‘Do you know how long it was?’
‘Nearly two hours.’
‘What did you find to do for nearly two hours?’
‘I sang to her.’
Diana giggled, then gasped with horror.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘That was most unprofessional.’
‘We’re not at work now,’ Beresford said. ‘If we can’t be human with people we care about, when can we be human?’
‘You’re right,’ Diana agreed. ‘So you sang to her?’
‘Yes.’
‘What sorts of songs?’
‘Anything that came into my mind. This week’s top ten, songs from when I was a kid – even a few advertising jingles.’
‘And have you got a good voice?’
‘Very – if you’re fond of the sound of a spade scraping on gravel. But Monika didn’t care how well or badly I sang. She didn’t even care what I sang.’ His voice started to crack. ‘I must have gone through “Happy Birthday to You” half a dozen times, and it’s not even her birthday. But it doesn’t matter … it doesn’t matter … because she can’t bloody hear me!’
Tears were streaming down his face.
She hugged his head tightly to her breast.
‘Would you like to go to bed?’ she asked softly. ‘Do you think that would help?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
They turned the bed into a raging battlefield on which no quarter was expected or given.
Three times, the neighbours banged on the wall, and three times they ignored them.
They discovered a power within themselves which was both exhilarating and frightening, and when it was over they lay side by side, sweating and gasping for breath, and not saying a word.
Slowly, the world of normality began to penetrate the world of fire and lust they had created.
They heard footsteps on the street outside, and a man whistling. They heard a dog bark, and tyres screeching.
‘When are you planning to see the chief constable tomorrow?’ she asked.
‘How do you know I’m planning to see him?’ he wondered.
‘You mentioned it earlier.’
‘I’m almost sure that I didn’t.’
‘You must have done, or how would I know?’
‘That’s true.’
TWENTY-ONE
If Mr Forsyth had had a personal motto (as distinct from the one he inherited on his family crest), it would have been that a man should be bold and courageous whenever the need arose, and as cautious as a field mouse whenever it didn’t.
He would have added, as a caveat, that the time to be especially cautious was when an operation was in the process of being wound up, as this one was. Thus, even though he had heard Beresford himself say to his team in the Drum and Monkey that he was planning to go to the chief constable and admit failure – and even though the DCI’s sobbing the night before had been indicative of a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown – he had resisted the temptation to draw down resources, because it was at precisely this stage that the people manipulating events could get careless and things could go seriously wrong.
And so it was that morning (which he hoped and believed would be the last morning of this not-exactly-official operation), he had assigned an agent to each member of Beresford’s team, just to make sure they didn’t come off the rails.
Monika herself was a different problem, for while he was sure he had blindsided her team, and they would never grasp the truth if they lived to be a hundred, it was possible that if she came out of her coma …
He was going to have to terminate her, he decided. It was a pity, but there it was. And while there would no doubt be an internal service inquiry which would probably find against him, he would almost certainly be gone to his grave by then, knowing, as he drew his final breath, that he had done what was best for his country.
The agent who’d been drafted in to watch Meadows went by the name of Wilson, and he was outside her flat at seven o’clock, when she emerged wearing rather a smart grey suit – much more expensive and stylish-looking than the clothes he’d seen her wearing the day before – and carrying a cylindrical cloth bag.
She must have a change of clothes in the bag, he thought. It was something women did. His wife – and all her friends – travelled to dances and events in casual clothes, and changed into their posh frocks when they got there. But Kate Meadows was wearing the posh things now, which didn’t make sense.
Maybe she was doing a runner, and had grabbed the first thing that came to hand, but he couldn’t think of anything she needed to run from, and she seemed neither furtive nor cautious as she walked to her car, got in, and pulled carefully away from the curb.
His first thought was that she would get onto the ring road, and from there join the motorway, but then she turned left instead of right, and he decided that despite her wearing a fancy suit, she must be going into work.
He was wrong about that, too. Instead of heading for police headquarters, Meadows took the Boulevard to the railway station.
Beresford rolled over onto his back, scratched the thick black hairs on his belly, and grunted like the satisfied creature he was.
‘Have you seen the time?’ Diana Sowerbury asked.
Beresford raised his arm, and glanced at his wristwatch.
‘Oh yeah,’ he said.
‘Oh yeah? Is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘What else do you expect me to say?’
‘I expected you to say, “Bugger me, I’d better be going”,’ Diana said, in a fair imitation of his voice.
‘I don’t feel like going.’
‘But you’re leading a murder investigation.’
‘True, but we’re all agreed it’s going nowhere.’
‘I still think you should put in an appearance. I think you owe it to your team.’
Beresford chuckled. ‘Yesterday morning, you’ve have done just about anything you could to stop me leaving – and I mean just about anything, you dirty, dirty girl.’
Diana giggled. ‘Maybe I am a dirty girl – but I’ve never heard you object,’ she said.
Beresford grinned. ‘So what’s different about this morning?’ he wondered. ‘Why can’t you wait to get me out of the flat? Is there something you need to do – but won’t be able to do until I’ve gone?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like make a phone call, for example.’
‘A phone call?’
‘One you didn’t want me to overhear.’
‘Whatever made you say that?’ Diana asked.
‘I really don’t know,’ Beresford lied.
Wilson was standing in a telephone box in which vomit, urine and cigarette smoke fought with each other for the title of dominant smell.
‘She’s bought a ticket to Manchester,’ he said.
‘When was this?’ Forsyth asked.
‘Five minutes ago. She’s out there waiting on the platform now.’
‘Is she alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’d better get a ticket yourself, and follow her.’
‘And what happens at the other end?’
‘How long’s the journey to Manchester?’
‘Thirty-five minutes.’
‘Shit!’ Forsyth said. ‘I can’t possibly get people to Victoria Station by the time she arrives, so you’re on your own. Try not to get spotted, but whatever you do, don’t lose her.’
He hung up. There was no reason for Meadows to go to Manchester, he told himself, no reason at all.
And it was extremely worrying that she had.
It was four o’clock in the morning EST. The moon was emerging from behind a cloud, and as it did, it cast a pale light on the brick house on a street just off Zulette Avenue. Houses exactly like it (or houses that were a variation on that theme) could be found in large clusters all over the Bronx. It was the sort of house in which three families could lead comfortable and independent lives, each with a floor of their own.
<
br /> This house may once have served just that function, but not anymore, because, as the discreet brass sign by the doorbell announced, it was ‘Pelham Bay Gentlemen’s Social Club: Members Only’.
The man who approached that door along the empty street looked easily well-dressed enough to be a member of a club that had its own brass plate, but the clothes were not his own, and had only been borrowed for the occasion from the department’s wardrobe.
He rang the bell and waited. His ring was answered by a large man in a tight-fitting tuxedo.
‘Yes?’ the doorman said.
‘You must be Gregory,’ the visitor said.
‘What if I am?’ the doorman growled.
‘I was told your name by my very good friend, Orville James III. He said you knew him.’
‘I do know him. He’s a member of the club.’
‘Exactly so. And he said if I were to mention his name to you …’
‘You’re not a member,’ Gregory said flatly, as if he were reading from a script. ‘This is a members’ only club.’
The visitor – whose breath smelt of alcohol thanks to a whisky gargle, took a step forward.
‘I want you to think long and hard before you offend a man like my very good friend Orville James III,’ the visitor said.
But Gregory was no longer listening to him. Instead, his eyes were following the large black van which had its lights off and seemed to be almost crawling up the street.
Gregory made an effort to slam the door closed, at the same moment as the visitor was pushing in the other direction.
‘Don’t!’ the visitor said, holding up a small leather wallet, containing a shiny metal shield, in his free hand.
Gregory relaxed his muscles. What was going to happen would happen whatever he did, and his best plan was to leave as little of it sticking to him as was possible.
The van came to a halt at the front entrance, its back doors were opened, and half a dozen men emerged. They all ran towards the club, and before they’d even reached the door, two vans full of uniformed cops came round the corner with tyres screeching.
The predominant ambience of this phone box was curry, and looking down at the aluminium box by his feet, Wilson guessed it was vindaloo.
‘Sergeant Meadows is at Piccadilly Station now,’ he told his boss, back in Whitebridge.
‘How did she get there from Victoria?’ Forsyth asked.
‘She walked.’
‘And you followed on foot?’
How else did you expect me to follow her? Wilson wondered.
In a taxi?
Might he not have looked just a little suspicious in a taxi that was travelling at walking speed?
‘Yes, I followed her on foot,’ he said.
‘How far is it between the two stations?’
‘Just under a mile.’
‘Did she spot you?’
‘I can’t say – one way or the other. She didn’t make a habit of turning round, she didn’t stop to look in shop windows, and she didn’t use any of the standard evasion techniques, but if she’d been looking out for a tail, she couldn’t have missed me.’
‘Has she bought another ticket?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where to?’
‘London.’
‘Make absolutely certain that she gets on the London train, and then report back here.’
‘You don’t want me to follow her?’
‘No. She has probably made you, so I’ll introduce a couple of fresh faces on the journey down, and have two more waiting for her at Euston station.’
Forsyth put down the phone. She might just have gone on a shopping trip, he told himself. But from what he’d seen of her, he was surprised she hadn’t stayed in Whitebridge, in case Beresford needed support.
He wondered – given what Beresford was planning to do – why he hadn’t heard from Beresford’s minder.
The final car involved in the operation drew up just after the uniformed officers had entered the house just off Zulette Avenue, but neither man made any move to get out of the vehicle.
‘I reckon you owe me big for this, Fred,’ said the man behind the wheel, who went by the name of Harvey James Boone, and who was head of the vice squad in the Bronx.
‘Oh please! We’ve known each other a long time – and done things for each other that are probably best forgotten – so don’t start bullshitting me now,’ said his passenger, Fred Mahoney, who was the captain of the One-Four. ‘You’ve been planning this raid of yours for weeks. It would have gone ahead even if I hadn’t come along for the ride.’
‘Two things you should appreciate,’ Boone said. ‘One: I may have been planning this raid, but it wasn’t supposed to happen until next week. Two: I go out of my way to avoid tangling with people of influence like state assemblymen.’
‘So what you are saying is that if somebody’s got a seat in Albany, it’s like having his own personal “get out of jail free” card?’
‘You are never going to wipe out vice,’ Boone said, ‘so what you do is, you work out which bits you can mop up that maybe might help a few people at least, and when you go home, you can say to yourself, well, things are a little better than they used to be.’
‘I know it isn’t easy,’ Mahoney said, with a mixture of sympathy and encouragement.
But Boone had not finished.
‘Do you know what happens when you tangle with the rich and powerful?’ he asked ‘You find yourself locked in a battle which takes all your resources, which means even your little bits of mopping up go by the board. And even if you manage to get a conviction, you’ve not just made an enemy of him – it’s his prep school buddies and country club friends you gotta look out for. Are you sure you still want Proudfoot?’
‘I want him,’ Mahoney said.
‘Well, I guess it’s your ass that you’re kissing goodbye,’ Boone said.
Living in the shadow world of Zelda had probably been good training for a spy, Meadows thought, because it taught you never to take your environment for granted, and to be on the constant lookout for both dangers and opportunities.
True, she’d been expecting to be followed when she left her flat, but even if she hadn’t been, she reckoned she’d have spotted her tail by the time she reached Whitebridge railway station.
And now she’d left him behind. Looking at him standing on the platform at Piccadilly, trying his best to appear inconspicuous, she’d had to fight back the temptation to wave to him.
So when would the next lot appear? Her guess would be at Birmingham, which meant she had plenty of time to select the ground on which she would fight the next battle.
She chose a carriage halfway down the train. It had two advantages. The first was that one end of it was quite empty, and would give her the manoeuvring space she might need. And the second was that at other end of the carriage were a group of young men who could only be – from their build and general demeanour– a team of rugby players.
She sat down close to them, but facing away. Then, when she heard the sound of beer can tabs being pulled, she turned around and said, ‘Look, I know this is being a bit cheeky, but I’m spitting feathers, and if one of you could spare me a sip of your beer, I’d really appreciate it.’
Six fit, square men were instantly on their feet, jostling each other for space and holding their cans out to her.
‘Goodness!’ Meadows gasped.
‘What do you want to do, smother the lady?’ asked a deep authoritative voice. ‘Get back in your seats now.’
The young men slunk reluctantly back, and Meadows got a clearer view of the speaker. He was around forty, and as square as his team. Meadows quite fancied him, and on another day might have suggested they inspect the toilet together.
‘I’m Sid Harris, the manager of the Rochdale Irregulars,’ he said.
‘And my dad,’ chipped in one of the boys.
‘And his dad – or so his mother informs me,’ Harris said. ‘Why don’t you come and sit with u
s?’
‘I don’t think there’s any room,’ Meadows told him.
‘Nonsense,’ Harris said. ‘There’s space where Dockleaf’s sitting. You don’t want to sit there, do you, Dockleaf?’
‘No, Dad,’ the boy said, so the matter was settled, and by the time the train reached Stafford, Meadows had learned that they were indeed a team of amateur rugby players, and were on their way to France for a series of friendly games with French teams.
Her new tails got on at Birmingham, as she’d expected them to. They were both nondescript men – again to be expected – though there was no question that they were both fit. They quickly assessed the carriage, and sat down. One chose a seat four rows behind hers, and to the left of the aisle. The other selected a seat eight rows back, and to the right.
It would have been easier if they’d sat together – but hell, they weren’t about to do her any favours.
Inside the house just off Zulette Avenue, half a dozen men were engaging in some kind of conversation with the police officers who brought with them such an unpleasant and unexpected end to the evening.
Some of the men were angry – or at least using anger as a shield to hide their fear.
‘This is still a free country and I can go where I like, and the fact that I happen to be in the same house as a number of perverts does not give you the right to tar me with the same brush.’
Others were attempting to mitigate their situation.
‘This is the first time I’ve been here, and I haven’t done anything. I wouldn’t have done anything. I swear it. I was just curious to see for myself, but I’d never have done anything.’
And some were just begging for mercy.
‘Please, I know I’ve done wrong, but I swear I’ll never do it again. Please help me. Think of my wife! Think of my children!’
And the officers they were talking to listened to them stony-faced and then said, ‘Your name. I need your name. You give it to me now, or we can sweat it out of you back at the precinct. I don’t care which.’
The one man not being questioned was sitting huddled in the corner. He was horrified at the thought of being interrogated, but even more horrified that he had been singled out not to be.
‘You wait over there,’ one of the officers had said to him.
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