A Few Words for the Dead (13 page)

April put on an extra burst of speed so that she was only a short distance behind him. She watched as he discovered his wallet was missing. He hesitated, clearly wondering if he should go back. Then, deciding – quite rightly – that it must have been lifted rather than dropped accidentally, he cursed, pulled out his Oyster Card and carried on his way. She let him mount the escalator before darting through the ticket barrier, peering over the escalator to see which of the two platforms he aimed for. Once he’d stepped out of sight onto the westbound platform, she went down the escalator after him, hanging back from the platform. She waited for the train to arrive, watched him board and then dashed over and climbed into the next carriage.

Bernstein had clearly managed to break into the filing cabinets because under one arm he had a thick stack of cardboard files. He didn’t look at them as the train headed towards Turnpike Lane; instead he picked up a copy of the
Metro
newspaper and began to flick through it. April perched in a seat with her back to him, only keeping an eye on him as the train stopped for a station. As they approached Finsbury Park, he got to his feet and she hung back as the passengers dismounted, waiting for him to walk past her on the platform before jumping up and getting off just before the doors closed.

Bernstein had wrapped the files in his copy of the
Metro
and made his way up the Seven Sisters road towards the park, April keeping a safe distance behind him.

The park was quiet but for the odd determined cyclist and jogger, huffing great, white clouds of condensation before them in the cold air. They reminded April of ailing locomotives, desperately trying to push their load up one more hill. In order not to be seen, she allowed Bernstein as much space as she dared, hanging right back as he sat down on a bench, placing the wrapped folders next to him. How she loved to watch people who weren’t spies acting like spies. She just bet he had insisted on a code phrase.

He sat there for a few moments, quite failing to appear in the least bit relaxed and then, when he apparently couldn’t take it any more, he jumped up and moved quickly back the way he had come, leaving the files on the bench. A drop then, she realised; he wasn’t here to meet anyone, just to make a delivery.

She had little choice but to let him go, he wasn’t important – it was whoever was pulling the strings she wanted to see.

It was cold, and April was struggling not to draw attention to herself by jogging on the spot, or beating her arms like an angry swan in an effort to keep her ailing circulation going. When you got to her age, there was only so much that could be achieved through the enthusiastic deployment of cardigans and scarves. She wondered if a cigarette would make her feel any warmer and decided, lacking the evidence to say either way, to give it a shot.

It was another half an hour before Bernstein’s employer appeared, by which point April had seriously begun to consider climbing one of the trees in order to keep herself moving. When she saw who the man was, the flush of anger she felt all but undid her chill. It was Clive King, an ex-lover now deputy business secretary and a man that owed Section 37 considerable thanks after they had salvaged an important set of diplomatic talks with the South Korean government. What the hell was he doing being involved in this? He wasn’t part of the Intelligence community, had no links to Albert Fisher’s department… April was as baffled as she was livid. She decided the only way forward was to stroll over there and give him a clip around the ear.

He sat down on the bench and was slipping the folders inside his coat when April dropped down next to him. She was only slightly mollified by the startled cry this brought from him.

‘I hope you have a bloody good explanation for all this?’ she demanded, refusing to grace him with a moment in which to recover. ‘After everything August has done for you lately, I can’t believe you’re involved in this absurd business.’

He stared at her for a moment, regaining some of his composure. ‘Hello April,’ he said eventually. ‘Lovely to see you as always.’

‘Don’t give me that. Our days of being pleased to meet up on quiet park benches ended with the 1970s. Now, what’s going on?’

King sighed. ‘Your brother’s in a great deal of trouble.’

‘I wouldn’t be freezing my particulars off out here if he wasn’t,’ she told him. ‘What’s your part in it?’

He shook his head. ‘You’re shouting at the wrong person,’ he smiled, ‘as always. He’s being investigated by a man called Fisher…’

‘Section 12, I know.’

‘Fisher came to me, expecting me to offer evidence against August following the Lufford Hall business. Naturally I couldn’t oblige. I had nothing but praise to heap on Section 37’s shoulders – and you wouldn’t believe how much vitriol that has caused in certain idiotic corners of the government. I told him there could be no question of August’s loyalty, or indeed, his importance to the security of our nation. I told him that we were damned lucky to have him and that we should count ourselves lucky that he was doing his job.’

April softened. ‘That’s terribly sweet, if it’s true.’

‘Of course it’s true, April, you know me better than that. I’m not one of your two-faced lot, I’m just a politician. We’re paragons of virtue and trust by comparison. Fisher was… I don’t know how to describe it really, gleeful? He didn’t care what I said, he was utterly convinced that he would break August. He relished the idea so much. He quite wrong-footed me. I don’t think I’d ever seen someone so completely and utterly poisonous in his attitudes. He’s a serious threat, April, deadly serious…’

‘I can handle Fisher.’

King shook his head. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, knowing you as I do, but I really don’t think you can. He hates August, I mean really… I know people bandy the word around, but the pleasure he was taking in his conviction that he would ruin your brother. What did August ever do to him? It was personal, that’s for sure.’

‘I don’t think they’ve even met. Which, considering the time they’ve both spent in service seems a feat in itself, but I’m sure there’s no personal axe to grind.’

‘You didn’t see what he was like. He means to destroy him, April, utterly destroy him. I did my best to ask around, see if I couldn’t pull a few strings to have the investigation stopped but I have no real influence, not in security. We pretend it’s the politicians that have the power but you and I both know that’s illusory when it comes to this sort of thing. I’m probably just another file somewhere in an MI6 office. So I decided to try something else…’

‘Bernstein?’

‘I know his father, he owed me a favour. Hamish is a career soldier, he does as he’s told, as long as you’re firm enough. Fisher had asked him to go through the Section 37 files. He wanted all the material he could find on Shining’s time in Germany in the early Eighties.’

‘He’d have had a job on. August doesn’t keep the old stuff in the office, he hasn’t got the space.’

‘Then he’s gone to Fisher empty-handed, good.’ King smiled. ‘A small victory, but you take what you can get.’

April looked at the bundle of files on the bench. ‘So what are these?’

‘Take a look. I convinced Bernstein that, while he was there, he would be helping his country were he to select certain files and ensure they were removed from Shining’s office.’

April opened the files and saw her own name. ‘They’re all about me?’

‘I didn’t want Fisher going after you next. I might not be able to help August but I could at least try and protect you.’

April put her hand on King’s arm. ‘Oh, you silly darling, I’ve got nothing to hide.’

‘Fisher doesn’t care. I told you, the man’s a menace. He’d find something to twist against you I’m sure.’

‘But he’s not interested in me, is he?’

King shrugged. ‘He was interested in everything to do with August. He asked about you and Toby. Wanted to know what I knew about the both of you. I couldn’t help Toby…’

‘Nobody can at the moment,’ April admitted. She patted the files on her lap, looking out across the park. In the distance a jogger in a hoodie was pounding his way across the grass towards them, his trainers beating at the ground. Beyond him a woman wrestled with two large dogs, neither inclined to walk in the same direction. In the far distance a group of school kids were laughing and shoving at one another, cutting through the park as a shortcut home. Normal people, happy in their normal business.

‘It was kind of you to think of me,’ she said to King.

King shifted in his seat, slightly embarrassed. ‘I often do,’ he admitted.

She hugged his arm. ‘Now now, you’re a happily married man these days, don’t start digging all that up.’

‘Just because the world moved on doesn’t mean I don’t still have feelings for you,’ he said. ‘They may not be the same feelings they once were…’

‘Don’t spoil it, darling.’

He laughed. ‘You know what I mean, you’re a great woman, April, and I’ll always have your back when I can.’

‘I can always depend on you, Clive, you gorgeous old sod.’

King coughed and April felt something spatter on her face. ‘Clive!’ she said, reaching for her cheek. Then she turned to look at him. It hadn’t been a cough. There was a ragged hole where his left cheek had been, a thin trail of condensation rising from the small entry wound in the back of his skull. Her fingers touched the blood on her cheek even as she saw the spatter that had arced across her lap and the files her old friend had stolen in order to protect her. ‘Clive!’ she cried again, this time in shock and horror.

She ducked down and peered through the slats of the bench into the woods behind them. There was a flash of red moving between the trees towards her, the jogger from earlier, she realised, his hood pulled up over his head, his hands pressed deep into the pouch in the hoodie’s front. One of which was almost certainly holding a gun.

She looked around, desperately trying to see a way out of her situation. If she ran, he would surely cut her down.

To her right a pair of cyclists appeared on the track through the park. In a few seconds they would be between her and the assassin – surely he wouldn’t risk witnesses? It was her only chance, make as much noise as possible and hope that it made him back off for long enough that she could make her escape.

She looked to Clive as he slowly sagged forward, thick strings of blood dripping forward onto his crisp white shirt and the lapels of his expensive suit. Clive had always fussed about his suits. She thought back on their time together, mocking him from the bed as he slowly and methodically hung up his clothes. She had accused him of having no passion, no spontaneity. In a way it had been true, but she regretted every harsh word now. We always remember our crimes against the dead, however small.

The cyclists drew closer, the assassin now aware of them too, halting in his advance and looking towards them, his face still hidden within his hoodie.

April jumped to her feet and waved her arms. ‘Help!’ she shouted, feeling absurdly pathetic. Pride be damned, she thought, continuing to shout. ‘Please help me! This man is trying to kill me!’

The cyclists were both young men, students most likely, she decided. What happened to the good old days when students barely left the dope-tinged fug of their accommodation? It was broad daylight and here they were indulging in exercise.

The assassin didn’t run as the cyclists reached them. They slammed on their brakes and one of them, a tall ginger-haired lad with calves you could have clubbed an ox to death with started to dismount. ‘There some sort of problem?’ he asked.

‘Watch it Flinty,’ said his friend, smaller and vainly attempting to grow a blonde beard. ‘They might be…’ He suddenly realised he didn’t know how to finish that sentence without causing offence.

‘This man shot my friend!’ April shouted, pointing at the assassin. Why was the man not just running away?

He turned to look at her and his face was shocked. ‘I would never…’ he said.

‘Perhaps the old fucker deserved it?’ suggested the ginger-haired cyclist, smiling at April. ‘Had you thought of that?’

His friend stared at him. ‘What are you on about, Flinty?’ he asked. Flinty didn’t seem at all sure, now looking baffled as to what was happening.

‘You all deserve it,’ said the jogger, no trace of shock on his face now as he pulled the silenced pistol from the pocket of his hoodie and smiled at April.

She kicked him has hard as she could between the legs, then ran.

‘He’s got a gun!’ Flinty was shouting.

‘Just get out of here!’ she shouted over her shoulder, not daring to slow herself down by turning around. ‘Just go!’

She heard the gun fire twice and the clatter of bicycles and bodies. All she’d done was get another couple of people killed.

She moved between the trees, heading towards the main road, knowing there was no way she could outpace the assassin but refusing not to give it a damn good try.

Ahead of her, the hiss of pneumatic brakes and the hum of car engines worked its way through the trees, the relative safety of the Seven Sisters road so close at hand.

She could hear running feet behind her. He wasn’t shooting, why wasn’t he shooting? She had no wish to die but if that was how it had to be then let it at least be over and bloody done with.

She searched her handbag as she ran. Her phone was no use – why call anyone only to die down the line to them? A few years ago, she’d gone through a short phase of carrying pepper spray in her bag, not out of any general sense of vulnerability – she’d never been one for that – but an ex-boyfriend had made enough threats that she’d decided it might not have been a bad idea to be prepared in case he tried to follow through on them. Like all his promises, they’d turned out to be hollow and, after an awkward New Year’s Eve when she’d blinded a fellow partygoer thinking it was a can of silly string, she’d made a point of dumping it in the bin. At the time she’d considered herself terribly sensible to have done so; now she wished she’d let it clutter up her bag like everything else she’d shoved in it over the years.

She threw the pizza slices over her shoulder. Maybe she’d get lucky and catch him in the eye with a stray jalapeno. There must be something she could use to defend herself?