by Oliver Tidy
‘Green one,’ said one of them.
‘Wasn’t green you idiot, it was dark blue,’ said another.
‘That wasn’t dark blue, it was aquamarine,’ said a third. They began laughing.
‘Fucking idiot loser kids,’ said the talker to his friend. ‘Portsmouth? You’re sure?’ he said, his attention once more boring into Lucy.
‘Positive, Mister,’ she answered, trying to sound as helpful and genuine as she could.
She watched them walk swiftly back to their car and without a look in her direction drive quickly away.
‘What did you tell him Portsmouth for?’ said Troy. ‘The bloke never mentioned Portsmouth.’
‘Same reason, Jason told them his car was green,’ said Lucy. Sometimes Troy could be so dense. ‘More ice-cream, anyone?’ she called, waving the twenty in the air.
***
7
With his recent horrific experiences swamping his thinking – the violent end of a good friend’s life, his own brush with a brutal death and threat of consignment to an unmarked, shallow grave – Sansom resolved to be infinitely more vigilant in his future movements. He had witnessed what his pursuers were prepared to do, what disturbing and barbaric lengths they would casually go to in order to execute their orders and anyone who got in their way. If there had been any doubt, he now understood with absolute chilling clarity that he was dealing with ruthless, resourced, professional killers who were almost certainly supported by the full extent of any available intelligence networks at their disposal and whose sole goal was him dead and buried, erased without trace.
In Turkey, on his trail of revenge for his murdered family, Sansom truthfully hadn’t cared whether he had lived or died, such was the melancholy and despair of his life without his wife and child. But now, in Eda, he had found someone who perhaps could offer the possibility of an existence where he might find something to take pleasure in once more. His recent brush with mortality, or rather the effects on him of its outcome, had made him realise that he was again valuing being alive.
However, the prospect and promise of his new life with Eda would not be something that he could contemplate pursuing with those responsible for Tallis’s murder going unpunished – not held to account for their callous and cowardly actions. The slaughter of those aboard The Rendezvous had tormented his nights and still did, although the horrors had been diminished with the passing of time and the primitive, satisfying knowledge that he had visited revenge on the perpetrators. He knew himself well enough to understand that until he had sought some of the same for his friend he would not be able to hope for a clear conscience. It was the kind of man he was now; the kind of man that the Army, aggression, unfairness, violence and a heightened-through-experience sense of righteous justice had made him. It would be something else that Eda would not be able to understand. It would be anathema to her. She would see it as some macho code of honour where lives were risked to settle scores for those who had no opportunity to benefit, so what was the point? Was it a fool’s outlook? Perhaps, but it was one that Sansom subscribed to and that worked for him as a man.
Grimly, he considered what the next showdown with them, whoever they were, would bring for him when it came. And come, he knew it would. With their resources and power there could be no hiding indefinitely, even if that were the path he would choose. As it was, with his already single-minded determination to avenge Tallis, bloody confrontation would be inevitable. They wouldn’t have to go looking for him. He would be looking for them.
As he drove, he turned over in his mind what he could do next, assuming that he could find and make the safe haven that Eda had promised him. Going to the authorities was out of the question. The chances that they would accept his version of events was too slim for him to consider it as a possibility. Even if he could find a sympathetic ear, he would succeed only in placing himself in the lion’s den, confining himself where they would have no trouble getting to him. He knew it would be only a matter of time before he was found dead in some cell or ‘safe house.’ Compounding this, he wouldn’t know whom he could trust from the moment he made contact. As far as he was concerned, that was no option.
As the soldier acknowledged his situation, dismissing the authorities left him with a single option to explore for answers. There was only one other person in the UK that Sansom would both be able to find and who would also know the truth of what had happened. That person would be able to clear his name. He would be able to tidy up the mess, exonerate him and explain the deaths. That person was Bishop. Bishop would be the one with the answers. Sansom understood now that he must find a way to get to Bishop and then persuade him to tell the truth. Sansom considered the good news in this: given his prominent position in society, Bishop would be easy to locate; and then the bad news: given his prominent position in society, he would be virtually impossible to get near.
Bishop was the only one who could clear Sansom’s name, but given his apparent connivance in framing him for the murder of a well-known journalist some weeks before, he was also almost certainly complicit in recent unfolding events. Bishop held the key to Sansom’s future but he would not make a willing witness for the defence. He would have too much to lose himself.
As Sansom mulled things over, he imagined with no small satisfaction that at that moment Bishop would be a deeply worried man. Not only were two of his operatives missing but also Sansom was still at liberty. Sooner or later Bishop would have to come to the same conclusion that Sansom had – that Sansom, with nowhere else to turn, would eventually make the former Minister the focus of his attentions. With what Sansom had achieved in Bodrum; with what he had evaded since returning to the UK, Bishop, with so much to lose, would have to be a very anxious man indeed.
But Sansom suspected that Bishop might be only the figurehead. It was possible that perhaps he was only vaguely aware of what was going on. Perhaps he knew only what he saw reported in the news. Perhaps he hadn’t sanctioned any of it. Perhaps he was appalled by the trail of murder and violence that was threatening to lead to his door. Sansom knew that the man known only to him as Smith would be the one controlling things, organising his manhunt, in charge of the tying up of the ‘loose ends’ that Osman had spoken of with his final breaths. Smith had to be in some branch of an elite and well-connected private or public security service.
The longer he thought about it the more Sansom felt sure that Smith was the puppet-master pulling the strings on the street as he had been when their paths had crossed before. If so, then it would have been Smith who would have given the order for Tallis’s execution.
The horrific moment when the innocent and decent old man had been thrown off his feet backwards to slump dead and abandoned on the asphalt in the pouring rain like some unfortunate road-kill was imprinted on Sansom’s senses. It would be another in a catalogue of hideous scenes that would plague his dreams and torture his waking moments. Smith would pay for that if it were the last thing Sansom did, no matter what it cost him. He realised that the path to Smith was through Bishop. With a wry smile, Sansom also realised that Smith would know that too.
He reminded himself that he had returned to England primarily to pursue legal justice against Bishop and anyone that he would go on to implicate. Well, Sansom reflected, he was still here for justice, he was still free. Only now he was armed and more deeply motivated. The odds were still stacked against him, but they had improved. At least he knew now where he was headed. And they would soon know that he was coming.
Sansom’s thoughts now turned to transport. He needed to get rid of the car because very soon every police patrol in the country would be watching for it. He wanted to be able to leave it somewhere where it might sit undetected for long enough to buy him time and to confuse and frustrate his pursuers when it was discovered. A signpost for Gatwick Airport provided the germ of an idea. A long-stay car park then a train into the capital would do nicely. Thinking it through, he felt that he might look conspicuous taking a long-stay parking
place with no luggage. He was also dishevelled and remarkable looking in his damp and grubby clothing. People just didn’t fly looking like they’d spent the night sleeping rough in a ditch.
He stopped in a small village and found an Age Concern charity shop. He knew from his days of being dragged around charity shops by Alison in the hunt for ‘interesting’ knick-knacks for their home that they would be likely to have everything he would need for a fraction of what it might cost him elsewhere. On top of that, it would be likely that the shop would be staffed by kindly old women who would probably take little interest in him as anything other than a cash-paying customer.
*
An hour later he was back on the road with a new look and a battered suitcase on the back seat. As well as the clothing and some well-worn-in shoes, he had bought a faded baseball cap and a thin scarf that he might get away with pulling up high at the neck. He also picked up a cheap courier bag into which he transferred the two pistols. The basic disguise gave him back some of his confidence to mix with people.
*
He left the car in the airport’s long-stay car park, caught the shuttle bus to the terminal, navigated his way to the airport train station and by early afternoon was being lulled by the motion and soundtrack of the train towards London Victoria. He allowed himself a measure of self-congratulation at what he perceived as the anonymity of his position and the success of his manoeuvrings. But that didn’t last long. His situation gradually pushed in on him to leave him feeling as utterly and overwhelmingly alone as he had ever done, even when compared to his darkest days of isolation on the island in the Pacific. At least on the island he had felt that rescue and recovery to civilised society would always be only a matter of time. With what he faced now, he couldn’t feel the same.
At Victoria Station he risked the tube to Highbury & Islington. Despite his exhaustion, he resisted the temptation to continue by cab to the Islington address that Eda had given him. He’d provided distance between him and his chasers and, he hoped, left behind a negligible trail. He’d made it as difficult for them as he could to track him and he wasn’t going to potentially undo all that good work by climbing into a black cab where some news-savvy driver might recognise him – he had to assume that his description would be circulating in the media – and be able to report to the authorities the exact address that he had disappeared into. Instead, he bought an A-Z, hooked the courier bag over his shoulder and pulled his suitcase along behind him in search of sanctuary.
Several pavements later he stood in a quiet tree-lined street looking across at the Victorian terraced property that Eda had assured him would be a place to hide, take stock, recover and collect himself. A rampant flowering climber obscured much of the honey-coloured brickwork. There were lights on inside although it was the middle of the afternoon. Conscious that standing there gawping he ran the risk of attracting attention, he took a deep breath, crossed the road and pushed open the small iron gate of the little front garden.
The front door was opened carefully, restricted by a thick brass chain. An old man a little over half Sansom’s height gazed up at him from behind thick spectacles. He had a shawl around his shoulders and a small knitted skull-cap of the sort that Sansom recognised from his time in Turkey as being associated with older Muslim men. A well-kept silver beard obscured much of his expression.
‘Yes?’ The man’s greeting suggested that he wasn’t expecting anyone.
Sansom wondered if he had the right address. ‘Does the name Eda mean anything to you?’
The door was shut. Sansom heard the chain removed and then the door opened wide to admit him. The man stood back, indicating that he should enter. Once Sansom was inside, the old man closed the door, replaced the chain, pulled a thick curtain across the door and shuffled past him along the dimly-lit hallway towards the back of the house. Sansom understood that he was to follow him.
‘Leave your bag there,’ the man said over his shoulder.
Scents pressed in on Sansom: fragrant tobacco, polish, musty fabric and cooking food. Prints of historic Eastern scenes decorated the walls of the hallway: a mosque, a channel of water teeming with shipping, old-style homes, landscapes and townscapes. Sansom believed that he recognised hints of ancient Istanbul in one or two. Without the background noise of television or radio it was unsettlingly quiet.
They entered a clean and orderly but dated kitchen. Something good-smelling simmered on the stove. The man indicated a chair at the table almost directly under the single pendant light.
‘Sit down.’ Sansom did as he was told, grateful to rest his aching body. ‘You would like tea?’
‘Thank you. Tea would be good.’
‘With milk?’
‘Yes, please, if you have it.’
‘I have it. Would I offer if I didn’t?’ The remark was made conversationally. While excellent, the man’s English carried a faint accent. The pigment of his skin also hinted that he was not a British native.
The man busied himself with his back to Sansom for another minute before turning back to the table and depositing a tray supporting the necessary tea-making paraphernalia. He lowered himself into a chair opposite Sansom and began fussing with what was in front of him. Sansom waited.
‘My niece tells me that you are in trouble.’
‘Yes.’
‘She says that you need somewhere to stay, to hide, for a couple of days.’
‘Yes. I do.’
‘This trouble that you are in, is it with the law?’
‘The police will be looking for me, yes.’ Sansom accepted the cup and saucer pushed in his direction. ‘Thank you.’
‘Are you guilty of wrong-doing?’
‘I’ve broken some laws. But everything I’ve done is in self-defence and out of self-preservation. I’m not a criminal. I’m after justice for people who I cared about and some powerful and influential people are trying to stop me from getting it.’
The man looked at him, his eyes magnified behind the lenses. ‘I know all about that, young man. I live in exile in your country because I tried to get justice in my own and failed. I take it that you were careful about getting here.’
‘Very.’
The man bobbed his head. ‘My name is Emre Ulusoy.’ He offered his hand across the table. ‘I have no wish to know your name. You understand that it’s best if I don’t for both our positions, but particularly my own.’
‘I understand,’ said Sansom, accepting the man’s tough little grasp. ‘Thank you for agreeing to help me.’
‘I don’t follow the news,’ continued the man. ‘It holds no interest for me. I tell you this so that you understand that I will have no knowledge of anything that you might be involved in. I have no wish to know. Eda is my niece. My brother is her father. Unlike my brother, I trust Eda completely and her judgement. She is a principled and intelligent woman. If she asks me to help you, I will do so, gladly. I will be happy if you don’t stay longer than you need to and when you leave you don’t come back, and forget all about being here. Is that clear?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Sansom. They sipped their drinks in silence for a few moments.
‘I will show you to your room now,’ said the old man. ‘Also, you might like to bathe. I can smell you from here. Personal hygiene is very important, you know.’
‘Yes. A bath would be good, thank you.’
‘Do you have clean clothes?’
‘Nothing clean. The suitcase has only got dirty clothes in it.’
Sansom followed Mr Ulusoy up a narrow gloomy flight of stairs to a sparsely furnished room. The dated, dark and heavy-looking furniture blended with what else Sansom had seen in the house. A window had been widely opened, presumably in an attempt to rid the room of the stale mustiness that still hung in the air.
‘This is where you will sleep. The bathroom is next door. You will find everything that you need in there. There is some cream and iodine in the cabinet that you should put on those cuts. There will be food ready in about an
hour. You are welcome at my table.’
‘Thank you very much,’ repeated Sansom, with as much sincerity as he could inject, although to his own ears the thanks seemed miserably inadequate for what the man was offering him.
Mr Ulusoy shuffled out and Sansom heard him make his careful, laboured way down the creaky stairs. He slumped down on to the bed, rubbing his face with his hands. Aware that he was in danger of falling asleep, he forced himself to stand and organise the bath that the old man had suggested.
Ten minutes later he was lying up to his neck in the hot water. He had resisted the opportunity to see how awful he looked in the small bathroom mirror. The well-meaning and good humoured comments that he had received in the charity shop and some of the looks that he had been treated to on the train let him know that evidence of the night’s activities had left their marks. The heat and immersion in the water soothed his aching, exhausted body. He closed his eyes intending only to rest briefly. Within a minute he was asleep.
*
The knocking became more insistent, more urgent, more intrusive. Sansom’s subconscious, unable to ignore it further, released its hold on him and he was slowly freed from his deep sleep to float back to the world.
Mr Ulusoy’s soft voice came through the solid wood door. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. I fell asleep.’
‘The food is ready.’
Sansom eased himself up in the now-tepid water. ‘I’m coming.’
*
Sansom arrived in the kitchen dressed in the clean clothes the old man had put out for him on the bed. The man turned and ran his gaze over him. Sansom believed he detected a hint of a suppressed smile, but in the dim lighting and behind the beard he couldn’t be certain. The trousers, while more than ample around the waist, were a good foot too short in the leg. The arms of the thickly padded shirt finished well short of Sansom’s wrists.
