There are two groups of men, four in each…
Now all of them are gathered together. Those who were previously tied up are sitting much closer together, with the others squashed in around them, squatting or stooping. Though only four of these eight men are dead, the entire group is momentarily still.
Posed and posing.
Behind this bizarre tableau, for the first time the hulking figure of the tank is visible. Its side and its muddy track, streaked with petrol rain, provide the perfect backdrop. It also offers something to lean the dead men against.
After a few seconds we hear the voice from close by. Shouted this time. The words are just discernible above the relentless pop and spatter of the rain: “Put your arms around them… Give the fuckers a cuddle.”
Two of the soldiers do as they’ve been told. They lean forward and each throws an arm around the shoulder of a corpse. The other two soldiers remain still, with their heads lowered.
“I can’t see faces… Lift their heads up.”
One of the soldiers is down on his haunches between two bodies, an arm now around each one. He looks across to one of those who has not moved. “A bit late to pussy out now.”
After a few moments, the soldier who has been challenged stoops to grab the hair of the dead man and pull back his head. Close up, we see that the corpse’s eyes are half-closed and the jaw is hanging slack. Rain pours into the open mouth, spills from the side.
“Uh-oh… losing one…”
The body on the far right starts to tip to one side and slowly fall. The soldier behind, who has still not joined in, half reaches out a hand, then pulls it away at the last moment and allows the dead man to drop to the ground.
“For fuck’s sake…”
It isn’t clear at first. The rain and the shadows, the dark sand and hair make it hard to distinguish. Then, on the body of the fallen man, we see the patch that is wetter, blacker; high on the side of the head, and just starting to spread an inch or two across the sand.
“Watch…”
A soldier has pressed his face against that of a dead man. He raises a hand and wraps it around the neck. He swivels the head around, one way and then another.
“Gottle of geer, gottle… geer…”
His friend laughs, pulling off a glove. He leans across and presses a finger to the back of the corpse’s head. He looks at the stained fingertip, rubs it against his thumb for a second or two, then dabs it against the dead man’s forehead.
A small red spot that starts to run.
“That’s better. Want to make sure they let him into heaven.”
The soldier who’d let the body drop stands suddenly and reaches over. He grabs the soldier who is still putting his glove back on and drags him to his feet. Screams into his face.
“That’s Hindus, you ignorant prick. Not Muslims.”
“All right…”
“Not fucking Muslims!” He pushes him away and the two soldiers stand and look at each other. The horizon is a glowing strip behind them.
Then, the camera drifts away, and down.
And white noise…
SEVENTEEN
Holland jabbed at the remote and stopped the tape. After something close to half a minute, during which nobody spoke, Holland got up and moved across to the television. He crouched down by the
VCR and ejected the cassette.
Brigstocke turned to the man sitting next to him.
“What d’you reckon?”
“I reckon it’s something worth killing for,” Thorne said. “Worth killing to keep hidden.”
“It’s fucking horrible.” Holland stuffed the cassette back into a large Jiffy bag and sat down again.
“That’s the fourth time I’ve seen it and I’m still glad
I haven’t eaten anything today.”
The three of them were sitting in beige armchairs, gathered around a coffee table in the TV room at the
London Lift. Though he’d moaned initially, complaining that he’d be in the shit if Lawrence Healey ever found out, Brendan Maxwell had eventually agreed to open the place up for them out of hours. It was just after seven on a Thursday night. Nearly thirty-six hours since Susan Jago had handed over the videotape.
“What about the sound?” Thorne asked. “You can’t make out a lot of what’s being said. One voice is completely distorted early on, when they’re doing that shit with the bacon.”
Holland grimaced. “That’s really hideous…” “We’re sending it to the lab at Newlands Park,”
Brigstocke said. “Having heard some of the things they’ve done with 999 recordings, I reckon they can enhance the dialogue for us. We might find out what everyone was saying.”
“So what do we know?” Thorne asked.
Holland took out a notebook, though he didn’t really need it. “It’s the first Gulf War. Chris Jago was posted there from Bremenhaven in northern Germany in October 1990. The date on the tape tells us that what we saw took place on February 26, 1991.
As to exactly where-”
“I’m not sure it really matters,” Brigstocke said. Thorne scratched at what had become a pretty decent beard. “What does Susan Jago say?” “She says her brother didn’t want to go along with any of it,” Holland said. “She says that he was the one at the end doing the shouting.”
“Of course she does.”
“It’s impossible to tell who’s who, so I doubt we’ll ever know.”
“Like I said before, I’m not sure it really matters,”
Brigstocke said.
Thorne shook his head, let it drop back against his chair. “Nobody tried very hard to stop it. They were all involved on some level.”
“We do know one of the others is our mystery man in Westminster Morgue.” Holland picked up his briefcase and took out a grainy ten-by-eight photograph: a still from the video showing the four British soldiers; the moment before one of them moved forward from the group and checked his gun; just before the killing began. Holland laid the photo on the table, tapped at it with a fingernail. “With a bit of luck, we’ll have names for all of them by this time tomorrow.” Brigstocke looked at Thorne. “Holland and Kitson are going to pay the Twelfth King’s Hussars a visit tomorrow.”
“You’re going to Germany?” Thorne asked. Holland’s expression soured. “Bloody regiment got shifted back here five years ago, didn’t it? They’re based near Taunton now, so I get to go to Somerset instead. Shame. I could have done with a new overcoat.” Officers were given allowances of a few hundred pounds, usually in Marks amp; Spencer vouchers, if they were traveling to countries that would be warmer, or in this case cooler than they might be used to…
“Nice to see you’ve still got your priorities sorted,
Dave,” Thorne said.
Holland stood and walked toward a varnishedpine bookcase in the corner. He laid a hand on top of the Jiffy bag as he passed the table. “God knows what they’re going to make of that, mind you.” He sank down to his haunches in front of the bookcase and peered through the locked glass doors at the rows of videotapes and DVDs inside.
“It’s going to be interesting, all right,” Thorne said.
