The Burma Legacy

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The footpath, stupid.’ She groaned theatrically. ‘How about we tie a string round your mind and let me hang onto it for a while?’

  ‘Not a bad idea.’ Sam switched off the engine.

  Beyond the stile the ground was almost flat and they walked across a lush meadow punctuated with the brittle, brown spikes of last summer’s thistles. The path joined another which followed the meandering banks of a river swollen by the winter rains. Julie took his hand and smiled uncertainly at him.

  It was a smile Sam knew well. The question lurking behind it was born out of having had a father who deserted her, and a boyfriend who’d disappeared after making her pregnant. How long before he left her too?

  ‘What did you think?’ she asked, as they followed the bank of the gurgling river.

  ‘What – the pub?’

  ‘No, dumbo. Bordhill. The idea of practising Buddhism. Giving up material things. Cold showers to damp down your dirty little urges.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s ever been an issue at Bordhill,’ he commented. ‘Anyway, religions are all the same basically. Telling people to be nice to each other and to put up with the lousy deal they’ve been given …’

  ‘That’s cynical.’

  ‘Religions have good intentions but they become a means of control for the people who run them. And I don’t think Bordhill’s any different.’

  A willow tree caused them to duck, its bare twigs cascading down towards the fast-flowing water. When they’d passed it Julie stopped and turned to him.

  ‘Were you hoping to meet Percy Harrison today?’

  ‘Perry,’ he corrected. ‘No. Hoping to learn what makes him tick, that’s all.’

  ‘And did you?’

  Sam didn’t reply. He put his arm round her shoulders and they began walking again. A flight of rooks was circling a clump of poplars a hundred yards ahead of them.

  ‘You like it, don’t you?’ Julie’s voice was heavy with resignation. ‘It gives you a buzz.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘The secrecy. The feeling that because you’re who you are, you never have to be open with anyone.’

  Her accusation jarred him. ‘Maybe I’ve been at it so long I’ve lost the skills to be any other way,’ he confessed.

  ‘That’s a terrible admission,’ Julie whispered.

  ‘What I meant was, they are skills I shall have to relearn.’

  ‘If …’

  If he was to change his way of life so they could have a permanent home together. That’s what they needed to talk about. The trouble was, now, with most of his mind engrossed in a case, was a bloody awful time to discuss it.

  ‘Julie …’

  She turned to confront him, blocking the path. ‘Okay. Tell me straight. How much longer do you think the Singapore posting will last?’

  ‘Look. I really do want us to be together,’ he breathed, putting his arms around her. ‘And I’m working on it. Please trust me.’

  But trusting a man was something Julie had never developed the knack of.

  Eight

  They spent the rest of the afternoon in bed back at the Waterman’s Arms.

  Soon after six they began thinking about where to have dinner that evening.

  ‘Nothing short of death through starvation would make me eat downstairs again,’ Julie declared, propping herself against the pillows. ‘Ely must be full of places.’

  ‘It’s Saturday night,’ Sam warned, preparing her for the decision he’d made some time ago. ‘The good ones’ll be heavily booked.’

  ‘So where then?’

  ‘Actually I quite fancy that pub where we had lunch.’

  ‘God!’ Julie attempted to push him out of bed. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’

  ‘They pay me not to.’

  They were on the road by seven, and twenty minutes later he stopped the car at the end of the driveway to Bordhill Manor. Lights were on downstairs and at the right-hand end of the upper floor. He tried to remember if that was the wing with the locked door, concluding eventually that it wasn’t. The section that housed Perry Harrison’s private quarters was in darkness.

  The pub was humming when they got there, with most of the tables taken. They found a perch next to the open fire, but quickly realised why it was free.

  ‘We’re going to melt sitting here,’ Julie commented.

  ‘I’ll get us a drink.’

  ‘Half of lager would do me fine.’

  Sam looked at faces. He’d come here on the off-chance some of the Bordhill residents might be regulars. Most of the customers were elderly, however – retired people in pullovers and cardigans, dipping into their pensions for a Saturday night out.

  At the counter, two ruddy-faced countrymen made way for him. The landlady was a stout, middle-aged woman with blonde hair, stacked up in a 1960’s beehive. Sam paid up and carried the drinks to the table, holding a menu under his arm.

  ‘Quick.’ Julie pointed across the room, her face agleam with perspiration. ‘There’s a couple leaving.’

  They hurried over and claimed the cooler table. She began browsing the menu.

  ‘It’s all meat here. Your Buddhist friends will be veggies. And I don’t suppose they drink alcohol either. In fact, altogether, this wasn’t the brightest of ideas, Mr Packer. How much does the government pay you?’

  ‘Just choose something.’

  She went for chicken breast in grape and muscat sauce while he opted for lamb chops. Sam returned to the bar to place their order, then headed for the toilet, not because he needed it but because it was an excuse to look at more faces as he moved through the further reaches of the pub.

  A couple of minutes later he sat down again.

  ‘Urinals full of monks hitching up their saffron robes?’ Julie asked.

  Sam curled his lips in a mock snarl.

  She reached out to touch his hand. ‘Actually, I’m beginning to quite like this place. Nice atmosphere.’

  When the food came it wasn’t disappointing either.

  ‘Good choice after all, Mr Packer. You’re forgiven.’

  As they ate, Sam’s mind was on those closed-off quarters at Bordhill. He resolved to call Waddell and ask for the burglars to be sent in.

  ‘Do you … d’you know when you’ll be returning to Singapore?’

  Julie’s question jerked him back to the here and now.

  ‘No.’ Suddenly he stiffened. From the far end of the pub a rambling figure had emerged.

  ‘Who?’ she mouthed, seeing his expression change.

  ‘The wood turner.’ Sam leaned forward.

  Julie twisted her head to look. ‘He’s like something out of a Frankenstein movie. It’s those hooded eyes.’

  They turned their heads away as he passed.

  ‘Anyway he’s gone to the bog,’ she whispered. ‘Pissed as a rat judging by the way his legs splayed out.’

  ‘If he’s following the noble eightfold path, then tonight’s his night off,’ Sam commented.

  ‘What’re you going to do?’

  ‘Discuss the price of fish with him.’

  He waited until the man re-emerged, then stood up and followed in his wake.

  At the far end of the pub was a doorway to a small room which he hadn’t noticed before. In the centre was a billiard table. And leaning across the green baize was Melissa, her hands grappling with an outstretched cue as she aimed for a ball on the far side. She missed her shot.

  ‘Oh sugar …’ She swayed back from the table and plopped down onto a straight-backed chair. ‘I’m useless at this, Toby.’

  The carpenter took his position and despite his inebriation smacked the ball neatly into a pocket. ‘Need longer arms,’ he muttered.

  Melissa picked up a drink. Clear liquid with a lemon slice. G and T, Sam guessed, the most recent of many, judging by her smudged expression. She gulped a mouthful, replaced the glass perilously close to the edge of the table next to her, then stared dejectedly at the flo
or.

  Suddenly, for no obvious reason, her face crumpled. Sam saw her shoulders begin to shake. Toby saw it too.

  ‘Don’t start that, Mel, for God’s sake.’ He strode over to where she sat, picked up her glass and emptied it into a vase of dried flowers on a mantelpiece.

  Suddenly her cheeks blew out and she cupped her hands in front of her mouth. Making as if to get up, she jerked forward and retched onto the floor.

  ‘Oh, God, not again!’ The carpenter lumbered towards the door, pushing Sam aside. ‘Always doing this …’ He made an erratic beeline for the exit and disappeared into the night.

  ‘I was getting lonely,’ Julie said, appearing at Sam’s side. She’d brought his drink. ‘Isn’t that the girl who …?’

  ‘She’s been sick.’

  ‘I’ll get someone.’ She turned and headed for the bar.

  Sam felt revolted by Melissa – the vomit down her pullover front, the livid skin eruptions. Yet she was an opportunity he couldn’t ignore.

  ‘Out, you!’

  The voice came from behind him. The bar lady with the beehive marched in, Julie at her heels.

  ‘You’re banned. Don’t come in here again, understand?’ She saw Sam’s questioning frown. ‘Did the same last week. All over the carpet in the other bar. I warned her.’

  ‘We know where she lives. We’ll help her get home.’

  ‘Don’t put her in your car whatever you do. You’ll never get the smell out. It’s only five minutes to the manor. Walk’ll do her good.’

  Sam took Melissa’s arm and helped her to her feet. Outside in the car park, when the cold air hit her, she jerked free and staggered backwards, desperately trying to focus on him. ‘Do I know you?’ she slurred.

  ‘Geoff and Ginny,’ said Sam. ‘We visited the community this morning.’

  ‘Bitch,’ she hissed, swaying back and forth, trying to get them into focus.

  ‘I beg your pardon …’ Julie assumed the epithet was addressed at her.

  ‘Who’s a bitch?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Ingrid. S’all her fault.’

  ‘What is?’

  Melissa’s cheeks puffed and she retched again. Sam handed Julie the car keys and asked her to get the torch which he’d left in the glove locker.

  ‘Got to lie down,’ Melissa mumbled. She dropped to her knees. ‘Wanna die. Here and now.’

  ‘You can’t. It’s the pub’s car park. The landlady’ll do her nut.’

  Julie returned with the flashlight.

  ‘Help me get her up,’ he whispered. Taking an arm each, they pulled Melissa to her feet. ‘Now. We’re going to walk.’

  The woman’s breathing was as heavy as a pensioner’s.

  ‘How many did you have?’ Julie asked.

  ‘Dunno. Feel awful.’

  Beyond the spill of the pub lights the road was pitch dark. Sam flicked on the light. ‘Got anyone to look after you back at the manor?’

  ‘They hate me. All of ‘em. ’Cept Toby. An’ even he …’

  ‘Why do they hate you?’

  ‘Cos I was closer to the Master than any of ’em …’

  Sam was taken aback. Surely this unappealing creature hadn’t been Harrison’s latest lover?

  ‘You said you were closer,’ he prompted.

  ‘Not there any more.’

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  She stopped and half turned her head.

  ‘You a p’leeceman?’

  ‘No. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘They came an’ asked her about it. Wanted to know where Perry was. But she doesn’t know.’

  ‘But you do?’

  She straightened up, sucking in gulps of air to try to slough off the effects of the booze.

  ‘I don’t know anything.’ The cold was clearing her head. The torch beam picked out frost on the road. ‘S’alright. Find my own way now. Don’ need your help ’nymore.’

  She began walking again, weaving from side to side. Then she stopped and swung round.

  ‘Ingrid thinks she can be leader, but she can’t. Cos most of us supported the Master, an’ she didn’t.’

  ‘Supported?’

  ‘In the fight against the big cor-corporations … We were there, Perry and me. London. In June.’

  Sam blinked. He’d read about the anti-capitalist protest which had degenerated into violence and vandalism. ‘Are you still in touch with the Master?’

  ‘You are a reporter, aren’t you?’ Her face screwed up with suspicion. ‘Or a pleece’man.’

  ‘No way.’

  The lights of the manor were visible beyond the low, roadside hedge.

  ‘Goin’ home now.’

  ‘We’ll see you to your door.’

  ‘No!’ She lashed out at him and began to walk faster. ‘Leave me alone. Rape!’

  ‘She’s bonkers,’ Julie whispered, grabbing Sam’s arm.

  The torch beam picked out reflectors on the gate posts marking the Bordhill drive. Melissa reached them, lurched to the right and staggered up the gravel.

  Julie hooked her arm through Sam’s to stop him following. ‘There’s no point. Let’s go back. I’m freezing to death out here.’

  Sam stared at the house. The lights were still on upstairs, but at the left-hand end this time.

  Someone was in Harrison’s private quarters.

  Ingrid Madsen?

  Or could it be Perry Harrison himself – not missing after all, but in hiding?

  Nine

  Ely

  Sunday, 9 January

  The reason for the jumpiness at Bordhill Manor the previous day became abundantly clear when Sam read the Sunday papers. The story in the Telegraph was representative.

  CONCERN OVER MISSING WAR VETERAN

  Cambridgeshire police are worried about the apparent disappearance of former World War Two POW Peregrine Harrison, aged 77. He was last seen at his home on December 30th, the day before a letter from him was received at The Times, attacking Mr Tetsuo Kamata, the Japanese saviour of the Walsall car factory.

  Mr Harrison heads a controversial Buddhist education centre at Bordhill Manor in Cambridgeshire. Yesterday a representative of his community told reporters they had no idea where he was.

  The Burma veteran served with the elite Chindit force set up by Brigadier Orde Wingate in 1942 to operate behind Japanese lines. Many Chindits died in action and a few, including an injured Lieutenant Peregrine Harrison, were taken prisoner. Fellow veterans told the Sunday Telegraph he has never forgiven his former enemy for torturing him and others during their captivity.

  In his letter to The Times, which was not published, Mr Harrison suggested that now Mr Kamata had been identified as his one time torturer, ‘his sudden and bloody removal from this life can only be a matter of time’.

  Asked whether this was being construed as a threat against the Japanese industrialist, a Cambridgeshire police spokesman said, ‘Mr Harrison is an elderly man. We are concerned he may be unwell and in need of assistance. That is why we’re trying to find him.’

  A Downing Street source wouldn’t comment on suggestions that now Mr Harrison’s attack on Mr Kamata was public it could put the Walsall car factory deal in jeopardy.

  ‘The purchase of the factory is a commercial matter and nothing to do with the government. As to Mr Harrison’s whereabouts, the police are conducting a missing persons inquiry.’

  ‘So what’s your role in all this, exactly?’ Julie asked after she read it. She looked puzzled.

  ‘To find him before he does any harm.’

  ‘And the fact they’ve roped you in means they think he’s gone to the Far East?’

  ‘They’re guessing, but yes.’

  She paused, thinking about it.

  ‘You believe he does intend to do harm?’

  Sam hesitated before answering.

  ‘That’s the trouble, Julie. I can’t make up my mind.’

  After a late breakfast, they checked out of the Waterman’s Arms and set off for Bordhill again, ost
ensibly to enquire about the well-being of Melissa, but with the intention of having another chat with her. When they drove into the courtyard, they found the shop closed and a board hanging on the door saying the community was not receiving visitors. Sam had called his controller the night before to request a search of Harrison’s private apartment. Now all he could do was wait for the results of it.

  They lunched in the pub again in an unsuccessful attempt at hoovering up useful gossip, then set off across the flat East Anglian countryside for Woodbridge. Julie had persuaded Sam to take her to tea with her mother and son on their way back to London.

  The place where Julie usually spent her weekends was a converted brown-brick mill, sited by the river from which it had once drawn its power. Lawns stretched to the water’s edge. As the car pulled up on the pea shingle drive, eight-year-old Liam threw open the front door of the house and ran to greet his mother. He stopped dead when he saw she was accompanied by the other male in her life. Before being posted to the Far East, Sam had managed to break down the boy’s hostility towards him, but the months of not being around had undone all his efforts.

  They went inside to a warm welcome from Julie’s mother Maeve, a former nurse who spoke with a light Irish accent.

  ‘You look lovely and brown, Sam. I suppose all you do is sunbathe and play golf out there in Singapore.’

  ‘That’s precisely what they pay me for, Maeve.’

  She laughed throatily. ‘It’s good to see you again, anyway.’ It had been obvious for some time that she wanted his relationship with Julie to last.

  While Maeve set out plates of cake and biscuits and poured tea into bone china cups, Sam squatted on the floor with Liam and challenged him to a Game Boy contest, which he proceeded to lose.

  The time passed swiftly and before long Liam lost interest in the grown-ups, turning his attention to the TV. As soon as was decent, Sam suggested they make a move. Julie took leave of her son quickly, nuzzling his ear while he was still absorbed in his programme. The boy waved her away.

  Outside, night had closed in. The headlamps picked out wintry hedgerows on the curving road to Ipswich. Julie was silent. Sam knew what she was thinking – that being a weekend-only single parent was a lousy way to bring up a child.

  After a while she turned and thanked him for taking her to Woodbridge.