by M C Jacques
Following the wrapping-up of the divorce and financial settlement which was, as far as Mrs Katherine Sulemain was concerned, an interminable affair, she hastily returned to London, reacquainted herself with her close family, reassumed the persona of Miss Katy Devere, then headed north to reboot her journalistic and media aspirations at Lincoln, with no little success. Local assignments for the Lincolnshire Echo and BBC Humberside had soon cleared the pathway to lucrative freelancing on Fleet Street and, in turn, back to other, far more exotic, destinations, most of which were situated to the south or to the east of the Mediterranean.
A few sentences in to the article, it was clear that, via her sources, Katy Devere knew that a known assassin with links to Al-Qaeda was now thought to be based in Cambridge, and had been, in fact, ‘sleeping there for several months’. This assumption was based on apparently sound intelligence – mainly interceptions by the Dutch secret service and corroborated by information that same service had obtained from one of its moles (known only by his ‘working’ name of Tahir Al-Afghani, he was a Sumatran whom the Dutch had ‘turned’ after he had fallen into their custody in Rotterdam; originally, he had been sought by the Dutch authorities for having agitated minor troubles in the Moluccas).
Al-Afghani had, at the time, fruitfully infiltrated a small cell operating out of the port of Ijmuiden, just west of Amsterdam. McKay suspected that Katy Devere was probably in the pocket of the Dutch Intelligence Service, either the military security service, the MIVD, or the more general AIVD, as well as the UK’s own MI5 or MI6. Al-Afghani was unable to put a definitive name to the assassin, whom he had only met once and who had then called himself by the preposterous name of My-hat My-gander.
The daggerman had then soon fled Ijmuiden for an undisclosed Al-Qaeda safe house in St John’s Wood, north London, taking lonely passage in a spare tarpaulin cover of a Serbia Transpedition Services truck via Zeebrugge and then Harwich along the way. The truck had finally been pulled over and stopped on the A14 near Ipswich, having been under constant surveillance by the UK authorities, but My-gander was nowhere to be seen and the perplexed Serbian driver was released following hours of excruciating, cigarette-free questioning.
Even after days and nights of candle-burning toil, the cream of the UK and Dutch forensic squads were unable to extract any type of ascertainable DNA fragments from the thick plastic tarpaulin wrested from the semi-derelict trailer.
The final sentence of the half-page article formed a type of thesis statement of the whole: ‘Both Suffolk and Cambridgeshire CID are now working hard to discover the whereabouts of this man, last known as Yosuf-Al-Salam, and last seen in the Hilton area of Cambridge. Chief Superintendent Martin Squires requested that anyone noticing anything strange, especially any new members of their community, is advised to telephone the following special number without delay… Under no circumstances should Al-Salam be approached by members of the public.’
27
Secret Rooms on Jesus Lane
What was to prove to be the second of three calls Matt Fothergill would make to McKay that day happened just as McKay was passing by the university outfitters, Ede & Ravenscroft, as he was approaching the bustling Kings Parade.
Fothergill was scarcely any happier than he had been during his previous call in the morning. “McKay. Need to be quick. Sarah Millar has requested two weeks’ leave. Thought I’d better let you know. She’s owed it, my word; hasn’t had a day off since Easter.”
“I see no problem, Mr Fothergill. Just so long as she stays put in Cambridge until this business is cleared up. We could ask DI Burrows to insist upon that, if it would help matters.”
Fothergill had anticipated that this might be an issue. “Not a problem. She’s got a friend coming to stay, apparently, so she’s playing host for a week or two. Wants to see the university and the local area. A day trip to Cromer is about as far as she’s likely to get, I should think! Good. Right. I’ll tell her straight away.” With that the call was ended and McKay carried on his way through chattering swarms of numerous overseas students, brushing past girls with light, airy and fluttering floral cotton dresses. Oh, to be in Cambridge in the summer, even late on a Tuesday afternoon! thought McKay as he bore right past St Mark’s Church and on to the Market Place. He was in no hurry. The club would be open already but he did not wish to arrive conspicuously early; besides, his date for the evening would not be arriving until six o’clock at the very earliest.
He had worked with Emily some years back, when he’d taught near Cambridge. She was a large-framed girl, boarding school raised, with a ruddy complexion, and McKay suspected that she had a sexual appetite every bit as voracious as her dietary one. She was the first woman McKay had met, or at least the first he could recall encountering, who did not feel embarrassed burping and passing wind in the company of others. Such events were inevitably followed by one of the humorous witticisms with which Emily abounded. She also wore clothes which were frequently just a little too small or too clingy and this went some way, he supposed, to explaining why and how – every now and then – Emily successfully entrapped a male of the species for a date, possibly even a weekend away. Although, it should be added, such occurrences were rare and usually fleeting ones, with the victim usually hot-footing it away once he’d discerned the true nature of his dominatrix.
Despite all this, Emily’s all-consuming presence would provide laughs and good cover in the club. She was an inconceivable partner for anyone deliberately seeking to maintain a discreet profile which, of course, on one level, McKay was. For her part, Emily was thrilled to be called by Mark the previous day and rapturous to be asked to meet him in Cambridge. She had assured him that she was visiting the Grafton Centre, in any case, would get changed at her friend’s flat on Hilton Road and meet him at Secret Rooms at six. And this she did, almost to the letter, although it was a minute or two before six when she screamed his first name and pounded across the floor towards the small, circular corner booth into which he was nestled. She gave the upstanding McKay a comprehensive, formidable hug, dribbling slightly as she placed a screechy kiss on his left cheek.
“Mark McKay! What a surprise to get your call! Arab dance and culture evening, eh! Oh my God, I can’t believe it! I was just telling Rebecca about it, you know, she was Head of RE but got all pregnant and left! Anyway, I’d just stepped off the bus – I’m still out at Stuntney, by the way, you know, near Haddenham – when I met her outside John Lewis, so, of course, we went into their café place and sat and had a right good natter about old times; well, not that old, but you know what I mean. Well, Peter has left, although Craig is still there, and they’ve moved the Junior Girls’ Boarding House again, this time further down the hill. Janice from the kitchen – she lives at Wicken Fen now, near the old windmill – says hello and so does Gaile, you know, the ‘reet petite’ lady in the office, usually wearing greyish tweeds – her son used to help with Summer School, Giles, I think, yes, Giles. I’ve just finished a walking tour in the Mendips; I went with Diane from the Science Department, you know, Diane Saunders, the one Craig had a fling with just after Sally from Little Downham had given him the old heave-ho. Shame about that; I always thought they made a really nice couple – bit of a height difference, mind! You know, him so tall and lanky and her so, well, you know, on the squat side. Her mother’s been pretty ill recently, in and out of Addenbrooke’s for weeks on end now; still, we had a good time on our trek. Stayed in hotels, well, guesthouses this time, not hostels after that incident with the flasher in Devon last year! Oh my! Never again! I didn’t tell you about that, did I? Well, haven’t had the chance to, have I? Well, just you wait till you hear this, you’ll never believe it, my mum didn’t and Diane’s mum went spare when she heard about it…”
Secret Rooms was just beginning to fill up with would-be drinkers and dancers and a hum of expectation was just starting to emanate from a group of early revellers near to the main bar, studying and salivatin
g over Alex’s famed cocktail menu; treacherously seductive, McKay had thought, when he had taken a fleeting look through its eight or so pages on one of his previous visits to the club with Mountfitchet.
“And, well, everybody was tearing around getting ready for tea and Diane and I were chasing our tails good and proper because we said we’d be in the pub to meet them at seven-thirty and it was almost a quarter past by then, and, oh my! That’s when Diane noticed that the cat from the hostel had obviously taken its afternoon nap on her green jacket…”
It wasn’t until those CAMDAC members attending the dance class had left the room for the ballroom’s dancefloor, that McKay glanced up from his wine and across towards the bar, in order to ascertain whether or not a sortie in that direction was in order. And it was only then that he became aware he under scrutiny. Years later, when relaying these events to a good friend, he found himself wanting to insert some intuitive qualities to the discovery of his onlooker, but the truth was more prosaic; he’d simply looked up, quite suddenly, and there she was, standing, glaring, unmistakeably at him, at McKay.
Backlit by the bar’s glow, it was difficult for McKay to make out that many details of the woman. She was long-limbed, that was for sure, her long, well-formed legs being yoked by a tight dark skirt that looked as though it was made from crumpled black tissue paper. Her arms were folded and McKay noticed at once how muscular and well-defined her forearms were – surely the result of hour after long hour of weight training, press-ups and the like. Either that, or the woman held an incredibly physical job of work. And then there was the disdainful sneer; that look, undoubtedly one of the most venom-loaded glowers he would ever receive in his life. She was bespectacled: chunky, dark retro frames gripped what looked like substantial lenses. Her hair looked to be blonde, and was bobbed back in a manner that reminded McKay of somebody or some look which he associated with the 1940s, although, think as he may, he could not quite put his finger on why that should be.
Her thin cotton top also echoed of a decade past, the ‘50s or maybe the ‘60s; again, McKay’s thoughts could not settle on one. The light-coloured top in question, cream or beige, amply stretched by a sizeable upper body, darted into a meagre waistline, elevated above distinct, but relatively compact, thighs.
“My word! Is that an ex? What have you been up to, Mark? You know, that woman reminds me of Trish Gedney from Soham,” grunted Emily, angry at her leggy, chesty adversary who would not be decent and look away when scowled at.
“I’ve never seen her before, have you?” enquired McKay earnestly. Emily maintained, even intensified, her determined scowl.
“Certainly not. Well, I’m pretty sure I’d remember a set of pins like that. And look at those buffers! I’d love to know what type of bra she’s wearing – they’d poke your eyes out if you stepped too close!”
“How old would you say she is, Emily?” McKay asked this with a lowered voice.
“Oh, well, I’d say she’s about fifty or sixty!” blurted Emily with a broadcaster’s projection. She then repositioned herself slightly, angling herself towards the bar and towards the woman whose unhurried nod and simultaneous tilting of her head indicated that whilst Emily’s caustic reply may have reached her, it had certainly not daunted her.
Just as McKay became intensely worried that Emily would cause a scene, the other woman spun herself round, tossing back her head defiantly as she did so, and then began talking to a shorter, more cubic female who had been resting against the bar throughout. For now, at least, a scene had been averted. McKay noted that the two women at the bar were chatting fluently with Alex whose arm was resting at an angle on the counter and whose head periodically jerked backwards as the shorter of the two women provoked a bout of laughter.
The girls were drinking quite fluently until they were joined by a small group of males at around nine-thirty.
Emily, in the meantime, had been informing McKay of a wonderful new job she’d been offered which would make better employment of her online skills and outgoing personality. “I think that will suit me far more than being stuck in a classroom with a group of hooligans who don’t want to know, Mark. Wouldn’t you say? Well, I know it’s a while since we worked together at Queens, but even then I wasn’t exactly settled, was I? Mind you, there was all that stuff with Craig and Diane and then my friend Georgie from the nursing home got involved with Tony, the grounds chappie, based round at the junior school…” It was at this point that McKay’s attention became diverted from the gushingly informative Emily once again.
Four males, all fairly short, all fairly slight, had joined the girls: two apiece. Cleary familiar friends, the smiles and laughter became intensified along with the seasoned bonhomie. One of the males, each of which looked to be Mediterranean or North African, noted McKay and his animated friend in the booth and for quite some time his eyes seemed to hover in their direction, momentarily looking down at his drink parked on the bar which was either a coke or a Pepsi, or some deep-dark concoction from Alex’s catalogue. The fact that it had been presented in a simple half-pint tumbler with ice meant that McKay inclined towards the former. The other males were all drinking fruit juices, it seemed: one orange and the remaining two grapefruit or pineapple juices.
The four males and the two women all left together at around ten forty-five. Most of them bade their farewell to Alex by name and at least one said ‘See you on Saturday!’ and another one ‘See you next week!’
“And I must tell you about the business with Tony’s son!” announced the irrepressible Emily, rolling her eyes in a disbelieving half-moon circuit, indicating her glass was in need of urgent replenishment.
“Bacardi and coke again,” stated McKay, who quickly realised that he had seriously underestimated the stamina of Emily’s tonsils and general alcoholic threshold.
“Yup… Nope! A vodka and that Red Cow stuff – that’s all the rage now; Red Bull, sorry. Jessica, the librarian at the Portico, introduced me to that. Well, we first had that one afternoon, oh my God, at the Town House at the end of Easter term. Well, of course, it just went on and on; now, that was the very same evening that Craig and Diane met up again…”
McKay indicated he would refill the glasses, as he rose from the table. Besides, last orders could not be that far away. Emily’s verbal barrage was sustained until McKay had reached the bar and he was gainfully occupied ordering a fresh round, and chatting with the effervescent Alex.
“No. They never touch a drop of alcohol. Always some reason: driving, dancing, women! So they say. No. I’ve never seen one of them drinking booze and I’ve bumped into them in that wine bar café on Mill Road. I’ve heard they might do some types of soft drugs, though, something you chew, maybe? They all seem pretty tame, to be honest.”
McKay’s eyebrows raised and the bar manager clocked this.
“Yes. One of the girls who drinks with those Arab guys, Briony, mentioned it late one night when she was plastered. She could easily be mistaken, mind. I wouldn’t put too much stock in what she says, especially when she’s pissed, which happens at least three or four times a week. She can be a bit of a fantasist – lives in her own flowery world most of the time. Harmless, mind. She runs a florist’s near the Perse School – paid for by mummy and daddy, naturally. I’ve seen her in Browns around lunchtime sometimes when I’ve taken Laura, my partner, there on my day off.”
Alex appeared to be not in the least bit surprised by McKay’s gentle, suggestive mode of questioning and McKay sensed that Mountfichet, that old codger, had tilled the ground around here, too. His sense was confirmed by Alex’s next dispatch.
“The other, bigger girl, woman, let’s say, was Sarah; you might know her, the marketing person for that war museum at Tuxford.” McKay couldn’t quite deduce whether Alex had expected him to be surprised by this information or not.
“What do you know about her? Have any interesting snippets come your way?” Alex’s reply
was unequivocal and was harbingered by a lightening of his facial expression.
“She swings both ways, I understand. A couple of months back she came in here with a much younger, I’d say about twenty to twenty-five year old, girl, lovely looking and she, the other girl, was all over her like a rash. They sat where you and…”
“Emily,” put in McKay.
“Yep, sorry; they sat where you two are sitting tonight, just there. There is more, Mark, but not just now, eh?” He glanced over McKay’s right shoulder and nodded so very slightly that it was barely detectable.
“God, McKay!” burped Emily as she wrested the vodka cocktail from the bar and tugged McKay’s pale blue Land Rover-badged shirt determinedly, swaying ever so slightly as she did so. “A girl could dehydrate in the time it takes you to buy a drink! An attack of the old Jock’s complaint, is it? Rusty lock on the old wallet, I suppose!” Another burp, another giggle and Emily trotted back across towards the table, energetically signalling McKay to follow on.
“She’s, she’s a bit of a girl, isn’t she?” Alex tried hard not to grin too much, his face twitching loosely from side to side.
“Call a cab to Stuntney for her, would you, Alex, old boy?” asked McKay, aware that his public school manner, suppressed so naturally (and advantageously) for most of the time, was just beginning to seep out. “Oh, and ask them for one with a hoist, would you, please?”
“Sure. Twenty minutes?” McKay thumbed his approval and returned to the table. Emily swayed back from a brief excursion to the Ladies’ Room, and the narrative of Craig and Diane at the Prince of Wales quickly reached new dramatic heights, terminating with the arrival of yet another of Craig’s exes, Gemma, and Diane’s prompt, peremptory yet tearful exit from the stunned company of colleagues.
