Civvies

by Lynda La Plante

  That's what Taffy had been then, a real soldier, still was, always would be.

  A fine chill drizzle settled on his face. Time to get mustered. In FIBUA training – Fighting In Built-Up Areas – he'd had to crawl through sewer pipes as a means of infiltrating enemy lines, but bugger that for a lark. Taffy didn't fancy the Cardiff sewerage system, and besides, speed and distance were the top priorities.

  Spitting on his palms, Taffy dug into the soft damp earth and plastered his face, smeared the backs of his hands. He could hear shouts now, running footsteps. He straightened up, and taking a couple of deep breaths, ran swiftly across the garden and leapt at the high brick wall, scaling it with ease, and dropped down into the deep shadow of a cobbled alleyway, light as a cat.

  A few minutes after 1.30 a.m. he was standing on the hard shoulder of the ring road that connected with the M4. Probably his uniform helped, because only the third truck he thumbed – a Bristol meat packer's refrigerated artic – slowed down and pulled over.

  Taffy climbed on board.

  CHAPTER 14

  From the holding cell Dillon, tieless, beltless, and with no laces in his shoes, was taken two floors up to the interview room. Little more than a cell itself; a bare table, one metal ashtray, two chairs, a sixty-watt bulb in a green plastic shade that threw a cone of light over the man already seated there, somewhere in his thirties with puffy, handsome features gone to seed and a flourishing head of hair streaked with grey that overlapped his collar. He was smoking a Marlboro, and he offered the packet as Dillon sat down opposite him, more out of icy politeness than as a gesture of friendship. And his voice too had an antiseptic ring to it.

  'Mr Dillon. I am Alastair Sawyer-Smith.' He pushed a rather dog-eared card across the table. 'I am acting on behalf of Mr Salah Al-Gharib.'

  'Thank Christ -' Dillon accepted a light, sucked in smoke. He had a headache and his eyes burned. It was long gone three and he felt strung-out. 'Look, this has all got out of hand… and I have to call my wife, she'll be worried stiff.'

  But Sawyer-Smith wasn't listening, glancing instead to a man staring in through the glass panel in the door, studying Dillon hard. Dillon met his eyes and quickly turned his head away, recognising him as the detective who had followed him and Jimmy the day they delivered the diamonds. Whom Jimmy had clobbered and cracked his skull in the gutter.

  'Oh shit,' Dillon muttered, closing his eyes.

  'I hope you will co-operate fully, as this has been an exceedingly long night. Firstly -'

  'It was all a misunderstanding,' Dillon was at pains to explain.

  'My clients have been released,' continued Sawyer-Smith smoothly, 'without any formal charges being pressed. Furthermore -'

  'What about me and Steve? We've been here all night – your clients got us into this!'

  'No, you are mistaken,' Sawyer-Smith contradicted him gravely, his baggy-eyed stare perfectly level. 'The reason the police followed the Mercedes driven by your associate Mr Steven Harris was because the car is owned by a man currently under police investigation.'

  Dillon slowly leaned forward into the light, the scar on his left cheek a thin cruel crevice. 'What…?'

  But the lawyer had it signed and sealed, all stitched up.

  'Clearly you were working for my clients under false pretences, fraudulently using documents which they believed were from the Samson Security Company – a company that denies all knowledge of either hiring you or the driver of the vehicle, Mr Harris.' Having his man on the floor, Sawyer-Smith put the boot in. 'Mr Harris, who by-the-by has no licence, no insurance, and was given a suspended sentence in January of last year…'

  'But…' Dillon's hands came up, clutching thin air. 'I wasn't driving…'

  'No doubt the security company will take this matter up personally.' Sawyer-Smith got to his feet, picking up a somewhat shabby briefcase with a broken clasp. He looked down on Dillon. 'As far as my clients are concerned, they have agreed to forget the whole embarrassing episode.'

  'But what about the damage to the Merc?' Dillon was half-out of his seat, blinking rapidly. 'It's not mine – who's gonna pay for that?'

  For the first time Alastair Sawyer-Smith permitted himself a fleeting chilly smile. 'I would say that is the least of your problems, Mr Dillon,' and was gone, leaving Dillon with a dazed expression and two smoking stubs in the metal ashtray.

  A shave, a bath, ten hours' kip, that's what Dillon wanted, but it wasn't what he got. Immediately he entered the flat, Steve shambling behind, it was bedlam. He ignored the phone ringing in the hallway and was confronted with Susie's distraught face as she came charging through from the kitchen.

  'Where in God's name have you been?' Susie jabbed at the phone. 'You'd better answer it, Frank, they've been calling all morning – half the night.'

  Dillon turned haunted, red-rimmed eyes on Steve. 'Jimmy couldn't know about the Merc yet, could he?'

  'Frank, answer it.' Susie gave him a shove. 'It'll be the police!'

  'We just come from them, we got bail -' Dillon tried to grab her as she brushed past. 'Don't answer it… Susie!'

  Somebody hammered on the front door. Susie held her arms out. 'Don't answer, don't open the door,' she warned Dillon, but it was too late, Steve already had. He took one look and slammed it shut.

  'It's Jimmy!'

  'Open this door, you bastards!' The door shook under the onslaught of kicks and thumps. 'Open it or I'll smash it!'

  Dillon said wearily, 'Let him in…'

  Susie shook her head at Dillon, her eyes large and fear-filled, as the phone finally stopped ringing. 'Frank, you should have answered that.'

  The tiny hallway was suddenly filled with bodies as Jimmy swelled the crowd. He swept Steve aside contemptuously and stopped in front of Dillon, his face livid with fury. 'I've just seen that heap of metal they towed… towed into the garage. Thirty grand's worth, completely wrecked!'

  Dillon swayed out of reach as Jimmy threw a swinging right, knocked his arm away. It was Dillon's turn to see red. 'We've had the friggin' Flying Squad chase us all over London, and we got arms dealers in the back, thought they were gonna be kidnapped.' He pointed at Steve and himself. 'We thought it was an ambush!'

  'Flying Squad? Pull the other one,' Jimmy snorted. He kicked out at Steve, who shied away. 'It was this… this lunatic.' He landed a stinging smack across Steve's head. 'You get pissed – was that it?'

  Dillon got between them, held Jimmy off with the flat of his hand, quietly simmering.

  'You think if I'd known it was Newman's car we'd have used it? You should have told us!'

  'I told you he was in Spain. I was doin' you a favour -'

  'Bullshit!' Dillon stuck his finger under Jimmy's nose, his eyes blazing. 'Now he owes us one. You tip him off – he's under investigation.'

  'Frank!' Susie said. And then screamed it. 'Frank!'

  Dillon snapped, 'Get in the kitchen, get out,' not through with Jimmy by a long chalk. 'We're up for wrecking a patrol car, falsifying records, and that cop you whacked – he was there. He was clocking me. I could go down for this, but by Christ, I'll -'

  He wasn't allowed to finish as Susie gripped his arm with both hands and literally dragged him through the doorway.

  'Frank – if you don't come in here this minute I'll scream the place down!'

  'You got a code book?' Jimmy was rooting on the hall table, scattering the two fat London directories.

  'If you're calling Spain, make it collect!' Dillon yelled, vanishing as Susie pulled him into the living-room and slammed the door.

  Footsteps marched along the landing and in barged Cliff, sweat covering his black brow, lips twisted in a snarl. 'Thanks lads!' he yelled, and seeing Steve, hurled his chauffeur's cap and jacket at him, hysterical with rage. 'Thanks a bundle, you bastards! You really done me in!'

  Dodging round Jimmy, crouched over dialling the international operator, Cliff went for Steve, clipping him on the side of the jaw. Steve crashed against the door, just as it opened and
Dillon came through it like a rat out of a trap. He parried a wild lunge from Cliff, who was lashing out in all directions, yelling, 'Eighteen months I've had that job!' taking another wild swing at Dillon for good measure.

  There was a deadly calm about Dillon. An icy stillness etched into his face and menacing blue eyes. Almost in slow-motion he swivelled his body, taking the blow harmlessly on his shoulder, and hit Cliff with a short-arm jab to the solar plexus that doubled him over, clutching his stomach.

  Dillon took the phone out of Jimmy's hand and Jimmy snatched it back, ready to take a sock at him. But the look on Dillon's face stopped him.

  'Shut it – all of you!'

  The unmistakable voice of Sergeant Frank Dillon stopped everybody.

  'Put the phone down, Jimmy. Taffy Davies has gone AWOL. He's killed a bloke in Cardiff…'

  The four ex-Paras looked at one another, all grudges, personal grievances and petty hatreds wiped off the slate.

  Dillon said quietly, 'I think he's headin' for Aldershot.'

  Taffy jumped from the slippery scaffolding pole and splashed knee-deep through the ice-flecked surface of the water-jump, clawing up the steep muddy bank on all-fours. Breath pluming the air, streaming with sweat, he gritted his teeth and slogged it up the meandering valley set with man-made obstacles and natural hazards. Designed to test heart, lungs and legs to the utmost, every recruit had to do two continuous circuits of the notorious Steeplechase in order to pass 'P' Company selection. But those behind him on the course were young men, not an old campaigner on the downward slope of forty.

  Even so, they could run their goolies off and they'd never catch him! He's still beat 'em!

  Punishing himself, chunnering to himself, giving himself orders, Taffy ran ahead of the field, maintaining a clear lead. He reached the crest of Heartbreak Hill, not even pausing to glance behind at the straggling figures in red singlets, blue shorts and plimsolls before plunging down the narrow track through gorse and brambles.

  Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump -

  It was a joyous sound, healthy and pure, the steady pounding rhythm of his own heartbeat.

  Dillon came out of the guardhouse and stopped to have a word with one of the MPs at the main gate. He nodded his thanks and walked past the two police patrol cars parked just inside the striped-pole barrier, returning to the others sitting in the Renegade jeep next to the perimeter fence. Jimmy was standing up in the back with field glasses, doing slow sweeps of Browning Barracks and the wooded hillside beyond. He glanced down as Dillon came up, and shook his head.

  Dillon leaned against the jeep's wheel cowling, gazing round and tugging distractedly at his moustache. 'Law's been here for hours, nobody seems to know anything. Army's desperate to keep the Press out of it.'

  'He could be anywhere, Frank,' Jimmy said gloomily.

  Dillon nodded and sighed. He stepped up onto the running board, about to climb into the bucket seat when his eye fell on the old Dakota on its swathe of grass outside the Regimental Museum. Somebody was sitting under the shadow of the wing, hunched against one of the plane's fat rubber tyres which hid him from the main gate. Somebody in a DPM Denison smock and Red Beret.

  Dillon stepped down. He said quietly, 'Keep the MPs busy. I'm going over the fence. I've found him… he's by the Dakota.'

  Taffy squinted up into the sunshine, hearing the clatter of blades as a Lynx helicopter whirred across the blue sky and vanished beyond the flat rooftops of the barracks. Face caked with mud, hands filthy and scratched from the run, he felt bone-weary. Not just from lack of sleep, and the gruelling punishment of the Steeplechase, but weary deep inside. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wheel, the shrill whine of the Lynx's engine and thudding blades fading away in the distance.

  The sound reverberated inside Taffy's head, seemed to expand, become magnified into the thunderous roar of four mighty Hercules engines at full bore. Slipstream howled in the open doorway and swirled inside the C-130's cavernous interior, two rows of heavily-kitted men hanging onto the strops which attached the static lines to the cables running the length of the aircraft. Third man to go, Taffy's eyes were locked on the red light, waiting for the green. He experienced the familiar sensation of a nest of vipers writhing in his stomach. At the head of the line, first man to go, Dillon stood in the doorway, the wind rippling the flesh of his face in waves, eyes slitted against the blast.

  'Tell off for equipment – check!' shouted the despatcher. 'Stand by for green, Number One – check! Number Two – check! Number Three – check!'

  That was him. Shuffle forward. Left hand gripping the strop. Make sure the static line runs free. Other hand holding the container bag to his stomach. Ready for the despatcher's cuff on the shoulder, telling him to go. Taking a breath, preparing to scream out as you leap into space, 'One thousand… two thousand… three thousand… check canopy!'

  Here we go, boys. Showtime. Shit or bust.

  Tensing his entire body, Taffy got ready to jump, the roar of engines and howl of wind buffeting his eardrums.

  'Taff… Taffy…'

  Taffy opened his eyes to silence, sunshine, blue sky. A slight breeze rippling over the grass. 'You come for me, Frank?'

  'Yeah, me and a few of the lads.' Standing next to the propellor blade, Dillon edged forward, eyes smiling but wary. 'Don't want the wankers in blue takin' you in.'

  Taffy stared at the ground. 'I beat those new recruits,' he said with quiet pride. 'Not made of the same stuff today, are they? I went the whole course in me rubbers…' He indicated his heavy, rubber-soled boots, thick with mud and dried leaves.

  Dillon came a little closer. A muscle moved in his cheek. His throat was tight and dry, his eyes unnaturally bright, moist.

  'I couldn't make it in civvies, Frank,' Taffy said slowly, and gave a sad half-smile. 'Price of beer, that was the first thing that knocked me sideways.' His hand was gripping something, but Dillon couldn't see what. He edged nearer as Taffy said, his face stiff and tense, 'I didn't let the Regiment down, Frank.'

  'You never did, Taff.' Dillon saw it was his parade baton that Taffy was holding. He squatted on his haunches next to the big Welshman, elbows on his knees. 'Maybe it let you down,' he said.

  'Bloody stupid… I don't know what came over me.' Taffy choked down a sob, wiped his wet eyes with the back of his hand. 'If I'd have waited, I'd have been okay.'

  Dillon's fists involuntarily clenched as Taffy delved into his pocket, and Taffy looked at him with hurt, reproachful eyes.

  'It's over, Frank,' he said softly. 'I've no fight left in me.' He held up a grubby, folded envelope. 'Want to show you this, maybe you'd be interested.' He pulled out a letter for Dillon to see. 'There's work going, if you want it, cash in hand. Up in Scotland, on the salmon farms. They want blokes like us. You know, pro's to… to try and catch the poachers. You'd have to live rough, and you'd need…' his throat worked. 'Ammo, tents, night-lights -'

  A spasm raked through him, and his face suddenly crumpled. Dillon took the letter and put it in his pocket. He eased down on the grass, next to Taffy.

  'I just snapped, Frank. God forgive me. Is the kid dead?' Dillon put his arms around Taffy and hugged him hard. 'Will you take care of Mary? See she's taken care of? Poor Mary, all the time I was in Ireland, she waited for the knock on the door.'

  Dillon nodded. 'I'll see her.' The two men stood up, and Dillon looked him in the eyes. 'You were the best backup bloke I ever had, and that's what me and the lads are here for now.' He touched his shoulder. 'You know the score?' and then, 'Wait, just a minute,' adjusting Taffy's Red Beret the regulation two inches above the left eye. 'You all set?'

  Straightening his shoulders, baton tucked under his arm, Taffy took a deep breath. 'All set!'

  The cluster of uniformed police and three MPs at the gate turned as a body as Taffy marched towards them, arms swinging, back ramrod-straight. Chin up, his voice rang out in the best drill-square manner, 'Colour Sergeant Major David Davies reporting!'

  Ji
mmy, Steve and Cliff were lined up by the perimeter fence when Dillon joined them, as if presenting themselves for military inspection. Then all four watched as the open jeep came through the main gate, Taffy seated in the back between two MPs. And all four ex-members of the Parachute Regiment saluted as it went by, Taffy half-turning to give them a brief, farewell smile before snapping round, shoulders squared, eyes front.

  As the jeep went down the road they could hear him singing, his big Welsh voice roaring out:

  'Ten green bottles

  Hanging on the wall,

  And if one green bottle

  Should accidentally fall,

  There'd be nine green bottles

  Hanging on the wall…'

  STEVE HARRIS

  CHAPTER 15

  Dillon had not really paid any attention to the scrap of paper Taffy Davies had thrust into his hands, he didn't even recollect stuffing it into his pocket. The moment Taffy was arrested, seeing him from the back of the wagon as they took him away, turning, that one last time, as Dillon and the boys saluted him, was a moment Dillon would never forget. There was still that flash of pride on the Welshman's face, still that kind of 'take any bugger on, man!', his shoulders straight, his fists tensed, his chin out. But in his eyes hung the shadow of pain, the silent cry for help. There was no one who could give it to him, no one who could get him off a murder charge, or manslaughter with diminished responsibility tagged on the end of it. Taffy knew what he had done and would take his punishment. That was the shadow of pain, he knew, and asked for no pity, just forgiveness.