by Alan Judd
It was like the headquarters of a large company but rather easier of access. A young white policeman behind a desk in the spacious entrance hall gave curt and monosyllabic directions to the sixth floor. Patrick walked unescorted and unchallenged through clean bare corridors but there was no sign of Jim’s department. All the office doors were unmarked and the rooms empty. He met a woman with dyed black hair and a well-formed face. Her skin was hard and wrinkled.
‘Jesus, what a bloody place,’ she said. ‘I’ve come to see about my driving licence. D’you know where that bit is?’
They had each been directed by the dour policeman. She glanced irritably up and down the corridor. ‘It’s these bloody old Lower Africans. They’re carved out of the veldt. The Police Force is stuffed with them, and the Civil Service. That’s what’s wrong with this country. Lot of boneheads in charge.’
In the next corridor they found a helpful black man with a mop and pail who told them that they should be on the sixth floor of B block, not A block.
On the way out Patrick said to the young policeman, ‘The floor was right but the building was wrong.’
The policeman looked up from the booklet he was reading. ‘What?’
‘You should have directed us to the sixth floor of B block.’
‘Yes.’
‘Boneheads, carved out of rock,’ said the woman.
The policeman stared and then continued reading.
In Jim Rissik’s outer office there were two more young white policemen, no older than Patrick. They were smart and looked fit but their eyes and mouths were sullen. When he asked to see Jim one of them told him he would have to wait and pointed to a chair. He explained that he had tried to ring and make an appointment but the line had been continuously engaged. The policeman pointed again to a chair. When Patrick said he was from the British Embassy the other got up slowly, knocked on Jim’s door and went in.
Jim came out with his hand outstretched. His naturally strong and regular good looks were enhanced by his uniform. He looked spruce, competent, confident and friendly.
‘I’m glad you came. I wanted to get in touch with you anyway. It’s time we had a talk. Maybe we should make it lunch next time.’ He smiled.
They went into his office, and were soon talking about Philip’s party. ‘I still haven’t got over that,’ said Jim. ‘It just about burned me out. Joanna coped with it better than I did. Maybe I’ve seen too many diplomatic functions. I mean, what was Longhurst trying to do? What does he think we are, for Christ’s sake? I mean, what do you dips think we’re like if that’s what you think we like?’ He laughed, picked up the phone and ordered coffee.
References to Joanna made Patrick uncomfortable. After a few more remarks about the party he raised the subject of Whelk. Jim went to a combination-locked cupboard and took out a blue folder.
‘I keep all my dip files right here. Pretty undiplomatic crowd they are too, some of your colleagues – in other embassies, of course. The British are pure as the driven snow.’ He grinned and dumped the file heavily on the desk. ‘All I have are the basic details, which you know. One day Arthur Whelk, British Embassy consul, didn’t turn up to work. He left the house at the usual time and did not reappear. The evening before he had spent in and the afternoon before that he had been prison-visiting. Checked in and out, no trouble there. If it was an accident or amnesia we’d expect something of him to turn up somewhere, or at least his car. If he’d been murdered, reasons unknown, we’d still expect to find something. As for your ambassador’s kidnapping theory – he’s been going on about that ever since it happened, hasn’t he? – well, where’s the ransom demand or the blackmail? My guess is your Arthur’s done a bunk, found himself a wealthy widow and a new life.’ He let the file fall closed.
‘Surely he’d have resigned?’
Jim shrugged. ‘People do funny things sometimes.’
‘Perhaps he was running away from something.’
‘From what?’ There was a slight edge to Jim’s voice. This time it was Patrick that shrugged. ‘Are you taking over his duties?’
‘Partly, until something permanent is sorted out.’
‘But not his hobbies?’
‘Hobbies?’
‘Playing, you know. He liked to play a little, your Arthur.’
‘Playing?’ It was only when Jim smiled at what he took for disingenuousness that Patrick realised he meant gambling, which was illegal in Lower Africa. He then remembered that Sarah had mentioned that Arthur played cards but he didn’t want to involve her. He said nothing about the gun that Arthur had apparently kept.
‘I didn’t know he played.’
Jim’s brown eyes were warm and friendly. ‘How is Miss Msobu?’
‘Miss Msobu?’
‘Sarah, your maid. Don’t you even know her name? You should, you know. She has to be registered annually with the Native Administration Board. Don’t trust the embassy to do that for you. If they can’t keep track of their own diplomats I wouldn’t put money on the state of their records of domestics.’
‘We have a lady called Miss Teale who administers constantly. I’d put money on her having done it.’ Jim’s manner when he had asked about Sarah had been smug, as if he were flaunting his knowledge of her. ‘D’you know Sarah well?’ Patrick asked.
‘It’s my job to keep an eye on all you people, you and your premises. To keep you safe. She’s a good maid, isn’t she? Let me know if you ever want to get rid of her. I could easily find her a place.’
Patrick tried to get Jim to talk more about his job but Jim took his questions as applying to promotion prospects. ‘If I’m really going to go places I have to do two things,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and holding a red pencil delicately upright between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I have to go on from this to a good stint on counter-terrorism which is the growth area now and then I have to do another crime job in a senior position. That way you get known. Then you just have to make sure your face keeps fitting.’ He laughed. ‘I’m not really very ambitious, though. I’m not stupid but I do stupid things. If I like a job I stick with it even if it’s a no-no. I’ve never done a job I didn’t like just to get on. I’d rather sweep the streets, so long as I liked it. You ambitious?’
Patrick thought for a moment. He had never asked himself the question. ‘Not yet.’
‘Still playing around, eh?’ Jim flicked the pencil on to the desk and stood abruptly.
Back in the outer office a black man and an Indian lawyer were arguing with one of the taciturn policemen about whether or not something had been delivered. Jim put his hand on Patrick’s arm. ‘If you’re looking for somewhere to have dinner,’ he said pleasantly, ‘try the roof restaurant of the Lion Hotel. It’s in the Battenburg Centre near where you work and it overlooks the whole city. Try it.’
‘I shall.’
Jim clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Do that.’
When Patrick arrived back he found that Clifford, far from being annoyed that he had been away nearly two hours, was affably concerned.
‘Everything go all right?’ he asked in an undertone.
‘I think so, yes. We’re none the wiser, though.’
‘Shouldn’t worry about that. Just keep plugging away, that’s the thing. HE wants you.’
He later discovered that whilst he was out Sir Wilfrid had thanked Clifford for the help and supervision in the matter of Whelk that he assumed Clifford was giving Patrick. Henceforth Clifford was in Sir Wilfrid’s eyes joint beneficiary with Patrick in any credit due, and so Clifford was generally content.
When Patrick went in to report to Sir Wilfrid his opening remarks were halted by the ambassador holding up his hand. Sir Wilfrid then tiptoed with elaborate caution across the carpet, took a transistor radio from the bookcase, lowered it carefully on to his desk and turned it on full volume to a pop music station. He put two chairs alongside the desk and beckoned Patrick to sit. They faced each other with the radio blaring between them.
Sir
Wilfrid cupped his hand to his mouth and shouted. Patrick put his hand to his ear. Sir Wilfrid shouted again and Patrick made out the word ‘microphone’. He went to turn the radio down but Sir Wilfrid pushed his hand away and moved closer so that their knees were touching. He bellowed directly and wetly into Patrick’s ear.
The gist of what he shouted, rendered yet less comprehensible by the obscure telegraphese that he adopted, was that he was worried that his room might have been bugged by LASS. Therefore when discussing the L and F man they should have the radio on to cover what they were saying. It did not matter that they had previously discussed the subject without the radio because past lapses did not excuse present.
Patrick gave a staccato account of his meeting with Jim. Sir Wilfrid did not know that Whelk had gambled, a serious matter. Had he been running an illegal casino? Was he the victim of gang warfare? The fact that the police knew about it merely increased his suspicions that they knew more than they were letting on. It was just as well that the L and F man was ‘playing it long’. This last phrase had to be repeated to Patrick several times.
Jean, Sir Wilfrid’s secretary, came into the room. She stopped when she saw the two men sitting knee to knee before the radio. Sir Wilfrid waved her away with a sweep of his arm. Thereafter she treated Patrick with frosty politeness.
Those of Whelk’s consular duties that Patrick had to assume were light. He did not understand them and neither did anyone else in chancery – at least, no one admitted to any knowledge. It was soon clear that consular matters, like trade and foreigners, were the sort that some chancery officials did not wish to understand.
He relied entirely upon Daphne, Whelk’s conscientious spinster assistant. She was plump, middle-aged and bespectacled, with a round mouth that was never still. She appeared to be a friend of Miss Teale’s, in that they went about together, although Miss Teale constantly complained behind Daphne’s back about her being neurotic, not up to her responsibilities and a burden. Patrick found her quietly, almost formidably competent. He authorised what she told him to authorise, signed where she said. She was fully capable of running the consular department herself but was not allowed to because of her grade. She had no prospect of promotion because she was too near retirement. She did not respond to any of Patrick’s remarks about Arthur except once, when she said that whatever had happened to him she was sure he would be all right.
‘He may have run off and got married,’ she said. ‘It’ll be something like that. There’ll be a reason behind it, whatever it is.’
‘Someone said he was married already to a lady in Tunbridge Wells.’
She shook her head. ‘He had a wife in Bangkok but that was a local matter. I believe he sold her.’
‘To whom?’
‘The man who bought his car.’
Daphne had the manner of one who could be surprised by nothing, acquired perhaps through years of dealing with British subjects. The only area about which she briefed Patrick in detail was on his responsibility for DBSs – Distressed British Subjects. They were to be found in all countries that admitted British nationals. Mostly they were holiday-makers who had lost their passports and money, or were ill. Some were people who had settled locally and then had family problems in Britain. A few were deportees. Another, fortunately small, class was formed by those who were British by birth and who lived abroad not very successfully. They were usually convinced that the British government owed them lifelong assistance in whatever form they wanted. They were easily the most troublesome group.
‘Nevertheless, the ambassador is very keen that all British subjects who come to us should get a fair deal,’ Daphne explained. ‘Arthur was rather sharp with them but I don’t think the ambassador knew that. You have to be particularly careful with DBSs because if things go wrong there they go dramatically wrong and you get the newspapers involved. Then everyone’s up in arms and we always get the blame, rightly or wrongly.’
After his visit to Jim Rissik Patrick’s reading of the monthly digest of Lower African trade figures was interrupted by the sharp tap of Daphne’s footsteps in the corridor. Her worried face showed round the door.
‘McGrain,’ she said urgently.
Patrick thought he knew the name. He tried to pretend he wasn’t at a loss.
‘In one of his states,’ continued Daphne. ‘He’s got young Catherine by the wrist. You’d better come quickly.’
He joined her in the corridor.
‘Our most troublesome DBS, I told you about him,’ she said as she clicked along. ‘An awful drunkard who comes to the embassy demanding money and support and makes scenes if he doesn’t get in. You know, molests the girls, starts fights, all that sort of thing. Violent man. Every post has one.’
‘Starts fights?’
‘Yes, and swears dreadfully, it really is quite shocking. Upsetting for the girls. He gets in because he has the right to come to the consular department and the ambassador won’t let us call the police to throw him out because we could then be accused of denying access to British subjects. Anyway, it would set a bad precedent to have police on the premises. Arthur was dead set against it. He said we should keep the police away at all costs. That’s why he used to evict McGrain himself. Such a small man, Arthur, and McGrain’s so big but I suppose judo helps. Can you do judo?’
‘No.’
‘Never mind, you’re young and fit, I daresay.’
They walked briskly towards the visa office. Patrick had no idea what to do. He wanted to slow down and discuss the matter but his legs carried him towards the double doors at Daphne’s speed. He noticed for the first time the careful workmanship of the panelled walls. He would have liked to discuss that.
‘This is the first time he’s been since Arthur went,’ Daphne said. ‘He really is drunk, though you can never tell what that means. The last few times he went quite peacefully without Arthur’s having to use the truncheon. Have you found Arthur’s truncheon?’
‘Yes, it’s at the house.’ He considered whether he could get away with suggesting he went and got it.
‘Oh well, you don’t need it really, I’m sure. It’s just a frightener. In fact, I’ve noticed recently that Arthur seemed able to exert some sort of authority over McGrain. It’s strange, he just keeps turning up. Is that what you’ll do?’
‘What?’
‘Exert your authority.’
‘Something like that, I expect, yes.’
Daphne nodded. ‘Good, I was sure you would. That’s what I told the visa girls when I said I’d fetch you. It’s just as well it’s you and not Mr Longhurst. I don’t think he’d have been much use, do you?’
Patrick was in no mood to denigrate Philip. He wished it were Philip in his place, or Clifford who at least was stout, if that was a help. His stomach felt light and empty. The double doors were very close now. Daphne’s unwarranted confidence did nothing to boost his own.
‘We had a man like this in Tripoli. He was called Fraser, another Glaswegian. They nearly always come from Glasgow, I don’t know why. He broke the head of chancery’s jaw.’
She pushed open one of the doors and stepped aside as though Patrick were a bull entering the arena. He felt there was something else he should say to Daphne, even if only goodbye. The door closed behind him.
McGrain was a burly, grizzled, grey-haired, red-faced man. He was leaning across the counter saying something to the frightened girl behind it whose wrist he held. He wore a dirty white shirt which hung loose. His ragged jeans were stretched by his bulging belly and broad haunches. When he moved, the shirt came apart from the jeans which stretched so low across his backside that they exposed the crack between his fleshy white buttocks. He had an old jacket slung over one shoulder. The broad forearm holding the girl was hairy and tattooed.
Three or four visa applicants sat on a bench as far away as possible from McGrain. They looked shamefaced and frightened and at the same time tried to look as if they weren’t noticing what was going on. They glanced hopefully at Pa
trick as he entered. He glanced hopefully back, considering and then dismissing the possibility of assistance. McGrain continued talking to the girl. His thick speech was quiet and incomprehensible.
Patrick walked slowly towards him. The visa girls looked out from behind the screen on the other side of the counter. The captured girl threw him a glance of relief. He had no plan. A surprise attack from behind whilst McGrain was not looking would be best in purely tactical terms but was no doubt the kind of incident that the ambassador was most anxious to avoid. An unprovoked assault upon a British subject by a diplomat paid to help him would be hard to present in a favourable light. More importantly, it might not work. He could easily imagine himself the bloody loser of an unequal contest.
Still without any constructive thought, he tapped McGrain on the back. McGrain gave no sign of having felt anything and continued talking to the girl, who stared with wide eyes from him to Patrick. Patrick put his hand on McGrain’s shoulder, recalling the polite but authoritative way in which a policeman had once done it to him when he was trying to start his motor-scooter. McGrain’s conversation, which growled like a dredger in an estuary, slowly ceased and he heaved himself awkwardly round, still holding the girl. His unshaven cheeks were red and purple, his blue eyes small and clouded. He said something that might have been, ‘What do you want?’
‘I must ask you to leave the embassy now. We’re closing the visa section.’
McGrain let go of the girl and Patrick let go of his shoulder: it would be better to have both hands free. The girl ran off holding her wrist. McGrain said something about Mr Whelk.
‘Mr Whelk isn’t here. I must ask you to leave.’ Patrick sounded to himself like the caricature of a stiff and embarrassed British official.
‘Ah’m no goin’ till ah speak wi’ Mr Whelk,’ said McGrain. He turned back to the counter and leant his elbows heavily upon it, adding that he was British, that he knew his rights and would have them.
Everyone looked at Patrick. He tried to imagine what Whelk would have done.
