Secrets Page 16

  Oh, Edward, Molly thought as they drove away. I hope you can forgive me, but it’s been long enough and I wanted that thing gone.

  She felt guilty. Horribly guilty. That slim little folder had not been out of their possession since 1961 and now she felt so guilty, it was all she could do not to cry out to Barnes to turn back so she could retrieve it, hold it close again and in that way also hold Edward close again. She felt that she had betrayed a trust, despite the fact that everyone she had ever made promises to were now long gone. She was almost the last man standing.

  I’m doing my best here, Molly told Edward. That place has already been picked clean. It’s the safest place I can think of leaving it. Our home will be attacked again. We both know that, my darling and the next time I will not be so lucky.

  The big surprise, Molly thought, was that Clay had not tried again already. She wondered who had persuaded him to stay his hand and how long their influence might last. She felt so terribly alone.

  She would not cry, Molly instructed herself. Tears always lead to questions and beside they would do no good. Tears didn’t even relieve her grief. She wondered if anything, death aside, ever would or could again.

  Adam Carmodie had been away from home all day and so was the last of their disparate little group to hear of Joseph’s death. A message had been left on his answer phone, asking him to call the hospice and of course, Adam knew at once that Joseph had gone.

  ‘Do we know when the funeral will be?’ he asked, after the usual condolences had been exchanged.

  ‘Joseph had invitations printed out,’ she said, somewhat to Adam’s surprise. ‘He just left the date to be filled in. I think the vicar and he worked out all the arrangements a few weeks ago, so there’ll be one in the post for you tomorrow.’

  ‘That was extraordinarily organized of him.’ Adam found he was laughing. Unable to help himself. Actually, he thought, it wasn’t extraordinary, not for Joseph; it was exactly the kind of provision Adam would have expected him to make. He realized, abruptly, that perhaps laughter might have been an inappropriate response.

  The nurse apparently didn’t think so. She chuckled softly. ‘Oh, it was, so typical,’ she said. ‘He was a lovely man. One we’ll all miss.’

  A lovely man, Adam thought as he lowered the receiver back on to its cradle. He supposed in many ways Joseph had been a lovely man. A good companion and, when it suited his purpose, a loyal friend. He had also been a fierce fighter and a ruthless decision maker and, perhaps, the bravest of them all. Brave or …

  There had been many times when Adam, almost sick with fear, had wondered if Joseph was even capable of it.

  He wandered through to his study and, guiltily, took the little red notebook from the desk drawer. He’d put it there the night he’d returned from the hospice and, quite deliberately, not looked at it since then. Slowly, he peeled off the elastic bands holding the notebook and its additional contents together and laid everything out on his desk. Leafing through the documents Joseph had given him was like taking a fragmentary but painful trip through Adam’s own life; those parts of it that he had shared with Joseph Bern.

  Other faces looked back at him across the years. The faces of the lost and disappeared. Images of massacre and mass graves. Notes scribbled on scraps of paper, on the backs of photographs, recording scraps of intelligence that might lead to other scraps and fragments that might lead to …

  Adams picked up the notebook and fed the photographs and notes back inside, rebound it with the elastic bands and slid it back into the drawer.

  ‘I’ll come to your funeral, Joseph. I’ll come and say goodbye, but that’s it. I have a life now.’

  He flopped wearily down into the captain’s chair set behind the desk. Before their meeting at the hospice, he had last set eyes on Joseph Bern some nine years before. Ironically, at the funeral of another friend.

  Adam closed his eyes, recalling the winter day, snow piled on the neighbouring graves just so the ground could be broken and the coffin interred. It had occurred to him, then, to wonder at just how many of his erstwhile colleagues chose burial rather than cremation; though so many of them had bought their final resting place years before, in anticipation. He had mentioned this to Joseph. Typically, Joseph had taken time to think before making a response.

  ‘I hear you’ve retired,’ Joseph said.

  ‘I have, yes.’

  Joseph had been amused. ‘Is that possible?’ he wondered.

  ‘I plan to find out. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘It’s because we don’t know if we’ll ever make it back,’ Joseph said. ‘Most of us will finish in an unmarked grave in some godforsaken place. I think it is good to have a place in which to rest, even if all that remains of us is a headstone with just one date and perhaps a name.’

  Adam remembered that he had laughed aloud, then, all eyes turned upon him, remembered where he was. ‘Even that would be a lie, Joseph Bern. Do you even remember what date you were born on? Or the name your poor mother gave you?’

  ‘Perhaps I never had a mother,’ Joseph said. ‘Maybe I sprang into existence in my sixteenth year, fully formed and out for blood.’

  Adam could not recall his reply. He suspected he hadn’t bothered with one. What could he have said?

  ‘My name is Joseph Bern,’ Adam said softly, recalling that bakingly hot day, just outside of Leopoldville, when Joseph had first stumbled into his life. Stumbled in and changed it utterly and, it had once seemed, forever.

  Adam got up and poured himself a drink. He swallowed the whisky down without bothering to taste and then poured another. This he sipped slowly, sitting at his desk. It took a third before he finally opened his desk drawer again took out the file and, reluctantly, began to read.

  It was 1992, and Adam had been setting up forward communications depots in advance of UN forces slowly moving up towards Sarajevo. He and a small team had worked their way through the mountains, and one day in mid-June were sitting in what was left of a shepherd’s hut about three miles out from the city. Adam had a slightly confused memory of a mad, former RAF pilot flying them into Sarajevo airport under heavy fire but, at this distance in time, he could no longer be certain it was that particular trip he remembered or some other. It had almost become a standing joke that wherever you went in the world, you’d find a former RAF pilot.

  The coms depots were a joke, Adam had decided. No sooner had they been placed than some other bugger blew them up, just in case the enemy could make use of them. The enemy on any given day being Serbs, Croats, Bosnian civilians, or local sheep, the fluid, ever shifting, daily uncertainties of this particular conflict making it hard to know even hour to hour where the lines were drawn.

  Adam, technically a civilian, had also been in demand by the various journalists and news media personnel who were having a harder and harder time getting their stories out. Especially those that no side, at this stage of the conflict, really wanted to hear.

  Adam and his team had stumbled upon several mass graves up in the mountains; had found many bodies unburied, too, still warm, on one occasion the rake of automatic fire clear across their bodies.

  Adam hadn’t stayed around to see if anyone came back to bury them.

  Rumours were rife, as they were in any conflict, but one kept surfacing that struck Adam as more uncommon that most. An Englishman, with pale blue eyes, a mercenary, some said. A thief; a black marketer. He could be hired as an assassin, could settle scores, could get where others could not.

  He was a ghost, the rumours said.

  He was responsible for some of the mass graves up in the lonely places, where no one went these days.

  Adam had ignored these stories for a while, though he had wondered why, in a location rife with such people and where such acts were now commonplace, this man should have been singled out for especial notice.

  Until that particular day sitting in the shepherd’s hut, waiting for new orders, when Joseph Bern appeared, as mysteriously and unannounced
as always.

  Adam had not asked him what he was doing there. Joseph arrived with equipment that Adam’s team had been requesting for weeks and orders that, with luck and a following wind, should see them out of there in a few days more. He also had a couple of bottles of slivovic, the local plum brandy and they had drunk to old friends and to not seeing one another for a goodly while and to the hope of not seeing one another again too soon.

  ‘Clay is here,’ Joseph had said.

  ‘Clay? Why?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, running some dirty tricks, I expect. Finding profit where the rest of us find shit.’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’

  Joseph poured another glass and made no response. Adam had not pressed the point but that was when all the rumours and the stories coalesced into sense and when Adam decided that it was definitely time to be getting out.

  And here it was, in Joseph’s little red folder. Detail enough to sink the pair of them, Joseph and Clay. Congo, Bosnia, the First Gulf War History.

  Adam closed the file and poured himself another drink. He’d bury Joseph Bern, say goodbye to his sometime friend and, meantime, do all he could to make sure none of this touched him. Contagion spreads, Adam thought. No one who was there would be immune.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  A couple of days after their visit to Hayes and Gilligan, DI Barnes got a call from the investigating officer, the result of which was another visit to Alec and Naomi.

  ‘The CSIs knew nothing could be taken away for investigation,’ Barnes told them, ‘so they took even more extensive photographs of everything in situ and two police officers were set to collate and inventory everything. When the man from the Home Office arrived, one of those officers was assigned to liaise with him. She took their inventory lists and all of the photographs along. Not that she needed it to notice that something was wrong.’

  ‘Wrong?’ Alec questioned, the small feeling of anxiety that had been growing in his stomach since Barnes arrived, now settling into a solid lump. ‘Wrong like—?’

  ‘Like a file that definitely wasn’t there before.’

  ‘Before?’

  ‘Before Molly,’ Barnes said.

  ‘What kind of file?’ Naomi asked.

  ‘Apparently one which should not still exist. I don’t know what’s in it or why, but it’s got a lot of people very flustered – I’m paraphrasing what my colleague told me, you understand.’

  ‘So, you want to go and talk to Molly again?’ Alec sighed. ‘Look, I’m seeing her tomorrow. I’m taking her to a funeral.’

  ‘Well, that’s the thing. I’ve been told to say nothing. I’ve been told that the investigation into Hayes and Gilligan’s unfortunate demise has now been upgraded. That we’re out of the picture.’

  ‘Surely, you should be relieved about that,’ Naomi said. ‘One less to solve.’

  ‘Well, there is that, but, you know how it is, you have to be terminally nosy if you’re going to make DI, so it’s a bit hard to suddenly have that nose pushed out.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do?’

  ‘Nothing to be done. I’ve a desk piled high with other business, so I’ll have to let it go. But I did manage to get hold of this. I thought maybe you should show it to Molly.’

  He handed Alec a photograph. ‘What is it?’ Naomi asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Alec said. ‘Just a faded green file with a large red “W” stamped on it. Do you know what it is?’ he asked Barnes.

  ‘Not a clue. But someone thinks it’s important.’

  ‘And what’s going to happen to Molly?’

  ‘Well, that’s the other thing. We’ve been warned off Mrs Chambers. She is, and I quote, “No longer to be considered relevant to our investigation.”’

  ‘Right,’ Alec said. ‘So why give me the photograph?’

  ‘Because I think she needs to know that her message has been received. I just hope it’s gone to the right people. I’ve no idea what she intended, but—’

  ‘I’ll see what she says,’ Alec promised.

  Barnes rose to leave and shook Naomi and Alec by the hand. ‘Been nice meeting you,’ he said. ‘I hope the house hunting works out and you find out where you want to live.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Alec agreed. ‘So do we.’

  ‘So,’ Naomi said as she heard Barnes’s footsteps receding, ‘that’s that, then.’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ he agreed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, it’s like Barnes said. Terminal curiosity.’

  ‘I do hope not. Terminal is, well a bit final.’

  ‘So do I. And I know I’ve resented being dragged into all this, but now I’m told that it’s none of my business, I think I’m going to find it hard to keep away.’

  ‘So, do we show that photograph to Molly?’

  ‘Damn right. At the very least she owes us an explanation.’

  Naomi laughed. ‘You know you don’t stand a cat in hell’s chance of getting one.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got to try. Anyway, as Barnes said, she needs to know that her exploits have not gone unnoticed. So we’ll show her the photograph and see what she has to say.’

  ‘What she’ll say is, Alec, you can at least stop and have a drink with an old woman. And she’ll open that kitchen drawer and bring out the brandy and that will be that.’ Naomi paused, a mischievous smile on her lips. ‘It is rather good brandy, though. I wouldn’t mind another glass.’

  ‘That’s all I need. The pair of you bonding over the brandy bottle.’

  ‘Seriously, though. There’s someone else that should get a look at this photo. Someone who may actually be able to tell us a bit more.’

  ‘You’re thinking Gregory, aren’t you?’

  Naomi nodded. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but apart from Molly, who’s tight as a clam, Gregory is the only sort of insider we’ve got.’

  ‘And what makes you think he’ll tell us anything? Even if he knows anything.’

  ‘Because, I think we’ve kind of proved ourselves,’ Naomi said. ‘Unlike Molly, who trusts no one to do anything except Molly, Gregory at least thinks we’re vaguely competent.’

  Alec sagged back in his chair. ‘I need a drink,’ he said.

  ‘Then you’ll have to settle for coffee. It’s only, what, eleven o clock?’

  ‘Ten to,’ Alec confirmed, ‘so no way is the sun over the yardarm, whatever a yardarm is. I’ll text Gregory and get him to meet us later.’

  Alec missed a beat. ‘You’ve got his phone number,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Well, yes. How else are we going to keep in touch with him? It’s a bit hit and miss, him just turning up on spec like he did last time.’

  ‘I don’t think Gregory does anything on spec. But all right, then. Text your hired killer. But that’s it then. We finish and we walk away. No more mess, no more Molly. If my parents want to check up on her, they can phone. Or go and see her themselves. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ Naomi said. ‘Except, of course, that you’ve promised to take her to that funeral.’

  Alec groaned. ‘Naomi, I am liking this less and less. Joking apart, I really do want out. I want a bit of peace and quiet and … well, boring, I suppose.’

  ‘Boring would be just fine,’ Naomi agreed. ‘So, you come back here after the funeral, and the next morning, we go. Don’t tell anyone where we’re going, we just go.’

  ‘Any particular direction?’

  ‘South,’ Naomi said. ‘Like the birds.’

  When Bud had been in the army, he’d been trained as a sniper. Laid up for hours at a time, breathing slow and steady, mind quiet and largely empty of anything but random musings. Even his body had become used to the periods of immobility; he’d learnt to control the cramps and the discomforts, to block them out so cleanly that they almost didn’t register.

  That had been long years ago and Bud had been a good deal younger.

  This job wasn’t so bad, though. He had found a place to lay up from which he could see the house
and most of the garden, but in which he was well screened. The girl knew he was there. Nathan would have told her, but even had he not, Bud recognized that sense of alertness she possessed; that almost uncanny way she had looked straight up at his hiding place. He figured that was because it was the one she would have chosen for herself had their roles been reversed.

  The man, her husband, he was a different matter. He noticed things, Bud could see that, but they weren’t security things. He supposed it had something to do with the man being an artist. Bud didn’t know much about artists but they did seem like a breed apart.

  Bud had been briefed on Bob’s routines and so far the man had kept to them. Twice a day he walked the two dogs, spent a good deal of his time in the studio at the back of the house and, most days, wandered down to the village sometime in mid afternoon. Annie was usually with him then.

  Bud knew there were other watchers. Nathan would have organized that. But he didn’t look and he didn’t ask, he just did his job, knowing that they would do the same. What you didn’t know you couldn’t reveal, even accidentally.

  There’d been the odd random walker, but this wooded hillside was a little off the beaten track and somewhat too overgrown for even the most ardent of ramblers. Those few people Bud had seen he had heard long before they came into view. A father and two sons, rampaging through the woods, the boys, oddly, dressed as pirates. A courting couple, looking for a bit of privacy. An old woman looking for blackberries. None of them had noticed him.

  It was, therefore, a surprise when a man got within fifty feet of Bud before he became aware of another presence.

  The man was dressed in jeans, black T-shirt, an old padded jacket that had once had both colour and shape but was now a dull khaki, sagging at the shoulders and elbows. The man stood, waiting for Bud to acknowledge him, hands in his pockets, seemingly relaxed. Bud studied him for a moment longer, and decided there was nothing actually relaxed about him.

  ‘Nice morning,’ the stranger said.

  ‘It is.’