The Judas Sheep

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘Norris? I’ll ask,’ he heard the landlord say into it.

  That’s me,’ Norris told him, and the landlord passed the phone across.

  ‘Make it the Blackamoor,’ said the voice. Turn left out of the door, it’s about a quarter of a mile. The beer’s better there.’

  Norris paid for the pint and apologised to the barman for being unable to stay to drink it. ‘You have it,’ he suggested.

  ‘Cheers,’ the barman said to his retreating back, and downed it in one long draught.

  The Blackamoor was more intimate. Lunchtime drinkers had staggered back to their employment and only a couple of heavy-session regulars leant on the ornate Victorian bar. An old man in a flat cap sat at a table near the window, studying the racing page of a tabloid, a hardly touched glass of Guinness in front of him.

  Norris gazed round in a mixture of appreciation and disdain as the landlord pulled him another drink. He registered the contrast between the gleaming glass, copper and brass of the bar, and the shabby brown and green of the public areas. This was what he regarded as a typical English pub: quaint and interesting, but also inefficient, unhygienic and a waste of a prime site near the city centre. He carried his beer to a table in a corner and sat facing the room.

  A man in an Army surplus jacket came in and ordered an orange juice, leaning on the bar. He looked familiar. After five minutes, when his glass was not quite empty, he walked over and sat at Norris’s table.

  ‘Mr Norris?’ the man asked.

  Norris thought that a man this ugly should be capable of anything. Anything out of step with the norms of society was what he meant, and he was a good judge of character.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Who are you?’

  The man shook his head and drained the dregs of his orange juice. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said.

  ‘Would you like another drink?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right. So are you interested in this job I have for you?’

  ‘Save it.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Save it.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Save it for the Skipper. I’m just a piece of cheese.’

  ‘A piece of cheese? I’m afraid I’m still no wiser.’

  ‘Bait in the trap. In case this is a set-up.’

  Realisation dawned on Norris. ‘Oh, I see. No, it’s not a trap. I’m totally alone.’

  The man in the Army jacket, Shawn Parrott, sat in sullen silence. Norris said: ‘You must be very loyal to the Skipper, taking a risk like this.’

  ‘He’s a good bloke.’

  Norris examined the insignias on the ex-Army jacket and pondered on the wearer’s conflicting loyalties. He looked for a common denominator, and after a few seconds he found it. Violence.

  ‘Were you a soldier?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Norris’s own military service consisted of two years in the National Guard, marching up and down a schoolyard in Richmond, Virginia, at weekends, courtesy of having a grandpa in the Senate. ‘I was in Korea,’ he lied. ‘Fighter pilot. Flew fifty-seven missions.’ He briefly wondered if fifty-seven had been a convincing choice.

  Parrott showed a flicker of interest, but didn’t follow it up with conversation. Norris dived in with a question: ‘So which regiment were you with?’

  Parrott stiffened, his head erect and shoulders clicking back. ‘The SAS,’ he boasted.

  ‘Wowee!’ Norris sounded impressed. The tough guys. Boy, they’re the crack regiment of the British Army. Were you with them when they did the Iranian Embassy Siege? That was really something.’

  Parrott looked embarrassed. ‘No, I, er, wasn’t with them long. They wanted me. Came top of my selection group, but my mob wouldn’t release me. I qualified for them, though.’

  He’s a bigger liar than I am, Norris thought. He had the measure of his man now: he was a turkey, a turkey with the scruples of an alligator.

  ‘Oh, what a shame,’ Norris sympathised. That doesn’t seem fair. Your own mob must have needed you pretty bad.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Who were you with?’

  ‘The Paras.’

  ‘The Parachute Regiment! Well, they’ve got to be some of the finest soldiers in the world. Did you see the siege on TV?’

  Parrott was grinning now. ‘Yeah! And seen it on video. They were crap. Did it all wrong. I’d have been in twice as quick,’ he enthused. ‘In and out, no survivors. Got what they deserved.’

  ‘What do they call that,’ Norris asked, ‘when they come swinging down the buildings?’

  ‘Abseiling,’ Parrott blurted out, eager to impress. ‘Anyone can do that, it’s dead easy.’

  ‘Jeez, I couldn’t do it. Would you believe it—’ he leant over and tapped Parrott on the arm ‘– I’m an ex-jet jockey and I’m scared of heights?’

  They laughed, like two old buddies sharing a joke.

  Norris had noticed two new customers come into the bar. One of them was big, and had a military bearing about him, with neatly cropped hair. The newcomer had slowly consumed a pint of beer, while possibly surveying them through the ornate mirrors that decorated the wall behind the bar.

  Parrott got to his feet and said: ‘I’m going now.’ As he walked away Norris noted that he had a slight limp.

  The newcomer came over and sat with Norris. Norris said: ‘You don’t take chances. I like that.’

  ‘Can’t afford to. You said you wanted to talk business.’

  ‘That’s right. First of all, do you have a name?’

  ‘Frank.’

  ‘OK, Frank. Your buddy thought that I might be setting you up. How do I know that you aren’t doing the same to me?’

  ‘You don’t, so let’s cut the crap. We’ve got your wife; you’ve got a video showing Shawn in all his glory. Let’s call it stalemate.’

  Norris gestured with his thumb after the vanished figure of Parrott. ‘Is that your buddy’s name, Shawn?’

  ‘That’s what he calls himself.’

  ‘He looks some mean hombre.’

  ‘He is. So what’s this business you need doing?’

  Norris finished his beer and placed the glass back on the table. He studied it for a few seconds, adjusting its position so that it fitted neatly into the pattern of the tiles. ‘Was Shawn really in the SAS?’ he asked.

  Frank Bell shook his head. ‘No, they wouldn’t have him.’

  ‘Why?’

  Bell smiled for the first time. ‘Too violent for them,’ he replied.

  ‘I can believe it. What happened to his face?’

  ‘That? Oh, he was mixed up in a riot in Belfast. Silly prat was off-duty. He’d infiltrated the other side and was right there with them, confronting the troops. We let go with a few baton rounds – plastic bullets – and Shawn caught one, full in the face. It should have killed him; blinded him at least. He just shook his head, grabbed two of the ringleaders by the throat, and dragged them across to our lines.’

  ‘Jeez. Did they give him a medal?’

  ‘No. Thirty days in the cooler.’

  ‘Now ain’t that just typical of you Brits. So I’d be correct in saying that Shawn has a chip on his shoulder?’

  ‘Yep. A bloody big one. Shawn has a dream. Do you know what it is?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘One day, he says he’s going to do something so bad that they’ll lock him up and bury the key. He’ll spend his declining years in jail, watching TV and basking in his reputation. He calls it his pension plan.’

  ‘Wow! But he’d follow you through thick and thin?’

  ‘He’s saved my life, more than once.’

  Norris nodded his approval. ‘So what’s your main line of business, Frank?’

  ‘Import and export. Mainly import.’

  ‘Bit like me, eh?’

  ‘More than you’d imagine, Mr Norris.’

  ‘Ah ah! I know what you mean. People want a little fun, a little … stimulation. We fill the need. That
’s what I call good business.’

  ‘Except that you operate within the law.’

  ‘So far, Frank. So far. But times are changing.’ He leant forward and lowered his voice. ‘I want someone removing, Frank. You know – permanently.’

  ‘I guessed you might. Anyone we know?’

  ‘A politician. A famous politician. How do you think we should go about it?’

  Bell pursed his lips and whistled softly with concentration. This was the kind of big-league contract he’d always wanted. He’d spent many a sleepless hour planning such a thing. ‘First of all,’ he said, ‘I’d create a smokescreen.’

  ‘A smokescreen? Why?’

  ‘Remember Kennedy?’

  ‘Sure, I remember JFK.’

  ‘Oswald was unlucky. Or betrayed. With all this shit that’s been created about a conspiracy, he could have got clean away with it. Another few hours and he would have done. The FBI would have been chasing Cubans, the KGB, the mafia, the …’ Bell waved his arm in the air, thinking of likely suspects ‘… the Teamsters, everybody and his dog, while the lone gunman sat at home watching it on TV, sipping a Budweiser.’

  Norris was impressed. ‘That’s an interesting theory, Frank. What about doing the actual deed?’

  ‘Ah, that’s the hard bit. Somehow, you’ve got to know where he’s going to be at a certain time. That means surveillance, which can be dangerous. And expensive,’ he added as an afterthought.

  ‘Not necessarily so, Frank,’ Norris told him. ‘Mightn’t it be possible to control his movements, call the shots, get him where you wanted him?’

  ‘How could you do that?’

  ‘I’ve a few ideas. So far you haven’t asked what’s in it for you. I like that in a man, Frank, but I want it to be worth your while.’

  ‘So, what’s in it for us?’

  ‘I’m glad you asked. First of all, Shawn gets to show the SAS that anything they can do, he can do better. Something really spectacular. For you, Frank, how about a million pounds cash – payment on delivery?’

  Bell inhaled audibly. ‘Jesus. I’d say you had a deal, Mr Norris.’

  ‘Good. Good. We all need a pension plan, y’know. You and me also. This could be ours. With a million pounds, minus a few expenses, you could set yourself up nicely. Either live fairly modestly for the rest of your life, or go for the big one. I can’t really see you settling down, Frank. What’s the profit margin in your line of importing? About five thousand per cent? With your enterprise you could soon make that million into fifty million.’

  Bell sat back in his bentwood chair, head nodding slowly. Fifty million sounded better. Much better. This was what he’d been waiting for. ‘So when do we start?’ he asked.

  Norris had read his man correctly: make the numbers obscene enough and you could hook anyone. He said: ‘Welcome aboard, Frank. We won’t shake on it, here in the pub. Look too conspicuous. The two thousand in the envelope was for immediate running expenses. As you can imagine, raising money like that isn’t easy – I have accountants and auditors to deal with. If you need any more I can advise you on a simple way of stealing a certain highly marketable commodity. I’m insured, so it’ll be no skin off my ass.’

  Bell had been struggling to suppress his elation, but was suddenly looking grave. ‘There’s just one point, Mr Norris,’ he said. ‘Your wife, Mrs Norris. Shawn was a bit rough with her. She’s all right, but can we be sure, when we bring her back, that—’

  Norris raised a hand, silencing him. ‘Sorry, Frank,’ he interrupted. ‘Did I forget to mention that? Part of the deal is that Mrs Norris doesn’t come back. Let’s call it a gesture of seriousness of intent. Oh, and I’d prefer it if there wasn’t a body. I won’t be in a hurry to marry again, and I hate funerals. Give me a ring when it’s all over, then we’ll do some serious planning.’

  He stood up and walked out, back to his chauffeur-driven limousine, and Shenandoah Inc., and his big, quiet house in Lymm.

  I’d fallen into the juggling act again. Private life and work were up in the air, with me wondering which to catch and hold on to. Last night Annabelle had been her usual understanding self, and that made me feel a hundred times worse. She’d cooked spring chicken bonne femme, with new potatoes. In January! The fish and chips had blunted my appetite, and I struggled with it, even though it was one of the best meals I’d had in years and I refused a helping of apple pie for the first time in my life. Annabelle hid her disappointment, but I could sense it.

  A quick result would solve my problems, but it was looking doubtful. Nigel was over in Liverpool, trying to arrange a reconstruction of Hurst’s last movements, using Norris’s Roller. Maybe somebody’s memory would be jogged. After that he was visiting the widow. At this end of the enquiry we were still knocking on doors. Heads were being shaken and lines drawn through lists of addresses. Nobody had noticed a luxury limousine being driven up a cart-track, and mud-spattered Rolls-Royces are as common as pink flamingos around Heckley. Maybe we’d have better luck at the Burtonwood services on Friday, but I doubted it.

  Poor Harold Hurst’s death had all the hallmarks of a gangland killing, but we couldn’t find the links. His lifestyle was modest and his friends few. Nobody knew much about him and fewer cared. Maybe he saw or heard something while he was driving Norris around. Something to do with the disappearance of Mrs Norris. I was certain that our investigations should be concentrated around Bradley T. Norris, and Shenandoah Incorporated, until Gilbert walked into the office like Neville Chamberlain, waving a piece of paper.

  It was a fax from our ballistics boffins in Huntingdon. The bullet that passed through Hurst’s head had travelled down the barrel of an AK47 Kalashnikov, as we thought. The news was that it was a decent match with a similar one that had dispatched a suspected IRA informer to the big shindig in the sky, in Belfast in 1988. A sudden piece of information like that is usually just the breakthrough you have been waiting for. Our euphoria didn’t last long, though. We soon realised that it only heaped confusion upon confusion. Gilbert rang Special Branch and I decided to have a relapse.

  Like ten million prisoners before her, Marina Norris made another mark on the wall with the heel of her shoe. She’d felt stupid when she did it for the first time, but quickly realised it was the only way she could measure the passing of the days. She counted the marks, touching each with the tip of a chipped enamel fingernail. Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. They’d said she might be freed Tuesday, if her husband played ball.

  She’d nearly choked to death in the boot of the Sierra. Each time the car had accelerated or braked she’d rolled one way or the other, unable to brace herself with her hands and legs pinioned. She was certain Harold was dead, and that she soon would be.

  Eventually they’d arrived, and she was dragged and carried into a building with linoleum on the floor and smelling like a house from her childhood. A dirty, unpleasant house. They went through another door and down some stone steps.

  She’d felt a blow, not fierce this time, and fallen backwards into a soft armchair. They’d unfastened her hands and ripped off the gag. There were two of them, and they were wearing masks – balaclavas – with holes to see through. Marina had seen similar ones on television, worn by terrorists and protestors and bank robbers in second-rate films. If they don’t want me to see them, she’d thought, they mustn’t intend to kill me; and she’d begun sobbing, partly from fear of what their intentions might be, partly from relief.

  As they’d turned to leave her, the door at the top of the stairs had opened and she’d seen the third member of the gang standing there. He wasn’t wearing a mask, and she recognised him as the man with the ugly face who had kidnapped her. He threw her shoes down into the cellar and held the door open for the other two. A key turned and bolts slid across. She’d stared down at the shoes with their four-and-a-half inch heels, and was for the first time struck by their ridiculousness.

  They fed her ham sandwiches, which she hardly touched, and sweet milky tea. The cella
r was large, with newly whitened walls, and reminded her of the one at her grandma’s in Croydon, where she’d lived for a year after her mother died. She’d escaped from that prison, she told herself, but this one was different. There was nobody here to help her; these men were looking for different rewards.

  On the second day she’d had to use the Elsan toilet, and had dragged it under the stairs, where she couldn’t be watched through the peephole in the door. The two in the masks were relatively OK, and she’d even struck up a rapport with the thin one, who was definitely number three in the pecking order. She’d asked him for another blanket and a towel, and he’d brought them. But the ugly one scared her. Each time the door opened and she saw it was him something inside her would turn to ice. He’d put the food on the dirty little coffee table and stand looking at her, wet-lipped and slack-mouthed. She’d feel his eyes fumbling with the buttons of her blouse, then with her bra strap, and item by item her clothes would drop to the floor. Then he’d give a little smile and walk awkwardly back to the stairs.

  According to her wristwatch, matching partner to her husband’s, it was ten o’clock Tuesday morning. She washed in bottled water and rinsed her underwear as best she was able to. She was curled up on the sagging settee that was the only other item of furniture, waiting for her body heat to dry her clothes, when the door opened. It was the thin one, thank God. She straightened her legs and sat up.

  ‘Ham again,’ he told her, apologetically.

  Thank you.’

  He picked up her plate from last night and turned to go. Mrs Norris said: ‘They said I might be released today. Do you know if I’m going to be?’

  ‘Dunno. Might be.’

  ‘When will you know?’

  ‘When they come back.’

  ‘The other two?’

  ‘Yeah. They’re, er, negotiating, like.’

  ‘With my husband?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So I could be released today?’