summon it again. It was as if he had shed fear.
On the other side of the island, in the housing estates of Weston – once homes to the scientists, engineers and technicians of the Admiralty Underwater Weapons Establishment, now closed – a new Beirut had been born, it was said. Along with teenage pregnancies topping national charts, there was widespread narcotics dealing and abuse. Harvey Gillot had never used heroin, cocaine or ecstasy, not even smoked a joint. He didn’t drink to excess either. He supposed he was as much under the influence of an adrenalin surge as any of the wan, hooded kids who loafed in Weston, Southwell, Easton and Fortuneswell. He didn’t slow, although he could hear the pound of feet behind him. Bloody good to have given them a finger. He didn’t know how long heroin, cocaine or cannabis would remain in the system, but knew the fear would be back. Not now.
He had packed two cardboard boxes with Josie’s favourites – and there had been a nibble from a Saudi-based company, via email, and a code signal to say that a freighter of Liberian registration had slipped moorings and was now, cargo aboard, in the international waters of the Black Sea. At that moment he didn’t imagine that a contract killer could wound, maim or kill him. It wouldn’t last, but it was good while it did.
‘Mr Gillot.’
He came through trees, past high boulders and was on the path that overlooked the sea. There were yachts and launches inshore, and further out the car ferry heading for France. Beyond, a couple of bulk carriers would have been going into Southampton and the docks. The gulls were over him, circling and shouting. He met Ben Parsons, who bored for Britain on the subject of a supermarket for the island, listened to him and showed interest, even bent to tousle the coat of the man’s spaniel. And after Parsons and the supermarket – the disaster it would be – came George Wilkins, obsessed with the island’s history; Harvey heard of a plan to commission a plaque commemorating Jack Mantle, a twenty-three-year-old leading seaman who had died heroically seventy years before while firing a 20mm anti-aircraft ‘pom-pom’ at Stuka dive-bombers; he had been awarded the Victoria Cross and was buried in the military cemetery overlooking the old naval base. He heard Wilkins out, and told him it would be a valuable addition to Portland’s heritage. Normally he would not have given either man the time of day. He didn’t do dinner parties or Christmas drinks, he belonged to nothing, and appeals that came to the letterbox beside the gates were shredded unopened. When he walked he heard the footfall behind him. When he stopped and listened to new-found ‘friends’, he could hear the detective’s rasped breathing and fancied the frustration burgeoned. The path was open and flat, and a kestrel fluttered over a field. He stopped at a gate and the footsteps came close. The breathing had an edge.
‘You could co-operate, Mr Gillot.’
‘Should I prepare myself for another lecture on the subject of luck? Needing to be lucky “every time”, and being lucky “once”? Are we winding up for a repeat performance?’
‘I have a job to do.’
‘And probably, Sergeant, you would do it more effectively if your tongue stopped flapping.’
‘You make it hard for me, Mr Gillot, but harder for yourself.’
‘Which sounds rather like something my wife might have parroted, maybe read it on an agony-aunt page. I am, Sergeant, an arms dealer. I buy and sell the weapons of war. I have good years and bad years, but I stay afloat. I pay, believe it or not, the taxes that make up your salary, your pension scheme, your freebies, perks and overtime rates. It could be said that I own a damn great part of you, Sergeant. Through my personal efforts I have bought a big piece of Mr Roscoe. You are a public servant. Get that into your head – and scrub out of it that I owe you a bunch of flowers and a basket of gratitude.’ It was as if another dose of the narcotic was flowing through his veins.
He closed the field gate after him and set off across the dried ground, sparse grass, towards the water trough where the horse was… might have been a pony. For all Harvey knew, it might have been a donkey – or one of those mules, high-value animals, that had lugged the crates protecting the Blowpipes over the mountains and through the passes of Afghanistan in the good old days. Whatever, his daughter loved it more fervently than she loved him, and it cost a mint in veterinary fees and fodder. It had a foul temper and was likely as not to bite him. Its name was Norah, he was unsure of its age, and it lived in this rented field in the summer months and at a livery stables in winter. It was brown with white patches and eyed him as malevolently as he reckoned the detective did, but it wore a head-collar. The leading rope was hooked on the fence by the water trough and he unfastened it – felt quite pleased with himself. A short-arm lunge and he had the halter attached to the head-collar. He reckoned he was now on the way to saving the rental on the field.
He left the gate open behind him.
The dog went ahead. He led the horse, or pony, and the detective was behind.
*
The Gold Group was gathered at a table. Phoebe Bermingham, Gold Commander, would have hoped for a consensus, would bite and kick to avoid making the decision herself. On her pad she had doodled around the name Harvey Gillot; What to do and Resources and Budget and Options, Options, OPTIONS were fiercely underlined. She sensed, correctly, that few medals were on offer in the case of a man showing pig-ignorant obstinacy. She would use a pencil to indicate who should speak next.
It pointed at the Covert expert from SCD10. The answer: ‘I have checked rosters. Put simply, we don’t have what it would need. I have people away on two narcotics scenes on the south coast and unrelated, and I have to supply Anti-Terrorism with most of the rest. The property in question has a front and a back and is close to a caravan park. It would require more bodies than I have. It’s properly done or not at all. Sorry, but I can’t help.’
The pencil moved on to Intelligence, SCD11. ‘We don’t have a line as yet, Ma’am, to an individual. I have no names and no organisation. We need much more before we can make an identification. Negative. Can’t be anything else.’
And on. The sharpened lead aimed at Firearms, CO19. ‘I have a flat refusal from the natives at the seaside. Not prepared to get themselves into an open-ended commitment. To do the job from London would require a deployment of sixteen officers, a command structure and a communications set-up. We’re not in the marketplace for that. Apologies, Ma’am, but we have to live in the real world.’
She came to the inspector from the specialist squad, the one that had a workload so narrowly defined that it made her nervous. ‘We have Roscoe in place and two others. There has regretfully been something of a breakdown in communications and they’re outside the property’s boundaries. As is pretty much routine, they’re carrying hand weapons, but not heavier stuff, and they don’t have back-up. I have to say that the report of the attack indicates an unprofessional approach. I don’t understand why. I would suggest a very limited time span of protection – perhaps twenty-four hours, no more.’
The pencil was directed at the leader of the Alpha team. ‘Our Penny Laing is on the ground in Croatia. Everyone is very frank and up-front with her. Yes, there is a contract, an expensive one – money has been paid – and they believed they’d hired a good and efficient man. Harvey Gillot is condemned because he took an initial bagful of money, quasi-valuables and property deeds. He didn’t deliver and didn’t return what he’d been paid – which would have been difficult as the village was virtually isolated by a murderous enemy and its defences were about to collapse.’
The pencil tip rapped on the table; the sharpened lead broke off. Phoebe Bermingham, Gold Commander, said, ‘I’m having difficulty getting my head round the situation that existed there – where exactly the place is, what they were fighting about. I’ve asked around. Too many shrugged shoulders and too many “That’s the Balkans, isn’t it?” I find this matter irksome and time-consuming. Do I need further contributions?’
Heads shook. There were no offers. A reason for her rapid advancement up promotion ladders was her ability to read a situation and judge an audience. ‘In summary, then, we do not have the resources here or locally to mount close protection on this man. He has been offered expert advice and relocation help and has – with stubborn consistency – refused it. So, as has been recommended and not disputed, he should be warned that after twenty- four hours an armed guard will be withdrawn.’
She breathed in hard. She might have taken the most momentous decision of her fast-track career. A reputation for being hands-off and avoiding responsibility for unpredicted events was in shreds. If a body bled from gunshot wounds on a pavement, a roadway, a drive or in a living room, she would be called to account.
‘Have it made plain to him that after a day and a night, the twenty-four hours, we are not beside, behind and in front of him. He’s on his own.’
Roscoe took the call. He said into his mobile, encrypted, ‘He’s along with the best for rude boorishness. About as unpleasant as it comes, full of shit, but I’m thinking this is a show that’s being put on for me. Where am I
