by Oliver Tidy
‘What if...’
‘Shut up! Stop thinking negatively. Be positive. Be irresistible. Be convincing.’ Sansom’s outburst so close to Smith’s face left trails of spittle across the man’s cheek. Sansom jammed the barrel of the pistol in Smith’s mouth. ‘I don’t want to hear excuses! Understand?’ Sansom yanked the barrel back out, chipping one of Smith’s front teeth with the sight.
Sansom’s violent mood swing was calculated to further confuse and inject some real fear into Smith. It appeared to have the desired effect. Sansom took out Smith’s phone.
‘What’s his number under?’
‘Bishop.’
‘How original.’ He scrolled down to it. ‘Remember, convincing.’
‘I can’t talk to him lying down.’
‘Yes you can. It’s ringing.’
Sansom brought his face next to Smith’s to share the conversation. The stench of sick was strong.
After the third ring Sansom had the horrible thought that Bishop wasn’t going to answer. On the fifth he did.
‘Tell me you have good news.’
‘Got him,’ said Smith.
‘Thank Christ for that.’ The deep relief was evident. ‘Is he alive?’
‘Yes. We need to meet, urgently.’
‘Why?’ Suspicion had crept into the politician’s voice.
‘It’s about him. About something he’s done. Not on the phone. I’ll call you with a time and an address. Whatever you’re doing make your excuses.’
‘But I’m...’
‘I said make your excuses.’
Sansom terminated the call, left in no doubt who the master was in that relationship.
‘Good. See, I still need you, Smith. Get some rest. It’s going to be a busy afternoon.’ He slammed the boot shut.
Sansom wandered down to the shore of the lake once more. He let the tadpole go and watched it wriggle out of sight. It was coming together. He was making it happen. He was back in charge of his own destiny. He was in control. For now, there was nothing more he could do. He sat on the grass and looked out over the water. It reminded him of Bodrum and Eda. He fished in his pocket and brought out the filthy, crumpled scrap of paper with her contact number on it. He dialled it.
‘Merhaba.’
‘Hello. I’m calling to leave a message for Eda.’
‘Ah, hello. She will be thrilled. She calls many times for news.’ Sansom was warmed to hear it.
‘Please tell her that I’m fine. Things are being worked out here. I am confident of justice. Can you tell her that?’
‘Yes. Anything else?’
‘Yes. Tell her that I miss her.’
‘All right. Goodbye.’
His eyes were stinging as he ended the call. He did miss her. When this was over he was going back to her. He called Susan.
‘Acer? Are you all right?’
‘So far, so good. How’s it going your end?’
‘Everything’s in place. There is someone here you should speak to. I’m sorry. I had no choice.’
‘Who?’
Sansom was aware of the phone being passed to someone. ‘This is Chief Inspector Shelby. You are Acer Sansom?’
‘Yes.’ A heavy weight settled itself on Sansom’s back.
‘I’m instructing you to give yourself up.’
‘I’m innocent.’
‘You’re the third person to tell me that in two days.’
‘Oh?’
‘Mrs Tallis and this young lady.’
‘Mrs Tallis? She’s all right?’
‘She is. I repeat: you must hand yourself in to the nearest police station.’
‘I haven’t proved my innocence yet. Until I do that I’ll always be guilty.’
‘Listen, Sansom: with what we have, perhaps I can help you.’
‘No, you listen. I’m going to help myself. When I have my proof you’ll be hearing from me.’
Sansom terminated the call, put his head in his hands and felt the sense of Susan’s betrayal wash over him. He churned over the implications of the development. If she hadn’t kept to her end of the arrangements, if she’d sold him out, then it was over. His plan, such as it was, relied upon her and what she could arrange. The police would know about Bishop. If they knew about Bishop they’d be protecting him, or at least have him under surveillance. If he couldn’t get to Bishop, he’d never get the proof he needed to prove his innocence. He still had Smith, although there would be a good chance that they would know about him too. The soldier spent several miserable seconds agonising over whether he should just kill Smith in the boot of his car now and go after Bishop later.
Sansom turned the phone off. No point making it easy for them to triangulate his position from the SIM card. But then he remembered she’d said everything was in place. What did she mean: their earlier arrangements? He struggled to recollect the context of her remark and couldn’t make sense of it. And why had she had no choice? The soldier stared out across the calm water while a storm of indecision raged within him.
He sat like that for perhaps twenty minutes and had things no clearer in his mind. Now time was not on his side. Once again the pendulum of fate had swung away from him. He stood and went back to the car.
‘Couldn’t you at least leave the boot open if we’re not going anywhere,’ said Smith. ‘It stinks in here. There’s no air.’
‘You’re going to talk to Bishop again,’ Sansom said. ‘It’s time to meet.’
Sansom had the idea that if Bishop knew what was going on, he would give something of it away in conversation. He also couldn’t shake the idea that perhaps Susan hadn’t completely given him up. He kept coming back to what she had said, ‘Everything’s in place.’ And she still had a vested interest in this, not just for her story, but to settle a score for her murdered ex-husband. She would know that both causes would be dead in the water if she told them everything and ruined his chances of obtaining their confessions. There was also the chance that Mrs Tallis had said something implicating Bishop, but again Sansom didn’t want to believe it. Sometimes, he reflected, in a window of lucid thinking amidst his wavering and anxiety, you had to trust people to do what they said they would. He also understood that he was tired, out of ideas, options and places to hide. It was time to act and face the consequences.
He rehearsed Smith with the address and related details. Taking one of the pistols, he stuck the muzzle against his kneecap. A little reminder of the pain awaiting him should he choose to disappoint. Sansom activated the phone and knew that in doing so he was potentially starting the stopwatch with the authorities’ locating technology. The little text message box icon was flashing. He checked it just in case. It was from Susan: Explain later. Had no choice. Arrangements made still good. Our secret. Good luck. It was something good but he still had plenty of forest to navigate through.
Bishop answered on the second ring. Sansom thought that was good. It suggested that the politician was taking things seriously.
‘Pen and paper?’ said Smith.
There was a little delay.
‘Yes.’
Smith recited the address. ‘Five o’clock. Come alone. Do you understand?’
‘And who exactly would I want to see us together?’ said Bishop, a little testily.
Sansom broke the connection, turned off the phone and patted Smith on the knee with the weapon. ‘Well done.’ He put the pistol back in his waistband and checked Smith’s restraints. ‘Time to go. You want any more water before we push off?’ Smith didn’t answer. ‘Suit yourself.’ Sansom stood looking down for a long moment at Smith.
‘Is there something else?’ said Smith.
‘I meant what I said. About not killing you. Bishop is the one I want. So, if you value your life, still, however it might be after this, don’t go being stupid. I don’t need to kill you, but don’t think I won’t if it seems necessary.’ He shut the boot again.
The drive was going to be hard on Smith. He was dehydrated already and the metal box was only going to make thin
gs worse in the harsh afternoon sun. Sansom took a final look around at what might yet end up being his last view of open water, got back behind the wheel of the Jag and left.
*
He cruised comfortably back towards the city centre. The dashboard clock said a little before three o’clock. Traffic was light. He hoped to make Gerald’s by four. That would give him enough time to set up what he had to. Any delays on the road could create problems with the tight schedule he’d given himself, but he didn’t want to end up hanging around at Gerald’s for any longer than he needed to.
The gods of London traffic were smiling on him. He made good time. He passed a temporary sign that gave him an idea that he liked. He stopped, pulled it out of the ground and threw it in the back seat.
He rolled to a stop outside Gerald’s just before four o’clock. From within the tinted, air-conditioned coolness, he surveyed the quiet suburban street. In remembrance of the fallen officers, a small mound of flowers and tributes from a demonstratively-supportive public and grieving family members littered the pavement, wilting in the last burst of summer. It looked a forlorn and pathetic offering for two pointlessly wasted lives. Sansom had not considered the likelihood of this. It disturbed him. It also concerned him that there might still be a token police presence in the area, but after a minute or two of patient waiting it seemed that the Met had more important tasks for their probably-stretched resources than guarding dead flowers.
Gerald’s seemed quiet. Time for his bit of subterfuge just in case anyone was taking an interest in his movements from behind the neighbourhood’s curtains. He removed the ‘For Auction’ sign from the back seat and pushed through the thick greenery bordering the path to work the ‘For Sale’ sign out of the ground. He forced the post of the new sign into the vacant hole in the little front lawn. What could look more normal than someone from the auction company letting himself into the property – a bit of coming and going? He supposed he’d better try the door before he got Smith out of the car. He went around the back prepared to break and enter. A holdall was waiting for him, tucked inside the wheelie bin. Thank you, Susan. The lock hadn’t been changed. He let himself in with his key.
He saw the dried expanse of blood almost immediately. There was a loud buzzing of heavy flies. It smelt bad. The house needed airing. They weren’t going to get many potential buyers until they’d cleaned the place up a bit. He stepped around the area and the discarded police tape then into the lounge. Yes, he thought. This would do nicely. He arranged a couple of chairs, pulled the curtains closed and set up the equipment. It took him fifteen minutes until he was satisfied with the light and his angles. The light would dim as evening came on, but if he hadn’t got what he needed before it was past being useful he doubted that he’d get it at all.
He took the stairs two at a time, in a bit of a hurry now. In the bedroom that he had shared with his wife he over-rode with his sense of purpose and urgency the memories clamouring for his attention to find sheets and blankets that would serve his purpose.
Back at the boot of the Jag, he realised that his adrenalin had returned in full flow. He would need the strength that it would give him. Smith was not a small man. Taking another good look around and satisfied that no one was paying him particular attention, he popped the boot. The smell was worse. It assailed his nostrils and he was forced to put his hand up to his face. Possibly Smith had pissed himself as well as having had another puking session.
‘Couldn’t you have waited?’ said Sansom, as though admonishing an infant. Smith, although awake, ignored him. Sansom checked his restraints once more. ‘Don’t panic. I’m going to cover you with this old blanket and carry you in. Don’t want to frighten the neighbours, do we? And if you could keep still, it would be appreciated. You start wriggling under there, I’m liable to drop you on your head.’ He forced the sock back in Smith’s mouth, got some blanket over him and awkwardly manoeuvred him out. He got him over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and, slamming the boot, crossed the road on protesting legs. He took some comfort from the assumption that anyone looking might not be too concerned to see someone from the auctioneers taking something into the property, even if it did look suspiciously like a body wrapped in a blanket.
*
Mrs Daniels teetered on her little stepladder, struggling with her arthritic hands to work the hooks into the valance of the freshly-washed curtains. It was more awkward than she remembered it being when she took them down and working above her head so tired her arms. She had three in – eight to go. She rested her aching limbs at her sides and felt the blood flow back into them with relief. A movement across the gardens caught her eye. She saw a man come around the back of the empty property that backed on to hers carrying something over his shoulder. She pushed her glasses off her nose to see better at the longer distance. There was something about his burden that disturbed her. She didn’t like the look of it. It was the shape of it and the way it lay over his shoulder. It put her in mind of a man carrying a body in a blanket. But this was obviously a ridiculous conclusion for her to draw. Why would anyone be carrying a body wrapped in an old blanket into that property? She watched the man push open the door with his foot and heave himself up the back couple of steps. He stumbled slightly and it was then that she could have sworn that she saw a bare foot poke out from under the fabric. And then he was gone. She got down from the stool quickly, sat on the bed and folded her hands on her lap.
*
He delivered Smith to one of the two wingback chairs with an exaggerated groan of effort and then used one of the sheets to wrap the man firmly to it. He got some water from the kitchen tap and brought it through to him. Smith gulped it down greedily. Sansom brought him another and offered it up to his mouth. He drained it.
‘You were thirsty, weren’t you?’
‘What now?’ said Smith.
‘We wait for the guest of honour to make an appearance.’
Sansom took one of the pistols from his waistband and made a show of checking the magazine. He set it on top of a cupboard with Smith’s phone, now re-activated.
‘Are you going to kill him?’ said Smith.
‘I’m not planning to. We’ll have to see how things go. You were right: if he won’t help me then I’m screwed. If I’m screwed, what’s to lose? I’ll just have to settle for my little bit of revenge and a life on the run. It won’t be very satisfactory, but better than nothing. By the way if he doesn’t want to cooperate that’ll mean the end of you too. No point in leaving witnesses. What do you call them? Loose ends?’
‘I don’t feel well,’ said Smith.
Sansom laughed. ‘It’s hardly surprising, is it? All that dirty water sloshing about inside you.’
He checked the time again: four-forty. He took a peek through the curtains. No sign of Bishop. ‘Don’t go away. Back in a minute.’
He snatched up the weapon, jogged up the stairs once again and retrieved a couple more sheets. Back in the lounge, he felt ready. He took a position at the window and peered out through a crack in the curtains.
‘Why did you have my father-in-law killed?’ He wasn’t looking at Smith.
‘Wouldn’t you have done? In my position? Loose ends. You don’t last long in this business if you don’t tie up all the loose ends.’
‘What a way to refer to the taking of life.’
‘Like I said, it’s just business. There is no room for emotion. It’s emotion that defeats us. The moment you let your emotions in you’re finished. That’s your problem.’
‘I’m the one holding the gun, remember. You’re my prisoner. If you’re looking for an example of defeat I’ll get you a mirror.’ There was a long pause before Sansom, unable to leave it said, ‘So people are just an expendable commodity for you?’
‘That’s one way of looking at it.’
‘What about right and wrong? Is that another way of looking at it?’
Now Smith laughed. ‘Don’t be stupid. There’s no right, it’s all just shades of wron
g. The world is a fucked-up place in case you hadn’t noticed. Do you know why it’s fucked up? People. People have been fucking up the world ever since they learnt how to produce. Production and consumption, that’s what the human race is all about. As a species we’re a scourge on this planet. How much better off would Earth be without us?’
Sansom was distracted from his neighbourhood watch by Smith’s change in direction. ‘If you feel that way about it, why don’t you focus your attentions on moving us all along?’
Smith didn’t answer. Instead he treated Sansom to something of an enigmatic half-smile. Sansom thought he saw something of a self-satisfied gleam in Smith’s eyes.
‘What happened to Sharp and Osman?’ said Smith.
Sansom turned his attention back to the street. ‘They forgot that it was just business. They let their emotions get in the way of them doing their jobs. They over-reached themselves. They couldn’t live up to their own expectations of their abilities.’
‘And the two that I sent today?’
A dark expensive-looking coupe arrived at the kerb.
‘Dead, of course.’ Sansom enjoyed his lie and the idea that the news would probably make Smith just a little more cautious and cooperative.
Smith’s phone began to make music. Sansom brought it across to him.
‘Don’t spoil things,’ he said. ‘Tell him to come around the back.’
‘Back door is open,’ Smith said into the phone. Sansom shut it off. He observed Bishop get out behind large dark glasses, check the road and without looking towards the wilting floral display put his head down and make his way up the garden path.
***
21
Sansom stepped behind the door, pistol held across his chest, and waited. Catching Smith’s eye, he put his finger to his lips. But it seemed an unnecessary gesture. If anything, Smith looked as though he was about to enjoy the moment – as much as a man who believed his own untimely and violent death was imminent could enjoy such a spectacle. The soldier listened to the familiar sounds of the back door being cracked, the creak in the floorboard as Bishop came into the hallway and then the tight, dry hinge as the lounge door was opened. Bishop walked fully into the room, his feet still carrying him along as his brain struggled to make sense of Smith’s appearance and position. And then he registered Sansom’s presence and the soldier almost felt that it had all been worth it for the look on the politician’s face. The soldier gave the door a shove. It closed with a satisfying thunk.
