet Scout, and the little puppy crawled over the straw to say hello as soon as we appeared in the doorway. When he licked my hand, I could feel the heat of Lux flowing through my fingers, and that dog will be on television, one day, I swear. There must have been more than a transfer of Lux, because when he’d finished with me, he went straight to Mina and rolled on his back. He somehow knew, even before he could see her, that Mina was a crucial part of his future.

  She was oblivious, and immediately fell in love with the little familiar.

  Shortly after, there was a heartbreaking scene when Mina parted with her phone until her next outing from prison. At least that meant she had to talk to me for the rest of the journey, about half an hour. The main topic was what to do during the middle of my course.

  ‘I’d love to go to London,’ she said. ‘But it just won’t work, and it would be dangerous for you to drive up and back twice.’

  ‘You’re right, but I’ll miss you.’

  ‘And I’ll miss you.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  She looked out of the window and back again. ‘I asked Dr Somerton for something else last night, apart from the information about the Steward. I asked her for details of Hindu temples that have magickal practitioners. Like you, she is old, and happy to put them in a letter, and she thinks there is one in Bolton. Kelly Kirkham will help me sort things out.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I am sure. It may not help me get any closer to Ganesh, I have learnt this, but it certainly won’t do any harm.’

  ‘You’ll be careful, won’t you?’

  ‘As careful as you,’ she said, with a grin.

  She knows me too well.

  It was deathly quiet in Elvenham House when I got back that afternoon. The London party were gone, and so was Myfanwy. Off to Slimming World. Vicky was curled up in front of the fire with a pot of tea and half a cake from the village shop.

  ‘This was Myfanwy’s totally bonkers plan,’ she said. ‘Stuff herself before the first weigh-in. I did try telling her, but she didn’t listen. I hope she changes her ways after tonight, ’cos I’m in need of some collateral dieting.’

  ‘Collateral dieting?’

  ‘Aye. When the cook goes on a diet, so does everyone else. Make us a fresh pot of tea, will you?’

  ‘Don’t get used to being waited on. You’re back in the tender embrace of Doctor Nicola this weekend.’

  ‘If she still remembers who I am, and hasn’t let out my room.’

  I returned with tea and grabbed what was left of the cake.

  ‘Is it true? About Mina’s dad?’ she asked.

  ‘That he died in prison? Yes, I’m afraid it is. You know her eldest brother was murdered.’

  ‘I meant the heroin. That’s … I can’t believe it. In bulk?’

  ‘In bolts of cloth from Pakistan. He ran a fabric import and wholesale business.’

  She looked at me over her mug of tea. ‘I want you to be honest, Conrad. Did you have anything to do with that?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. And neither did Mina. I have smuggled alcohol on to British bases in Afghanistan, and done other stuff, but I have never assisted, directed or been in any way involved with drugs. Other than as a consumer. I give you my word.’

  She put down her mug. ‘I used to do that, you know: confess to something small to hide the really bad things. I’m willing to bet that “other stuff”, as you put it, was a hell of a lot more serious than illicit hooch.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Fine. I’ll find out one day. I’m too shattered to do any work.’

  ‘Me too. You never did tell me Desi’s speciality. I didn’t know the Invisible College had a course in being a Bard.’

  ‘They don’t. Strictly Druid magick, that. Desi started as a specialist in Glamour. That was her Proof when we took our Fellowship exams, but she always wanted to explore using song. Her tradition is Gospel, not Welsh, obviously. They allowed her. Last night was the first time I’ve seen it. You might not know, but she was close to losing control. Can I trust you on this?’

  I put my mug down. ‘You should know by now, Vicky. While I’m your commanding officer, your safety and your trust is my number one priority. Even if I weren’t your CO, you’d come high on the list, being my honorary niece and all that.’

  ‘Aye, well. It’s awkward. We were more at risk from Desi last night than we ever were from the Morrigan or the Allfather.’

  ‘Thanks. That is good to know. What about …’ I never got to ask, because there was a loud knocking at the back door. ‘I’ll get it.’

  I was very disconcerted to find a teenage girl. She was
dressed for running, and though her hair was pulled back, I thought I recognised her from somewhere.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Mr Clarke’ she said. So, she knew who I was.

  ‘No problem … ?’

  ‘Emily. Emily Ventress.’

  Aah. ‘Sorry, Emily, I didn’t recognise you. You’re Jake’s daughter, aren’t you?’

  Jake Ventress was in the class above me at primary school. And he had a daughter this old? I felt ancient.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I was, erm, looking for a Miss Lewis.’ As she said this, she checked her phone.

  ‘She’s due back later. Do you want me to give her a message?’

  ‘I saw her note in the shop. About the women’s cricket team. I was going to run up to Langley and I thought I’d see if I was too young. I’ll text her.’

  ‘I think fourteen’s the minimum age.’

  ‘Oh. Good.’

  ‘And I’ll tell her you called.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I waved her off on her run and went back to tell Vicky.

  ‘She’s the third today,’ said Vic. ‘We had two round here after the school run this morning. Mind you, I reckon that one of them just wanted a neb round your house. You should have seen the looks on their faces when they saw Desi, Cheng and the Keeper sitting round the table.’

  ‘Isn’t it the school holidays?’

  ‘After the nursery run, then. I don’t know. I was in me dressing gown and trying to pour coffee down Cheng’s throat so he could drive them back to London.’

  I grunted. ‘You know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What I’d like more than anything is to watch some rubbish on the telly.’

  ‘That is the best idea you’ve had in ages.’

  Between Wednesday afternoon and Saturday morning, I learnt an awful lot about Slimming World, and yes, there was a fair bit of collateral dieting. It came as quite a shock.

  When Vicky and I set off for London, Myfanwy had already started to arrange visits from landscape gardeners, cleaning agencies, the roofer, the chimney sweep and the mobile hairdresser. She’d also done more gardening in one afternoon than I’ve done in the last eighteen months, and she’d arranged the first meeting of the Clerkswell Women’s Cricket team. Item One on the agenda was going to be whether they should, indeed, be Women, or whether they should be Ladies.

  ‘You’ve got yourself a whirlwind, there, Conrad,’ said Vicky as we drove out of Clerkswell. ‘Do you think she’ll be all right on her own?’

  ‘She’ll settle down. She’ll get some knocks, too. The village doesn’t always embrace new people in the way they’d like to be embraced.’

  Vicky laughed her Geordie laugh. ‘Are you talking about a certain cricket captain?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’

  There was a riot going on behind the wall. I could tell that because someone shouted, ‘Riot!’ and they all rioted until the guy shouted, ‘Stop!’ and they stopped. Welcome to Kent.

  The Met Police Specialist Training Centre is a concrete wasteland next to the Thames and opposite the huge container terminal of Tilbury. It’s not somewhere you go to feel good about our green and pleasant land; it’s somewhere you go to learn how to protect it. The voice over the wall shouted, ‘You’re not angry enough!’ I don’t know whether he was talking to the rioters or the police cadets who were supposed to be containing them. To be fair to the rioters, I find it hard to get too angry first thing on a Monday morning.

  Once I’d got in the compound, I was directed to the firearms section, which is strictly segregated from the mock buildings, aeroplane fuselages and other bits of urban terrain where the riot practice was going on. It’s not often you can look on a firearms centre as a haven of peace and quiet.

  I got in to the reception area, and was kept waiting for twenty minutes. About par.

  A stocky, middle-aged police sergeant finally appeared behind the desk and stared at me. I stared back. He was white, had even less hair than I do and had dry skin. I could go on, but the receptionist got agitated and pointed to me. He finally spoke.

  ‘Conrad Clarke?’

  I stood up.

  ‘Go through that door.’

  He disappeared into the back office, and I was buzzed through by the receptionist into a cold and dispiriting police interview room, complete with audio and video recording. I leaned against the wall and waited.

  He didn’t take long this time, and returned with a folder. I thought about offering a handshake, until I saw the frown on his face. Oh dear. Like that, is it? At least things can only get better.

  ‘ID,’ he said.

  I laid my RAF ID, driving licence, police warrant card and passport in a line on the desk and stood back.

  He moved the driving licence away with his finger, ignoring it, and gave my passport some serious scrutiny. He put that on top of the licence and picked up my RAF badge. He glanced at this, compared the number to something in his file, then put it down on top of the passport. That left the warrant card. This, he picked up and tapped against the folder.

  ‘You know you’re the only candidate this week, right?’ His voice was London through and through.

  ‘Yes, sergeant. Is there a problem?’

  ‘Put it this way, Special Constable Clarke from Lancashire. The Chief Super doesn’t have a problem with you. The HR department don’t have a problem with you, and Janet on reception doesn’t have a problem with you. All of which should mean that I don’t have a problem. And then I get this.’

  He held up a piece of paper, full of empty boxes with a few words at the top. He showed me the other side, too. That was just as blank.

  ‘I am happy to believe that you are Conrad Clarke, and that you are thirty-seven years old. The rest of this set-up has my few remaining hairs prickling on the back of my head.’ He made a show of reading the paper. ‘“Date joined police service: two weeks ago.” And that’s it. Every box about your career, your experience, your psych evaluation, qualifications and medical history are blank. In the section for References, it says, “Refer to Security Liaison.” So, Special Constable Clarke, what the fuck are you doing here? If you’re a spook, why don’t you go to spook school?’

  ‘Westmorland,’ I said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You said Lancashire. I’m mostly based in Westmorland, and it’s like the Wild West up there, sergeant.’

  I thought he was going to explode, which wouldn’t have been a good start. Then he burst out laughing.

  ‘Herds of armed sheep? Ninja ramblers? At least you’ve got a sense of humour.’

  ‘Do you want the truth, sergeant?’

  ‘No. Just tell me a story I can live with.’

  ‘May I?’ I asked, pointing to my adjutant’s case. He waved for me to go ahead, and I took out a photocopy from the Gloucestershire Echo of the medal ceremony when I got my DFC, the year before last.

  He studied it carefully, checked the date on the top, made a note of the other articles on the page and grunted before passing it back. I had no doubt that Janet would be checking this before we got to morning coffee.

  ‘Special protection, sergeant. I will be providing special protection to … certain people in Westmorland, and I have to do it as a warranted police officer. Did they not put Commander Ross’s name down?’ He shook his head. ‘Commander Ross, Cairndale Division. He won’t tell you any more, but at least he’s a real police officer.’

  He picked up my credentials and handed them back. ‘This way.’

  We returned to reception, he had words with Janet, and I was finally issued with a security pass. He also told me his name. Police Sergeant Smith. It could be his real name, I suppose. We entered the inner sanctum and headed for a training room. ‘You must have had personal weapons training in the RAF,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sergeant. Mostly pistols. I’ve not handled anything like the MP5 for some time.’

  ‘Here, you’re a beginner. Understand?’

  ‘Of c
ourse. My boss won’t be happy with anything less than humility and application.’

  He stopped and looked at me. ‘Is that what he said? Humility and application? Who the fuck do you work for? Father Brown?’

  That was good. I liked that. I shall have to give it to Hannah as a codename.

  ‘She, not he. What she actually said was, “Don’t get arsey down there and keep it zipped, or I’ll make you watch Arsenal videos until you beg for mercy.” She meant it, too.’

  He weighed his keys in his hand. No swipe cards or pass-codes back here, just old-fashioned mild steel keys. He passed the training room and took me deep into the complex. A steel plated door led to the service hatch for the armoury, and PS Smith drew a Glock 17 pistol and rounds. Under his own name. He took us to a bare room with a high workbench in the centre. Next to the bench was a one metre high metal tank full of soft sand.

  ‘This is the live round demonstration room. Normally, we don’t get here until Monday evening.’ He laid the Glock and the ammunition on the table. ‘Show me.’

  It took me thirty seconds to get suspicious. After one minute I asked him to turn the task lights on and double checked. ‘The sights are at least one degree out, sergeant.’

  ‘Good. Should mean an earlier finish.’

  And it did. I knocked off mid-afternoon most days, and I forced myself to go to a yoga class. Somebody, somewhere will appreciate the contrast between the two. On Friday morning, a taciturn counter-terrorism specialist came to examine me. After half an hour’s wait, PS Smith shook my hand and handed me a Part One certificate.

  ‘There’s no rushing Part Two,’ he said. ‘See you Monday morning.’

  On the train back to the City, I fantasised about pulling a sickie and driving up the M6 to meet Mina at the prison gates. A weekend of Hindu rituals sounded infinitely preferable to what I will actually be doing on Saturday, but we’ll come to that later. First up was a Project Talpa briefing.

  I’d just left the train at London Bridge when Mina called. She was using the prison phone, so not only would the call be brief, it would be monitored. Probably.

  ‘How’s it going?’ she asked.