A Deniable Death

by Gerald Seymour

  A Deniable Death

  Gerald Seymour

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Gerald Seymour 2011

  The right of Gerald Seymour to be identified as the Author of the

  Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor

  be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than

  that in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any

  resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Epub ISBN 9781848949430

  Book ISBN 9781444705850

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  CONTENTS

  A Deniable Death

  Imprint Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  For Nick and Jacqui

  Prologue

  The bell began to toll, and Doug Bentley was one of the first to stiffen, straighten his back, and wipe the smile from his face. The sound always killed the quiet chuckles and murmured stories. The former lance corporal in the army’s Pay Corps had come to do a job, as had the friends around him. It was the forty-eighth time he had been to the town’s High Street in the previous eighteen months, and he had missed only a very few of the occasions when the tenor bell, cast in 1633, had been rung with the slow, sad beat that recognised the approach of death and its cortège.

  The town, its bell, the church of St Bartholomew and All Saints, and the High Street had become part of Doug Bentley’s life in that year and a half and, truth to tell, he wondered sometimes how he had found any purpose in his life, since retirement, before the opportunity had arisen to make the regular journey there. He knew all about the town: the coaching inns and the fine fossils that appeared in the mud springs, the unusual architecture of the town hall, built on columns more than four centuries before and donated to the community by an earl of Clarendon . . . He knew all of these historic points because the town was now central to his existence, and Beryl seemed not only to tolerate what he did but supported it. He needed her support each time they came on the number 12 bus from Swindon – no charge because they were senior citizens. This day, as on every day he came to the town, he had checked the varnish on the staff for his standard and satisfied himself there were no blemishes; he had renewed the blanco on the large gloves he wore until they were virgin-snow white; he had buffed his black shoes, shaved carefully, and put polish on the leather support for the bottom end of the staff. Beryl had pressed his grey slacks, ironed a shirt and inspected his tie; she had brushed dandruff flecks from his shoulders, picked fluff from his beret, and made certain that the bow of black ribbon that would top the staff was not crumpled. When the bus dropped them off, she would leave him to the company of his new veteran comrades, and he would not see her again until the ceremony was finished. The bell tolled and, as always at that moment, he felt his stomach tighten.

  Doug Bentley lived in a village to the east of Swindon. Beside the infant and junior school a squat brick building was home to a small community of the Royal British Legion. It could support the part-time services of a bar steward, and they had a committee that had met there, eighteen months before, and agreed that Doug Bentley, volunteer, should go to Wootton Bassett, on the far side of Swindon, to represent the branch at the next repatriation of a serviceman killed in action. The former Pay Corps lance corporal, a member of the armed forces for two years of National Service in which he had never been posted overseas and – of course – had never heard a shot fired in anger, had preened with pride at the award of this honour. That he had never been in action, or ‘up the sharp end’, in no way diminished, in his eyes, his right to be regarded as a veteran; he had done his time, done what was asked of him. He had the respect of his colleagues in the Legion and they’d chosen him. The same pride captivated him on this summer’s day as it had on the forty-seven previous times he had made the journey there with Beryl.

  He was in a line with around a dozen others. They represented the Royal British Legion branches of towns and villages as far away as Hungerford, Marlborough, Bath and Frome, and RAF Associations, Canal Zoners, one-time paratroops and . . . They formed their line just on the road, off the kerb, and crowds had gathered to press behind them. Doug Bentley thought there were more photographers and cameramen than usual. He would not have admitted it to a stranger, but he always watched the TV news on those evenings after he had returned home to see himself, and was always pleased when he went down later to the Legion if members remarked that they had seen him. They made a neat line, old men re-creating parade-ground disciplines. He could be a tough old goat, had earned his living as a long-distance haulage driver, but would admit – only to Beryl – that when the tenor bell tolled and the line was formed, his gut churned, and sometimes there was a smear of wet in his eyes.

  He had read of the one who was coming home. Aged eighteen years and four months, just accepted into a Guards regiment and killed by an explosion three days earlier in bloody Helmand Province, five weeks after arriving in Afghanistan. The family, friends and supporters were dribbling out of the Cross Keys public house and were crossing the road, weaving between the last traffic that the police would allow up and down the High Street before closing it. It was a good word that was used, repatriation, and he liked the thought of it for a fallen squaddie. The town, Wootton Bassett in Wiltshire, with a population of about ten thousand and nothing special to say for itself, represented – as the quiet fell from a sunlit blue sky – the mourning of a nation for a soldier who had given his young life that a greater number might walk in freedom and in peace . . . Well, that was what the tabloids printed.

  No more traffic now. The relatives, friends and supporters were in place, and some of the kids among them wore T-shirts with a picture of what seemed to be almost a child soldier with a smiling face and a battlefield helmet that was a size too large. They all had flowers and some had already started to weep. Every eye, and Doug Bentley’s, gazed left down the street, towards the raised town hall and the top of the hill, beyond the church and its bell tower, where the road came from the RAF base into which the coffin had been flown. He saw women in floral dresses, kids in jeans and sneakers, men standing straight and clutching shopping bags, the staff of shops, banks and coffee houses, and people with dogs that sat still and quiet at their sides. Early on, Doug had realised this was no place for generals, admirals, air marshals or senior politicians. The tabloids called it ‘the tribute of Middle England’.

  Three police motorcyclists led the convoy, coming at a crawl, heads appearing
first, then the fluorescent yellow of the shoulders and last the blue lights on their machines. The bell had stopped and the engines made a mere murmur, but the sobbing of one woman was clear. The motorcycles went on past Doug Bentley and the others, then a marked police car, but the hearse halted to the far side of the town hall and the funeral director climbed out of the front passenger seat. The local man who did the drill calls for Doug and the standard-bearer party gave the command and the dozen were raised, the tips dropped into the leather case that took their weight. He felt the sun full on him and a bead of sweat trickled down his cheek.

  The funeral director wore a top hat and a morning suit; he had a fine walking staff with a silver-topped handle. As he moved forward a woman opposite Doug Bentley seemed to contract in a convulsion of tears and a man beside her, who had pink knees below the hem of his shorts, rubbed her neck gently. As the funeral director reached them, top hat now carried, the command came – softly spoken – and the standards dipped. All those years before, as a lance corporal in the Pay Corps, he had loathed drill sergeants, had been clumsy and useless at the co-ordination required, but he could do this now. The hearse eased to a halt and Doug Bentley dropped his head, as if in prayer, but he could see, beyond the glass, the closely pinned Union flag over the new clean wood of the coffin. He often wondered what they looked like, inside the shrouds and below the lids: at peace and unmarked, or mangled beyond recognition . . . It was those bloody bombs that did for them: what the TV said were IEDs – improvised explosive devices. Eight out of every ten who were brought through the town on their way to the hospital in Oxford, where the post-mortems were done, had been killed by the tribesmen’s bombs. Doug Bentley didn’t know about war, and his military service as a conscript had been about ledgers, officers’ expenses and other ranks’ salaries, but men in the branch in his village, who had been in the paras or the marines, spoke of the bombs and what they did to a body. Just eighteen years old the guardsman had been, and the picture on the T-shirts showed a face that was immature, arms and legs that had most likely been skeleton thin, all ripped apart by a bomb.

  He saw the mother of the boy soldier, and the middle-aged man with her stood back a half-pace. He saw the father, with a woman in black behind him . . . It always struck him how few of the dead soldiers had parents who still lived together – he and Beryl had been together for forty-six years, had reared two kids and . . . Flowers, single roses, little posies of the season’s last daffodils and pretty sprays of chrysanthemums were being laid on the bonnet of the hearse, against the windscreen and on the roof. The grief was naked and raw. It hurt Doug Bentley to watch. Some of the family had laid their open hands on the glass sides as if in that way they might touch the body in the coffin.

  How long were they there? A little more than half a minute.

  The funeral director, who had faced the hearse, now swung round, as if he had been a military man in his time, and waved his stick dramatically. He had the top hat back on his head and started to walk forward, up the empty High Street. The hearse nudged along after him, a few of the flowers sliding into the road.

  The hearse left the relatives, friends and supporters clutching each other, wiping eyes and sniffling. It edged past old men who had brought out their medals for the day, the television satellite dishes, scanner vans and cherry-picker cranes. Another police car came behind it, a back-up hearse and a four-wheel drive for the Military Police. Some, he knew, had predicted that what they called ‘grief tourism’ would suffer from ‘fatigue’, that the crowds would dwindle – but they had been bloody wrong. The kid – the guardsman with a child’s face and a helmet too big for him – had been shown the same respect as any serviceman coming through six months and a year before.

  Up the High Street, the hearse again stopped briefly. The funeral director and the driver gathered up what flowers had not fallen away and laid them inside with due but brief reverence. Then the party drove at growing speed, with the motorcycle escort, down the road and towards the motorway.

  In the first minutes after the convoy had cleared the town, the standards were raised, then lowered, and the command was given for the old servicemen to fall out. A few words of conversation slipped between them but the appetite for jocularity and the recall of times past seemed spent. Hands were shaken and they moved off to start the journey home. The family and its party had returned to the room at the Cross Keys, where the management provided coffee and biscuits, but a few lingered outside to drag on cigarettes. Most of the crowd who had borne witness to the sacrifice of a young life in Helmand Province stood around on the pavements, as if unsure what should follow: pensioners, veterans, shop workers and the idly curious seemed reluctant to break the mood of pensive resignation and quiet . . . The traffic managed that. Petrol tankers, removal lorries, supermarket delivery trucks jostled to accelerate up and down the High Street. Doug furled his standard, collapsed the staff and threaded the parts into the canvas carrying bag. He said his goodbyes, almost stepped on a single red rose and went to look for Beryl.

  He went past a dry-cleaner’s, a bakery, a motor-accessories business, a fish bar, the Oriental Aroma, a picture-framer and a charity shop. He remembered what someone had said about IEDs – that the bombs were a new form of warfare, more deadly than anything the army had faced in the last half-century. He knew next to nothing about explosives, but could reflect on the T-shirts and the mother’s weeping. He thought that by standing in the road with his lowered standard he had played his part. And he knew he would not be able to do so much longer. They were planning to move the repatriations to Brize Norton. He dreaded that: much of the purpose of his life would be extinguished when the hearses and their escorts no longer came through Wootton Bassett. The mood of the town would never be recaptured at another location. He didn’t want to think about it.

  He searched for Beryl and couldn’t see her. She might be in the library, or in a bank, just window-shopping or— Damn near bumped into a woman on the pavement, tears streaming down her face. Quite pretty, she might have been in her early thirties. She had fluffy blonde hair in sort of curls and her mascara was smudged. She wore a scarlet skirt that Doug Bentley reckoned was some way short of decent and a white blouse that was not buttoned high. At her neck was a thin gold chain and a pendant that spelled out her name: Ellie. Ellie cried from her soul and gazed up the road where the hearse and its escort had gone.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’

  Just a choke, as if a sob was caught in her throat.

  ‘It’s these bloody bombs,’ he said. ‘The bloody bombs . . . Are you family, love?’

  She sniffed heavily.

  He produced a handkerchief, and she blew hard into it, then used it to wipe her face. She grimaced. ‘They’re all heartbreaking, love,’ he said. ‘I’m with the Royal British Legion, represent my branch. We’re here every time to show our respect . . . It’s a terrible loss to you and—’

  ‘I’m not family.’

  ‘Just came to give them solidarity. Most people do that and—’

  ‘They’re heroes, aren’t they?’

  ‘Serving Queen and country, making the ultimate sacrifice. Heroes? Yes.’

  ‘The bravest of the brave. Heroes, all of them.’

  Doug Bentley still couldn’t see Beryl. He didn’t know how to react to this woman’s grief. His wife wasn’t there to tell him, and he thought it was probably only five minutes now until the bus left. ‘Just take it one hour at a time, then one day at a time, then one week—’

  ‘They’re heroes and their families must be so proud of them.’

  He saw a broad wedding ring on her hand and with it a diamond-crested engagement ring, which looked expensive. ‘Are you from an army family, Ellie? Is that why you’re here?’

  She seemed to snort, as if the question invited derision. ‘Absolutely not – no heroes among my lot. His people must feel so honoured by him.’ She shrugged.

  He was confused now. ‘It’s none of my business, and I don’t want
to intrude, but did you come today to be with the boy’s family, show your support?’

  ‘No . . . God, no. I was filling up with petrol, at the Shell. The road was blocked and I wandered down. Seen it on the telly, of course, but it’s different when you’re . . . you know . . . I’m all right now. Thanks for your time.’

  She wandered away without a backward glance, and he realised Beryl was now close behind him. Ellie’s backside swung as she walked.

  They went for the bus, where already a good-sized queue waited. His wife told him he had been chatting up a bit of a tart. He said that one minute the woman had been in floods of tears and the next quite off-hand but jabbering about ‘heroes’.

  Beryl followed her with an eagle eye. ‘You know next to nothing about anything, Doug,’ she said. ‘Not that I’m holding that against you.’

  They walked together to the bus stop, her arm tucked in his.

  Chapter 1

  An unobtrusive man, he was noticed by few of the pedestrians who shared the steps with him that climbed to the pavements of Vauxhall Bridge in the November rain. He left behind him the cream and green walls and the darkened plate glass expanses of the building that those outside the disciplines of the Service called ‘Ceausescu Towers’ – the headquarters of MI6. He walked briskly. It was his job to move unseen and not to attract attention, even inside the Towers. Len Gibbons was known to few of those who passed through the security gates, morning and evening, alongside him, or shared the lift to and from the third floor where his desk, East 3-97/14, stood, or waited in the canteen lunch queue with him. The few who did know him, however, regarded this middle-grade manager as a ‘safe pair of hands’ and in the trade that was about as good an accolade as could be handed out. As a ‘safe pair of hands’, he was entitled to trust and responsibility and he had received both that afternoon at a meeting with the director general: no notes taken.