The Conspiracy Theorist (33 page)

‘It was about that time that there was
a parallel development—a coincidence
!—
Mark
Marchant’s
identity was stolen.
 
We all know that was common enough at
the time, probably still is.
 
Sir
Simeon Marchant heard through a friend visiting South Africa.
 
Bumped
into Number One Son in Cape Town, old chap.
 
You’re a dark horse, Marchant
.
 
Perhaps even then Mark was letting people know who his
famous father was.
 
And at that
stage, early 2006 or 2007 I guess, while you will still at the Yard, Marchant
came to see you.’

Still there was no flicker of recognition
or surprise on Watterson’s face.
 
It was as if he was waiting for a part of the story, one part, and I had
missed it out.
 
I drained the water
bottle and let it fall to the floor.

‘So, that was first time,’ I said.
 
‘At first, Marchant thought it was a
criminal enterprise and you would know what to do.
 
Someone was impersonating his son.
 
Someone had stolen Mark’s identity.
 
That was when he sought your advice,
Sir Simeon.
 
It was about the time I
was investigating Richie’s unit.
 
You told Marchant you’d spoken to your senior investigator about it—you
hadn’t, but it hardly mattered—and he would contact the South African
authorities and it would stop.
  
You gave him reassurances.
 
You
had your best man on it.
 
A man called Becket.
 
You lied.’

‘A bit harsh, Becket.
 
We confined the activity, as you know.
 
As you would have expected us to.
 
We couldn’t close down the whole
operation just because someone got a bit upset.
 
However important he was.’

He smiled and added:
 
‘And you
were
our best man.’

I tried to scowl back, but it used too
many muscles and my face ached from all the talking.
 
But I had to keep going.
 
The longer I talked for, the more chance I would have to figure
out what was really going on.

‘Fast forward five years.
 
Sir Simeon is recently widowed.
 
He’s given up sailing.
 
Sunil
Prajapati visits him at Hayling Island Sailing Club and tells him...
 
What?
 
Sunil says he wants to sell the business.
 
Marchant tries to persuade him against
it, but he understands when the boy—he still thought of him as a boy,
despite Sunny being in his forties—says he just wants to sail.
 
Marchant had only wanted that for
himself, but had been forced into GCHQ, into espionage.
 
He relented and sold the boat to Sunil.
 
Marchant never cashed the cheque, it
was not returned at all.
 
That was
a lie, a very distracting lie.
 
Distracted
from distraction by distraction...’

Watterson sighed impatiently.
 
I went on.

‘The cheque had been found on his
body.
 
He was not the doddery old
man his daughter thought he was.
 
Yes,
he had the early stages of Alzheimer’s, but that is not the reason he didn’t
cash the cheque.
 
I suspect he
simply saw the boat as a gift—to Sunil Prajapati.
 
After all Sunny was about to make him
very rich.
 
So, off Prajapati sails
into the sunset, never to return.
 
When
his boat is brought back to the sailing club, it is searched by an expert
called Mat Janovitz who discovers the removed, or more likely degraded, surveillance
devices and asks Sir Simeon about them.
 
Janovitz assumed that they were in place to keep an eye on Prajapati,
but Sir Simeon knew better.
 
He starts
digging around and discovers that ‘Mark Marchant’ is still up to his old tricks.’

‘And what old tricks do you think they
were, Becket?’

‘The most obvious is blackmail,’ I
said, watching his eyes.
 
‘The
question is what for.
 
But I
haven’t finished yet.’

He shrugged.
 
‘Go on.’

‘When it started up again—when
Mark Marchant contacted him— Sir Simeon came to see you.
 
You had left the Met but you were on
the same board or advisory group together, whatever.
 
He said he wanted to complain about me: Becket.
 
This man, Becket, hadn’t stopped the
identity theft of his son.
 
For
some reason he remembered my name.
 
Sir Simeon Marchant wasn’t one to forget a detail like
that.
 
He asked where this Becket fellow
was now.
 
He had a bone to pick
with him.
 
You said you didn’t know.
 
Another lie.
 
Becket had left the force just like you had.
 
But, for some reason you gave him Richie’s
name.
 
And from Richie, Sir Simeon got
my number.
 
What I don’t understand
is why you rang Anthony Carstairs?
 
To check up on me?’

‘Curiosity, Becket, no more.
 
My Achilles’ heel.
 
It was a mistake.’

‘And Richie?
 
Why did you give him Richie’s name?
 
Does he still work for you?’

‘That is the one bit of the story that
worries me,’ Watterson said.
 
‘Why
Richie gave him your whereabouts.’

‘Probably just slipped out.’

He looked thoughtful.
 
A minute passed.
 

‘You know, it was your only weakness,
Tom.
 
As an
investigator.
 
You
underestimate people.
 
Or rather
you don’t reappraise your original view of them.
 
DCI Richie has moved on.’

I repeated the question: ‘Does he still
work for you?’

He thought about it for a few seconds.

‘No,’ he said.

‘You don’t sound so sure.’

‘Oh, I’m sure,’ he said.
 
‘I’m just thinking.’

‘Richie said Mark Marchant was out of
control.
 
Or did he mean he was under
your control?’

Watterson looked surprised, as if a
thought had ambushed him.
 
He stood
up and stretched his legs.
 
He went
to the window.
 
I could see a
number of vehicles out there.
 
But
the van had gone.

‘Both, I think.
 
Mark or Lukas is a remarkably effective
asset.
  
Or was.
 
It is a pity he won’t listen to reason.
 
He shares that trait with you, Becket.’

It dawned on me.

‘You will have him killed.’

He smiled and his shook slowly.
 
It could have been an expression of
disbelief, or frustration at my naivety.
 
It didn’t matter.
 
His actions
meant about as much as his words.

‘I have never had anyone killed as you
put it, Becket.
 
I am only here
because certain people thought you might listen to me.’
 
He paused.
 
‘And stop.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Look, you have no hard evidence.
 
You have some circumstantial
detail.
 
Some leaps of faith and
opinion.
 
With Lukas Merweville out
of the picture you have absolutely nothing to go on.’

I breathed hard.
 
I felt I was still locked inside that
bag.
 
Like Harry
Houdini, except I did not have the key hidden under my tongue.

‘What did you tell Merweville?’

‘To get out of the country.
 
That you would be dealt with.’

‘Killed?’

‘He may have assumed that.
 
It is his world, after all.’

‘Instead, you will kill him and his
accomplices.
 
Perhaps
not immediately.
 
But in
South Africa, or Baghdad, wherever they end up.
 
Somewhere where it is a daily fact of life.’

He shrugged.

‘Tell me,’ I asked.
 
‘What happened to justice in all this?’

‘Justice?
 
Simeon's killers will be punished.
 
I have assured you of that.’

I snorted in derision.
 

‘You know that is not right, Watterson.
 
It is not justice because it is not
publicly visible.
 
People can’t
just be attacked in a London street or in Chichester then privately assured
that the perpetrators will be punished or held accountable when you see fit.
 
Accountability has to
be public for justice to work
,
you know that
.
 
How will this play in somewhere like the
Alconbury estate?
 
You attack
someone and you are never found...’

‘Christ, I had forgotten how fucking naive
you are, Becket!
 
Do really think
that is the way complex societies work?’

‘No.
 
No, I don’t actually.
 
But that is how they are
meant to
work
.
 
Once you stop believing
in that, anything can happen.
 
You
are one step away from totalitarianism.
 
Ruled by people who take you aside and say:
You know what?
 
Just leave
it to us, we know best
.’

Watterson shrugged and smiled as if to
say it had ever been so.
 
Deep
down, I knew he was right and the sooner I got down from my high horse, the
better it was for everyone concerned.
 
I had sounded off, and we were no nearer the truth of the matter.
 
All I needed to do was to assure Meg’s
safety and get out of there.
 
I had
only his word that they had released her.
 

‘So, what do you want from me?’ I
asked.

‘That this stops now, Becket.
 
In this room.
 
Sir Simeon was never your client.
 
You never even knew him.
 
You drop the case.
 
You have my personal assurance that justice
will be done.’

‘A sort of wild justice.’

‘Becket, these are reasonable
people.
 
They have released your wife
in advance.
 
You are not bargaining
with anything.
 
There is no
blackmail, here.’

The people behind the mirror, I
thought.
 
Watching Sir Peter
Watterson’s attempt at the part of good cop.
 
I suspected that they would have less patience with me.
 
I knew I had lost, but I didn’t want to
give in too easily.

‘Except that I know you can come and
get me any time,’ I said.
 
‘An eye
for an eye.’

‘That has always been the case.
 
Nothing has changed in that
respect.
 
If you annoy the wrong
people...’

‘When did you start dealing with the
wrong people, Watterson?
 
Or does
it happen to everyone in your position?’

He paused as if he found the question
intriguing.
 
I was not sure if he
was going to reply or just call me ‘naive’ again.
 

But he never got the chance.

Even through the megaphone, I could
tell it was Richie’s voice.
  
In fact the distorting effect made him sound clearer, less nasal then he
usually was.

He told us via the Metropolitan Police
school of clichés that we were to vacate the building immediately as it was
surrounded by armed marksmen.
 
In
the process, weapons should be relinquished and hands should also be clearly
raised above the head.

These instructions had the opposite
effect on Watterson.
 
Without
looking at me, he turned and left the room through a door in the two-way
mirror.
 
I thought I discerned some
movement back there and that in all probability that the shadowy figures were
coming in for me.
 

The situation had changed now; I was
evidence and had to be removed.
 
I
stood up, but my feet were still bound.
 
I fell over and pushed myself up with a chair.
 
Still holding it, I hopped over to the window.
 
I remembered enough about hostage
situations to know they needed to locate where I was being held.
 
I smashed the window with the
chair.
 
Perhaps they didn’t even
know I was being held hostage but I suspected they did.