Long Reach

by Peter Cocks

  Jack Daniels grinned and put down his guitar. He went to an area of the wall that was covered with paper packets of guitar strings, found a handle and pulled a door open.

  “Down the end and up the stairs,” he said, pointing through the doorway.

  I walked up the stairs and came to another door marked Sugacubes Model Agency. It was the only door there was, so I pressed the buzzer and was let in. A good-looking, dark-haired girl glanced up as I walked in. She smiled. She looked to be in her twenties and was wearing quite a lot of make-up. Pictures of other hot girls were framed on the wall behind her.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “I think I’ve made a mistake,” I said, embarrassed. “I’m looking for Tony Morris?”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  The girl got up from behind the desk. “I’m Anna. Anna Moore.” She held out her hand and I shook it. Her handshake was surprisingly firm. “Come this way.”

  She walked across to another door and pressed a code into the lock. The door opened and she ushered me through before heading back to her desk, closing the door behind me.

  Tony Morris’s office was small and unremarkable, save for the stacks of CDs that lined every shelf and covered every surface. Posters for recently forgotten bands covered the walls and a sign over Tony’s desk read: Tin Pan Alley Music Publishing.

  “Sit down, mate,” Tony said. “Coffee?” He filled two grubby mugs with water and instant coffee and handed me one and a sachet of sugar. “Milk’s off, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. I looked around at the crowded walls. “What’s all this record-business stuff, Tony?”

  “It’s a front. I’m sure you guessed.”

  I hadn’t, but I nodded anyway.

  “A front for what?” I asked. “I thought you worked in a police station.”

  Tony laughed. “What? ‘I arrest you in the name of the law’?” he asked in a comedy policeman voice. "Truncheon-meat sandwiches, Letsby Avenue and all that?”

  I shrugged.

  “OK,” Tony said. “I don’t work for the police exactly. Neither did Steve. We operate somewhere in the gap between the police and the more covert government agencies. We’re a self-contained, intelligence-gathering department.”

  “What about the model agency next door? The music shop?”

  Tony put a finger to his lips. “Too many questions, old son. All in good time. So what did you think about the stuff I gave you?”

  “I never knew. About the medal. Did Mum…?”

  Tony shook his head.

  “What did Steve do?” I asked. “I mean, to earn it?”

  “He cracked a terrorist cell up near Willesden,” Tony said. “They were planning to blow up half of Oxford Street. Would have killed thousands. Steve went in by himself. We created a gas scare in their block of flats and he went in disguised as a British Gas employee and wired the place right under their noses. He even hacked their computer and found the explosives under the sink. That takes some balls when there are three Al Qaeda suspects in the room while you work. Steve was good. Then he went back in and bust it single-handed, before the heavy mob piled in and shot two of them. High-risk strategy. He really put his cock on the block for that one.”

  I felt my chest swell with pride.

  “Did he get the medal from the Queen?” I asked lamely.

  “Steve couldn’t go to pick it up from Her Maj. It would‘ve made him conspicuous. That’s the trouble with this job. You don’t get the glory, you just have to be content that you’re doing some good. You can’t even tell your family, because any information could put them in danger. Steve never let on much, did he?”

  He hadn’t. Now I wished I had asked more.

  “It’s work for a single man, like Steve … or a man like yourself. Not too much in the way of dependants to worry about.”

  I felt proud to be referred to as a man. At school they had still been giving me the boy treatment.

  “So James Boyle was his alias for this work?” I asked. Tony looked taken aback.

  I pulled out the membership card from The Harp Club and lay it on the desk in front of him.

  “Where did you get that?” he asked, rattled.

  “It was in one of Steve’s jackets.”

  “Bit careless.” Tony sighed. “That was part of the trouble. Steve was getting a bit sloppy. I think the stress was getting to him.”

  I remembered Steve sitting in our lounge only a few weeks ago, smoking like a chimney, chewing his nails down to stubs and drinking cans of beer. For breakfast.

  “That level of stress is dangerous,” Tony explained. “That’s why I was worried when he went missing this time.”

  “Does going missing usually include topping yourself?” I asked.

  Tony scratched his nose.

  “He was under a lot of pressure,” he said finally. “Quite a few people were on his back.”

  “So now he’s ‘gone missing’ for ever, what happens?”

  “Well, that’s where you come in, old son. If you’re up for it, you might be able to help us by doing a bit of background work.”

  I felt fear bubbling away queasily in the pit of my stomach. What was he going to ask me to take on? The worry must have shown on my face because Tony stood up and put his heavy hand on my shoulder.

  “Look, mate. If you have any doubts about this whole thing, we can forget this conversation ever happened and just carry on as we were. No problem.”

  “I want to help.” The fear was still gnawing away, but I knew that the shame of not honouring my big brother’s memory would be far worse.

  “Good man. I knew you would.” Tony squeezed my shoulder. “A young guy like you can get to places where people like me would stick out like a turd in a swimming pool. I’m glad you’re on board. Now, there’s a couple of people I’d like you to meet.”

  FOUR

  We walked down Charing Cross Road and across Trafalgar Square. If there was a straight line to be walked, Tony never took it. He would cross from one side of the road to the other, dipping into bookshops and leaving by another door; taking little side alleys and backstreets, cutting through Soho across Chinatown then behind the National Gallery and out into the side of the square. It was as if he was trying to shake someone off with every move he made. I struggled to keep up.

  “Get used to it, mate,” he said with a wink. “It’s good practice. Means you can ‘disappear’ when you need to.”

  We stepped into a pub tucked away on the south side of Trafalgar Square. Tony seemed to know the barman, who served him a large Scotch without waiting to be asked. I had a cold bottle of beer. Tony scanned the half-empty bar and downed his whisky.

  “C’mon,” he said. We had been in there no longer than five minutes. I left most of my beer and followed Tony through the back of the pub and into a yard surrounded by high, grey buildings spattered with pigeon droppings. Steam billowed from the back of one of them and half a dozen men in chefs’ outfits barely looked at us as they stood around, smoking their fags. Tony climbed the metal fire escape that zigzagged up the back of another of the buildings and I followed him. We arrived at a steel door and Tony swiped the lock with a card.

  We came into a corridor: white and lit with fluorescent tubes. It smelt of school dinners. Opposite us was a heavy brown wooden door. Tony knocked.

  “Come in…”

  The room was large and sparsely furnished: a worn carpet, several lumpy-looking chairs and a big, battered desk. Not exactly built for comfort. The single dirty window looked out at Admiralty Arch that led down to Buckingham Palace.

  The man behind the desk was reading something, lit by a lamp with a green glass shade. I followed Tony in and the man looked up. He must have been about fifty. His face was lined and tanned, and his hair was gingery, cut short. He looked hard.

  “Hello, Tony.” He sounded posh.

  “Sandy,” Tony replied. He gestured for me to step forward. “This i
s Sandy Napier.”

  Sandy Napier stood up and extended a hand. I saw a gold signet ring and cufflinks on a striped sleeve that shot out from a well-cut suit. Rolex Submariner diver’s watch on his right wrist. I notice that stuff.

  “How d’you do?” His voice was clipped, the handshake was crushing. His eyes were cold and blue and locked on to me.

  “I’m good. Pleased to meet you.”

  I’m sure I saw him suppress a smile as he flicked a glance towards Tony. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing at the chairs in front of his desk, and Tony and I sat. Napier observed me for a moment. “You’re very young.”

  “Yes, but I’m growing out of it,” I quipped.

  Napier glanced at Tony again. Had he delivered him a clever bastard? I decided to answer his next question straight.

  “I’ll be honest,” he said. “I think you’re too young. Legally you’re too young to be working for us, but I’m following Tony’s hunch here. I knew your brother, of course. I’m sorry for your loss.” Napier paused, twisted the signet ring on his little finger. “Tony thinks you’ve got some of what Stephen had.”

  My feelings were still mixed. But I was chuffed that Tony had talked to Napier and put me in the same bag as my brother.

  Napier looked at the notes on his desk and thought for a moment. “You look good on paper,” he said, pushing them across the desk for me to look at. On three sheets of A4, my life was mapped out in detail: my date of birth, the appendix operation I’d had when I was five, my schools, my exam results and sporting achievements. Then the more personal stuff: a list of two or three girlfriends – the name of a long-term one I’d split up from last year. Finally, pictures: me as a kid on a bike; sweating in boxing shorts holding up a cup; in judo kit getting my brown belt.

  “Where did you get all this?” I asked, looking at Tony.

  “Child’s play.” He smiled.

  “And what do you think this shows about you?” Napier asked.

  “It looks pretty straightforward to me,” I said. “I’ve not been in any trouble.”

  “You’re alone in all the photos,” Napier pointed out. “All the sports you participate in are one on one.”

  I’d never thought about it before. I had mates, but I was happy enough with my own company.

  “I guess I’m not a team player,” I said after a while.

  “That may be no bad thing as far as we’re concerned.” Napier picked up a phone on his desk and punched in an extension. Although he said nothing more to me, I felt I had passed some sort of test.

  “Can you come in, Ian?” Napier barked into the phone.

  I took an instant dislike to the tall, sinewy man who entered the room a few seconds later. He must have been in his early thirties but looked as if he didn’t shave yet. His skin was smooth, sallow and tight on his narrow face. His hair was short and crinkly, and his lips thin. He stood behind Napier at the desk and looked down at me without cracking a smile.

  “Ian,” said Napier, “Tony Morris you know, and this is…”

  He looked at my details in front of him. Used the name that I was about to lose.

  The thin man nodded at Tony and then looked back at me.

  “This is Ian Baylis,” Napier said. “Ian will be your case officer.”

  I wasn’t sure what a case officer was exactly, but it looked to me as if Ian Baylis was none too pleased about being mine.

  “Bringing us children now, are you, Tony?” Baylis said. He allowed himself a minimal mouth movement that passed for a smile.

  Napier held up a finger to silence him: it was clearly a discussion they had already had.

  “He’s made of the right stuff,” Tony said, coming to my defence. “He can look after himself. Besides, we’re not going to send him out into the wilds on this one, are we?”

  I felt I needed some input into this conversation.

  “Where are you going to send me exactly?” I asked.

  “First things first,” Napier said. “Before you do anything, you’ll need to look at this.” He pushed a form across the desk to me. A glance at the heading told me that it was to do with official secrets. “You’ll need to sign it. And you’ll need to get used to this.”

  He passed me a brown envelope, which I emptied onto the table. There was a passport and various other pieces of ID: a credit card, a driving licence, gym membership.

  Each piece of documentation had my photo on it and someone else’s name. Eddie Savage.

  “That’s my granddad’s name,” I said. “My mum’s dad. He’s dead.”

  “So you won’t forget it when you’re in the field,” Baylis said sharply. “Will you?”

  “Why? Where am I going?” I pressed.

  “We’d like you to make friends with a girl,” Napier said. He smiled. “Shouldn’t be too hard, should it? She’s called Sophie Kelly.”

  I felt relieved that I wasn’t being sent into a terrorist hotbed like my brother.

  “So, where do I find this Sophie Kelly?” I asked.

  Napier pushed a photo across the table. It was a picture of a very pretty blonde girl. I couldn’t help smiling myself.

  “Nice easy one for you, this, Eddie,” Napier said, using my new name for the first time. “We’d like you to go back to school.”

  FIVE

  Things moved fast in this world.

  As soon as I’d said yes and signed on the dotted line, Sandy Napier shook my hand and I was in.

  Up to my neck.

  If I’m honest, what choice did I have? To say no and creep around for the rest of my life, wondering if I could have done something useful, ashamed that I hadn’t honoured Steve Palmer’s memory in some way? It wasn’t an option.

  When we stepped out into the bright day in Trafalgar Square it seemed like a new London: everything looked super-real, sharply detailed in the sunlight. I felt as if everyone was looking at me: people on buses, men in hats, road sweepers. Everything looked like a clue. I held out my hand. It was trembling, as if all my nerves had been wound up a notch. I felt Tony’s firm grasp on my shoulder.

  “Feels weird, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s a big leap,” he said. “I remember what it’s like. The paranoia. You get used to it but, I tell you what, it’s a valuable tool. Keeps you on your toes. You trust no one and look for signs on every street corner. Nine times out of ten, that suspicion pays off. That’s how it works in this game.”

  Tony hailed a black cab, which squealed to a halt in front of us. I got in while Tony gave the driver my address, then he sat down beside me. We rumbled down the Mall past New Scotland Yard and all the ministry buildings. The cab turned left over Westminster Bridge and as I looked across at Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament, I suddenly felt part of it all. Scared and proud. I had never really felt part of anything before.

  My eyes darted left and right as we crossed the Thames, watching every car that passed, checking the registration of a motorcycle despatch rider as he pulled up alongside us.

  “Blimey, you are jumpy.” Tony chuckled. “Take a deep breath and relax.”

  “Does this really get better, Tony?” I asked, trying to make myself comfortable in the cab seat. “I feel a bit sick.”

  Behind us Big Ben chimed two and I realized how much I had already crammed into the day.

  “It does,” Tony reassured me. “I promise. It becomes second nature, a part of you.”

  My stomach gurgled as if in reply. Nerves, probably.

  “You must be starving,” Tony said. “Let’s get some lunch.”

  He got the cabbie to stop at a drive-through on the Old Kent Road. A quarter-pounder with cheese, large fries and half a litre of Coke. The food seemed to settle my stomach a bit and the sugar hit from the Coke helped. Soon we were burrowing back into the grotty, leafy backstreets of South London and I felt safer. We drew up outside Mum’s.

  Home again.

  The old girl made us both a cup of tea, then Tony talked to her in the kit
chen. They spoke quietly, but every now and again I could hear Mum raising her voice in protest, then Tony calming her again. I plonked myself in front of the TV in the lounge and watched a repeat of Friends. The familiar, attractive faces, the colours and the studio laughter made me feel secure. Whatever was thrown at the characters, their problems always got sorted by the end of an episode. No matter what the scriptwriter had dreamt up for them, they all had each other in the end. I wished I had the safety net of their script. And Rachel as a girlfriend.

  After a while, Mum came in and sat beside me on the sofa. Her eyes were red and she looked at me with a downturned smile and her lip trembled again. She hugged me close and I could feel the sobs shake her entire body.

  She had known this would happen, and she didn’t want to lose another son. Tony had told her it wasn’t safe for her here now that I was involved too. It had been risky enough when Steve was around, and his death was bound to draw some attention. My background had to be concealed, all traces of my previous life brushed over.

  Mum was going to stay with her sister in Stoke-on-Trent, and I could go up and see her whenever I wanted. Tony explained that he had found me a flat. He would take me there tomorrow.

  Tony ordered a takeaway curry and the three of us ate around the kitchen table. The telly was still on in the background filling in the silences, but we managed a few laughs. I kissed Mum goodnight and she squeezed me tight, like she was never going to let go, and I went up to my room, stuffed with tikka masala and poppadoms.

  I couldn’t sleep. My mind was racing and my belly was full to bursting. I scanned through my iPod for something relaxing and selected “Steve’s Playlist”, which was nothing of the sort: Clapton, Bowie, Led Zeppelin, Queen, Sex Pistols, Iggy Pop, Primal Scream, Public Enemy, Gorillaz. Tracks that spanned twenty years or so, each one bringing back a different memory of Steve – a particular weekend or a Christmas past. Tunes I had grown up hearing in the background or from behind a closed door. I was wearing one of Steve’s jumpers and as I took it off, I caught that faint smell of him again.