by Nick Stone
‘I take it you were out there?’ I said.
‘I was, yeah,’ he said. ‘Forget what you think you know about Rhodesia, what liberal-peddled lies you’ve swallowed as truth. There was no right and wrong in that conflict, no good guys and bad guys. They were both right, and every bit as bad as each other. Just look at what’s happened there since. Who’s worse? Mugabe or Ian Smith?’
‘What were you doing?’
‘I’ve led what boring people call an “interesting and colourful life”,’ he said.
I knew he wasn’t going to cough up any more details.
‘And what’s this got to do with Vernon James?’
‘When Rhodesia turned into Zimbabwe, the Wingroves moved to South Africa, and then they came here in 1984. Oliver got a job at the South African Embassy. Security. His wife went into catering. When apartheid ended and Mandela was elected, there was a change of staff at the Embassy. The Wingroves stayed in London,’ he said. ‘Now, do you know what I mean by the Truth and Reconciliation Commission?’
‘Yes. It was a public inquest into the apartheid regime, that happened during Mandela’s presidency.’
‘It wasn’t all public. Some hearings were done in secret. The sensitive stuff. Don’t forget that South Africa was a front in the Cold War. The CIA were out there. So were MI5, Mossad, you name it. Then there were the Commies on the other side. Russians and Cubans.
‘A few of the former South African secret police bigwigs agreed to testify in exchange for immunity. They had a hell of a story to tell.
‘One of them turned over these classified lists and files to the Commission. Dossiers on the old regime’s opponents. All anti-apartheid activists. Nothing out of the ordinary there. All governments keep files on people they don’t like. But these weren’t South African activists. They were Europeans and Americans. And they were all dead.
‘Someone high up in the old regime had authorised a death squad to take out their opposition abroad. Not the high-profile set, the public faces, the celebrity mouthpieces, but the people behind them. The wealthy backers, the accountants, the lawyers, the journalists. The death squad was called Die Blanke Spoke – ‘The White Ghosts’.
‘The Ghosts had a simple mandate. Search and destroy. But it could never look like murder. Too obvious.
‘The Commission’s supergrass spilled the names of the White Ghosts. One of them was Oliver Wingrove.’
‘Did he get extradited?’
‘No. Our government said there wasn’t enough proof.’
There was a row of houseboats in front of us, all beached now that the tide had gone out. On one, the bow had been transformed into a mini-garden, complete with a bench.
‘What’s this got to do with Vernon James?’ I repeated.
‘Fuck all, probably,’ he said. ‘Oliver Wingrove died of cancer in 2001.’
‘So why d’you bring me out here?’
‘It’s a theory you could use.’
‘A theory?’ I said, tetchily. ‘As in: Vernon James was set up by a bunch of – what? – apartheid-era assassins, who may or may not have even existed. And they used the Silver Service Agency as a front to infiltrate the hotel? Is that what you’re saying?’
He didn’t reply, or look at me.
‘You’re billing me for this bollocks, aren’t you?’
‘Something isn’t right about Silver Service.’
‘Really? You know I checked them out, right?’ I said. ‘They’re totally legit. They’re a limited listed company. They’ve being going sixteen years. They supply practically every four- and five-star hotel in London with staff. They’ve got a solid reputation. Just because the owner said something to you that provoked a guilt trip about your fucked-up marriage doesn’t mean she was involved in this. And these White Ghosts of yours? They’d be in their fifties and sixties now. A bunch of middle-aged men getting old.’
‘It was just a theory, Terry,’ Swayne said, wearily.
‘You got me out here on a bank holiday to tell me that. Were you bored?’
‘Were you?’ he asked.
‘I’m not paying for this crap, all right? It’s probably not even Beverley Wingrove in the poster.’
He didn’t reply. The light was starting to fade and the sky was taking on the hue of raging flames. People were coming back from the street party, swaying and singing, some still wearing masks.
I got up to go, angry as hell.
‘Shame about David Stratten, eh?’ Swayne said.
‘What about him?’
‘Didn’t you hear?’
‘No?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘When?’
‘Couple of days ago. It was in the Standard.’
That stunned me. I suddenly saw him again. Dodgy Dave who’d been ripped off by dodgier people impersonating tax officers.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘They’re not sure if it was suicide or an accident. He was pissed as a fart and jumped or fell in front of a Tube train in Tufnell Park in the afternoon.’
‘Poor sod,’ I said. I sort of meant it. What a horrible way to go.
‘There is one small problem,’ Swayne said.
‘What?’
‘Dave didn’t drink.’
I got home four hours later. It was dark. The kids were up, watching TV with Karen. I popped my head around the door and said hello, sheepishly. Ray looked at the floor, Amy smiled and Karen stared right at the screen, furious. They were watching the news, replaying the crowd cheering outside Buckingham Palace. I guess that was when William had kissed Kate.
I knew there’d be hell to pay for shooting off the way I had this afternoon.
I went to the bedroom to get changed. Karen came in moments later.
She always tried her best to give me the silent treatment, but she could never stay quiet long enough to pull it off. She wasn’t a natural hoarder of hurts. She liked to clear the air immediately, settle things and move on. The complete opposite of me, in other words.
‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked.
‘Work,’ I said.
‘You’re on holiday, Terry.’
‘Something came up.’
I’d left Swayne and wandered over Battersea Bridge.
Cheyne Walk was close by. I’d gone down to VJ and Melissa’s house. I stood outside the gate and thought about ringing the bell. If she answered I would say I was in the neighbourhood and thought I’d drop by and see how she was doing. Or something like that. My index finger hovered over the buzzer, trembling. It felt like the first step to adultery. Then a car pulled up at the house next door, and two little blond boys bounced out. I remembered it was the school holidays and realised Melissa’s kids might be home. It would be awkward, meeting those little VJ-ettes. I’d start imagining how our kids might have looked, the ones Melissa and I might have had if…
So I’d moved on, headed into Chelsea, drifted aimlessly; up King’s Road to Sloane Square, back down King’s Road to the redbrick high-rise estate called World’s End, where Joe Strummer had written London Calling while looking down at the river he lived by.
I’d thought about what Swayne had told me. Although it seemed like complete rubbish at the time, he was utterly serious about it. No snideness in his tone, no smirk. He could have been putting me on, but I didn’t think so.
And, of course, I thought about David Stratten too. Was his death a murder, like Swayne seemed to have implied? He’d been robbed the day he was going to give Ahmad Sihl information for VJ. Some people would call that a coincidence. Others would call it a conspiracy.
I’d found an internet café and looked up Oliver Wingrove. There were only a few scraps of information about him, which I printed off and brought back.
But first there was Karen to get past.
‘I don’t know what’s going on with you, Terry, but I don’t like it,’ she was saying. ‘Ever since you started working on this case, I’ve been seeing this whole side of you I never knew existed. If you’d shown it sooner, I�
�d have run a mile.’
This was unexpected.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You’re turning into a stranger, you know that? You’re shutting me out, shutting us out. You don’t tell me anything. You barely talk as it is. You come home and say three words if you say that much. Ray says you don’t even come in and see him any more after work.’
I hadn’t realised. Yeah, I’d been coming home late. The kids would be getting ready for bed or already fast asleep. And when I got home in time for dinner, my head was on the case. It was always on the case.
But what was I supposed to do? Share all that stuff with them at the dinner table? About how I was helping a man who may or may not have murdered a young woman? Or explain what my job actually consisted of? The hours of phone calls, the interviews where I’d impersonated a cop, the day I’d spent finding out about Evelyn Bates’s sad life? Besides, it was illegal to discuss a case with an outside party. Not that that ever stopped anyone.
Karen was spoiling for a fight I wanted to avoid.
‘This’ll be over soon,’ I said. ‘When the verdict’s in, I’m still quitting. That hasn’t changed.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not acting like someone who’s quitting.’
‘How am I acting?’
‘Have you been looking for another job?’
‘No.’
‘Have you updated your CV?’
‘No.’
‘Course you haven’t,’ she said. ‘’Cause you’re not coming to the end of anything. You’re in the middle, you’re in deep – and you like it. You’re like a pig in shit.’
OK. She had me. Like was the wrong word. But I was enjoying the job – and I’d loved it on Tuesday, playing a big part in that court win. It was the first time in a good long while I’d taken pride in something I’d done. Not since school, in fact.
I hadn’t told her about the bonus Kopf gave me. I hadn’t even told her what happened in court. It would’ve confirmed what she suspected – that I really didn’t want to leave. And I didn’t. I was getting a taste for the law, getting to like it. I could even see myself doing it for a living.
Kopf had sent out ambiguous signals yesterday. Why give someone a ‘very friendly warning’ – and a bonus – if you’re planning to fire them? All he had to do was keep quiet and then use my infringements to justify getting rid of me.
What if they intended to offer me the paralegal’s job and the degree – except I resigned before they got round to it?
‘Have you got anything to say, Terry?’ Karen said.
Here was the thing. Although I was genuinely sorry I’d been neglecting them all, I couldn’t just come out and say so yet. Karen and I didn’t argue all that often, once or twice a year, if that. Yet when we fought, there were rules of engagement. Ours were simple. Karen had to have her say, make and score her points, and then leave the room with a dramatic slam of the door. That was the way things worked. That was our balance.
So I couldn’t apologise before she’d done that because, to her, it wouldn’t be sincere. She’d think I was trying to avoid a tongue-lashing, duck a conflict altogether or – worst of all – stop her from saying what she had to say.
She’d said she was feeling shut out, so I had to let her in a little way.
‘This case is getting to me, you’re right. I can’t help it. Given the circumstances. It’s brought things back, dredged up things I never thought I’d have to face.’
‘Like what?’
‘It’s made me see things in a different light. A harsher light.’
‘What things?’
‘Myself, mostly,’ I said. ‘I had opportunities once, and I never took them, never made the most of what was right in front of me, on a plate. It’s like I took a wrong turn a long time ago, and just kept going.’
‘A wrong turn?’ She frowned. ‘Does that “wrong turn” include us? The family you made along the way – the daughter you brought into this world, the son who loves you? Does that include me?’
Talk about putting your big fat foot in it.
‘No… of course not, Karen. I… I didn’t mean that.’
She took a couple of steps back, her face furious and pained, her eyes shining with tears.
‘Everyone means what they say, Terry. They just don’t mean to be understood so fucking clearly!’
‘I’m sorry, Karen, I —’
She left, slamming the door.
In the spare room, I looked over the stuff I’d got on Oliver Wingrove.
There were several short reports on the failed attempt to extradite him from Britain in 1997. No reasons were given for the extradition. Wingrove’s lawyer had issued a statement saying his client had been a South African Embassy employee in London from the mid-1980s, and denied any wrongdoing.
The other pieces dated back to the early 1960s. Wingrove had been in the Rhodesian police when the country was still under British rule. He’d been in charge of an investigation into the suspected kidnapping of a farmer called Michael Zengeni.
Zengeni was a British citizen. In November 1961, he’d been due to visit his family in Britain, but disappeared on his way to the airport.
A month later his body was found in the back of his Land Rover. He’d been shot. The remains were too badly decomposed for identification, but Zengeni’s passport and plane ticket were found at the scene.
In 1962, Wingrove appeared at an inquest into the kidnapping in London. The very short article had the only photograph I’d found of Wingrove – a big, dark-haired man with a full beard. He was shown arriving at the inquest with his wife, Beverley. She was wearing a raincoat, headscarf and wraparound sunglasses. She’d been very attractive then, like a young Britt Ekland.
I compared that photograph with the one Swayne had put through my door. Despite its poor quality, I could see the woman holding the gun was definitely not Beverley Wingrove.
What was Swayne playing at?
50
Tuesday morning. The holiday was over. Back to work.
I was relieved. Things had been tense in the house all weekend. Karen sparing with her conversation, the kids surly – especially Ray. I’d stayed away from the case, and done my best not to think about it; put the family first. I took the kids out to Battersea Park on Sunday, and then for pizza. Karen didn’t come, told me she had work to do. Yeah, right.
I went to the kitchen, put a pot of coffee on and started making my sandwiches.
I was buttering a roll when the phone went. Not my mobile, the landline.
I dashed out and grabbed it.
Janet.
‘We’re in serious trouble,’ she said.
‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘I’ll tell you on the way to Belmarsh.’
VJ knew something was wrong as soon as he saw us. Janet and Redpath were there with me, but I was the only one looking at him. Janet had her head down over the stack of papers she’d brought with her, and Redpath, who was facing me, didn’t turn round.
‘We’ve had new disclosure from the prosecution,’ Janet said.
‘I thought we’d passed the cut-off date,’ VJ said, frowning.
‘Technically, yes. Practically, there’s no such thing,’ she said. She slid across a couple of sheets of paper. ‘First, your toxicology report.’
She let him read it.
He took off his glasses and brought the paper up close to his face.
‘Flunitrazepam…’ he muttered. ‘That’s —’
‘Yes, Rohypnol,’ Janet said.
He put the paper down, smiling.
‘What did I tell you? I was set up. I was drugged. This helps the case, surely?’
‘It might have done.’
‘What do you mean? Evelyn Bates had Rohypnol in her body. If I’d really killed her, I wouldn’t have taken the same stuff I’d used on her, right?’
‘That’s one way of looking at it,’
Janet said.
He stared at her, then at me, then Redpath; his smile fading as he passed from each of us.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked.
She pushed more papers his way.
I watched him, watched his expression change as he read, his eyes tracking back and forth along the lines. Confusion, trepidation, consternation and, finally, fear. His eyes widened. He started blinking and breathing deeply through his nose, making a sound like dry leaves being stuffed into a plastic bag. That was a variation of how I’d reacted, reading the very same thing on the train. Except I’d also been disgusted. Sickened.
‘Well?’ she asked, when he’d finished.
‘What is this?’
‘You tell me.’
He went back through the pages. He separated the colour photographs that came clipped to every other page and set them out in a row before him.
‘There are no names here,’ he said. ‘Witness A, Witness B, Witness C, Witness D… Who are they?’
‘That’s called Special Measures. Witnesses are granted anonymity in certain circumstances, sexual offence cases being one of them,’ she said.
Now he was confused again – or acting that way. Still studying the pages, looking at the photos, shaking his head, frowning.
‘When did you get this?’ he asked.
‘Carnavale biked it over to me yesterday afternoon. You know what this means in terms of the trial?’
‘No,’ he said.
What was he doing? Had he turned stupid in here, or was he too shocked to tee up another few lies?
Janet laid it out for him:
What it meant was this – the prosecution had its motive back; all the motive it needed, and then some.
Welcome back to square one.
Of the three laptops the police had taken from VJ’s office, two had been for work, the other for play – if you can call what he did for kicks ‘play’.
‘Do you know the surest and safest way to delete something on a computer?’ Janet said. ‘You smash it up, take out the hard drive and throw it in the river. What you don’t do is press “Delete” and “Empty trash”. That just takes something away and buries it – in your machine.’
‘The police found the pictures?’ he said, quietly, almost whispering.
