by Alan Judd
When Jeremy joined her, Michael Swavesy had still not reappeared. The year-old silver Range Rover, the most conspicuous vehicle in the estate, had to be his, she thought. He sounded like a Range Rover on the phone, grand and all-encompassing, assuring her as if she were a frightened little girl that he would be with her ‘Asap – that is, as soon as possible’.
She wasn’t reassured when he squeezed into the Corsa and she felt the springs go down. His palm was clammy. ‘Good to be back on the street again,’ he said. ‘So where’s our quarry?’
She told him.
‘Well, I can walk in there, can’t I?’
‘Not without a garage to go to. It would look odd. One of us might be able to walk past the turning but we wouldn’t necessarily be able to see which garage he’s using or what he’s doing.’
‘I can if I’m the local MP out canvassing.’
‘But you’re not.’
‘I am.’ His smile was surprisingly gentle. ‘Not quite my constituency but close enough to feign confusion. I’ve got some leaflets in the car. Always keep a few, just in case. I’ll walk round.’
She watched his bulky figure approach the tower blocks, survey them proprietorially, then disappear in the garage turning. He reappeared after a couple of minutes, still unhurried.
‘Did you see him?’ he asked. ‘The motorcyclist?’
‘That was him?’ A motorcyclist had emerged not long after Jeremy went in but she had been looking only for the white van.
He gave her the bike’s number. ‘His garage is number seventeen. His van’s in it. He’d done the change-over with the door closed, which is suspicious. I was walking past when he opened it to push his bike out. Slapped a leaflet on him which he didn’t want, of course, but he couldn’t say no. Then I stood in the way asking about local issues. He was obviously in a hurry, didn’t want to say anything. When I asked in a friendly way where he was off to he was stumped for a moment, then he said, ‘Battle, I go for rides in the country outside Battle.’ So I kept him a bit longer, talking about how lovely it is, then let him go. We’ve lost him now, of course, but we know where he’s heading and might be able to pick him up out there.’
They took both cars. Jeremy knew the lane but not the barn. At his suggestion they left his Range Rover at the Swan, where he and Charles had dined, and headed down towards the wooded declivities of Ashburnham.
‘First on the left,’ he said, then began telling her about his career.
The lane was narrower even than the one they’d left. ‘How far until it becomes unmetalled and there’s the track to the barn?’ she interrupted.
‘About a mile.’
‘But if that’s where he’s going we’d better not drive up there, had we? He’ll see us. We should park somewhere here and walk across country.’
Jeremy looked as if the thought of walking was uncongenial. ‘How would we know he’s there when we get there? We can hardly call out for him.’
She had to brake hard as they rounded a bend into a pack of bloodhounds that surged like a good-natured sea around the car, their ears flapping and jaws slobbering. One stood on its hind legs at the passenger door, its paws on the roof.
‘God!’ said Jeremy, leaning heavily on her. ‘I don’t like dogs, I’ve got a thing about dogs.’
A man on a tall grey horse shouted and cracked his whip at the hound, which immediately rejoined the pack as he edged his horse past them. Bringing up the rear was a woman on a bay horse.
‘Ask her if she’s seen a man on a motorbike,’ said Louise.
‘Not with all these dogs, I’m not getting out.’
‘How come you did all those things you say you did then?’
‘Not many dogs on the diplomatic circuit.’
The woman was helpful. Yes, they had seen a man on a motorbike, he’d almost come off when he saw the hounds. Luckily he wasn’t going very fast. They were crossing the lane in front of him then and he’d carried on up the track towards the farm. But he hadn’t gone to the farm, she knew that.
‘Where did he go?’
‘To the barn along the footpath. He’s parked round the back and gone inside. The doors are open. Can’t think what he’d be doing in there, he was quite alone so he’s obviously not doing what some people go there for.’ She laughed. ‘It’s open to the public, you see, it’s a very old barn, restored for local people to use, parties or picnics or bird-watching or whatever they want. Must get on, sorry.’ She edged her horse past the car.
‘How d’you know he’s in there?’ called Louise.
The woman pointed her riding crop at the hounds. ‘They told us. They always know where people go. We came back down past the barn and they milled around, pointing. It couldn’t have been anyone else because we’d have seen them come up. And his bike’s round the back. I might be wrong of course but they were definitely telling us there’s someone in there.’ She wheeled away. ‘Sorry. Bye.’
Louise got back in the car. ‘They stink, those hounds.’
‘I know.’
She rang Charles but there was no answer.
‘Where is he?’ asked Jeremy.
‘Somewhere near here, he said.’
Jeremy shook his head. ‘Communication was never Thoroughgood’s strong point.’
A text came through from Charles, telling her to communicate by that means. She told him what she’d heard. He told them to stay in the area but to keep well back, not to approach the barn. ‘We’d better find somewhere to park up,’ she said.
‘Anyone who sees us will think we’re a courting couple.’
She said nothing to that but drove on until they came to a wide gateway into woodland, with heaps of logs piled just inside. She reversed into it and switched off.
‘Unless I’m recognised, of course,’ Jeremy said. ‘That wouldn’t be so good.’
‘Not very likely here.’
‘Don’t suppose your husband would approve, either.’
‘Haven’t got a husband.’
She was aware of him glancing at her, so she took an interest in the nearest logs. She wouldn’t have minded if he’d been more attractive and a bit less obvious about it. Could be fun to have an MP, a change from the unlamented father of Tilly.
He turned to her with a solemn expression which she imagined was meant to convey understanding and sympathy. ‘Tell me about yourself, how you became a policewoman, life and everything.’
‘I was thinking we might take a discreet walk around to get the feel of the area, off the road and not too near the barn, of course. Just enough to direct the armed response unit when they come.’
Jeremy grunted as he released his seat belt. ‘Be more helpful if Thoroughgood could bring himself to tell the world where he is and what’s going on.’
They cut up through the woods parallel with the lane. It was heavy going at first, a mixture of bracken and brambles, but easier as they got farther into the wood. When they were parallel with the point where the lane turned down to the right and became unmetalled, while the track to the farm went straight on, she said, ‘The barn should be ahead and off to our left.’
Jeremy was breathing heavily. ‘May as well take a look as we’ve come this far.’
‘Not sure we should. Don’t want to alert him. Or get ourselves shot. He’s got form, this man.’
‘Useful to be able to tell the armed response unit how close they can get in vehicles.’
He had his good points. ‘As long as we’re careful, then.’
Still under tree cover, they made their way down a hill, across a boggy valley and up through a neglected strip of alder and willow. ‘That must be the field with the barn,’ she whispered, pointing to the green through the trees. ‘The footpath runs along the side of the wood in front of us. If we turn left we should come to the edge of the wood where we might be able to see it.’
They picked their way through a thicket of fallen trees and branches. She led while he grunted and wheezed behind her. Every so often she stopped to c
heck her phone and let him catch up. Eventually, after crossing a deep ditch and scrambling with too much noise up the other side, they crouched a few yards from the edge of the wood, within sight of the barn.
It was small and thatched as Charles had said, with black weather-boarding and brick steps up to the wide doors, which were open. It was too dark inside to see anything. On the grass outside was a round plastic table with two white plastic chairs facing a small grass-grown pond. About thirty yards down the overgrown slope to the side of the barn were the remains of an old brick building, a few small apple trees and three beehives.
‘What could he be doing in there?’ whispered Jeremy loudly.
She held up her hand to quieten him. ‘If it is him. He may not be alone. Maybe Tew and Mrs Thoroughgood are in there. It’s probably the place where Charles has got to meet them.’
‘But where is he? What the hell’s he doing?’
‘I’ll text to tell him what we can see. Then we’d better pull back.’
‘Better than that, stop what you’re doing and stand up, hands above your heads.’
The voice was behind them, low but with no attempt at concealment. ‘Now.’ The word was emphasised.
A spasm seized Louise’s shoulders at the first words and at the word ‘now’ the skin on her neck tightened. She felt Jeremy flinch beside her. He turned his head.
‘Do what I say and don’t look round or I’ll take your head off.’ It was louder and rougher this time. Jeremy obeyed. They got up awkwardly, hands above their heads. She was holding her phone and could think only of Tilly; whatever happened she must get back to Tilly, Tilly mustn’t be left motherless, she would agree to anything to make sure Tilly was all right. She could feel tears welling behind her eyes, almost as if it were Tilly being taken prisoner.
‘Walk towards the barn,’ the voice said. ‘Keep your hands up.’
It was difficult to get through the undergrowth and in the field, with their hands raised high, they stumbled on tussocks. When they reached the pond it occurred to her that he might be bluffing, might not have a gun at all. But she daren’t look round.
‘Stop.’
They stopped, facing the brick steps.
‘You – fatso – lie down where you are, face down.’
At least he hadn’t meant her. Jeremy knelt. With his hands above his head he had to roll half onto his side to get onto his belly. She had a glimpse of his face, which showed no hint of a message or even of recognition; he seemed wholly concentrated on manoeuvring his body.
‘Now you, go over to the table, turn and face me and empty your pockets. I want everything on the table.’
The man she saw was close enough to the photograph of Michael Swavesy: average height, forty-something, greying brown hair, jeans and trainers, a black biking jacket. He was not bluffing about the gun, a sawn-off shotgun pointing at her. Jeremy was on the ground between them. There wasn’t much to empty from her pockets as her handbag was in the car, just handkerchief, keys, purse and warrant card from the pockets of her gilet. Too late, she thought she should have kept the warrant card back. He told her to lie down beside Jeremy, then walked over and examined what she’d left.
‘Copper, eh?’ he said, smiling. ‘Let’s have a look at your boyfriend. Come on, fatso.’ Jeremy got awkwardly to his feet and went to the table. His sports jacket and cavalry twills seemed to have many pockets, with something in each.
When he had finished he stood facing their captor, his podgy hands hanging limp. ‘You should know that I am a member of parliament. You’ll see my Palace of Westminster pass here.’
‘Are you now.’ The voice was flat. ‘Get back down with your girlfriend. Any funny business and they’ll be calling a by-election.’
Louise lay with her head facing away from Jeremy, the grass damp on her cheek. She could see Swavesy at the table again, facing them, the gun in his right hand and resting on his thigh while with his left he picked through their belongings. He took a mobile from his bike jacket, put it on the table and pressed once with his left forefinger. He picked it up and after a pause said quietly, ‘You’re breaking up. You must be down there, are you? Yeah, that’s better. We got two visitors, lying down before me. Not very innocent visitors. One’s a bitch copper, the other’s a fat-slob member of parliament. They look like friends of your friend, the one you’re meeting, both got notes of his name and number. What do you want me to do with them?’
Louise tried to think of any bargaining chips she could conceivably hold, threats she could credibly make. Perhaps she should break down and weep, throw herself on his mercy, tell him about Tilly. Perhaps Jeremy was planning something. She could hear his breathing beside her, like an unwanted intimacy. Perhaps she could persuade him to offer himself instead of her. But if Swavesy were to kill either he would need to kill both.
Michael Swavesy chuckled into the phone. ‘Could – yeah – could do that. Wouldn’t say no. Depends what your plans are now – does this alter anything?’ There was another pause, and then, ‘Sure. Will do. Give me twenty minutes.’
She could say she wanted to go to the loo and escape while doing it. But maybe he’d make her do it in front of him and Jeremy.
‘Okay, ten,’ Swavesy said into the phone.
19
‘Stop. Stay where you are.’
The voice was clear, somewhere behind and to his left. Charles lowered the Winchester into the ferns, straightened and put his hands on his head. He hadn’t been told to do that but it might put Peter – assuming it was Peter – at his ease.
He could hear movement in the brambles behind, a large clump occupying much of the clearing. According to his map and his phone, this was as close as he could get to the site of Peter’s last transmission. The clearing was almost on a ridge in the wood and when he entered it he could see across to where the barn must be, shielded by trees bordering its field. He had planned to surprise Peter in his lair.
He stood waiting but heard no more. Hands still on his head, he turned, very slowly.
‘Don’t move,’ said the voice. There was no-one. But there was movement in the brambles downhill to his right. The voice said something he couldn’t catch, then quietly but still clearly, ‘You’ll have to do them both, get rid of them … No, quicker, ten minutes, they must be on to us. Then pull out and go home.’
He recognised Peter’s voice after all this time but Peter wasn’t talking to him. He took a chance and lowered his arms. There was no response. He stooped to pick up the rifle but as he did so found himself staring into Peter’s face at about waist height in the brambles. Charles froze, his knees still bent, the rifle not yet to hand. Peter was quicker. He pushed himself free of the brambles and straightened up, pistol in hand.
‘Stay where you are,’ he said loudly, half turning his head to speak behind him.
There was a log just by Charles. He lowered himself onto it, keeping his hands at shoulder height. He was closer to the rifle now, which Peter, downhill of him, could not have seen in the ferns at his feet. He crossed his legs and then slowly lowered his hands and hooked his arms around his knees as if for a chat by a camp-fire. ‘Hello, Peter.’
‘All right, come out now. Slowly,’ said Peter.
The brambles rustled and shook. Sarah crawled out, awkwardly, head down because of the handcuffs. She did not see Charles until she straightened, still kneeling.
‘Over there, where I can see you.’ Peter pointed to a spot in the bracken between him and Charles.
Sarah bent again and crawled forward, using her forearms. She knelt upright and faced Charles. She looked pale and tired, a strand of hair had fallen in front of her face and she had to raise both hands to move it. She tried a smile. Charles tried one back. Neither spoke. She was all right, that was what mattered. So far.
‘Turn and face me,’ said Peter. She inched round on her knees. Peter looked back at Charles. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Come to do a deal with you, I thought.’
�
�I told you to go to the barn. How did you find out about this place?’
‘Your Russian friends told me. They’d worked it out.’
‘Why should they tell you?’
‘They want you back. We did a deal. They’re offering you a home.’
‘If I give myself up, you mean? Come quietly with you, back into the British justice system, so-called. Very likely. You’ll have to do better than that, Charles.’
It was, and was not, the Peter he knew. He was gaunt, unshaven, older, with a pallor, but it was his manner that had most changed. The younger Peter’s charm and flexibility, his desire to please and accommodate, had been worn down by prison and age – also perhaps by illness – to a spare and hardened core, like the remnants of a broken jetty.
‘Why are you doing this, Peter?’
‘You know why. You don’t need to ask.’
‘First Viktor, then Frank, now me. That’s it, I assume? Or is there anyone else?’ It would take a fraction of a second for Peter to pull that trigger; he had to engage him, keep him talking.
‘I can’t wipe out the whole Service, or a whole governmental culture. You’ll have to do.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Sarah, her voice sharp in the stillness. ‘You don’t have to do anything of the sort. There’s no point. Better do nothing at all.’
Charles kept his eyes on the squat black pistol. The barrel’s small mouth was unwavering.
‘Why now, Peter?’ he asked gently. ‘Is it only because you’re ill?’
‘Always did your homework, didn’t you? Knew that already? Thoroughly good Thoroughgood.’ He nodded. ‘I haven’t got long so it’s now or never.’
‘But what’s the point? You can’t undo the past.’
‘I can tie a knot in it, staunch it, that’s the point. It’s all I’ve thought about for years now. Every day. You have no idea what that’s like.’
‘Because you think we let you down?’
‘Because you betrayed me. You, Matthew, Frank, Viktor, the Service, the government, the Americans, everyone. I cooperated because I believed I was saving Igor. But once you’d got what you wanted you told the Americans and they told the world and the Russians did what they did to him.’
