Home Front: A James Marshal Thriller Omnibus

by Thomas Waugh

  For many years Teddy Marshal remained reticent, in relation to talking about what he did during the war. “I survived, so it was mission accomplished,” he remarked to his teenaged grandson. But shortly after moving in to take care of the old soldier, Teddy Marshal began to open up. Perhaps he wanted to exercise his memory more, like a muscle, to help combat the dementia. Or it was the case that although the present was often a blur, the past was as vivid as a photograph. As James Marshal drove the Jaguar westwards, he heard the ghost of his grandfather entertaining and educating him from the backseat.

  “Monty’s beret was never big enough to fit his enormous head. The diva acted as if he was Eisenhower’s superior. He had plenty of dress sense. But as the war went on, he increasingly lacked common sense. Arnhem was a charnel house, a fool’s errand. Bill Slim was twice the commander he was. I never heard a single word said against Slim, from the soldiers who served under him… Paddy Mayne. Now there was a giant of a man, in more ways than one. He could be a smart bastard. A bloody-minded bastard. A drunk bastard. But always some sort of bastard. I stayed up drinking with him a few times. He would often say how he wanted to be a poet. But he knew he made a better killer… God, I was scared before any prospective firefight. The drink and Benzedrine probably added an edge, rather than took one away. But it’s good to be scared. It means you’re human. Yet fear can be overcome, like an enemy… You’ve never asked me, James, if ever I killed someone during the war. Perhaps because you already know the answer…”

  A rare tear welled in his eye as Marshal remembered his grandfather. He was invited to re-take the SAS selection while he looked after him. Marshal could have also worked for Porter during that time – and earned a small fortune. He could have met someone, married and had children. Instead, he resembled Sisyphus each day. Instead, he watched, all but helplessly, as someone he loved dearly deteriorated and died. Yet Marshal had no regrets.

  Looking after his grandfather had been one of the saddest things he had ever done, and the most rewarding.

  Marshal made good time, getting to his destination. The house was tucked away, close to an affluent, old-fashioned village. The handsome property was surrounded by a high brick wall, and further concealed by strategically placed fruit trees. He parked next to a mud-splattered Range Rover and gleaming Mercedes. Crime pays, Marshal thought to himself.

  He was soon greeted by Porter, his wife and a mongrel on the gravel driveway. Violet seemed particularly pleased to see the stranger. Her tail spun around, as opposed to just wagging, and she affectionately licked his hands and jumped up at him. Marshal’s half-smile turned into a fulsome grin. Dogs are happiness machines.

  “She likes you,” Victoria remarked, on witnessing Violet roll over to let Marshal rub her stomach. She had never known the creature to let a stranger stroke her tummy so quickly.

  “I’m sure she will change her mind once she gets to know me,” he replied. If Violet had been human, however, the statement would have proved more realistic and less humorous, he imagined.

  Viktor Baruti stirred his coffee four times and tapped his spoon twice against the side of the cup, as he sat, alone, in a booth at The High Life. He flicked his hair out of his eyes and put the empty glasses on the table back onto their coasters. Baruti had just finished speaking with Bisha and Bashkim again, about the incident. They were too witless, or scared, to dissemble. Despite the kryetar’s pointed questions, he was still none the wiser as to whether the Englishman was a random stranger, or a contractor working for one of their rivals. The only way to uncover the truth was to locate and confront him.

  “Find him,” he instructed, without equivocation. The implication being that if they did not find him, Baruti would find them. Their orders were to patrol the streets in the neighbourhood, using a different vehicle, with the intention of spotting the Englishman. “You are not to engage with the stranger, however. Just follow him and contact me. I will deal with him. I will be able to track your location on my phone.”

  Profits and pride meant that the Albanians couldn’t allow the attack to go unpunished. They would still establish themselves in the area and push their product. Baruti also couldn’t allow the Englishman to turn into too much of a distraction. The West Indians were a greater concern. Recent information suggested that Delroy Onslow was recruiting more men. Baruti had obtained a list of the gang’s safehouses, and the home addresses of key gang members. If Onslow went on the offensive the kryetar would put them all to the sword. A Night of Long Knives would prove less bloody, and more efficient, than a drawn-out war. The Russians and Chinese would permit the action. They were perhaps even more racist than Albanians, Baruti thought. Perhaps.

  He glanced at his watch – a gold Audemars Piguet – and pursed his lips on noticing a tiny scratch on the glass. He would contact the vendor but, should he be without the timepiece for more than two days in order to replace the glass, he would just buy another. He would feel somehow incomplete without a watch. Nearly as much as he would feel incomplete without his gun.

  Baruti would get home later and spend the evening cleaning the La Marzocco. Before that, however, he needed to pay a visit to one of his operatives, Valon Hasi. The enforcer had recently posted a video on YouTube of himself and other gang members, brandishing a Kalashnikov and snorting cocaine through fifty-pound notes. Faces and number plates had been blurred out, but it was still an act of stupidity. Clowns. Baruti would order Hasi to take the video down, otherwise the next video posted up would involve his torture and death. The former bricklayer, from Fier, thought he was a big man. He was too flash. Too loud. Hasi had a diamond stud in one of his teeth and owned specially designed gold-plated knuckle-dusters. The oaf focussed too much on what was between his legs, rather than what was between his ears. Baruti would cut him down to size if he put the security of their organisation in jeopardy again.

  Laughter rang out from a couple of staff members in the nearby kitchens. Baruti pursed his lips even more. The sound grated on the black hole of where his soul used to be.

  10.

  After being invited into the main house for a cup of coffee, Porter showed Marshal to his billet, a converted “posh shed” in the garden. The guesthouse contained a toilet/shower, as well as a small fireplace, double bed, fridge and television. The Wi-Fi coverage was excellent and Marshal continued to read and re-read the intelligence files. He marvelled at how Porter’s contact, Mariner, could have collated so much material, so quickly. Marshal also devoted a little research time to Grace Wilde. She was often called an “English rose” in profile pieces. Her breakthrough in the industry had come when she was seventeen. She had worked with most major designers and fashion houses. Most of the articles mentioned her love life. She had never been married, but had dated a string of actors, sports stars and other miscellaneous celebrities and millionaires. She pouted a lot in photos – appearing doe-eyed, as if she were about to ask someone to buy her a pony. The veteran model had recently announced her retirement.

  “I want to settle back in England and take stock… I have been fortunate to earn a good living over the years. It’s time to give something back.”

  Marshal raised an eyebrow, in scepticism or cynicism. Maybe both. He’d heard such trite before, all too often. The fashion industry had probably moved on, deeming Grace Wilde to be too old for its target demographic. She was pushed, before she jumped, he judged. And now the model was moving on too. Grace Wilde, the brand and company, would probably give enough back to qualify for tax breaks.

  Porter mentioned to Marshal to come over for drinks, before dinner, at six o’clock. As he walked across the lawn and driveway, he inadvertently joined the welcome party to greet the guest of honour.

  Grace Wilde pulled up in the taxi, which she had booked at the airport. Porter grabbed her bags, as he didn’t want his other guest to feel too much like staff.

  The evening was drawing in. A crescent moon hung lazily in the sky. Marshal could now view the stars. The constellations fanned them
selves across the firmament, like a peacock showing off its feathers. The lamps came on at the front of the house, cutting triangles of light across the drive. Violet scampered towards her new friend. Marshal bent down and stroked the mongrel behind her ear, as she licked his face.

  Marshal had pictured the model turning up in Zanotti heels, wearing a designer dress costing as much as a small car, with her hair pinned up in an edifice akin to some ghastly modern sculpture. Yet Grace was just wearing some faded jeans, white pumps and a purple lambswool top. Her shoulder-length blonde hair hung down naturally. Marshal noticed she was wearing a thin gold necklace, although the pendant was tucked under her clothes. He imagined that a large diamond was attached to the chain, similar to the one she had worn in a Bulgari photoshoot, which Marshal had seen online.

  He conceded that the model was undeniably attractive. It was likely she was undeniably vain too, which would not have made her beautiful, in his eyes. Grace had an oval face, almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones. She looked like Anne Hathaway. Her blue eyes almost shimmered as much as the stars. Her figure her been willowy during her career, but she had put on a little weight in her retirement. Now she was slender, lithe – and she looked better for it. She moved with an undeniable elegance, although Marshal couldn’t quite tell if her elegance was natural, or if it had been drilled into her. He generously leaned towards the former, given her aunt possessed a similar figure and poise.

  Victoria and Grace greeted one another with genuine, heartfelt affection and a long, warm hug – as opposed to just air-kissing each other on the cheek.

  Although Victoria had spoken to her niece about her driver, giving her as much information as she could, Grace pretended that she didn’t even know his name when they were introduced. She narrowed her almond eyes and took him in. He was handsomer and fitter than she expected. He could have been a low-rent male model, in his youth, she imagined. Grace had met plenty of military types before, on both sides of the Atlantic. All stood ramrod straight. Most were repressed – emotionally scarred by their parents, boarding schools or the army. Some were alcoholics. Most were married, most were unfaithful. Some were chinless wonders. Young, dumb and full of…

  “Can I trust him?” Grace had asked her aunt. Victoria was aware how, in the past, drivers and other staff had sold pictures and stories about her niece to the press.

  “If Oliver trusts him, I do too.”

  All she needed from him was just to drive, however. Grace would roll her eyes and sigh if he hit on her. She would then give him a verbal warning if he ignored her signals. Finally, she would ask Oliver to replace the ex-soldier if her driver stepped over the line. She was tired of uninteresting men thinking she would be interested in them, just because they worked out at the gym, drove an expensive car or had other women falling at their feet.

  “Nice to meet you,” Marshal remarked, flashing an amiable smile.

  “Nice to meet you too,” Grace replied. Her voice was clear and clean, like glass. Cut glass. Grace had grown up in Essex, but she spoke like she came from Surrey. Her smile was polite but appeared and vanished from her face as quickly as a snake’s tongue might dart in and out to taste the air.

  Marshal subtly surveyed the dining room, as the party of four had drinks before dinner. Most of the furniture was old-fashioned, antique. Yet a softer, more modern aesthetic – and a woman’s touch – added something to the room.

  He glanced at the bookshelves. There were plenty of titles, fiction and non-fiction, dedicated to the Byzantines. Marshal was unsurprised at Porter’s interest in the conniving empire, which proved a master at playing all sides. There were Folio Society editions of Joseph Conrad, John Buchan and Ian Fleming, as well as various wine atlases and military history titles. Portraits of Porter’s antecedents, wearing dress uniforms and portentous expressions, hung on the walls.

  Marshal found it interesting, or rather comical, to see Porter in a domestic environment. The ex-Guards officer who had commanded soldiers, blackmailed MPs and arranged contract killings was a doting and devoted husband. Porter willingly helped strain the vegetables and made the gravy when asked to do so. He also followed Victoria’s order, as if she were an RSM, when she asked for him to turn Elgar off and put on Celine Dion.

  The conversation was stilted over dinner, like a car engine that was unable to turn over in the frost. There was an invisible, yet tangible, tension or awkwardness around the table. Oliver briefed his wife beforehand on an array of topics not to bring up with Marshal (his time in the army, his mother and father, grandfather and Tony Blair). The fixer was quieter than usual. He was distracted, ruminating on whether Marshal would continue his private war with the Albanians – if he was intending to get his retaliation in first. The best thing would be for Marshal to disappear for a while. Porter thought about calling in a favour from a contact and offering Marshal the use of a villa in the Algarve. He also spared a thought for Devlin – and imagined what he might have said and done in Marshal’s position.

  No retreat, no surrender.

  Victoria would sometimes attempt to bring her niece into the conversation, but she never wholeheartedly embraced the invitation – like a debutant forever turning dances down at a ball. She was courteous, but uninterested, in what anyone had to say. Victoria equally failed in trying to engage Marshal. He was often flippant or deflective. He clearly didn’t feel comfortable talking about himself. Ironically, because he could be self-deprecating and elusive Victoria was keen to get to know Marshal more.

  After dessert Grace announced that she had to excuse herself. She was tired from her flight and needed to go to bed. Grace mentioned that she and Marshal needed to be up early – acting like a schoolteacher, reminding a child that he had an exam in the morning.

  It was Marshal’s turn to roll his eyes. The model was as aloof as a politician’s wife. Too important to lower herself to interact with staff, or mere mortals. She probably thought she was some form of classical statue, to be admired rather than touched.

  After Grace took her leave, her aunt apologised for her niece.

  “I am sorry if she seemed out of sorts. She has had a long journey, what with the flight and all the arrangements to come back to the country.”

  “It’s fine. Certainly, you have nothing to apologise for. Rather I should be thanking you for a delicious meal,” Marshal replied. The lamb had fallen off the bone, as easily as civil servants had fallen down in the heat of Helmand. The carrots and broccoli had been crunchy, and the roast potatoes had been crispy on the outside and fluffy inside. For dessert, which he had eaten seconds of, Victoria had cooked a rhubarb crumble. Marshal remembered how his mum also flavoured her crumbles with raisins and cinnamon, as he ate the pudding. He couldn’t remember the last time he had sat around a family dinner table and had a meal. The last time had probably been with an ex-girlfriend and her family. The relationship had not likely lasted much longer after such a gathering. But it had been far too long since he had enjoyed such delicious homecooked food.

  Usually, Porter would invite a houseguest, particularly a fellow officer, to stay up and have a cognac and cigar with him. They would chat about MOD cuts, mutual acquaintances and how the world was going to hell in a handcart. But he was tired. He also feared Grace’s wrath, should he keep her driver up too late and cause him to have a hangover in the morning. Marshal was fine to retire early too, what with having some sleep, cigarettes and reading to catch up on.

  Grace offered up a genuine yawn, and two feigned ones, at dinner to convey how exhausted she was. She hoped that Victoria didn’t think her too rude for making it an early night. She wanted to ask after Victoria more, about her children and how Oliver was faring in his retirement, but she felt it inappropriate with a stranger, staff member, in their midst.

  Her room upstairs had a bathroom and Grace showered. She then went through her beauty routine and ablutions, before bed. She slumped onto the mattress, in her pearl-coloured silk dressing gown, stretching out her body, uncoiling
her anxieties and muscles.

  To her slight surprise, she found herself thinking about her driver. Perhaps she had been a tad too curt and standoffish towards him at dinner. But she told herself that it was important to establish a professional relationship and boundaries with him. Violet seemed smitten with him, however. She couldn’t quite place his accent and his back wasn’t ramrod straight. She didn’t know whether to be impressed or worried, that he worked his way through a bottle of wine at the same pace as Oliver. He was wittier than most officers she had ever encountered, and the corner of her mouth flicked upwards, for a second too, as she recalled snippets of his conversation.

  “The annoying thing about a near-death experience is that you see your life flash before you. Suffice to say I nearly died of boredom, re-living certain episodes, before any enemy could get to me… I do not set my life at a pin’s fee.”

  Grace’s ears pricked-up on hearing the soldier quote Hamlet, although she did her best not to show any interest. She would have considered that the driver was unwittingly quoting Shakespeare, until he quoted the play later in the evening too:

  “Nothing is good or bad but thinking makes it so.”