‘Very good sir. I’ve got half an hour before I have to get High Table organised.’
Jacot fetched a newly opened bottle of Veuve Clicquot and poured two glasses.
Jones laughed. ‘Do you remember that we would bring Veuve Clicquot to your room in Germany? Five pounds a bottle in those days.’
They talked of this and that – regimental gossip, the lives and achievements or otherwise of those they had served with both in the Falklands and the Rhine Army. Their opinions on most people seemed to coincide and both were appalled that one of their least favourite creatures had gone on to become a general.
Jones said ‘Total charisma bypass as I remember but became a top general. No discernible personality at all most of the time. Nasty piece of back-stabbing work and not much good down South either.’
The glint in Jones’s eye reminded Jacot that Jones held unforgiving views about on those he felt were not up to scratch. He had been on glittering form during the Falklands and selected highlights emerged from deep inside Jacot’s memory. His summing up of Mrs Thatcher after one of her sub-Churchillian orations broadcast by the BBC World Service was a Swiftian masterpiece of character assassination. His views on the Americans and US Secretary of State Al Haig’s efforts to broker a deal with the Argentine military junta were unprintable. It was as if the United States of America, far from being the shining beacon on a hill of post war legend, was responsible for most of the ills of the world. But Sergeant Jones reserved his real slashing hatred for the BBC World Service.
As they sailed south on the QE2, the 50,000 tonne Cunard liner more used to cruising the Caribbean, initially Jones’ mood had been genial. Like everyone else in the regiment he wanted to go to war. People had been returning from all over the world in an effort to go south. It didn’t seem to matter whether you were flying a desk in Hong Kong or trudging the streets of West Belfast undercover with raincoat and revolver, everyone wanted to be part of it. But as he listened each night to the BBC’s take on the Falklands crisis, sitting on his backpack and sipping sweet tea, Jones’ mood darkened. He could not understand that the BBC, in whatever guise, appeared to treat the British task force in the same way as it treated our opponents. The tone of the newscasters was neutral. The progress of Her Majesty’s armed forces was described and then the activities of the occupying forces of the fascist Argentine junta were described. It sounded like the commentary on a particularly dull football match with the commentators entirely indifferent to the eventual outcome. Jones was appalled and cursed them in colourful terms. It was more than soldiers’ black humour. It was a revolt by a rough but simple spirit against what he saw as treason. Jacot could not explain it to him. He was as puzzled as Jones himself.
‘Worse than the IRA. At least they don’t want to be British. It’s as if these bastards actually don’t mind if the Argies win.’ And then Jones would crack obscene jokes about the imagined and highly irregular sexual proclivities of the various newscasters he had seen on television back home. But as the voyage South continued he stopped cursing them in English. The offence was too great. He reverted to his native Welsh which Jacot did not understand. The curses and expletives were so strong that they seemed to shock the Welsh-speaking guardsmen. Everyone knows that Welsh is a good language to love or sing in. It is also good for hating – Jones invoked the curses of the Druids, apparently learned at his mother’s breast – in thunderous contempt for what we had allowed our world to become. It was simple for Sergeant Jones and indeed for everyone except the BBC – the Falklanders were kith and kin. Jones was particularly offended that he had to pay the licence fee to fund what he described as ‘treasonous crap’. He had proudly shown Jacot a paragraph at the end of a letter home instructing his wife not to renew their television licence – a big step. Llanbedr, the remote village in Snowdonia that he came from may have been poor but it was still god-fearing and law-abiding.
Jacot laughed a lot. It was, as always, good to see Jones. The bonds between them forged in the Falklands remained strong. They had led a platoon together in difficult circumstances. Jacot was acutely conscious that Jones had pretty much saved his life. Gratitude was a positive emotion. But he also felt guilt. If he had agreed to Jones’ perfectly sensible suggestion to get the men on deck a few minutes before the missile hit everything would have been different – at least for their own platoon.
Once, while they were recovering in hospital he had begun both to apologise and to thank him, but Jones turned quickly away his eyes signalling both embarrassment and anger. Some things were better left unsaid. Nevertheless, a great unspoken military intimacy still existed between them. They laughed and chatted and drank their champagne.
‘I need some answers 74. I need you to help me. You volunteered for special duties in the 1980s and you know the kind of world I currently operate in. I can rely on you not to blab.’
‘No worries, Colonel.’ Jones grinned and took a long sip of his champagne.
‘OK let’s start with the basics. Did you see anything unusual when you took Verney up his breakfast?’
‘Well, no. The door was locked. Odd in a private house but not in a hotel or a Cambridge college. I banged on the door for a while and when there was no reply I got worried very quickly. The general had asked me specifically to wake him and bring him breakfast. The St James’, or more properly the Charles the Second Lecturer, is a big deal so of course I was happy to help out but breakfast in bed is not normally something we would do. General Verney knew that so it was strange that he didn’t come to the door. I am a big bloke, as you know. I tried pushing quite hard but it was clear the door was locked and bolted so I had to get the head porter to help.’
‘You went to the porters’ lodge to get him?’
‘No, I called him on my mobile. It’s a lot easier in these big colleges. So, yes I was outside the room from that time until the head porter arrived.’
‘Could anyone have got into General Verney’s room unseen?’
‘I doubt it very much. You never know in these colleges. I suspect girlfriends were smuggled in using some imagination about the routes until all that was swept away in the 1960s. But there are no secret passages as far as I know. Tunnels would be difficult this close to the river anyway. There is also a great tradition of night climbing in the university. Dates back to the Thirties I believe. I have on occasion seen young male undergraduates scaling walls and gates that would make me nervous. But actually getting into a double locked set of rooms directly overlooking the river – well nigh impossible I would say. And remember too we are a tourist attraction. The Bridge of Sorrows is the second most visited sight in Cambridge. It’s lit up at night, all night. Oh and there’s a live webcam. Fanatical Jamesians have it set as their home screen on their computers – and they have it too at the porters’ lodge.’
They had half finished the bottle by now.
‘What about someone sneaking upstairs with Verney after the feast?’
‘Colonel, you’ve clearly remembered what I was doing before the Falklands. I wangled my way back to the battalion from special duties in Northern Ireland. You know what that means?’
‘Yes, of course – 14 Company’, said Jacot. ‘Or more properly 14 Intelligence and Security Company. Now I think called the Special Reconnaissance Regiment.’
‘Precisely. A year’s training in 1980 and nearly a year out there – noticing things. That’s what we did. Can’t say I was particularly sharp at the surveillance and my size was always a problem. I wasn’t even so beefy then. So normally I was the guy in the car, although I got quite good at covert entry techniques. Do you remember how basic the army was thirty years ago?’
‘I think the world was more basic full stop. No computers. Either not enough or far too much central heating.’ Jacot laughed and re-filled their glasses.
‘Nissen huts. I remember being taught about locks in a Nissen hut in North Wales. You walked into the room and there were lots of army desks covered in army blankets. And on top of
each one six different types of lock. Every day for a month as the rain pissed down outside. The nearest pint was about ten miles away and no one had a car. Not even the officers.’ Jones laughed and his eyes lit up at the memory. ‘By the end of the month most of us could pick a lock in seconds. It got quite competitive between the lads. And the IRA never worked it out. They had all sorts of precautions. You know bits of hair on the door like in a James Bond film. Useless Paddies. But the point of my story is that I notice things and I understand locks. I just can’t see how anyone could have got into General Verney’s room, killed him and then got out again locking and chocking the door and closing the windows. Can’t be done.’
‘All right, all right. Let me move on. What about Dr Pirbright, General Verney’s academic assistant and a fellow of this college?’
‘Yes sir.’ There was a trace of wariness in Jones’ voice.
‘What sort of a person is she?’ asked Jacot.
‘Well what you see is what you get really. Very good looking and very clever young lady. Very good looking.’
‘How good looking?’
‘Well sir. You know what I mean, and no doubt you will be meeting her this evening or tomorrow morning.’
‘Good looking enough for it to cause trouble.’
Jones smiled. He was basically an honest soldier. ‘Exactly sir. She’s a nice girl. Always polite and considerate to the college servants. But looks like that…’
‘Who is or has been after her?’
‘Well in the college everyone likes her. I am not aware she is stepping out with anyone just now. Although she is said to be something of a “femme fatale”, I think the phrase is.’
Jacot knew well the effect of a very beautiful girl within a closed community. ‘Anyone else?’
‘I don’t think so. But some of our young men are prone to take a strong fancy to her. She has only been with us eighteen months.’
‘Look 74, I’ll cut to the chase…’
‘Don’t worry Colonel. I’ll find out everything you need to know about her love life and her researches with General Verney, if you like. There have been some strong rumours that they were on to something interesting about Captain Scott. You know the explorer.’
‘Good man. And anything else I might need to know about. Come on let’s finish the bottle.’
‘How are things back in Wales?’
‘Mam soldiers on. Luckily for her as you know we were a large family. But I don’t think she has ever got over Bryn’s death. He was her favourite. Not in a bad way. He was the youngest and it seemed natural to the rest of us. My brother Bryn and all those men. I was there the other side of the door. I could hear him dying. We couldn’t get through. You were there and I bet those hands still hurt in the winter.’
Jacot said nothing.
‘It still comes back to me sometimes in the night.’ Jones was shaking a little now as if he was shivering. He moved towards the window overlooking the Bridge of Sorrows. ‘What about you sir?’
‘Well, the Veuve Clicquot all those years ago helped. Yes, sometimes. Like you, it’s mainly in the night. The screaming is what comes back but not so often now. Sometimes during the day it’s the smell of paint. Do you remember all those ships smelled of paint? And blood and burning flesh. Sometimes I can even smell my hands burning all over again. But that’s life. The only really difficult thing is confined spaces. I hate those small lifts more than anything else. They tell me therapy would help.’
Jones laughed. ‘Therapy my arse. I can’t get into lifts. It’s life. What was it the boys used to say when things went wrong or got tough? Tel Aviv, Tel Aviv.’
Jacot laughed too. ‘Yes it was the Welsh version of “C’est la vie”. A useful phrase. On really bad days some of them would say “Tel Af…ingviv.” Always good for morale that one.’
Jacot had one further question he should put to Jones. ‘Had you met Verney before?’
‘No I don’t think so. It was getting dark. It is getting dark rather. I like that view of the Bridge of Sorrows just as it’s getting dark. There is something about the water surging under the bridge all day every day that cheers me up.’ He turned full towards Jacot his massive frame almost blocking out the setting sun. The glory and calm of a sharp January evening in Cambridge reasserted themselves. The raw sorrows and resentments of long ago were gone. ‘You are right. It’s funny, over the years I had got over it. I am not nursing a grudge from thirty years ago. Mam may never have got over Bryn’s death but to be honest I had forgotten him, except for every now and then. Life is for the living as they say. I had better go. The dons will be gathering in the Combination Room soon.’ Jones smiled. ‘Thanks for the champagne. Let me know if there is anything you need. I’ll bring it up myself or if I’m busy send one of my team.’ His body was no longer shaking.
‘Hang on 74, what’s that noise? It’s as if I can hear voices in the room. Must be the champagne.’
‘Oh that. What staircase are we on now?’ Jones listened. He could hear what sounded like the dispatcher of a taxi firm talking to one of his taxis. He smiled. ‘I think that’s the baby alarm in the room above you on the staircase. Occasionally, very occasionally the radio frequencies of local taxi firms interfere with it. Sometimes it’s stuff on other electronic equipment like films streaming onto a computer – something to do with the atmospheric conditions. It’s probably coming from Hildegard Von Schoenberg’s rooms, a German PhD student from Tubingen. Theology if I remember. Just here for the year. Her husband stayed behind in Germany and she brought her boy with her. Nearly one I think the little chap is and never makes much noise so you won’t be disturbed. He’s got a wonderful German name, Odo. Some evenings she goes to the library on the other side of the court and takes the other bit of the baby alarm with her.’
‘I must make sure I say hallo to Hildegard and Odo’, said Jacot.
They touched shoulders again and Jones was gone. Jacot went to the window and looked out at the Bridge of Sorrows. There was indeed something solid and comforting about the bridge and the water flowing beneath it. It was sad about Bryn. He had been one of a small group of guardsmen who had been trapped behind a steel door that had warped in the heat. The door itself had saved them from the effects of the blast, in particular the searing flash burns caused by the initial detonation of military high explosives. They must have felt lucky for a few seconds, but the extreme heat jammed the steel door into its hinges. There was no other way out… Jones looked cheery enough, sounded cheery enough, but Jacot very much doubted if he had forgotten his much loved younger brother in the way he suggested. His eyes gave it away as he talked about him – a kind of blankness and puzzlement that could only be a sign of fresh ongoing grief. And something he said about Verney could not be quite right…
V
St James’ College, Cambridge
Dinner at the St James’ High Table was a supremely civilised experience, even in the aftermath of a sudden and unexplained death. A string quartet played light-hearted baroque music in the body of the hall. Jones made sure Jacot’s glass was re-filled frequently with wine from the College’s cellar of the type that Jacot could not usually afford. It was a relaxed and contented Colonel Jacot who returned to his rooms just after midnight. He had almost forgotten why he had been despatched to Cambridge. Round and round in his head went thoughts not of murder, but of a delightful dance tune that the student quartet had finished with. Maddeningly, he could not identify it although he was sure he had heard it before. Jones had left a half bottle of the college’s addictive Calvados on top of the fireplace and Jacot thought he would finish off the evening with a large slug.
Opening the window he breathed in the cold January air. It was good to see Jones again. They had been close thirty years before. Jacot enjoyed being a platoon commander and Jones had been an excellent platoon sergeant. They had got on famously, mainly Jacot suspected, because he let Jones more or less run the platoon – which he did well. He hadn’t thought much about the Falklan
ds for a while, suppressing frightening and unpleasant memories. But the memories came back to him strongly as he gazed at the floodlit Bridge of Sorrows. It wasn’t a nightmare like the ones he and others had experienced in hospital or like the ones that very occasionally revisited him with a vengeance in the night. It wasn’t a daytime flashback that came unwished for and inconveniently – set off mainly these days by smells. It was a stream of memory of a particular episode in his life when he was young – grim but not all bad as his conversation with Jones earlier had reminded him. He sipped his Calvados. It was time to relax and remember thirty years on.
…They were right. Barbecuing pork. Human flesh cooking smells like barbecuing pork. The missionaries in the South Seas were right. Except it wasn’t human flesh in a history book – it was his own flesh in the here and now. His hands were cooking. And like pork they were dripping warm fat. Jesus Christ, he was on fire. Flames and thick smoke were everywhere. For a second, only Jacot’s sense of smell worked – nothing else. And all he could smell was his own flesh cooking. Then suddenly he could hear. The sound had come back on. And all he could hear was screaming. Desperate, animal screams from men in his regiment close by. Ten parts pain as exposed skin shrivelled and burnt. Ninety parts despair – they knew they were going to die.
Minutes earlier Second Lieutenant Daniel Jacot of the Celtic Guards had been sitting on his backpack smoking yet another cigarette. Tense and angry at the repeated delays, he wanted to get out of the tank deck and off the ship taking his soldiers with him. ‘On the bus, off the bus’ as the guardsmen repeated mantra-like, all the time rolling their eyes with a combination of irritation and mute acceptance. Clausewitz, the great philosopher of war, called it ‘friction’ – how the simplest things in war become immeasurably hard because of both enemy action and the complexity of circumstances. That was why orders had to be obeyed unquestioningly and immediately. Any relaxation of rigid discipline, any chink in the system and chaos burst through. Yeah, right. But there was one problem, a really big problem that Clausewitz never really addressed. What if the people in charge were just useless?
The Falklands Intercept Page 4
