Loose Ends (The Acer Sansom Novels Book 2)

by Oliver Tidy

  Loose Ends

  The Second Acer Sansom Novel

  Oliver Tidy

  Copyright 2013 Oliver Tidy

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  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please download an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any persons without the permission of the author.

  Oliver Tidy has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead is purely coincidental.

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  Loose Ends: unresolved problems or difficulties, especially of a final-detail nature – preceding the satisfactory completion of something.

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  The Acer Sansom novels now number four. They don’t have to be read in order; they do all work as stand-alone novels. However, to get the most out of each it is recommended that they are read in the order in which they were written

  Here are the books of the series in order with their Amazon UK & US links.

  #1 Dirty Business Amazon UK Amazon US

  #2 Loose Ends Amazon UK Amazon US

  #3 Smoke and Mirrors Amazon UK Amazon US

  #4 Deep State Amazon UK Amazon US.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter1 Chapter2 Chapter3 Chapter4 Chapter5 Chapter6 Chapter7 Chapter8 Chapter9 Chapter10 Chapter11 Chapter12 Chapter13 Chapter14 Chapter15 Chapter16 Chapter17 Chapter18 Chapter19 Chapter20 Chapter21 Chapter22 Chapter23 Chapter24 Chapter25 Chapter26

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  1

  The two men sat at opposite ends of the Thames Embankment bench. The casual observer could be forgiven for thinking that they did not know each other. Certainly, neither had greeted the other when they had come together, nor even appeared to acknowledge each other. Each seemed lost in his own thoughts as they stared out over the brackish swirling water. A courageous sparrow swooped unnoticed on a discarded morsel of food at their feet. A river cruise chugged by, the tinny PA system informing passengers that if they were to look to their left they would soon see one of the most iconic buildings in London: the Houses of Parliament.

  Alex Bishop MP turned up the collar of his tailored overcoat as a cool breeze shuffled the early fallen leaves at their feet. He was glad of his decision to wear it. The man settled at the other end of the bench sipped his take-away coffee, his keen eyes flitting across the view in front of him.

  ‘How serious is it?’ said the politician.

  ‘That remains to be seen. That loose end that appeared to rather conveniently tie itself up for us in Bodrum seems to have come undone.’ The politician, unable to stop himself, turned to look at the man, disbelief distorting his features. ‘Don’t do that. There’s a good chap,’ said Smith, taking another sip of his drink.

  Bishop resumed staring out over the water, although he saw none of what was in front of him now. What he did see was his career, his position, his life crumbling before him. His stomach liquefied as his mind worried at the implications of the news, like a hungry stray dog falls on food. His healthy complexion, tanned from a recent break in the Dordogne, lightened by several shades, giving him a jaundiced look. He emitted a sort of groan.

  ‘Acquaintance of mine in the FO told me that our ‘friend’ might not have done us the favour we thought he had,’ continued Smith.

  The politician lost his patience with Smith’s woolly language. Through gritted teeth, he said, ‘Appears, seems, might – what the hell do you actually know?’

  ‘Let’s try to stay calm, shall we? If Sansom isn’t dead, if he’s alive and kicking, we’re going to need our wits about us to sort this out.’

  ‘Easy for you to speak about remaining calm,’ said Bishop, battling to suppress his alarm. ‘He can’t hurt you with his stories. He doesn’t know anything about you. He doesn’t know who you are, where he can find you.’

  ‘No,’ said Smith, turning slowly to look Bishop in the eye, ‘he doesn’t, but you do.’

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  2

  Acer Sansom waded out of the shallows, his chest heaving with his recent exertions, shoulders aching. The warm waters of the Aegean dripped from his tanned and fit body. He collected his towel and stood drying himself off in the dry Bodrum heat, staring out fondly over the sea that had come to be his exercise yard for the past month. He had spent a glorious period of rest and recuperation here in the company of a woman who had come to be his friend, lover, confidante – and it would soon be at an end. Letting out a sigh, he turned and trudged up the narrow, steep band of what passed for a beach in those parts, back towards Eda’s family summer home and his appointment.

  As he approached the whitewashed villa, he made out the figure of his expected visitor standing in the shade of the veranda. He was early and in a business suit. He was out of place. Eda appeared deep in animated conversation with the man, gesticulating passionately in her typically Turkish way. Sansom found himself smiling at the scene and feeling just a little pity for the man bearing the brunt of her rant. Spotting his advance, they turned towards him, all talk drying up. Clearly, they had been discussing him.

  ‘Good afternoon, Acer,’ said the man. ‘You push yourself hard, don’t you? Tired me out just watching you.’

  The men shook hands warmly.

  ‘Someone else said something like that to me not so long ago,’ said Sansom, reminded of almost the exact same words that Eda had used to describe his routine in the sea. He looked towards her, but she was clearly not in the mood for reminiscing.

  ‘Another glass of lemonade?’ she asked the man.

  He nodded enthusiastically, gulping down what was left in his glass and handing it back for refilling. ‘Thanks very much.’

  To Sansom, she said, ‘You want one?’ She looked upset and he could only guess that the topic of conversation that he’d interrupted had been the news that he had been expecting. He nodded and gave her a smile, but got nothing in return. Eda turned and left them to their talking.

  The men sat on the bench that had become Sansom’s preferred spot in the last few weeks. A shaded recess under a fragrant canopy of rampaging wisteria from where he could gaze out over the multi-blued expanse of the Aegean, at the islands in the distance and the craft, business and pleasure, that ploughed up and down it.

  ‘They’re all set for you in London,’ said Havers. ‘They’ve said that you can have another week or so if you feel that you need it but, well, to be honest, the general feeling is that it would be best all round if you were able to return at the earliest opportunity.’

  Sansom had known that the day was coming when he would have to give all this up, give up Eda – he hoped only temporarily – go back and face his music. The alternative of living in hiding abroad, constantly in fear of exposure and the British justice system catching up with him, as it inevitably one day would, was not something he relished. To his mind, it was also not something he deserved. And he had a debt to pay to a man, a policeman, who had tracked him, found him, exposed the motives of the people whose dirty business he had been manipulated into doing; a man
who had helped him and saved him from a future of uncertainty and from himself. It was a debt to which he was bound by some gentleman’s code to honour. And that was something Eda found so hard to understand.

  ‘What’s the earliest date available?’ said Sansom.

  Havers smiled at him. ‘We can get you out through Incirlik military airbase on a flight three days from now. We’d have to drive from here. Wouldn’t want to risk you going through a Turkish civilian airport. Last thing we need is some sort of incident and all the publicity, given what’s gone on here. So, we’d need to leave the evening day after tomorrow, latest. It’s quite a trek, I understand.’

  Three days, thought Sansom, but it seemed he had little choice; arrangements had already been put in motion for his return. And in truth, he did have little choice. They might say he could have an extra week or two, but he doubted that such an indulgence would be very well received by the powers that would decide his fate back home.

  Also, he wanted to lend his support to Detective Inspector Tallis of the Hampshire County Constabulary as soon as he could in his pursuit of British justice for the politician whose under-the-counter arms dealing they believed had ultimately been responsible for the event that had robbed the two men, complete strangers then, of their loved ones and in turn brought them together.

  On top of that, he had his own name to clear regarding charges of murder. It was something that he wanted ended, so that he might resume some sort of a life, although – with what he had experienced, endured, lost – that would always be a relative achievement, a hopeful fancy. But even as he thought it, he knew that with Eda he had a chance. Just not with all of this unfinished business hanging over him.

  Eda emerged through the screen door, a tray of glasses in front of her. She plonked herself down on a chair noisily and handed them their drinks.

  ‘When are you leaving then?’ she said.

  ‘Day after tomorrow,’ said Sansom, taking responsibility for the decision.

  She nodded her understanding. Although her eyes were hidden behind her large dark glasses, her mouth set in a thin pinched line. She stared out over the water, not trusting herself to speak and fighting her unhelpful urge to shed her tears of frustration and disappointment, concern and sense of loss in front of the intelligence officer.

  Havers wasn’t an intelligence officer for nothing. Sensing keenly that his welcome was probably on borrowed time, he quickly drained his glass and stood.

  ‘Well, I should be getting back. Things to arrange and all that. Thank you for your hospitality,’ he said, offering his hand to Eda.

  She took it briefly but said nothing.

  ‘I’ll walk you to your car,’ said Sansom.

  ‘I don’t know how you can bear it,’ said Havers, gesturing down at Sansom’s bare feet as they walked across the stony ground. ‘I’d be wincing and moaning like a girl.’

  ‘I had a long time to get used to it, remember?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Don’t take Eda too personally. She knows you’re just the messenger, but she needs someone to take out her frustration on. She’s just worried, that’s all.’

  ‘I understand. I told her she has nothing to worry about – that you’ll be looked after and treated with compassion.’

  ‘It’s a cultural thing.’

  At the car, Havers took off his jacket and laid it across the back seat. ‘About five then, day after tomorrow.’

  They shook hands once more.

  ‘I’ll be ready.’

  Sansom stood back as Havers manoeuvred his car around in the narrow space, and raised his hand in farewell. Taking a deep breath, he turned back for the villa and the frosty atmosphere he knew would be waiting for him.

  As he climbed the few steps to the veranda, she rose to meet him. He braced himself for the repetition of her concerns, her arguments, her pleas, but all the fight had gone out of her. She knew that the little time they now had together before he went back to whatever they had planned for him was too valuable to waste on futile disagreement.

  She came to him, took both of his hands in hers, pulled him to her and kissed him with the tender love that she had developed for him. Her tongue explored his mouth and in doing so she felt him growing against her. Without a word she led him into the comparative coolness of the darkened villa, to the bed that they had shared for the last month, and to a promise of distraction from the reality of the outside world that their love-making would inevitably bring them.

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  Sansom awoke some hours later. Easing himself out from under her sleeping form, he slipped out to the veranda to take up his watch over the sea – to imprint the memory of his time here on his consciousness for when he might need to draw on it in the coming weeks. He truly believed that the promise of a life here to come back to might be all that would sustain him through the inevitable difficulties. There was nothing else left of his previous existence.

  According to public records, Acer Sansom had been declared dead by a coroner more than six months before. At that time, the authorities had erroneously believed he had died along with his wife, baby daughter, and all other passengers and crew from The Rendezvous when the ship had disappeared without trace or explanation in the Pacific. But Sansom alone had survived. He had been marooned on an island for over a year. When he finally returned to civilisation with his story of a massacre at sea, he had been approached by a corrupt and powerful English politician who also claimed to have lost a loved one in the atrocity. With promises of sponsorship and support, Sansom had been encouraged to ignore his responsibilities to law and order and to the Army in order to visit revenge on those he believed were responsible for the slaughter. As part of this clandestine plot he was necessarily officially recorded as once again having died. Returning to the UK once again alive, there was a great mess to sort out.

  Prior to the events that robbed him of everything, he had been in the military for several years. He had been content with that existence and would have stayed several more.

  But now, with all that had happened, he knew that he would never be able to settle for that life again. There would be too many memories of the life he had enjoyed, the family he had lost. There would be too many rules he wouldn’t now be able to obey. There would be too many things he wouldn’t be able to do. While physically he was not so different from the man he had been fourteen months before – a few stones lighter, fitter, tougher – mentally he was a changed man.

  He still awoke regularly in the night suffering from the horrors of his dreams; reliving the deaths of his wife and daughter, his fellow passengers and the crew from the last voyage of The Rendezvous. His tolerance was reduced. His altruistic side, which in his previous life had been significant, was diminished to the point of non-existence. And, although untested, he doubted that he would ever be able to take orders from another man, abide by rules and regulations. He had changed. He was someone different. If he were forced back into the Army, he would be a square peg in a round hole. No one would relish that prospect.

  But that was not going to happen. He had been assured it wouldn’t be a problem. Perhaps, he thought with a smile, he had done them a favour by insisting as much in his negotiations regarding his return. Perhaps they didn’t want him anywhere near hardware that killed, responsibility that could endanger people and reputations. They must recognise that he could be a problem for them, having experienced and lost what he had – a potential loose cannon, psychologically unstable. They weren’t stupid. Better for all to usher him out of the back door. Where he had to trust them was that the rear exit would lead to the freedom of a civilian life and not waiting prison transport.

  DI Tallis had been stalwart and unswerving in his self-imposed role as the guardian of Sansom’s future where British bureaucracy was concerned and there was plenty of it. True, even he had an ulterior motive. He desperately wanted Sansom to return to the UK to testify against the corrupt and criminally-implicated politician they blamed for everything and at
whose door the buck was rolling to a stop.

  However, even to the cynic that Sansom now was, it was more than that. He and Tallis had become friends out of necessity and joint purpose. They had submitted themselves to life-threatening danger and had supported each other through the most difficult of times. They had also shared in the explosive and headline-making premature end of those directly responsible for the deaths of their family members. Theirs was a bond born out of adversity and one that Sansom knew would endure.

  From almost the moment that Tallis had regained British soil after his time in Turkey, he had begun to set the wheels of Sansom’s return in motion. Using a contact in the British intelligence service, he had instigated a covert meeting between a member of MI6 and Sansom on which Sansom’s position was now based. Through Tallis’s efforts, Sansom had gone from being wanted for two murders and escaping from military detention to being a key witness in what could prove to be a tabloid journalist’s wet dream.

  With Tallis’s evidence, reputation, position, contacts and tireless effort, Sansom was now in a position of strength. A deal was to be cut. Sansom’s crimes – and he was guilty of some serious examples – were to be viewed with leniency. It still wasn’t clear to him how. But, as had been pointed out to him by Tallis and Havers, he had to show some good faith. He had to trust them to honour the promises they were making. He had to go home. And that is where Eda and he parted company in how they saw the future unfolding for him.

  He trusted them. She trusted none of them. He believed the things they were promising him. She doubted them for liars. He felt he had to face up to what he had done. She wanted him to lose himself in Turkish society. He wanted to bring Bishop, the politician, and those involved with him, like the man he knew only as Smith, to justice. She wanted him to let them all get on with it without him. She didn’t want to lose him. She didn’t even want to take that chance.