Home Front: A James Marshal Thriller Omnibus

by Thomas Waugh

  Porter recalled how, the night before, he had asked Marshal to give his word of honour, that he would treat the model as a client, as opposed to would-be conquest.

  “And I hope “honour” isn’t just a mere word for you.”

  “Mine honour is my life; both grow in one. Take honour from me, and my life is done,” Marshal replied, quoting Shakespeare, whilst finishing off the Claret.

  Even the devil can quote Shakespeare for his own purposes, Porter thought, whilst catching the waiter’s eye to order another bottle. Usually, he was adept at reading people (he sometimes knew them better than they knew themselves), but, annoyingly, Porter couldn’t quite tell whether Marshal was being sarcastic or not.

  A grey paste of a sky was smeared overhead. The strong breeze caused the fallen leaves to rustle together and swirl-up. They slapped against brickwork, cars and his shins. A train rumbled over the nearby railway bridge. An overweight toddler wailed, almost stripping the paint from the walls. His overweight mum, wearing god-awful pyjama bottoms, wheeled the piglet past. Marshal regretted not bringing out his headphones, not that he would be able to turn down the volume on some of the outfits he encountered.

  Marshal made his way, across the Walworth Road, towards Hej Coffee. During his ten-minute walk, he received a couple of messages from Alison. The first was still laced with scorn and righteous indignation. The second contained an olive branch. She wanted to meet and understand what happened. If it was possible to remain friends. She even ended the message with an “x”.

  Frailty thy name is woman.

  Marshal thought it best not to reply to either text. He did reply to Porter, however, when he asked what time he would reach his house later. Marshal intended to set-off around 14.00 to avoid the rush hour, although the traffic would be snarled up around Hammersmith no matter what. He just needed to pack a bag when he got back home. He wondered which books he should take with him. It was likely that his days, driving her from meeting to meeting, would involve waiting around a lot. Perhaps the job would grant him a window to finally re-read The Idiot. Every cloud has a silver lining.

  Hej Coffee. Hej translates as “Hello” in Swedish. If there was a better cup of coffee in London, then Marshal had yet to find it. Sometimes he liked his coffee black, bitter. Sometimes he took it with milk and two sugars. It all depended on his mood. He often stayed for two cups. The first would wake him up, and the second would perk him up.

  He smoked a couple of cigarettes, watching the world go by, on the wooden benches outside, before entering. The coffee shop had its own roastery and Marshal never tired of being greeted by the aroma of freshly roasted beans. The smell was up there with freshly baked bread, petrol, a new hardback book and cordite. The lines of the café’s modern interior were softened through comfortable seats and a warm atmosphere. Marshal liked that any and everyone came to the café, not just coffee snobs. Hej was also wonderfully dog-friendly. Marshal preferred the company of Bruno (a bounding staffie cross), Freya (a scampering black spaniel), Oreo (a dog who thought it was a cat) and Coco (a fantastically miserable sausage dog) to any coffee snob. Or socialist.

  Marshal popped in on most days and was a familiar face to staff and customers alike. He offered up a smile and nod of greeting to a few regular patrons. Jeff Barnacle lowered the copy of The Daily Telegraph he was reading and said hello. Jeff was comfortably the best-dressed person at the coffee shop. He was also the most comfortably right-wing. Sitting on a table next to Jeff was the avuncular James Galpot. James had played guitar with Clapton and Hendrix in the sixties, and still had a twinkle in his eye and an ear for a good blues riff. The Para offered a respectful and fraternal nod to Iain Dalton too - or rather Captain Iain Dalton, who was on leave. Marshal may have lost confidence in the political class in the country, but, if the likes of Iain were anything to go by, the officer class in the army still had something about it.

  Marshal also said “Hello” (he refused to say “Hej”) to Matt, one of the co-owners of the café, who was training some staff in the roastery.

  The Kiwi’s knowledge and enthusiasm for his product was infectious. Matt called himself the biggest “drug dealer in South London”, what with the amount of caffeine he peddled. He loved the sound of the roaster churning out the beans. It was his second favourite sound in the world, behind that of the tills ringing.

  Marshal sat down with his black coffee, at his usual table, with his back to the wall, and opened his laptop.

  Viktor Baruti.

  Throughout the files so far Baruti had been referred to as a “kryetar… head of operations… chief intelligence officer… chief counter-intelligence officer… chief enforcer… assassin.”

  Marshal was intrigued, not least because the Albanian was born two days after his own date of birth. He was a gifted student, his region’s fencing champion as a teenager and a sniper in the army. Baruti was proficient in Krav Maga and spoke five languages. He was unmarried and untattooed. For some Albanian gangsters, taking their cue from their Russian counterparts, their ink told the stories of their life (and crimes). Yet it seems that Baruti had no interest in being an open book, for others to read. The kryetar was well-conditioned. Glossy black hair hung down over a smooth brow. From the photos included in the files, Baruti owned a gamut of facial expressions, from brooding to glowering. He needed to smile more, in the face of such a bleak world, Marshal fancied. The muscles, located in the corner of his mouth, were probably the only ones he didn’t exercise. His hands were bony and strong, and Marshal envisioned them gripping a gun or knife like a talon. His eyes were an icy blue, his nose sharp, like a blade.

  Baruti was already purported to be responsible for multiple hits in his native country, but the bulk of the intelligence on the Albanian naturally focussed on the crimes committed in Glasgow and London. His first murder in Scotland was, arguably, as a result of self-defence. The attack occurred within a month of the Albanians operating in the city. A couple of drug dealers, from Anderston, confronted Baruti one night. The Scots, carrying baseball bats, cornered their competitor, who had been dealing on their turf. Their intention was to break a few bones. Send a message. But it was the Albanian who sent out a message. The Scots were found dead, in the street. Fingers had been cut off. Ears severed. Eyes gouged out.

  The gruesome murders were a taste of things to come. Baruti was always careful not to leave any hard evidence at the scene of a crime – and no one would ever testify against the Albanian – but the police were left in little doubt as to who was responsible. Marshal remained impassive, just about, and continued to sip his coffee as he read over the files.

  Jimmy Macall, who was never without an entourage, considered himself “untouchable”. But Baruti killed him with a shot from a sniper’s rifle, from a roof, 250 yards away. The bullet struck him in the chest. The report noted that it was a windy day. Marshal would have been proud of the shot himself.

  Baruti was also suspected of torturing and murdering Mohammed Faris, a kebab shop owner and dealer who was part of the gang’s distribution network. The police believed that Faris was skimming. After burning his face on the grill and inserting kebab skewers into his palms and genitals Baruti injected heroin directly into his brain and Faris died from an overdose.

  In terms of a more conventional hit, Marshal read a report about the enforcer walking to into a bar, just off the Paisley Road, and shooting a local crime boss. Two taps to the chest and then one to the head. Baruti must have scouted the scene first, as he managed to avoid the CCTV cameras, both inside and outside the venue.

  He had already made his mark in London too, in retaliation to the West Indian gang, led by Delroy Onslow, murdering an Albanian. The gang had left their calling card – that of leaving a Jamaican flag alongside their victim. Baruti entered the yardie’s flat. He first cut his face to ribbons with a Stanley knife. He died from asphyxiation, however, as the Albanian stuffed his own country’s flag down his victim’s throat.

  Viktor Baruti was a person of
interest to the police, to put things mildly. He knew how to spot and lose a tail – and seemed to carry out his activities regardless of their surveillance. The NCA suspected that the Albanian had bribed or intimidated police personnel, in order to gain counter-intelligence. The gang always seemed prepared when their places of business or recreation were raided. At one point, Elmwood focussed his attention on shutting down one of their brothels in Peckham. Yet, when the raid took place, the brothel had relocated to an unknown location.

  Marshal read a file on one Albanian woman, Agnesa, who had escaped from one of the establishments. She approached the police and Elmwood interviewed her. Her story was a tragic, if not an uncommon, one. Agnesa had been sold to the gang in Milot, in payment for her husband’s unpaid gambling debts. She was taken to Glasgow and, along with a dozen other women, was imprisoned in a flat above a bar. For six months, she was forced to become a prostitute – and often gang-raped by members of Rugova’s crew. Agnesa mentioned that most of the women became addicted to heroin. It kept them docile and dependent, and deadened the misery of their captivity. Yet, more than one of the women committed suicide. When Agnesa’s friend, Drita, escaped, Baruti tracked her down and brought her back to the brothel. He stood Drita in front of the other women in the living-room and shot her in the head, threatening that Agnesa and others would suffer the same fate if they tried to flee. It was a testament to her courage that Agnesa still fled, shortly after the incident. She could not be convinced to testify against Baruti, however.

  “He will find me. He would also find and murder my family back in Albania too… The devil works in mysterious ways… You should thank me for it. Because he would get to you all as well.”

  One of the conclusions of Elmwood and the NCA was that to truly disband the organisation, they would need to convict both Rugova and Baruti. If one of them remained, then so would the gang. Their task would prove more difficult because, technically, Baruti could claim diplomatic immunity. One answer was to present the Albanian diplomatic service with so much damning evidence, they would be compelled to revoke his status and send him home.

  The half-smile just about clung onto Marshal’s expression. He recalled Porter’s description of Baruti:

  “He’s an Albanian Pinkie,” he said, taking it for granted that his dinner companion was familiar with Brighton Rock, either the film or the book. “He probably even carries a bottle of Vitriol and a cut-throat razor around with him… Wickedness is a real thing in this world. I wish I could say the same for goodness. But somehow goodness slips through our hands, like thin air. But as many lives as our Pinkie has ruined, we should not allow him to spoil our dinner. I may well order some chocolate cake. I need to raise my spirits – and serotonin levels.”

  Porter forced a smile after he spoke, his face still haunted by the thought of Baruti catching up with Marshal. Later, during the train journey home to Windsor, Porter promised himself that he would help Marshal out in any way he could (although he still told himself he was retired). The ex-Guards officer lost Devlin. He did not want to lose Marshal too.

  9.

  His eyes grew tired again and his heart grew heavy. Marshal closed the laptop and appreciated the distraction as Jeremy Knight, the other owner of the coffee shop, approached him. Not only was he conscious of shielding the material from his friend, but it would have been bad form to keep glancing at the screen whilst chatting to someone. Jeremy had the ability to smile, in the face of having the world on his shoulders. Always an admirable trait. Jeremy also knew where all the best curry houses were in South London. Which Marshal also appreciated.

  “Afternoon, James. Beer?” Jeremy asked, albeit he already knew the answer.

  “Why not?” Marshal replied. He felt like he now needed something stronger than coffee. The two men regularly drank together. They were both well practised at holding their liquor and a conversation. “Unfortunately, I can only have one, which, of course, means two. Believe it or not, I’ve actually got some work to do this afternoon.”

  “Well, I’ll believe it when I see it. Will you not just be busy doing nothing, like usual?” Jeremy remarked, after ordering a couple of drinks with just the slightest movements of his head and eyes. Jeremy knew something of Marshal’s situation, in relation to his military career – and inheriting a significant sum of money from his grandfather. Enough to be able to live a life of leisure. “What’s the job?”

  “I’m doing a friend a favour and chauffeuring a former fashion model around town.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “I don’t feel that lucky. This isn’t my first rodeo, so to speak. I’ve worked for models and celebrities before. I’ll have to muster all my energy – and my store of bullshit for the month – in order to feign interest in her conversation. I may have to take a vat of coffee to go as well, to furnish me with enough caffeine to keep me awake. She’ll doubtlessly spend most of her time bitching about other models. What’s the definition of a misogynist? A man who hates women as much as women hate each other. I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies. It could be worse. I could have to suffer a male model in the back of the car. Or Bono.”

  Marshal made his way home after a couple of pints. As he closed in on his neighbourhood his eyes flitted from one side of the street to the other, as if he were a squaddie walking down the Shankill Road, in case the Albanians had already inserted watchers into the area. He was also conscious of keeping an eye out for the silver Subaru, and any other suspicious vehicles, parked outside his building.

  At the same time, Marshal’s inner eye played out various scenarios. War games. The war may already be over. The Albanians could ignore the incident. But hope for the best, plan for the worst. Marshal developed the seed of an idea, to help bring the criminal network down. The keystones were Rugova and Baruti. Take them out and the rest of the organisation would collapse, like a house of cards. When he reached home, he ordered a few items online. Just in case his plan could come to fruition. Marshal then packed a bag for his trip away. He made sure to include his locked metal box, containing the Glock 21, with magazine and suppressor – as well as his copy of Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot.

  Marshal’s car was a black Jaguar. The engine coughed, as if bronchial. The steering was a little stiff, as if arthritic. He didn’t keep the car in good order. But maybe it was just all in the mind. But then again, everything may be considered just all in the mind. The vehicle scraped through its last service. He didn’t know how many miles the car had left in it. It seemed to sometimes creak like an old rocking chair. It could last another twenty years. It could last another day. Like him.

  He drove to a petrol station and ran the Jaguar through the carwash. He took the beer can out of the cupholder and threw away the empty cigarette packets in the passenger’s footwell. He was not overly worried about making a good impression. But he didn’t want to make a bad one.

  He started to listen to the news during his journey through London, but things were all too predictable and partisan. The syrupy or blustering voices of politicians, speaking in sentences a hundred and forty characters long, grated on his threadbare soul. Perhaps the producer of the programme was trying to cultivate the idea of having two opposing people – who would posit a thesis and antithesis. A synthesis, solution, might then be reached. But the outcome was that Marshal just switched off and listened to Bruce Springsteen.

  “Hold tight to your anger, and don’t fall to your fears…

  Bring on your wrecking ball.”

  Marshal opened the windows to help air the interior. He thought he could still smell his grandfather’s scent and cigars. But maybe it was all in his mind again. He frequently drove Edward “Teddy” Marshal to his check-ups and tests at the hospital. His grandfather would sit in the back, as quiet as a mouse – vacant. Or he would rail against the “plastic” and “honourless” world, spittle hitting the back of the headrest. Although his voice became a hoarse whisper towards the end. The years of bellowing out orders, or a lifetime of d
rinking whisky, caught up with him.

  Teddy Marshal served in the SAS during the Second World War. An officer once described the Regiment as “the sweepings of the public schools and the prisons.” Teddy had spent time in both. He looked a little bit like Gregory Peck when in his prime, his grandson thought (although towards the end he resembled Scrooge more: white hair, ghostly pale, haunted face). He had a strong jaw and solid frame before that. A sometimes dark, sometimes noble, expression lined his features. After the war, Teddy Marshal set up a successful engineering company. He died, aged ninety-four. His wife, Dorothy, passed away a decade before him. After her passing, something died in Teddy too. He would often call out his wife’s name, whether wide awake or asleep. When his grandfather suffered a stroke, his grandson moved-in to take care of him. His rehabilitation went well, he regained his speech and mobility, but at the same time dementia started to eat away at the old man’s mind, like rust eating away an at old park bench. His moods became increasingly erratic. He could be forgetful one moment, angry the next. Yet the soldier fought a good fight and tried to retain his sense of humour and decency. His grandson helped alleviate the confusion, loneliness and isolation. But not all of it.

  Marshal’s half-smile teetered on disappearing, or widening, as he remembered his time with his grandfather. He would shave him every other morning, watch Westerns with him during the afternoon and cook for him in the evening. He would administer his pills, from a dosette box the size of a briefcase, three times a day. He would take him to the park and local café. Teddy Marshal could be irascible and bigoted. He was as stubborn as a Yorkshireman, and although he was devoted to his wife, he wasn’t always faithful. But he was kind, courageous – and his black sense of humour lit up most rooms. Like Churchill, he had taken more out of alcohol than alcohol had taken out of him. The veteran was also an unashamed patriot. “If you cut me, I’ll bleed red, white and blue.” Queen and country meant something. His grandson envied and admired his belief in something bigger than him. “To be born English is to win first prize in the lottery of life,” he would say, quoting Cecil Rhodes. Still, his grandson, studying philosophy at the time, remained sceptical. But he realised cynicism could be a double-edged sword, hurting both the person the weapon was pointed towards, and its wielder.