order and then to move out.’
‘Have we not had this conversation?’
‘You will have protection for that number of hours – they’ve started – and then protection will be withdrawn.’
‘Am I permitted to comment?’
‘Why not?’
The woman was on the bullhorn, as repetitive and tedious as before, and as lightweight. Roscoe would have admired a silent protest, one without the bucketload of cliche. He had done enough public-order events before he went to CID and then the Flying Squad to recognise that most protesters were brimful of passion and ideology, just short of good scriptwriters. He had no objection to her being where she was, only wished she’d freshen up her text.
‘It’s bullshit.’
‘That’s neither sensible, sir, nor rational.’
‘Bullshit, and that’s polite.’
He didn’t argue. He supposed he should relay what the Gold Group had passed down. He, Suzie and Bill would do relays of sleep and observation from the car. He looked at his wristwatch. Twenty-three hours and fifty-seven minutes remained. He wondered if an officer with greater seniority would arrive to read a Riot Act towards the end, but thought it unlikely. He would have liked to say, ‘From our brief acquaintance, Mr Gillot, I see you as a man of stubbornness and rudeness, without decency, manners or concern for others. Your money is earned from a trade that most right-minded folk would regard as disgusting, bordering on immoral. Don’t expect me to volunteer for duty standing in front of you… and if you’re going to get yourself shot, would you please ascertain that I’m off duty at the time. Not on my watch.’ He didn’t say it.
His tone tried to placate: ‘You leave us with very little option but to-’
‘If my wife comes you can help her with the clothes and tell her that her junk’s in the boxes. The horse will be inside the gate and hopefully it’ll find a good feed off the roses. Thank you, but no. I can manage her boxes.’
The gate was opened – a winter coat and a summer jacket fell from their hangers – the horse was taken inside, let loose, and the dog ran towards the house. Its movement activated the security lights. Roscoe couldn’t recall when he had hated a job as much as this one. Chrissie used to say it would take bubonic plague to keep him off work. Gillot carried a cardboard box through the gates, the size a house-removal company would use. When he dumped it, Roscoe heard china break. The woman, Megs Behan, was still bawling her message. A second box was brought out and put down heavily. He would have liked to say, ‘I tell you, Mr Gillot, it’s not easy to be lucky every time… and you as a broker in weapons will know what they do to the human body. That they don’t kill as prettily as the films would have us believe. It hurts and it’s ugly – as you’ll find out if you stop being lucky. But I’m sure you know all that, Mr Gillot.’ He waited till Gillot was pulling shut the gates. ‘We’ll see you in the morning, sir.’
The man smiled, did it well.
*
‘A good day, dear?’
‘Not bad, thank you.’
‘Drunk too much?’
‘Some, but not too much.’
It was a ritual. Deirdre had driven the Land Rover from their home to Shrewsbury station and met Benjie off the train. She asked the same questions as she pulled out of the forecourt and received the same answers, then moved on to the business particular to that day. The hip: what was the verdict? ‘Not too bad, quite a good prognosis.’
The visit to the Monstrosity – as she always called VBX – had that been satisfactory? ‘Alastair’s done very well and sends regards. He’ll go a long way. He told me the story, and the opinion is that our sad asset is now in considerable manure. Sort of business where the past comes along fast in the outside lane when least expected. He’s not going to have protection.’
And Denys Foster, the lunch guest, had he been able to oil the waters? ‘I think so. Yes, he did. We talked of Blowback – something exploding in your face. And then we did a bit of Old Testament, “They sow the wind, They shall reap the whirlwind”, and I think Denys stiffened my spine quite successfully. He told me what I should tell Gillot… I’ll call him in the morning.’
‘You’re at the heart of this, Benjie – yes?’
‘Sadly, my dear, you are correct.’
‘Your suggestion to him that he should move the stuff on, dump those villagers?’
‘In line with policy, and putting more money in his pocket. But correct again.’
‘And it bothers you?’
‘A little. Let’s move on.’
They discussed, back to their more normal routine, the grandchildren, that night’s supper and which bottle they’d open to drink with it.
In the hotel dining room, William Anders and Daniel Steyn had a view from their table that took in the river, the snaking barges going upstream, the illuminated white cross, the hotel’s lawns and patio, where a few still sat and gossiped, the car park and the glass doors at the rear of the building.
Anders chuckled. ‘A very serious lady, and no doubt behaving out of character.’
Steyn grinned, grimaced. ‘She’ll make a good feed for a toy-boy.’
They saw the woman, blouse and jeans, head down, shades worn in spite of the darkness. She came across the patio and between the tables, using a route that skirted the lights. A boy held her hand but was led.
‘Miss Penny Laing, I believe.’
‘Far from home, and further from the world’s realities.’
‘That, Daniel, is pretty judgemental.’
‘And expresses, Bill, my acute jealousy of the boy, who I seem to recognise as the son of the capo of that village – and a pusher of pills on a minor scale. He is, I wager, doing a good job of guiding.’
‘People get caught up here, strangers, and all about a feeling of guilt.’
‘Correct – weren’t here, didn’t know. The ignorance makes guilt – and opens the legs.’
They were both laughing, coarse, from the belly, and Daniel poured more wine – good, from the Ilok vineyards. His mobile rang, and he answered it, listened, impassive. He thanked the caller and shut his phone. ‘That village, the process you started, Bill. They did the contract and bought the hit. There was a target this morning in England. It failed.’
‘Not the end of the story. Who told you?’
‘Funny old place, this – hear all sorts. Don’t ask. Not the end of the story because money was paid. He’ll go again, has to. You know about the First Battalion of the Ninth Marines, Bill, who had the heaviest casualties of the entire corps during the Vietnam War – got themselves called the Walking Dead. That’s a good name for Harvey Gillot, and it’s a bit down to you. But don’t lose sleep.’
‘Are you suggesting I’d lie awake because some weapons peddler gets zapped and I helped the process along? If the hit screwed up then I’m sorry – and it’s that which might affect my sleep. I hope they go again.’
They drank, and the woman and her boy were gone.
13
The peal of the alarm clock was followed by a jabbing elbow that broke into Benjie Arbuthnot’s sleep. Deirdre said, ‘You’ve a call to make.’
Would he argue with her at thirty-one minutes past six in the morning? Would he request tea first? ‘Yes, dear, of course.’
‘And don’t prattle. Tell him straight.’
He crawled from the bed, slipped on an old dressing-gown – cotton, light, bought at a street market in Buenos Aires when he’d been building bridges in the mid-eighties – and shuffled out of the bedroom. Early sunlight
