The Long Kill

by Reginald Hill

  ‘And when will that be?’

  He drew her down towards him once more.

  ‘We’ll have to see,’ he said.

  This time after he entered her, he paused, and looked down at her once more flushed and eager face, and said softly, ‘You are Anya Wilson.’

  But this assertion of identity was turned against him like a knife when she smiled up at him and murmured, ‘And you are Jay Hutton.’

  This time his orgasm felt like an act of betrayal as well as an act of love.

  Chapter 23

  Next morning he was awoken by the rattle of wind in the old sash window of his bedroom. Summer had gone again. The sky was a shifting patchwork of greys, and round the beeches in the garden swirls of bright leaves were dancing a mournful morris. He stood by the window and watched them and felt his thoughts scatter around his mind as drily and as pointlessly.

  Last night it had been different. They had not shared a bed. Anya did not trust his assertion that he could wake up at any time he ordained, and she feared an early visit from Jimmy. But they had lain on the hearth till the logs crumbled to fluffy ashes. No promises were asked and none were spoken, but promises had been made in every touch and breath and silence, promises which he now knew he’d had no right to make. Last night, everything had seemed possible. He could tell her the truth, and she would listen, amazed, as Desdemona had listened to Othello, interrupting now and then with gasps of vicarious terror at his perils and sighs of vicarious suffering at his pains. Or he could keep silent and become Jay Hutton permanently. What was identity? A stamp on a passport. Harry Collins, that boy he had been in Saigon, was a stranger, totally alien now except in this turbulence of the heart.

  Either way, confessing or silent, he had felt utterly confident of waking this morning and finding that the tooth-fairy had visited him in the night and left a solution under his pillow.

  Now he stood and watched the death-dance of the leaves and knew that there was only one solution, or rather only one faint hope of solution. Adam’s death had in reality changed nothing. He had to talk to Jacob.

  He should have done this much earlier, of course. But there had been uncertainties then which he had allowed to dull his judgement. He had let himself hope that Bryant’s death would cease to be necessary; and he had even flattered himself that his own expertise could protect the man. Now he knew that the target directive remained unchanged, and he admitted that in the long run, no single man, however expert, could protect that target against Jacob’s forces.

  So now he must parley, must attempt to persuade Jacob to abort. Why the hell was Bryant targeted anyway? What was the man supposed to have done? He was a simple country solicitor, half retired; what could he have done? There must have been a mistake …

  With a groan he acknowledged the pathetic futility of this line of thought. At least to himself he must be completely honest. The best he could reasonably hope for from a discussion with Jacob was a reassurance, in acknowledgement of his own long, loyal and efficient service, that Anya and the boy would in no way be endangered by the removal of Bryant.

  And Adam’s body lay between him and even that basic assurance.

  He suddenly found himself wishing with an irresistible and passionate intensity that Bryant’s crash on Kirkstone Pass had been fatal. It would have passed as an accident and even the question mark above it in his own mind would soon have faded with the passage of time.

  ‘Are you hoping to impress a passing milkmaid or something?’

  He turned. Anya, fully clothed, had come unheard into his room and was smiling at him, genuinely amused to find him standing naked at the window. She showed no sign whatsoever of embarrassment and he loved her for it. Once she had given herself, there was clearly no retreat to a position of pseudo-modesty. She had caressed just about every part of his body with every part of hers and was not going to step back from that intimacy now.

  He likewise resisted the impulse to reach for his bathrobe or, even more absurdly, cover himself with his hand. Instead he went towards her and, pulling her close, kissed her fiercely.

  ‘Good morning,’ she gasped.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Jimmy’s gone to school. I stopped him from disturbing you – I thought you might need your rest – but pappy’s rattling around the bathroom now, and despite his new agility when climbing upstairs I’d still prefer to have you ready to catch him as he comes down. He’s got to go back to the hospital this morning for a check-up and I’d like him to show some sign of improvement.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘It’s a pity though.’

  She broke loose, stepped back and glanced down at the inevitable result of their passionate embrace.

  ‘You may still have time if you hurry,’ she said. ‘For a cold shower, I mean.’

  Laughing, she evaded his grab and went out.

  Breakfast despite Jaysmith’s inner sombreness was a gay meal. Anya was alight with a happiness which shone out in her simplest movements and most everyday speech. Bryant observed, guessed the cause, and showed his own pleasure in a kind of sly avuncularity, full of verbal winks and nudges which might have amused Jaysmith in another place, another time. He felt it necessary to volunteer to take Bryant for his hospital appointment but was relieved when Anya firmly insisted that she was taking him, even though this meant squeezing him into the Fiat.

  ‘I want to hear what they’ve got to say for myself,’ she said. ‘Otherwise I’ll just get a load of nonsense. Come on, pappy. We’d better be on our way. We don’t want to be late.’

  ‘Don’t we? It’s a pity those quacks never return the compliment,’ grumbled Bryant. ‘Jay, be warned. You see what a fat tyrant lurks beneath that skinny exterior. Anya, why don’t you let Jay drive us there in his nice comfortable car? That way you can have your cake and eat it.’

  Anya glanced at Jaysmith who said, ‘Well, to tell the truth, I’d rather thought I’d go into Keswick and do some shopping. Also I ought to call in to check one or two things with Mr Grose.’

  They both looked disappointed and after he had helped Bryant into the Fiat, Anya walked back to the front door with him.

  ‘Jay, I hope pappy’s not bothering you,’ she said.

  ‘No. Why should he be?’

  ‘He’s got sharp eyes,’ she said, ‘and he’s obviously guessed about us. All this unsubtle innuendo can be a bit wearing. It’s not really his style somehow. I think it must be some atavistic Polish family thing! I’m sorry.’

  ‘Honestly, it doesn’t bother me. If it means he approves, I’m delighted.’

  ‘There is something to approve of, isn’t there, Jay?’ she asked, holding his gaze with her own clear unblinking eyes.

  ‘You’d better believe it,’ he said.

  After they’d gone, he went out to the BMW. He could have telephoned from the house now it was empty, but somehow he felt uneasy at the thought of dialling that number on Anya’s phone. Besides, he had another reason for wanting to visit Keswick. He wanted to check on Adam.

  By contrast with the tourist bustle of the previous morning, the cold, wind-funnelled streets were almost empty this morning. There were still quite a lot of cars in the main car park, but the yellow mini was not among them.

  He went into the Royal Oak Hotel on the main street and sat in the lounge and ordered a pot of coffee. While it was coming he went to the public telephone and dialled the London number.

  There was no ringing tone, only a single high-pitched note.

  He tried again. The same, so he dialled the operator and asked him to try. After a few moments the man said, ‘I’m afraid that number is out of service, sir. If you’ll tell me who you’re trying to ring, I’ll check if there’s another number listed for them.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Jaysmith and replaced the receiver.

  He returned to his table and sat down, ignoring the coffee which the waiter placed before him. When he finally got round to pouring himself a cup, he found it had gone quite cold. />
  As he drove back to Naddle Foot he was still assessing the implications of the cancelled number. Normal procedure when a key operative retired? Coincidence? Or was it a deliberate cutting of his line of communication with Jacob? This last would mean they knew of his involvement. If they knew that and were not interested in making contact, then the obvious decision must have been taken – to target him also.

  Why not? His protection of Bryant, his killing of Adam, could mean only one thing in their eyes – that he had gone over to the side of Bryant’s masters, whoever they were.

  He pulled into the side of the road and watched the traffic go by. There was no suspicious slowing of any vehicle or turning of heads as they passed. Why should there be? There was no need to tail him; if they knew of his existence, they knew he was staying at Naddle Foot.

  He started the car again and drove on.

  As he travelled up the drive to the house, all looked still, but his perception was refined by suspicion and in the rear-view mirror as he parked before the front door, he thought he saw a shift in the light-catching planes of a huge hollybush at the edge of the garden. He got out of the car, ran lightly up the steps, opened the front door and stepped inside. Pausing only to switch off the alarm system, he went straight through the kitchen and out of the rear door. His hand was on the HK P9 inside the windcheater he was wearing.

  This is getting to be a habit, he thought, as he crouched low along the back of the house. He doubted this time if he’d find anything as interesting as therapeutic fellatio going on. Probably the shifting of leaves was caused merely by a couple of blackbirds foraging for berries.

  But as he entered the line of shrubbery which ran alongside the house and began to make his way towards the front garden with great stealth, he saw he had been wrong. Through the screen of leaves and branches ahead he could make out a more solid area, vague at first, but now, like the significant shades in a colour-blindness test, emerging to form the shape of a man.

  Drawing the gun, Jaysmith advanced. Despite all his efforts at silence, the dead leaves of autumn betrayed him as the live leaves of the evergreen had betrayed the watcher. Alerted by the telltale rustle, the man turned, saw him, and turned to run.

  ‘Stop!’ yelled Jaysmith, bringing the gun up to the two-handed aim position.

  Whether the fugitive would have surrendered, or whether he himself would have opened fire, he didn’t find out. The man’s foot skidded on the dew-glossed grass and he crashed down onto his knees, flinging his hands forward to prevent himself from measuring his length on the lawn.

  ‘Hold it there!’ commanded Jaysmith. ‘Don’t move a muscle!’

  His choice of phrase was rather clichéd, he had to admit. But he was surprised at its effect, or rather lack of it.

  The man, who was wearing an expensive dark-grey Crombie and a matching Homburg which had slipped over his forehead as he fell, stood up, adjusting his hat and brushing at his knees.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Mr Wainwright,’ he said wearily, ‘neither of us is going to harm the other, so why not put that thing away?’

  Jaysmith found himself looking into the face of the man he had met once before and knew as Anton Ford.

  Chapter 24

  Anton Ford’s attitude puzzled Jaysmith but he did not let himself be lulled by it. With the barrel of the gun firmly pressed against the top of Ford’s spine, he ran his free hand over, then under, the grey coat but found no weapon.

  ‘Right, let’s go inside,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be glad to. This damp grass isn’t doing my shoes any good.’

  The shoes, which looked custom-made, had been designed for elegance rather than athletics and were showing the strain. As at their first encounter, Jaysmith was surprised by the contrast between the uncompromising physicality of the man’s appearance and the fashionable expensiveness of his clothing. The contrast was further stressed inside the house when, without waiting for instruction, Ford removed his overcoat to reveal a dark-blue mohair suit on which some expert tailor had lavished his considerable skills to minimize the inelegant brawn it had to cover. They were in the lounge and, tossing his coat over the back of the sofa, Ford sat down and examined his knees.

  ‘Grass stains,’ he said. ‘That’s meths, isn’t it? But I’d better not meddle. You only make things worse when you meddle, don’t you? I’ll let the dry cleaner sort it out.’

  Jaysmith had put the gun away, but left the safety off. He now sat down also, a safe distance away, and said, ‘What are you doing here, Mr Ford?’

  He kept his voice harsh and aggressive, the tone of an interrogator who knows most of the answers and will not shy away from any degree of persuasion to get the rest. But in truth he was bewildered. Ford’s clothing and lack of armament did not chime with his being here as one of Jacob’s firm. And what was it the man had called him – Wainwright? That was the name he’d given when he first met the man in Manchester, true. But why was he using it now?

  ‘I suppose I could say I was looking for a house to buy,’ said Ford, his weathered boxer’s face creasing momentarily into a smile. ‘But that’s never very convincing, is it?’

  He seemed perfectly at his ease, but Jaysmith’s sharp eyes caught the fingers of his right hand plucking rhythmically at the gold identity bracelet round his left wrist and this sign of underlying nervousness reassured him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he repeated.

  The mask dropped suddenly; it was after all no more effective a cover of Ford’s real state of mind than all this expensive tailoring was of his brawny physique.

  ‘What the hell do you imagine I’m doing here?’ he demanded. ‘I had to find out for myself, didn’t I? I mean, I can’t believe it, that’s the top and bottom of it. I know that someone’s said that about every traitor ever unmasked, but the fact remains, it’s true, and I can’t, not till he tells me himself!’

  Jaysmith kept his face a blank as his mind raced to fit together the implications of this.

  ‘I don’t see why it should be such a trouble to you,’ he said sceptically.

  ‘You don’t see?’ growled Ford, his skin flushing a pinkish red which clashed unpleasantly with his carefully coiffured ginger hair. ‘What the hell sort of man are you? It’s me who’s going to have to tell Ota, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ota?’ said Jaysmith. ‘And why should that bother you?’

  Ford looked both angry and amazed.

  ‘Why should it bother me?’ he demanded. ‘You mean it wouldn’t bother you to have to tell your own sister that the man she’s in love with has sold out everything she ever believed in?’

  His sister! He cast his mind back to the mini-biog Ford had so readily offered him on their first encounter. His elder sister (Urszula, wasn’t it?) had gone back to Poland with his father, married, had five children, was widowed. And Urszula was Ota! No wonder Ford had been ready to bear messages for her and probably to her as well.

  Yet there had to be more.

  He said cautiously, ‘Doesn’t the evidence speak for itself?’

  ‘Evidence? You mean Tusar’s arrest? That was always on the cards. The man was a drunk. Every UBEK agent in Krakow must have heard him shooting his mouth off about the government at some time or other. As for Lomnicki …’

  He paused. Jaysmith prompted him, saying in a sneering voice, ‘Yes, go on. And how did they know enough to arrest Lomnicki?’

  He knew he’d made a mistake instantly. Ford looked at him in puzzlement.

  ‘Arrest? Why do you say arrest when you know they shot him down in cold blood?’

  Jaysmith tried to carry it off by assuming an expression of cynical superiority implying a closer acquaintance with the facts than the other could hope for, but Ford was not impressed.

  Half rising, he demanded, ‘Who the hell are you, Wainwright?’

  ‘Sit down!’ commanded Jaysmith, producing the pistol again. Slowly Ford subsided before the weapon. Jaysmith thought of using its threat to force everything he co
uld from the man, but a new degree of hardness in that bruiser’s face suggested that this might not work, or at best would require a very long and ultimately bloody session.

  With a sigh he eased the gun back into his pocket.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘You’re right. I don’t understand half of what you’re telling me. But I’d be very grateful if you’d explain. What about a whisky? I’m sure Stefan wouldn’t object.’

  He rose and went to get the drink.

  The ease with which he found the bottle and the glasses seemed to relax Ford even more than the disappearance of the gun, but there was still suspicion in his voice as he said, ‘If you’re not one of Jacob’s men, who are you? You’re not with the others, are you?’

  His voice rose in alarm.

  Jaysmith handed him a glass of whisky and smiled.

  ‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘If I were UBEK or KGB, I’d know all about Lomnicki, wouldn’t I? No, I’m a friend of Bryant’s. Sorry, let me correct that. I’m a friend of Anya’s. A close friend.’

  ‘Of Stefan’s daughter?’

  ‘That’s right. You know her?’

  ‘I have never met her,’ said Ford, frowning. ‘I have only been here a couple of times before and then she was married and living elsewhere.’

  ‘Didn’t Bryant talk about her?’

  ‘Very little. To tell the truth, he talked little about himself in England when we met.’

  ‘Yet you feel you know him well enough to be convinced he is innocent.’

  Ford’s face darkened. ‘I know my sister, Mr Wainwright, if that is your name.’

  Jaysmith ignored this and said, ‘Mr Ford, let me put my cards on the table. I’m in love with Anya. By chance I discovered that her father was in danger and that it seemed to have something to do with his visits to Poland. I got your name and address from the covering note with some letters you forwarded. I was, I still am, eager to protect Bryant, for his daughter’s sake more than his own, I freely admit. Please will you tell me what you can to help me help him. I am no one’s man, but I am not without influence.’