Madrigal

by John Gardner

  ‘Okay, Monty.’

  *

  The security guard was not as stupid as he looked. He knew a top priority pass when he saw one. He also knew Mostyn, by face and reputation. ‘Special Branch, huh!’ His fingers trembled as he dialled the number. Ringing tone. A voice.

  ‘Manchester City Police.’

  ‘CID, please. Inspector Bannister. Hello. Willie Daw—William Dawson, Manchester Dock Security, sir. Something strange. Special Security posing as Special Branch. Can you get over?...Ten minutes?...Good....Thank you, sir.’

  Telephone lines hummed.

  ‘Hello, Regional Crime Squad? Bannister, Manchester CID. Call from the Docks. Special Security posing as MI6. Think it’s up your street.... At the Docks in twenty minutes?...Right.’

  ‘Regional Crime Squad here, sir. Chief Inspector Shot. I understand you’re the Northern Co-ordinator for the Department of Special Security....What?...Disbanded....Well, with respect, sir, they can’t have been, they’re at the Manchester Docks now....Yes, sir....Yes....You’ll bring a squad of Military Police?...Very good, sir...Thank you...Beg your pardon?...Yes, I’ll alert the Railways Police as well...Certainly, sir.’

  Boysie glanced at his Navitimer: 2.35. The Docks were quiet, except for the odd lighterman wandering lonely in Coventry or concern. The tea break was in session. The sky clear blue and the air spring-chilled, a thin mist hugging the ground giving the atmosphere an extra-terrestrial feel. Great cranes loomed out of the earth. Dead. Waiting for the current to recharge their metal muscles. Giant piles of wood lay waiting in the immense Timber Dispersal Area to the right. The huge owl-hoot of ships, a lapping of water, the scream of seagulls—every sight and sound amplified in the still air. Death. For a place usually bustling with activity it was uncannily quiet. Somewhere, a million miles away, a train rattled over an obscure viaduct. At that moment Boysie knew he was alone.

  Mostyn strutted impudently, enjoying himself. He heard the distant train as well. A similar reaction. Enjoyment turned to fear and a complete comprehension of the situation. He ran back across the lines, squeezed between two railway flat-top cars, and joined Boysie. ‘Sweet FA over there.’ Assurance slipping.

  ‘Didn’t think there would be, did you?’ Boysie was on thin ice.

  At the same moment they spotted Warbler trying to climb into a mechanical grab. Why? They looked around. Only one ship tied up on this pier. Boysie squinted. The name? MV Garden?? MV Gardnia, flying a Panamanian flag.

  There was no gangway on the ship and the ropes had been cast off. Realisation.

  ‘Mostyn. Warbler—he’s trying to get to that ship. Three guesses who’s operating the crane.’ Boysie started to run. ‘You take Warbler. I’ll get Gazpacho.’

  Mostyn ran, uncertain for a moment about taking the orders of an underling. Fifteen seconds and he scrambled over the side of the grab.

  Boysie was at the foot of the ladder leading to the crane’s cab. He started to climb. Instantly the fear of heights became an engulfing problem. Vivid recollections of the tower at Ruhleben. Up. The air clear, the wind vicious—eating at his bones, numbing his fingers. Mustn’t slip. Must hold on. Get the bastard. Good incentive to climb. Get the rotten filthy bastard.

  He reached the first stage and paused to regain breath. Vibrations. The crane was moving, the grab being hoisted. Boysie glanced down at the ship, turbulence foamed from the propellers. Christ, Warbler and Gazpacho knew, they were trying to make a break for it. The Gardnia’s smart white motor cutter still lay alongside the dock—for himself and Madrigal, Boysie presumed. Without thinking further, Boysie raced up the next two flights. Now he was at cabin level. Gazpacho inside, desperately operating the controls. Boysie slid the door open.

  Mostyn thought of Liberation Day. Paris 1944. There had been two men then. Now there was only one at the metal monster. Twenty-three years since he had made a fist intended to smash a man’s face to pulp. The bottom of the grab was coated with variegated shades of mire, remnants of cargo handling through the years. A foul smell, iron and shit, as he slid into the basin and Warbler’s foot caught him in the guts. Mostyn doubled up. But before Warbler could get both feet back on the metal he lost his balance on the grab’s curved base. Mostyn leaped in and swung the full force of his buffalo-hide shoe at Warbler’s temple. The aim was wrong. Mostyn’s sole and heel only grazed the top of the General’s head. Still, it hurt. The scream echoed round the iron chamber pot.

  Mostyn threw himself on top of Warbler, hands groping for the scrawny neck. Must remember. In-fighting is like riding a bicycle or swimming. You never forget. Warbler’s knee came up in the direction of Mostyn’s crotch. GRIMOBO’s Director had visions of Mostyn the Impotent. No performance tonight due to circumstances beyond our control. He rolled to one side, and the knee whipped through empty air. Leap. Knee in Warbler’s stomach now. Hard. Hard. Harder. Trying to push his guts out. Must get leverage. The little man below him was making grunting, retching noises. Mostyn reached up. A chain dangled from the grab’s side. Metal links greasy in his fingers. Mostyn grasped the chain and pulled. The bottom of the grab began to open. Warbler slipped and started to scream, then recovered with half of his leg dangling through the gap. Mostyn let go of the chain and the heavy sides of the grab sprang closed again, crushing into Warbler’s leg.

  Pinned between the iron jaws, Warbler lashed out—helpless, hysterical, blind mad with fear and pain. He clawed hopelessly at the slimey sides of the grab, then at the visible part of his crushed leg. Without warning the grab tipped sideways. Mostyn’s arms shot upwards; he was sliding out of the metal bowl. Another lurch, and he reached out to snatch and cling to the big hook that secured the grab to the chains and pulleys of the crane. Below, there was an audible crack and shriek as Warbler’s leg broke. Then only a soft whimpering.

  Mostyn crooked one arm round the hook and made himself as comfortable as possible. Warbler’s leg caused a permanent gap in the bottom of the grab; through it Mostyn could see a continually changing angle of water, railway lines, ant-like people, and toy boats. Unpleasant. What the hell was Boysie up to? He looked towards the crane’s control cab.

  Boysie had got the first punch—a straight kidney with the edge of his hand. Winded, Gazpacho fell across the controls. They reacted immediately, and Boysie saw the grab rise. Gazpacho spun round to face Boysie, the air thick with perspiration and heavy oil. Panting. Moving. Circling. No words. Kill or be killed.

  Gazpacho’s foot came up with a straight kick. Boysie spun the driver’s revolving seat, and the boot meant for his groin, ripped the leather covering away. The cab began to revolve, a mild sensation of centrifugal force acting on both men. Boysie made a lunge at Gazpacho’s left wrist in a vain attempt to pull down and unbalance the man; but he underestimated Gazpacho’s strength. The treacherous American flexed his arm like a bull-whip. Boysie was thrown back against the cabin wall—the partition that separated them from the drive mechanism. The connecting door burst open, making the motor’s monotonous drone louder. Boysie saw the grab still rising and tilting. Must get to those controls. The two men circled the driver’s chair like a couple of hungry animals after the same morsel of food.

  The revolving motion of the cabin was an added disadvantage. Strains of the ‘Carousel Waltz’ filled Boysie’s ears. Musical bloody chairs. Boysie was now circling towards the controls. He could see the names. Luffing Lever. What the hell is that? Boysie snatched at it. The grab began to swing dangerously towards the cab. Gazpacho was behind him now. Hands at the base of his neck. A sleeper hold. Speed Control. The words blurred as Boysie pushed the lever to On Full.

  The grab swung violently. Gazpacho’s hold was stronger. Get him off. Boysie forced back, hard and fast, with his elbows into the sides of Gazpacho’s stomach. The hands on his neck relaxed, and Boysie, in a last attempt to take over the crane, heaved on the control marked Hoist Lever. The swing, of the grab became more acute, and the whole structure of the crane began to shudder. Terror. Prophetic pictures of news
headlines about CRANE DISASTER AT MANCHESTER DOCKS.

  Boysie whirled round, wrenching Gazpacho with him. the man clung on. Boysie felt his back hit the rear of the cab; he brought his knee up between their close chests and kicked out. Gazpacho slid away from him, then spun and bumped, sickeningly, gut first, into the Hoist Lever. Boysie looked up to see the grab on a downward swing heading directly for the cabin, Gazpacho sprawled over the control panel. Boysie made a dash for the sliding doorway and slid down the first ladder as the metal grab, with Warbler’s leg jutting beneath, battered into the cabin through the window, sending Gazpacho into the machinery room. There was the crunching noise of shattering glass and twisting metal, and the grab swung away once more. Boysie climbed the short ladder, back into the cabin, and dashed for the controls. He pushed the Hoist Lever into the On Down position.

  The grab, still swinging, dropped, reached its apogee, then slowly returned to embed itself into the main metal trellis of superstructure. Boysie saw the jaws of the grab open as the metal basin hit. There was no scream, just the tiny broken body of Warbler dropping, dropping, dropping to the concrete and bouncing off into the water. Mostyn, shaken but triumphant, clung to the big iron hook. Unexpected the crane shuddered again and the motor stopped. Somebody must have pulled the switch on them.

  Boysie wiped his forehead with his right sleeve. There was no sign of Gazpacho. No trace until he got to the motor room. Nausea, vomit, and horror, which made Boysie run for the metal steps. Gazpacho had been thrown back, by the grab’s impact, into the motor room. Nobody had pulled the main switch. Gazpacho had been drawn into the giant driving cog wheels. The crane had stopped through a, now pulped, bodily malfunction.

  Far below, Mostyn, still shaking, was gingerly easing himself from the hook on to the superstructure and second stage of the crane. Boysie joined him. Neither spoke. They were too busy staring at the main gate.

  Way below them three black Wolseleys, two Black Marias, and three olive-drab Land Rovers were parked in convoy near the Renta-Hernia Vauxhall. There was no sign of Griffin; he had quietly allowed himself to slide to the floor of the Vauxhall and continued reading in peace. But police, uniformed and plain-clothed, bumped shoulders with troops around the Docks. They seemed to be searching without any idea of their quarry. An ant hill without order.

  ‘How did that lot get into the act?’ asked Boysie. ‘Who are they anyway?’ asked Mostyn.

  They looked at each other, back to the swarm of police and military, and then at each other again, shrugged and started to climb down. A whistle sounded, long and shrill, as they reached the first stage.

  ‘I have a feeling,’ said Mostyn, ‘that we should look lively. Tea break’s over and here come the workers.’

  The pair descended, to mingle with the shuffle of men who were now filling the Dock area. As they passed into the crowd Boysie heard the cry of an outraged docker. ‘’Kme. Who’s buggered me crane?’

  ‘It was I,’ muttered Boysie under his breath, quickening his walk.

  As they threaded through the confusion, Mostyn turned to Boysie. ‘You don’t possibly think all those policemen and soldiers could be looking for us, do you, old darling?’

  ‘Damn clever these Chinese,’ replied Boysie.

  They climbed into the car, and Griffin, braver now his partners -had returned, slid up again. ‘There ain’t ’arf been some runnin’ round ’ere while yer bin gone,’ he offered.

  Mostyn took the wheel this time, giving a kind of regal wave as the Vauxhall swept under the archway into Trafford Road. ‘Be in good time for Madrigal,’ he said.

  ‘Gloves on, and I think we’d better wipe down the weaponry. Don’t wanna leave no dabs around.’ Griffin put down his book and rummaged busily in the briefcase.

  ‘Want to wipe myself down first,’ Boysie was dusting off traces of the fight.

  ‘Griffin, old lad’—Mostyn completely his former self—‘I do wish you’d stop using that terrible criminal slang. Very unprofessional. Calling dabs dabs. If you mean fingerprints, then say fingerprints. Dabs is a sloppy word. They don’t encourage its use at the Yard.’

  Griffin made some improbable suggestions as to what the Yard could do. Boysie had pulled the sun visor down and was neatly combing his hair in the vanity mirror. Griffin sniffed the air and looked towards Mostyn.

  ‘You don’t ’arf need a change of clothes. Don’t ’arf pong.’ he observed.

  Mostyn did not take his eyes off the road. ‘I am quite aware that I stink to high heaven. So would you if you’d been rolling around with a Chinese agent in a metal bowl half full of manure.’

  ‘Kinky wiv it,’ said Griffin, polishing his Python with a Persiled handkerchief.

  Boysie did the same, keeping his handkerchief round the revolver’s butt. A pair of soft suede gloves landed in his lap, thrown from the briefcase by Griffin.

  ‘Is all this really necessary?’ Looking at Mostyn.

  ‘You’ll get a better grip with suede,’ was Mostyn’s only answer.

  They pulled up a good two hundred yards short of Madrigal’s apartment building. It was well after three o’clock.

  ‘Yer’d betta go first,’ said Griffin. ‘It’s safer we don’t go in together. I’ll foller yer in a minute. Just wait for me at the lift.’

  ‘You got everything?’ asked Mostyn.

  ‘I think so.’ Boysie checked—Python revolver, gloves, transceiver. He got out of the car. ‘You bring the briefcase, won’t you?’ to Griffin in the back.

  ‘I got tha’ all right. No problem.’

  ‘Good luck, Boysie boy. You wanted to get him. So get him.’ Mostyn scruffy in the front of the car.

  It was cold in the hall of the building. The lift had been left at one of the upper stages. Boysie slipped his right hand into a glove, pressed the Descent button, and lit a cigarette. The lift had hardly arrived before Griffin, jaunty and businesslike, arrived with the briefcase.

  ‘Yer won’t forget anythin’, will yer, Mr. O?’

  ‘Everyone thinks I’m a right nit,’ said Boysie, Understandably edgy.

  ‘No offence meant, but yer performance up there, up in Madrigal’s place, it counts a lot.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know? I’ll give the performance of a lifetime. At the first mention of death I’ll go as rigid as a—’

  ‘Yer. That’s wha’ I means really. Do i’ proper.’ He paused for a thought. ‘You’ll be all right wiv ’im. Go’ no doubt about tha’. It’s when yer gets into tha’ control room. No second thoughts or anythin’. We can rejig i’ now if yer wants. I can do the whole thing.’

  ‘I’ll get Madrigal. One way or another.’ A silence between them. Then Griffin opened the lift gate.

  ‘Yer’ve reely growed up, ain’t yer, Mr. Oakes? Joined the big league.’

  ‘As far as people like Madrigal are concerned, yes.’

  ‘Good boy.’

  The lift slowly whirred upwards. As they neared the sixth floor Griffin spoke again. ‘Don’t forget now. Apartment 64. Stairs are on yer left, and when yer gets up t’ the tenth, the control room steps are on the righ’ of the lift. And, Mr. Oakes...?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t forget t’ switch yer transceiver on.’

  ‘I won’t forget anything,’ said Boysie, grinding his half-smoked cigarette into the lift’s floor.

  ‘Naughty,’ remonstrated Griffin, reaching forward with a gloved hand and scraping the fag end from the floor. ‘This’ll be a Crime Squad job, surprisin’ wha’ they might find out, even from a bit o’ cast away snout.’

  They nodded to each other as Boysie hauled back the gate and stepped out on to the sixth floor. As he walked up the corridor he could hear the lift going on up to the tenth floor with Griffin. It would only be a matter of minutes now until the safety cable would be useless, clipped apart by the big wire shears in Griffin’s briefcase.

  Madrigal opened the door, beaming. He was older than one would have imagined. Close up the crow’s-feet lines around th
e eyes gave him away.

  *

  ‘M-my dear Mr. Oldcorn. You’ve come for your session. I’m so glad you could make it.’

  The small hallway was deceptive. Madrigal led Boysie through the main room, large, high, and dim. The curtains were drawn, the only light coming from an angle-poised lamp, which showed a partly completed game of patience on the green baize table. Through the gloom Boysie could make out two doors, One to the kitchen and bathroom area, he thought, the other to a bedroom.

  ‘We-we’d b-better get started straight away I think,’ stammered Madrigal, picking up the patience cards.

  ‘All right by me.’ Boysie doing his best to imitate bewilderment. After all, he was not under hypnosis and had not the glimmer of an idea what it was all about or why he was there. Madrigal was at his elbow, placing a chair to one side of the table.

  ‘You si-sit here.’

  Boysie sat uncomfortable. The green baize reminded him of the tables he had been called upon to erect for village whist drives as a child. The Colt Python felt heavy in the waistband of his trousers. Madrigal appeared at the other side of the table, sitting opposite, a pack of oblong blue-backed cards between his slim hands.

  ‘I think we’ll st-start by giving you a Tarot reading. The Major Arcana. You are familiar?’

  ‘Not really.’ Boysie had no compass bearings on this situation.

  ‘W-w-well, there’s nothing difficult.’ He threw some of the cards, face upwards, on to the table, bizarre, coloured drawings, each card with a Roman numeral at the top and the title at the bottom. Boysie glimpsed Le Diable—a devil, wings and horns, standing above a naked man and woman leashed by their necks; Temperance—a chubby lady with blue hair and wings pouring something from a blue pitcher into a red one; and L’Hermite —an elderly gent carrying lamp and staff, looking as though he’d walked straight out of a Royal Shakespeare Company production. Madrigal gathered the cards and handed them to Boysie.

  ‘W-will you shuffle, p-please, then pass the cards back to me.’