Cold Blood (29 page)

ONE

Shoreham by Sea
,
United Kingdom

A victim of the credit crunch they would call him, an unavoidable casualty against an unseen enemy, the recession. Paddy Fox swallowed his pint bitterly. He was no one’s victim. He looked at the jobs page for the third time before screwing it up in a ball. The anger he felt towards them had not lessened in the six weeks since it had happened, the rage he had for his former boss. He had nothing to prove, he was James ‘Paddy’ Fox, a twenty year veteran of the SAS and was worth something. If no one saw that then sod em.

Fox’s mobile rang, he grabbed for it. “Yes?” His guttural Scottish hue had not been lessened by years of living in Hereford and then Sussex. There was a pause, which instantly told him it was a company trying to sell him something, before a voice reading from a script spoke.

“Can I speak to Mr James Fox?”

“You could.” He cut the connection.

Take, take, take! The world seemed to want something from him but not him. He flattened out the paper and circled another job, the ‘Dymex’ logo blurred in front of his eyes. Tracey still worked for them, but why he had kept a corporate ball point pen he didn’t know. Was it his sack cloth?

Fox downed his pint of bitter and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. Just the two for now, more later when he already knew he’d storm out of the house after arguing with Tracy. It had become an almost daily occurrence since he’d become, as he saw it ‘redundant’. He looked across the Crown & Anchor’s dingy deserted bar. Burt, the jowl heavy landlord was the only other person in the room, with the exception of ‘old Dave’ who sat in the corner like a fixture with his paper and pint of Guinness. Fox shook his head, what a miserable piss hole of a pub. It was the only bar in Shoreham that had yet to be ‘neoned’, as he called it, to have a bit of paint slapped on, fancy lights added and the price of the drinks doubled. As such it was the only place where the average age of the punters was over twelve, in his mind anyway. He stood, placed his empty on the bar and nodded at Burt as he left the pub. Outside it was rush hour, cars cut through the narrow streets of the old town in an attempt to miss the traffic. In a way the SAS veteran was glad that he was not part of the corporate world anymore – the ‘rat run rat race’ nevertheless he was still angry at how he had left it.

Summoned to a glass walled meeting room Fox had looked across with disgust at the younger man in his designer suit and signature dark blue shirt. The man spoke as Fox’s stare remained locked onto his eyes.

“I’m sorry Paddy, I really am, but as you were made aware at the start of the consultation process, cuts have to be made. We have been as fair as we can.”

There was a pause as Leo Sawyer waited for Paddy’s reply. Unable to bare the awkward silence, Paddy’s line manager, Janet Cope, coughed to clear her throat.

“James we really are sorry to let you go but it has been decided that we need two sales engineers and not three.”

Paddy stared at each of ‘the suits’ in turn. “What about the position in Saudi?” Paddy’s voice was loud in the small glass walled room.

Cope flinched and Sawyer nervously straightened his tie

“You were not suitable for the role. Sorry.” Sawyer replied in what he thought appeared to be a sympathetic manner. He felt Fox’s green eyes bore into him.

“But I speak Arabic! Can any of the other candidates?” Paddy had started to turn a shade redder than normal.

Cope gasped. “Now James, I understand that you are upset, but we do not need to shout.”

Paddy cast her a contemptuous look. “Only my mother calls me James.”

Cope herself turned a shade of pink and looked down.

Sawyer pushed a sheet of paper across the table to Paddy. “If you have a look at this you will see that we are paying you in full for your unused holiday time, three months redundancy pay – as per your contract and an additional bonus for all your hard work in the last five years.”

“Six years. I have been here since 2004.” Paddy picked up the sheet and scanned the thirty eight lines.

“Of course, six years my mistake.”

“Your redundancy is effective immediate, as of the end of today. That means you can start to look for work from tomorrow. We wouldn’t want to stop you from finding another job. We really are truly sorry.” Cope smiled that ‘monkey smile’ that he had hated ever since the day she’d become his boss six months earlier.

Paddy folded the letter, placed it into his shirt pocket and stood. He stared again at both suits. Sawyer was about to speak but Fox held up his hand.

“Thank you for your sincerity.”

Heads turned as Fox crossed the open plan office for his desk, some tried not to make eye contact, others to look sympathetic. Either way to him they were just pathetic. His two sales colleagues, those that were not being pushed out, were not surprisingly anywhere to be seen. He reached his desk and started to empty its drawers into his pilot case. Fox had always disliked Sawyer. Ever since the last Christmas do, when Tracy had let slip that he’d been in ‘Desert Storm’, the man had constantly quizzed him about his past. Sawyer a member, he claimed, of the ‘territorials’ had then tried to take them all – Sales & Marketing - on a team building ‘Paint Balling’ weekend. As Marketing Director Tracey had gone and according to her Leo was ‘such a laugh’. At the next works ‘event’, Fox had caught him staring at her and given him the nickname ‘Eagle Eyed Action Man’. In fact the only real ‘action’ Fox could envisage Sawyer getting, was ‘from behind’ at the local gay bar.

Looking up, Fox saw the security guard leave the MD’s office with a clipboard in his hand. He bore the man no ill will.

“Hi Mick. Are you going to march me off the premises? ”

“Sorry.” He put the clipboard on Fox’s desk. “I’m going to need the car keys and your signature here.”

Shaking his head, Fox took the keys to his BMW three series and dropped them into Mick’s outstretched palm. “Of course you are and I’m going to walk three miles to the train station.”

“Thanks.” Mick cast a glance around before saying, almost in a whisper, “I don’t suppose Mr Sawyer has offered to drive you in his Z4?”

“I’m not queer.”

Mick suppressed a smile. “It’s my break in ten minutes – I’ll take you to the station.”

“That would be good, pal, thanks.”

It was the way of the world. Mick had more decency than all of them. He patted Fox on the shoulder and left him to finish his bags. Fox continued to shove his personal papers into the pockets of his case. Sawyer and Cope remained cocooned in the meeting room, eyes glued to documents, pretending to look busy and hoping he would leave. Fox closed the case and walked towards the stairs. As he passed the meeting room he tapped on the window, both occupants snapped their necks to the right. Fox smiled and held up his middle finger.

Fox crossed the road towards the river and used the pedestrian bridge. The tide was out as usual and the river had turned into a thick muddy smudge. Bloody awful if you asked him, but then Tracy hadn’t when she’d bought the house that overlooked it. As he reached the opposite side he could hear them already, the local kids from the flats out again on their ‘mini motos’ out zipping between cars. Jim would be outraged again. Jim was always outraged.

“Get off the bloody road!! I’ll call the police!!” Jim Reynolds, retired decorator and moral voice of the street yelled after the miniature motorbikes.

Fox laughed. “Good evening Jim.” He liked his neighbour, even if he made fun of him.

“Is it? I’ve had them effing kids tormenting me for the last hour! Shouldn’t they be at school?” He waved his hedge scissors.

“Jim, it’s almost six.”

“Oh, well at work then or doing their homework. At their age, I was painting houses.”

“So are they, with spray cans.”

The area had been touted as the latest urban development for professional people with two point four children and a BMW. The truth however was that the kids from the local council flats saw the quiet, pot hole free, roads of Shoreham beach as their private race track.

The old man removed his gardening gloves and scratched his head. “Any more news on the job front?”

Fox shrugged. “Who wants to employ an old soldier like me?”

“That’s the problem, no gratitude. They should have given you a medal.”

Reynolds knew that, as a member of the SAS, Fox’s had been sent into Iraq with the SAS. Fox had not been a member of Bravo Two Zero, as all those who knew the truth of his past constantly questioned, but a deep penetration mission which had never been published. It had been their job to recce the approach to Bagdad in advance of the coalition’s arrival, an arrival which had not come, at least for ten years. This mission he never talked about. Reynolds, himself a veteran of Suez, had great respect for Fox.

“Maybe when we’re both dead they’ll put a plaque on our houses?” Fox smiled.

There was the sound of base heavy music from behind them and Tracy Fox, Paddy’s wife of five years raced up the road in her convertible Saab.

“Here she comes, Ghetto Gertrude!”

Reynolds chuckled as Tracy pulled up on to the drive. “Hello love.”

“Hi Jim.” She smiled warmly then changed her face when she spoke to Fox. “The sooner you move that old heap of yours out of the garage the better. I don’t know why you keep it!”

“It’s a classic, love.” The conversation they had each evening when she was forced to park her new car on the drive.

“Help me with my bags then.”

“Yes ma’am.” Fox winked at Reynolds and made for the car.

Reynolds picked up his hedge scissors and continued to trim his already perfect shrubs.

Fox followed his wife inside with her laptop bag, which she complained was too heavy to carry. He found his wife looking through the mail.

“So tell me what have you been up to today whilst I’ve been out at work?” It was a daily question thrown at him with growing disdain.

Fox placed the bag on the floor and took a breath. “I went online, put my CV on Monster, checked my email, fixed the tap in the kitchen.”

Tracy nodded. “And?”

“And what?”

“Did you call any of those agents I gave you details of?” Her hands were now on her hips.

He looked at the gap between her blouse buttons and the red of her bra. She had a great pair of tits. “No. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Her expression grew sour. “You’ve been saying that for the past week, Paddy!”

“I know luv, I know.” Here came the lecture.

“You’re not going to get a new job by sitting on your arse all day long.’

“Then how can I use the computer?”

She ignored his attempt at levity. “It’s been almost two months now.”

“It’s been six weeks.”

“Exactly. When the redundancy money runs out, what then?” Her eyes narrowed.

Fox sighed. They had met at Dymex, where she at least still worked. “I’ve got enough saved and besides you earn twice as much as I did.”

“What? You want to live off me? You, a man, wants to live off me?” The argument was not new and their lines were well rehearsed.

“Don’t be sexist.” He loved to goad his oh so PC wife. “I’m not going to ‘ponce’ off you. I’ll find something.”

She turned and headed upstairs. “I’m going to have a shower.”

Fox watched her arse twitch beneath her tight skirt, even when she was angry he still fancied her. He spoke beneath his breath. “Hi dear, how are you? Have a nice day? Don’t worry...” He smirked to himself. Right, bung a risotto into the microwave; uncork a bottle of the Chilean merlot she likes, that’ll calm her down for a bit.

*

Paddington Green Secure Police Station
,
London

Snow signed for his belongings at the front desk. “Should I be honoured that you came in person?”

“Yes.” Patchem said flatly.

The desk officer gave Snow a stern look. “You are free to go.”

“Much obliged.”

“In future, for heaven’s sake, if someone says they are an SIS officer call us to ask.”

“Very well sir.” The desk officer showed no sign of accepting Patchem’s reprimand. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Outside they got into Patchem’s Lexus and drove away.

“Thanks Jack. So why did you come?”

The Secret Intelligence Service section head looked over his shoulder as they pulled into traffic. “I didn’t want to waste any more time. Something is happening, Aidan. GCHQ has picked up increased chatter referring to some sort of attack and soon. MI5 have been going through possible targets but as yet with no success. According to my counterpart at Five, it’s like looking for a grain of salt in the desert.”

“So why is Six interested?”

“We are interested because most of the chatter is emanating from Saudi Arabia. This impacts us because in addition to my role at the ‘Russian Desk’, I’ve just been assigned caretaker to the ‘Arab Desk’ until the boss appoints a permanent replacement.”

“Congratulations.”