Cry of the Needle

by Radford, Roger

  ‘Sharon, my dear,’ he called out loudly from his study. It was within megaphone distance of the enormous kitchen in which Mrs Proctor was enjoying rustling up her husband’s favourite dinner dish, the ubiquitous roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

  ‘It’s ready, Jack,’ she called back, placing the last of the hash browns on his plate instead of roast potatoes. They were her husband’s only condescension to Southern cooking. But then she always believed that the man who paid the piper called the tune. Thus she would cook anything he damn well wanted.

  ‘Coming, my dear, coming.’ Jack Proctor took a final satisfying glance at the headlines in the Financial Times, and placed the newspaper on a small mahogany side table. He then pressed the button on the arm of his deep leather orthopaedic recliner. The electronic armchair allowed him to extricate his not inconsiderable bulk with the minimum of effort. Undue physical exertion of any kind was anathema to John Albert Proctor.

  He waddled into the kitchen and over to the Aga, where his towering wife was carefully wiping one of the hot plates with a damp cloth. He wrapped his short arms around her slim waist and sank his gleaming pate into the crook of her back. ‘Mmm, smells good, my dear, and I’m not talking about your cooking. That’s a new perfume, isn’t it?’

  ‘Now, now, Jack,’ she said with an air of resignation, ‘your dinner’s on the table. You know how you hate it if it gets cold.’

  ‘Well, stop your fussing, my love, and come and join me.’ He released his iron grip and took his place at one end of a long oak table. Sharon Proctor dutifully ceased her tidying and sat facing her husband. They ate their meal in silence. She knew better than to engage her husband in conversation before he had finished eating. Jack was a quick eater and hated being interrupted. He had once divulged that his habit of wolfing down his food stemmed from a childhood spent in a bleak orphanage on the Yorkshire Moors. The food was crap, he had said, but the portions were meagre. The fastest eaters got any seconds on offer. Thus hunger, in its many guises, had become the driving force of his life. That’s why her husband had to have the most of everything. Not unlike herself.

  ‘That was delicious as usual, my dear,’ he said, using the obligatory toothpick to dislodge a stubborn shred of beef. ‘A pleasant end to an interesting day.’

  ‘You mean the headlines about Kinloss?’

  ‘Yes, in the main. The way’s now open for us to make our bid. Klein won’t be able to resist us, unless…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘…Unless he’s got something on us that we don’t know about.’

  Sharon Proctor’s steel-blue eyes narrowed. She recalled her conversation with Jonathan Tring, a conversation she had not revealed to her husband. Unless, of course, he’d had bugs in her office other than the one she’d found. ‘What are you getting at, Jack?’

  ‘I had Tring’s home phone bugged,’ Jack Proctor replied with a smirk of self-satisfaction. ‘You know me. It’s better not to trust anyone.’ He then proceeded to relay most of the details to his wife, but omitted mention of Fiona Harrington.

  Sharon Proctor shrugged. ‘So Tring has something to tell Klein. What could he possibly know that could harm us?’

  ‘Whatever it is, we mustn’t let him know that we know that he knows.’ The chairman of Parados could see his wife’s mind switching into overdrive.

  ‘Jack, you’re paying off that many people, any one of whom could blow the whistle.’

  ‘Cash in brown envelopes is no problem,’ Jack Proctor cackled. ‘If al-Fayed can get away with it, then so can we.’

  Sharon Proctor was less sure than her husband. It was true that the case of Harrison against the boss of Harrods had gone against the errant MP, but that was a civil case brought for libel. But if Jack was bribing someone like a government minister, then that was a different matter altogether.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, my dear, there’s nowt that can link me to any wrongdoing – not unless someone rifled through my golfing partner’s bag on the eighteenth tee.’

  ‘Your golfing partner isn’t exactly the most judicious person in the world. Stephen Sellars has got a big mouth on him, like most of those damned politicians.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about our fat health secretary, my dear. He’s as pure as the driven snow and, anyway, except when he’s in the Commons, his lips are sealed tighter than a duck’s arse.’ With this, the Yorkshireman let out a guffaw that rebounded off the kitchen walls. The small mouth on his pug-face then turned downward and his jowls ceased wobbling. The time had come to reveal all to his wife. ‘How well do you think you know Fiona Harrington?’ he asked, his gimlet eyes narrowing to mere slits.

  It was an unwritten rule in the Klein household that food and piety, however diluted, must always come before shoptalk during any given Friday night Sabbath bash. While Tring was used to the formalities, Fiona Harrington had to fight hard to conceal her eagerness to expound on the reason she was there. She found the Hebrew liturgy of the Kiddush quaint, and the warmth of the family gathering uplifting, but it was only when the Klein kids had been packed off to bed that the coiled spring could be released. Given the signal by her lover, she launched into a potted history of who she was and how she had inveigled herself into the Proctor milieu. It lasted a breathless ten minutes.

  ‘Bit like a dog with a bone,’ Tring said proudly, but also with a tinge of apprehension. The farmer’s daughter was wont to exhaust any current hobbyhorse on anyone who would listen.

  ‘So you think old man Proctor has got something to hide?’ said Klein.

  ‘Look, I can’t prove anything yet,’ she replied. ‘It could be any number of things. You know as well anyone that there’s been a dramatic rise recently in the number of prescription drugs taken off the market. Catastrophic side effects have shaken the public’s confidence in the pharmaceutical industry.’

  ‘I think the good ol’ profit motive is going to rear its ugly head pretty soon,’ the American suggested without a trace of rancour.

  ‘Always does,’ Fiona said affably.

  Tring shifted uneasily. Why did she always want to get involved in polemics?

  ‘Do you know how much it costs to bring a new drug to market, young lady?’ Klein asked, safe in the knowledge that she probably did.

  ‘Yup, hundreds of millions of dollars.’

  ‘For research and development alone,’ Tring chipped in.

  ‘You need a pretty big profit motive to cover those costs,’ said the dapper American.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fiona defiantly, ‘but if you can get a great new drug to market fast and keep it there, you’re talking in terms of billions.’

  ‘And speed sometimes kills,’ said Klein quickly.

  ‘You said it, Mr Klein.’

  ‘Call me Abe, please.’

  ‘You see, Abe,’ she said, entering overdrive, ‘this mentality has really hit people. Loads of drugs have been marketed without sufficient testing and adequate warnings. Even where a drug is potentially dangerous and may result in litigation, drug companies will market it anyway if they believe the profit from the sale of the drug will exceed the cost of the litigation and any damage awards in settlements to injured users.’

  ‘Fiona!’ Tring interjected gruffly, his mind addled somewhat by too much sweet kosher wine. ‘Surely you’re not accusing Abe of such practises.’

  ‘Calm down, Jonathan,’ said Klein. ‘I think it’s a fat ugly Yorkshireman she’s alluding to. But you need proof, young lady, and plenty of it.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the professor said with some pride, ‘if it’s there, Fiona Harrington will find it.’

  ‘Times have changed, gentlemen,’ said Fiona in what was almost becoming a diatribe. ‘At no time in history has so much information been available to so many people from so many sources and at such speed.’

  ‘You sound like Churchill,’ said Klein.

  Fiona was unfazed. ‘And how much the old man would have welcomed the Internet. We now have immediate dissemination of information to e
very corner of the globe in a matter of seconds.’

  ‘Not very good news for totalitarians of any ilk,’ said Tring.

  ‘And not very good news for drug companies like Parados either,’ she said. ‘The bigger they get and the more minnows they swallow, the more arrogant they become.’

  Klein nodded in agreement. ‘These gargantuans are becoming like multi-national soft drink companies where the bottom line is the only consideration.’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded, ‘but whereas a can of Coke might ruin your teeth, a dangerous drug with harmful side effects might kill or injure an extremely large number of people in a relatively short time and without much warning.’

  The American could feel the warm glow of the wine wearing off. It was time to talk turkey. ‘So, ace reporter, what can I do to help bring the bulldog to heel?’

  Fiona Harrington flicked a stray blonde lock from her eyes and launched into information on Jonathan Tring’s predecessor, and the possible link between his demise and the Proctors. ‘We know that Locke was a homosexual and that he had fairly intimate relations with one of your staff. The problem is which one.’

  ‘We’ve got upwards of three hundred workers here, Fiona,’ said Klein almost apologetically, ‘and half of them are men. It could be anyone. We’ve also had a bit of a turnover of staff since Locke died.’

  ‘Perhaps you could send out a letter to each one,’ Tring suggested. ‘Something to the effect that lawyers for the estate of Martin Locke are looking for a friend of his at this company.’

  Klein grunted dismissively. ‘Every Joe Shmo would think he was being left a fortune in the will.’

  ‘No, we have to keep this investigation as quiet as possible,’ Fiona cautioned. ‘There’s no way the Proctors must discover what we’re doing. I can’t afford to blow my cover.’

  The three of them sat mute for a few seconds as they pondered a way to solve the problem. The American scratched his bald pate and nodded to himself. ‘Tell me, Jonathan,’ he said, ‘do you have a direct line into your office.’

  ‘Yes, it was there when I moved in.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll check our phone records. Whoever made calls to that number during the months prior to your arrival at Parados is our man. Each department here has its own line, so at least we’ll be able to narrow it down a bit.’ ‘How long will it take you?’ asked Tring.

  ‘Give me a couple of days,’ replied Klein, ‘and with any luck the young lady will have her story. And I might still have my company.

  CHAPTER 14

  The cottage was pleasant enough, better even than on his first two visits. Rosedale was two-up, two-down and set in a couple of acres of lush Surrey greenery. It would be easy for them to surround him, and just as easy for him to see them coming. Stand-off. Exactly the way he wanted it. ‘Well, here are the keys, Mr O’Donaghue,’ said the letting agent, a young Pakistani kid with slick ebony hair and an attitude to match.

  ‘Remember, if you want to extend, just give us a month’s notice. As you know, the landlord’s an ex-pat out in the Gulf. Says he’s got no intention of returning, but you never know.’

  ‘Once a Brit gets out in that Middle Eastern sun, it’s hard to drag him away,’ said the Irishman.

  The young man smiled. ‘Only mad dogs and Englishmen, as they say.’

  Probably born and bred in Southall, Kelly thought, as he pocketed the keys.

  ‘Do you need any help with your luggage, sir. You look as though you must have a bit of a load there.’

  ‘No, I’ll be managing okay, thank you. Wouldn’t want to charge you for breakage.’ The Asian laughed, displaying a full set of Steinway ivories.

  Kelly exchanged a few more pleasantries with the lad before watching him roar away in a salubrious silver fox BMW coupe. He couldn’t help thinking that the boy would go far. Good luck to him. He was a little pushy, but that was okay as long as it was accompanied by good manners. Not like those lazy English yobs who thought everyone owed them a living.

  The Irishman unlocked the back doors of the white Mercedes van. Under the green tarpaulin was everything he needed. He reckoned it would take him the best part of the day to set it all up. First thing was to get all the arms, ammunition and communications equipment safely inside. His personal effects could wait until later.

  A full four hours had elapsed before he was satisfied that the cottage was as good as he could get it. He’d decided to set up the main console on the walnut dining table in the open plan lounge. Fully extended, it had proved large enough for him to position two camera monitors to the left of his computer monitor and web cam, and one more to the right. In front of all the monitors were mouse, keyboard and A/V mixer.

  Next had come the installation of the pinhole cameras. He had placed one under the gable at each corner of the cottage and five more at various strategic spots under ivy-embraced soffits. He installed a further camera in the top corner of each of the three bedrooms. Despite the luxuriant foliage, the cameras had an unrestricted field of vision but were themselves virtually impossible to detect from the outside. Nothing less than three-hundred-and-sixty degrees would do. Lastly, he had installed the four directional microphones. These might prove of limited value, but he reckoned that if he had them, he might as well use them. As far as the non-technical equipment was concerned, he’d used his second visit to the cottage, sans agent, to take measurements of its eleven windows. Two large windows were either side of the front door, with two smaller ones on the second storey. The same was repeated at the rear with an extra small toilet window. One end of the cottage was a blank wall, while the other had a medium sized window in line with the landing. The last window was in effect a skylight in the roof. Ever the Irish handyman, he had drilled and filled in order to erect the blinds that he knew would drive his adversaries to distraction. There was nothing worse than seeing your reflection in a mirrored glass or blind knowing that the person the other side could see you as clear as day.

  Hardest work of all had been drilling the holes for the external stays in the main load-bearing walls of the three bedrooms. Four stays per bedroom, two for the hand and two for the leg irons. The chains had to be just long enough for a prisoner to use his slop bucket or lie on a mattress, but short enough to prevent him from reaching the window. Already sweating and exhausted, Kelly pulled up a chair and sat in front of the console in the lounge. He leaned forward and switched on the monitors and the A/V console. He flicked another switch and the three screens divided into quadrants, giving him the panoramic view he desired. The tree line around Rosedale was set well back, maybe by an average of thirty metres all round. Facing the front of the cottage was a large oak that might support a police hide for their snipers. Little matter, he thought, for he didn’t intend to present them with much to fire at.

  The Irishman then flicked the toggle switch that brought the microphones crackling into life. It was a hot and windless summer’s day, and they were sensitive enough to pick up distant birdsong. He was experienced enough to know that even a slight breeze would distort any sounds made by those laying siege, and that the microphones were more a psychological prop than a useful one. Still, he loved the toys of surveillance. They gave him a certain sense of security.

  Kelly switched off the technological paraphernalia and headed back towards his vehicle. His work was about to get even more physical and it was time for a well-earned lunch break. He picked up the box of sandwiches he’d prepared earlier and walked towards a trestle table and bench in the garden at the rear of the cottage. It was already after two when he sat down to eat his farmhouse cheese meal. The satisfying of his hunger and the heady essences of the countryside combined to give him a sense of well being he hadn’t enjoyed since Teresa’s death. He gazed at the idyllic view around him, silently thanking the Internet for finding him such a place within hours of logging on. The website had been magnificent, providing him with the photographs, details and measurements that had enabled him to plan almost everything in advance.

 
; Downing a can of draught Guinness, Kelly turned his attention to the five kilos of Semtex and associated detonators nestling in a polythene bag in the rear of the van. More than enough to blow the whole shebang to kingdom come, it was his pièce de résistance. He returned to the table and began separating the malleable plastic explosive into half-kilo mounds. Playing with it through his fingers, Kelly never ceased to wonder how safe the material was to handle, and yet how devastating it could be on detonation. The regular IRA loved it because it was so relatively stable, not to mention the fact that airport x-ray machines had a hard time detecting it. Chemical sniffers were also easily fooled, and it was only trained dogs that had any luck in detecting its weak odour. But then, if you knew what to do, there was never any need to buy the stuff from the Czech Republic, Libya or wherever. If the general public knew how relatively easy it was to make, they’d shit themselves. Mix a little cyclonite with pentaerythrite tetranitrate in a simple laboratory, and bingo! Not that he was ever in favour of its gratuitous use. The atrocities of Lockerbie, Riyadh, Nairobi, Dar es Salaam and, especially, Omagh, appalled him. The so-called Real IRA were unprincipled bastards who simply enjoyed killing.

  Into each parcel of explosive, the Irishman set blasting caps, which could be capacity detonated by remote control. Ten of the caps operated on different frequencies, giving him the ability to make controlled blasts at any of the sites he would choose in the grounds surrounding the cottage. He would also install infrared alarms that would alert him should anyone come within thirty yards of the cottage. No, the British Government would capitulate to his demands in double quick time. After all, some of these demands were the same as those required of the Tories nearly a decade earlier. What goes around comes around, as somebody once said.