by Daniel Kemp
“He wouldn't take the chance, H. You had no direct connection to the bank. He knew it all started there.”
“Did you know about the connection between the FO back in 2003? About David Kelly, and the man you refer to as cretin?”
“No, I most certainly did not.” Why wouldn't she turn? With a heavy heart, I asked my final question.
“Tell me about Peter Trimble. How did he make you into the monster that I fell in love with?”
Chapter Forty-Five: The Lifeless Winter Garden
“In the beginning, when I was young, he was simply a family friend, that's all. One who told amazing stories and recited poetry. Most of all I liked him because he let me paint his finger and toenails, and put make-up on him without being asleep. I had done it once on my grandfather when he had dozed off one Sunday afternoon, and although he laughed about it, it wasn't as much fun as doing it to Peter. He enjoyed it. I was ten in that photo, not the eleven you guessed at, and he was thirty-five. He still had his fingers and toes painted, you know, when that photograph of him was taken. Peter was a laugh, a joy to be around for a ten-year-old.” We were seated now as far apart as it was possible to be in my office and I had shown her the damming evidence of association.
“His father died a year after Maudlin, and his mother a few months after that. He admired his father but was always a bit secretive about Ceran, his mother. Much later he confessed to me that he had arranged her death, and he told me why. I was in his confidence, you see, and he had me spellbound. You're right about the adoption, of course, and I could tell you why the papers couldn't be backdated. It was simple, really. There had been a census done in 1952, and the following year was the first opportunity for Sir Raymond Trimble to register the birth. Peter did worry about that, but didn't think that it was so important that it would catch him out. He's Russian by birth, Harry, born in Stalingrad. He carries his heritage like a sickness that can never be cured; that's why he wanted Paulo, then George. It took so long because he never knew that Tanya was pregnant in 1956, I never put it all together until I'd killed Elliot.” Still she would not look directly at me, preferring the window where still she sought peace.
“Peter dropped the Willis and Howell thing on that Russian, Alexi Vasilyev, gave them up to flush Paulo out. They had worked it together. Vasilyev's boss was an old adversary of Paulo's, apparently, and half-suspected him of being an English agent, but Paulo was too powerful and too clever. Peter admired him…he told me so. It was Trimble who recruited me, straight after Tony died in Afghanistan in 2001. I didn't need much selling. I hated the British way of things, with the double standards for those in power, and the lies that flowed every time they opened their mouths. I wanted to get my own back, and to get revenge for Tony. Peter gave me that chance. I don't know if there is any substance in what you hinted about the other Tony; the cretin, I'm not sure that you do either, but I do hope that someone takes up the challenge.” Her voice had dulled and weakened as her fingers trembled holding on to one cigarette after another. I had nothing to say that would take away any of our sorrows.
“It was Peter who put me up to Hendon for the driving bit, then through a SAS course for self-defence…only it was never about self-defence It was for taking lives, not saving them. I learned about disguise and how to pose as a man, as you so rightly suspected. I have the figure, don't I. I even danced with Edward the night Peter signed me in as his guest, and Edward never noticed. My name, the one I used that Tuesday, the night before I met you, was Rufus Abbot. I thought I wouldn't forget that. That name will be in the book at the club. Elliot was easier, of course. I followed him out of Queen Anne's Gate, just to make sure, but we knew where he lived whereas with Edward, we didn't. Peter wanted Paulo's source as well as Paulo himself, and then, when I gave him Tanya he said he could die a happy man. I'm dead as well; aren't I?”
She stopped and at last turned from the window. “I'm so sorry, Harry.” Then she burst into tears.
* * *
The weather had been kind and fitting for the funeral, apparently suiting the majority of those who attended who, like Joseph, preferred a dark and sombre day for burials. Now, after dinner, the heavens opened again as if washing away the memory of the day; as Sir David Haig had tried to do, when I asked him what would happen now. He made no mention of Peter Trimble when I had given him Judith, and the only response to my question was, “It really is better not to ask, Harry. Somethings are best left alone.”
He relieved the Paterson family of their obligation regarding the Bank of St George, conjuring a diplomatic answer to the problem from his hatless head. “Obviously there's no reflection implied on yourself, Harry. God knows where we would all be without your astuteness. But Annie's is no more. It's been taken on board by the National Audit, and it's all in their hands now. I expect that's a relief for you. You are numero uno in our books, Harry. You have only to ask, and it will be given.”
I settled all family affairs at dinner that evening explaining as fully as I could, why George and Tanya were there and why Judith was not. I ended the wild stories Maudlin had perpetuated regarding George and the Northcliffe family, then resolved my worries over everyone at Eton Square. I gave the house to George and Tanya to live in together as they might have been able to do, if only Maudlin had been more prudent in matters of love. One other thing I privately decided to do and that was not to investigate George and our genealogical relationship. He was my friend and I was his. I wasn't going to confuse that by labels.
As for myself…well, I concluded that not always do you gain something when you win, and by that I don't mean just the collection of medals and trophies. I had lost something in winning and saving two lives; but the victory tasted sour, as if I had cheated by playing outside of the rules. I had allowed a part of me, my heart, to control whatever brain I had, which was something I had never been guilty of before. Judith was wrong about me being clever. I was anything but. If I had taken more care in my investigation and not been sidetracked by affection, then maybe I could have saved Edward, and if I had been more forthcoming with the police when Elliot had first suspected something amiss at the bank, then possibly my father would still be here for me to dislike.
Despite the protestations from George and Tanya and petitions from the others, I found sleep readily that night, with only self-pity as company. I had nobody to paint my nails or tease me before sleep and dreams overtook my sense of right and wrong and, although it shamed me, I missed her. If the God we had all prayed to earlier had read my thoughts, then I was indeed a condemned man because I wanted her back and beside me. Paulo's cynical, but accurate, description of the lack of love was right for this Paterson. If only I had taken notice of his words before!
I dreamt heavily that night overdosed on regrets. In my dream I was beside a lake, pointing out the oversized fish to Judith, when a telephone rang. I ran around in circles until I found it, nailed to a tree. As I picked up the receiver both Maudlin and Paulo appeared standing in front of me, but neither spoke. On Maudlin's shoulder was a dead dove, and Paulo was indicating the ground at my feet, where lay an empty nest. The next thing I knew I was emptying the lake with a plastic bowl. The water had turned red and the fish were all dead and I didn't know why. I looked for Judith everywhere…behind trees, under bushes, even in the water. Diving in three times and swimming with a fin attached to my feet to find her. Eventually, I did. She was kneeling on a stony shore, staring blankly at a wall in front of herself. She never spoke, despite my shouting. It was my screams that woke me.
I have never had that dream explained to me, never having a Mrs Meadows to analyse it and never sharing it with anyone else. But it must have meant something, as I have had it several times since. I wish it would go away and just leave the part where we are together beside the lake. I have never seen her or Peter Trimble again, and unlike Maudlin, I have still to find love.
THE LITTLE DOVE
By Ivan Dmitriev, 1760-1837
The little dove, with hea
rt of sadness,
In silent pain sighs night and day;
What now can wake that heart to gladness?
His mate beloved, so far away.
He coos no more with soft caresses,
No more his millet sought by him,
The dove, his lonesome state distresses,
With tears his swimming eye balls dim.
From twig to twig, now skips the lover,
Filling the grove with accents kind,
On all sides roams the harmless rover,
Hoping his little friend to find.
Ah vain that hope his grief is tasting,
Fate seems to scorn his faithful love,
And imperceptibly is wasting
Wasting away that little dove.
At length upon the grass he throws him,
Hid in his wing and beak and wept
There ceased his sorrows to pursue him
The little dove forever slept.
THE END
About the Author
Danny Kemp, ex-London police officer, mini-cab business owner, pub tenant and licensed London taxi driver, never planned to be a writer, but after his first novel —The Desolate Garden — was under a paid option to become a $30 million film for five years until distribution became an insurmountable problem for the production company what else could he do?
Nowadays he is a prolific storyteller, and although it’s true to say that he mainly concentrates on what he knows most about; murders laced by the intrigue involving spies, his diverse experience of life shows in the short stories he compiles both for adults and children.
He is the recipient of rave reviews from a prestigious Manhattan publication, been described as —the new Graham Green — by a managerial employee of Waterstones Books, for whom he did a countrywide tour of signing events, and he has appeared on ‘live’ nationwide television.
http://www-thedesolategarden-com.co.uk/
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