Look Closer

by Rachel Amphlett

  A shop stood behind the car, its name blurred in the background. He tried to read the name, then leaned back in his chair in surprise, realising he hadn’t noticed it before.

  The wording on the shop was foreign. He wracked his memory, trying to think where he’d seen writing like that on the news, and then began searching through Amy’s notes for a clue. After half an hour, he found it.

  Chechnya.

  So the photograph had been taken sometime before the end of that particular civil war – 2003, or thereabouts.

  He ran his hand over his chin, then leaned his elbow on the desk and stared at the photograph.

  What the hell was going on?

  He began sifting through the files in the folder with the photograph, his gaze skimming over the concise typed words Amy had entered, while his memory of her voice filled his mind.

  As he scrolled through the different file types, his gaze fell on an image filename extension, and he clicked on it, his throat dry.

  When it opened, it filled the entire screen, and he frowned.

  The file had opened to reveal a third photograph. The image was in black and white and showed a group of men all standing facing the camera, pint jugs in hand. They were laughing and grinning at the camera, six of them in total.

  Will scratched his ear lobe, and then enlarged the photograph until he could see the men’s faces more clearly. His eyes moved left to right as he leaned closer, but he recognised none of them.

  Frustrated, he zoomed the image back out to its original size, and then noticed a typed caption at the footer.

  Annual Darts Competition Champions, Green Dragon Pub, Bracklewood.

  The photograph now made some sort of sense. The men were standing in what appeared to be the pub’s beer garden, celebrating their success.

  ‘But what’s the connection?’

  Will exhaled and leaned back in the chair, fighting down his frustration.

  He tapped his finger on the mouse button, absently moving in and out of the photograph while he went over in his mind what he’d learned.

  Rossiter appeared in an old photograph with three other men, two dressed in camouflage-style clothing.

  One of those men had turned up in Chechnya.

  And a village darts team had won a local competition and had celebrated in the winning pub’s beer garden, much to the bemused expressions of the other patrons.

  The other patrons.

  Will blinked and jerked forward on his chair. He scrolled the mouse until the image was enlarged once more, and then began scanning his eyes over the faces of the other people in the beer garden.

  It took him another five minutes of tweaking the contrast and brightness of the picture, but eventually, he found him.

  The same man from the first two photographs was sat hunched over a pint glass at one of the picnic tables in the beer garden. He was scowling, apparently displeased at being photographed. His hair was slightly longer, his fringe almost covering his eyes, but Will was certain.

  Amy had found a third photograph of the mysterious man.

  The name of the village in the caption sounded familiar to Will, and he opened up an internet connection on the laptop and typed in some text to find a map.

  His heartbeat began to race as he skimmed through the search results, an idea forming in his mind.

  Maybe the person in the newspaper clippings was still living near the pub. Maybe he’d have some ideas why Amy had been shot. Perhaps if he could get in touch with the man, he’d be able to tell Will what was really going on.

  He glanced at his watch. According to the pub’s website, it was only an hour’s drive from Rossiter’s house.

  He chewed his lip and stared at the business card given to him by the DCI, debating whether to call him.

  Except, if he contacted the police, the mysterious caller had threatened to kill Amy.

  He picked up the card, turned it between his fingers, and then slipped it back into his pocket.

  He shut down the laptop, removed the hard drive and tucked it into his backpack, then hurried from the room, hanging the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the outer door handle and making his way to the car.

  13

  An hour and a half later, grateful for the light traffic on the road, Will turned off the engine and peered through the windscreen at the thatched roof of the pub, before climbing out and locking the vehicle.

  The pub was an impressive building, set back from the road with a wide expanse of lawn leading from its front entrance down to the road, the car park off to the left, separated from the garden by a towering privet hedge.

  Will pushed through a wooden gate set into the hedge and made his way along a gravel path that ran around the side of the building to the front door.

  The pub appeared to be well-maintained and flourishing from its local patronage. The thatched roof was in good condition, window sills were freshly painted and baskets of early geraniums hung from steel brackets set into the whitewashed brickwork.

  Across the grassed area an assortment of wooden benches and tables had been arranged and Will pulled out a copy of the photograph he’d stopped to have printed out at an office supplies store he’d spotted on his journey from the motel.

  He stopped and held it up, trying to gauge where the mysterious man had sat, until he realised the idea was futile – the landlord had obviously relocated the outdoor furniture several times in the intervening years to allow the grass to grow back.

  He shoved the photograph back into his pocket, checked his watch, and then trudged into the pub.

  As he pushed open the door, the familiar aroma of real ale and a hint of wood smoke filled his senses. Classical music filtered through concealed speakers, and he blinked while his eyes adjusted to the subdued interior.

  A man appeared at a doorway behind the bar, wiping his hands on a tea towel.

  ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘What can I get for you?’

  Will made his way to the polished wooden bar and glanced at the clips fastened to the four beer pumps set into the surface.

  ‘What do the locals drink?’

  ‘This one,’ said the barman, tapping the top of a clip. ‘It’s our most popular beer.’

  ‘I’ll have half a pint, thanks.’

  Will pulled out one of the cushioned bar stools, sat, and lowered his backpack to the floor between his feet.

  Handing Will his drink and taking his money, the man turned to the till, then passed him his change.

  ‘Just travelling through?’ he asked.

  Will took a gulp of his beer. ‘Sort of,’ he said. He put down his glass and reached into his pocket, unfolded the copy of the photograph, and pushed it across the bar. ‘Were you here when this was taken?’

  The landlord reached over and picked up the photo, turning it under the light from the overhang of the bar.

  He smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was the photographer.’ He flapped the print between his fingers. ‘The local newspaper bought the print off me because their photographer couldn’t make it.’

  Will held out his hand and introduced himself.

  ‘Len Wilson,’ said the landlord. He slid the photograph back towards Will. ‘What’s your interest in that? Looking up one of the darts team members, are you?’

  ‘Actually, I was wondering if you knew who the man in the background is,’ said Will. ‘The one sitting on his own, there.’

  He jabbed at the image.

  Len reached into the top pocket of his shirt, extracted a pair of reading glasses, and slipped them on before picking up the photograph once more. He grunted, and then peered over his glasses at Will, his brow creased.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘What could you possibly want with him?’

  ‘Do you know him?’ exclaimed Will. ‘What’s his name? Do you know where I can find him?’

  Len handed the photograph back. ‘Go and see Reverend Swift up at the church,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘There’s a footpath from the car park you could use, bu
t you’re probably better off driving there – otherwise you’ll miss him; he usually heads over to the next village for a committee meeting this time of the week.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Will, draining his glass. ‘But what am I asking him?’

  ‘Tell him I sent you, and that you’re looking for Colin Avery,’ said Len. ‘He’ll be able to point you in the right direction.’

  ‘Great – thanks,’ said Will. He grabbed his backpack off the floor and pushed his empty glass towards the landlord. ‘And thanks for the drink.’

  ‘Any time.’

  ***

  Will slowed the car and steered it through a gap in the stone wall that separated the church grounds from the lane.

  As he applied the handbrake and climbed out, a man appeared at the main door to the eighteenth century building, the familiar white collar of the clergy encircling his neck. He held out his hand as Will approached.

  ‘Will Fletcher? Len phoned to say you were dropping by. I’m Timothy Swift.’

  ‘Thanks for waiting for me.’

  The vicar glanced at his watch. ‘No problem. I don’t have to leave for another twenty minutes. I understand you have a photograph you’d like to show me?’

  ‘I do.’

  Will pulled his backpack off his shoulder and reached inside one of the outer pockets. ‘I was hoping you could tell me a bit more about him.’ He tapped his finger on the man sat at the pub’s picnic table. ‘Do you know where I can find him?’

  The religious man sighed. ‘Unfortunately, yes.’ He turned away, and then glanced over his shoulder. ‘Follow me.’

  He led the way round the corner of the church, pushed open a gate to the churchyard, and led Will through carefully tended plots.

  The graveyard spread outwards from the back of the church, a muddled collection of stones and tombs jostling for space under the trees that dotted the landscape.

  A lone blackbird sang to itself, perched on a moss-laden headstone, then spotted Will and flew away, its scolding tones berating him from a hidden branch.

  As he followed, Will’s heart sank. With each step farther from the church, the head stones became less moss-covered, and posies of flowers began to appear as epitaphs started to reflect the current century.

  The vicar stopped at the end of a row, under a twisted yew tree, then leaned down and pulled away the long grass that had covered the base of the head stone. He crouched down, crossed himself, and then looked up at Will.

  ‘Here he is.’

  Will let the breath he’d been holding hiss between his teeth.

  Shit.

  His eyes skimmed the words on the stone.

  Colin Avery, 1961-2013 Friend, ally, soldier of fortune.

  ‘Soldier of fortune?’

  ‘He was a mercenary,’ the vicar snapped.

  Will jumped at the venom in the man’s voice, and waited for him to continue.

  The man stood, stretched his back, and leaned a hand on the top of the head stone. ‘I managed to glean some information about him from the few friends of his who turned up for his funeral,’ he explained. ‘His mother used to live in the village – they’d moved over from Northern Ireland in the late nineties. I think he’d been in some sort of trouble.’ He frowned, and then shrugged. ‘She wouldn’t talk about it, and on the few occasions I saw Colin at the pub – never at church, mind – he had a sort of look about him. I was too scared to ask.’

  He looked away, embarrassed.

  ‘How did you find out he was a mercenary?’

  ‘It’s what got him killed,’ said the vicar, slipped his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. ‘Here.’

  Will took the page, unfolded it and quickly read the photocopied news report.

  It seemed life in the village had been too quiet for Avery after his tumultuous youth in Belfast, and he’d disappeared to the Balkans to fight with whoever would pay him the most money.

  Will stopped reading, and passed the page back. ‘I don’t understand – that was over twenty years ago.’ His eyes flickered to the death date engraved on the stone. ‘It says there he only died a while back.’

  ‘He moved from one conflict to the next,’ said the vicar, his disgust apparent. ‘Until, one day, his luck ran out – if you can call it that. He decided to go back to his old skill of bomb-making, except the group he was working for got the ingredients mixed up. It blew up in his face.’

  The man’s gaze fell back to the headstone. ‘His poor mother died two weeks after burying her son.’ He pointed to the neighbouring stone, then shook his head and began to shuffle back towards the church. ‘Such a waste.’

  Will took one last glance at the grave, before hurrying after the hunched form of the vicar. ‘Why do you think he became a mercenary?’

  The man stopped when he reached the gate, and opened it for Will to pass through, before speaking.

  ‘I suppose he just liked killing.’

  14

  ‘We should’ve dealt with this twenty years ago,’ hissed Gregory. He jabbed a finger at Rossiter. ‘I told you this would come back to haunt us.’

  ‘Remember who you’re talking to,’ said Rossiter, his voice menacing as he circled the table towards his press secretary. ‘If it wasn’t for me, you’d be locked away at Her Majesty’s pleasure, not to mention that of the other inmates.’

  Gregory flinched at the jibe, and turned his head away so Rossiter wouldn’t see the effect his words had on him. It didn’t work.

  ‘Yeah. You remember,’ said Rossiter. ‘You owe me. Don’t forget it.’

  He stalked past Gregory and moved to the window. The grey sky held a promise of more rain, and he watched, fuming, as a large airliner made its final approach towards Heathrow.

  He wondered what his life would be like now, if he’d escaped to the Spanish coastline like so many of his compatriots at the turn of the new century, their ambitions cut short by the politics of peace. Instead, he’d jumped at the opportunity to fill the gap left behind by a northern-based crime syndicate, and obliterated the competition at the same time as his accent.

  It had been Gregory’s idea for them to attend elocution lessons, of course. A new beginning, new ambitions, a new background history that only the proceeds of crime could pay for.

  He snorted. His new identity hadn’t even been broken by the UK intelligence services. And here he was, about to embark upon the most audacious plan he and Gregory had devised in their entire working life together.

  Rossiter turned and forced his anger into a corner of his mind. Gregory leaned against his desk, his shoulders slumped in the bespoke grey suit that clung so well to his frame.

  He’d known Rossiter since they were in their early twenties – both studied at university together, but it was after a particularly raucous drinking session at one of the pubs they frequented during the long winter months in the last year of their studies that Rossiter had shown him the true measure of his ambition.

  His words slurred, he’d laid out his plan to complete his degree, worm his way into one of the medium-sized construction companies that was experiencing a boom with the instigation of the recent Peace Accord, and use his influence once there to develop his own business – all within the year.

  ‘But what will you do for capital?’ Gregory had frowned over the remnants of his pint. ‘No one’s going to bankroll a property developer only a year out from his degree.’

  Rossiter had waggled a finger at him, a lop-sided grin on his face. He’d leaned forward, nearly toppling off his seat, before clutching the table for balance.

  ‘Drugs,’ he’d murmured. ‘Lots and lots of drugs.’

  He’d giggled like a teenager then, and the pub landlord had weaved through the tables towards them, swiped up their empty glasses and suggested they leave before they got themselves barred.

  Rossiter wondered if Gregory could remember the conversation that night. The man in front of him had changed during the subsequent years, to the point where Rossite
r felt that none of their alumni brethren would even recognise him now. Maybe one or two, yes – the ones Gregory had purposefully stayed in touch with, should they ever prove useful – but the rest?

  He fought down the urge to smile. The rest would probably vote for them, given the way the polls were skyrocketing.

  Rossiter flicked his wrists, checked his cufflinks, and then buttoned up his suit jacket. Eventually he spoke.

  ‘I’m sorry, Malcolm,’ he said, and cleared his throat. ‘You’re right. We should’ve kept looking for it.’ He shrugged. ‘But we had to get out of Belfast while we still could.’

  ‘I know,’ the other man whispered. ‘So we deal with it now.’ His eyes met Rossiter’s. ‘Once and for all.’

  Rossiter laughed. ‘Damned right. I’m not going through this again in another twenty years’ time.’

  ‘This isn’t the time to be flippant.’

  ‘How do I look?’ Rossiter changed the subject, adopting his usual way of deflecting criticism.

  ‘Perfect.’ Gregory leaned over the desk and swiped up the loop of material that had been discarded. ‘Don’t forget your sling.’

  Rossiter winked, then tugged the material from his fingers, and placed his over his head. ‘Happier now?’

  ‘I’ll be happier when you’re standing on the threshold of Number Ten waving to the cameras,’ said Gregory. He glanced at his watch, a titanium-framed model a former lover had gifted to him. ‘We need to go.’

  He ushered Rossiter to the door, ran a critical eye over the man’s suit, then nodded.

  ‘Right. Let’s go and sell this story.’

  15

  Will parked the car next to a television news van, switched off the engine and sat still, listening to the engine tick over as it cooled.

  He reached down, unclipped the seat belt, and wondered what the hell he was going to do. He rubbed a hand over his face, then closed his eyes and leaned back against the head-rest, exhausted.

  The next minute, a loud banging on the driver’s window jerked him awake.