A/N: Some readers may be wondering why my updates haven't been as regular this year; I changed jobs, and haven't had as much time to write. It's all good, though (the job, I mean, not the lack of time in which to write!) A big thank you to everyone who has read my work this year, and an even bigger thanks to the faithful few who not only read, but continue to review each and every chapter of this behemoth story. Your reviews always make me smile, and they encourage me to keep going!
I don't know if I will be posting again this year, so I'd like to wish everyone a safe and joyous festive season, and may 2016 bring peace and happiness to you all. The world could certainly use some more of each (Malcolm agrees heartily).
Young or not, Jo expertly facilitates access for the two field officers, posing on the phone as the prison governor's secretary; and shortly after, Ms Meyers demonstrates that she hasn't been completely oblivious of my existence after all, as she simulates a very convincing-sounding asthma attack. Wheeze for wheeze, it's exactly like one I had not long after her arrival, during a routine observation shift in the van: bored and unable to pop out the back for a smoke, Ms Meyers had lit up a Silk Cut, to my utter disbelief. Eyes closed in contentment, she had puffed away blissfully, heedless of my protests, until with a desperate lunge, my lungs heaving for unpolluted air, I had seized the offending cigarette and drowned it in a convenient cup of coffee, which just happened to be hers. She had been vociferous in her protests and unrepentant over her misdoing, which had breached every conceivable Health and Safety regulation, as I had angrily pointed out once my breathing had normalised. Now, though, she's making the most of what she learned that day, and I wince involuntarily at the sound of her struggling to breathe, even though I know it's all a sham. No wonder the IT officer leaves the room at a brisk pace to fetch Miss Webber's handbag, whereupon Ms Meyers says coolly, "OK Jo, he's gone. The tracker's in my bag. Let me know when it's on the move."
It turns out that Ms Meyers knows a thing or two about shortcuts into Government IT systems, and it isn't long before Zaf is starting to stream files to me. We are looking for the prison access logs on the day of the fire; as it was also a regular visiting day for the prison, there is a lot of data to work through, for Zaf manages to get the full day's logs. I employ a handy little search algorithm of mine to eliminate the regular visitors, the prison staff, and the police who come and go as they escort prisoners who are up on trial. Next, we run the results through one of Colin's cascade programs, and identify a very unusual visitor indeed. Copying the relevant files to a flash drive, I go in search of Adam with Jo hard on my heels, both of us aware that time is of the essence. We find him at his desk on the Grid, and start speaking even before I've plugged the flash drive into his machine. "Adam, I think you should see this visitors' log book from the day of the fire at Cotterdam. All the names check out apart from this one, Klee. An electrical contractor." Quickly, I bring up an image. "CCTV still of him entering the prison. We couldn't find any record of him so we cross-referenced this photo with our systems. Sure enough, Klee doesn't exist." Jo adds, "But Zakir Abdul does, he's a known associate of Acts of Truth and he's been on our radar for years." I access the MI5 file photo of Abdul, and it only takes Adam seconds to make the connection. "Shit, you know what this means?" Jo nods, "Acts of Truth bribed Maudsley into letting Abdul into the prison. No wonder he killed himself."
I concur that things don't look good for Maudsley, but there is still something about this whole scenario that doesn't quite gel somehow, something that sets my teeth on edge… it reminds me oddly of Tom Quinn and the diabolically clever set-up that nearly ended his career, and his life… I bring my attention back to the task at hand as Adam says urgently, "They started the fire and killed their own men rather than let us interrogate them. Where's Abdul now?" Succinctly, I reply, "A warehouse in Kings Cross," leaving out the technical explanation, which had involved a lot of scanning through CCTV using a new facial recognition program I've been beta-testing for GCHQ. I have long since learned that field staff are rarely interested in such details, and what happens next bears out this observation: Adam issues his orders crisply, without any further hesitation. "Jo. Let's go. Malcolm, get Special Ops and meet us there." I blink in surprise at this unusual delegation, before recalling that Harry's out, Ruth's nowhere to be seen, and Ms Meyers and Zaf are on their way back from Cotterdam. The three of us scatter, Adam and Jo to the pods, and me to call SO19. I decide that I will be of more use staying on the Grid, rather than going pell-mell to Kings Cross with the boys in black. As things turn out, I am profoundly relieved that I am not there when Adbul is found in the attic of the warehouse, shot through the right temple, in what can only be described as a classic execution-style shooting. Someone is obviously cleaning the Cotterdam operation, but whom?
Once more I am reminded of Herman Joyce, Tom Quinn's ex-CIA nemesis, and shudder at the thought of one of our own turning on us with such treachery and deception. If the perpetrator of Abdul's murder comes from within the ranks of the security services, it can mean only one thing: corruption at the highest levels, and that is something altogether too terrifying to contemplate. So I don't, choosing instead to bury myself in work until Adam and Jo return, some hours later. They've been going over every inch of the Kings Cross warehouse in which Abdul met his death, with nothing to show for it, and Adam is in a correspondingly foul mood. Tentatively, I venture, "Any luck?" and Adam growls, rubbing his eyes tiredly, "There's nothing, not even a single strand of hair on the floor. It's a professional hit, all right, but whose?" I wish I could tell him, but settle for collecting the pile of kit that Zaf and Adam have dumped at my workstation from the day's activities. A tiny PIN tracker is missing, and I surmise that it is still in Ms Meyers' handbag, which is lying where she has carelessly slung it onto her desk; I will have to get it back from her later. I know enough about women to understand that their handbags are like the Holy of Holies, to which none are ever admitted, and that it's more than my life would be worth to be caught going through one belonging to so venomous a female.
As I am receipting the kit back into the tech cage, my mobile phone buzzes insistently before going to voicemail; I have had a number of phone messages from Mother today, each one escalating in urgency and anxiety, even though she knows I am rarely able to take personal calls while at work. From long experience, I know that she won't stop until I am at home; Aunt Emily returned to Bournemouth two days ago, and Mother is still very nervous about being left alone for any period of time. As I lock the tech cage, she calls again, and this time I answer immediately. "Mother, please, try not to worry, you're perfectly safe in the house. The security systems are the best that money can buy… well,yes, I did design them, that's true, but they're still the very best, I can assure you. I'll see you later on, then." I end the call and flip my phone shut resignedly: it's going to be another of those evenings. I go back to the tech suite, and that's when I notice that a PIN tracker is still active, and on its way out of Thames House. It's the one in Ms Meyers' bag, and I shudder at the thought of what she would say if she knew she was being tracked, even inadvertently. The program is one that we use to monitor all the active trackers; oddly, this tracker seems to be travelling in Harry's car, going by the proximity of the two signals, so I review the last half hour of footage from the pods' CCTV, and see him leaving with Ruth about ten minutes ago. No surprise there, then; the only wonder is that I've not seen them leaving together before. But then, one of them is wearing an active tracker this time; how very indiscreet.
Frowning, I check and re-check, but the two trackers are definitely travelling together, and towards Ruth's house in Kennington, too, for I recognise the route only too well. I watch as the two trackers come to a stop in Ruth's street, before the one in Harry's car moves off, and I let out the breath I hadn't known I was holding. What happens next, though, is even more puzzling: after a few minutes, Ruth goes off in her own car, and I watch as the tracker shows her weaving through the rat-runs of East London like a seasoned cabbie, until she comes to a stop at the entrance to Clacy Street. The name sounds eerily familiar, as if I've heard it recently, perhaps in relation to an operation, and after a second it comes to me: Mik Maudsley lives – lived – at number 17. I don't know why an unauthorised tracker is on Ruth's person (although I can guess who might have planted it) and try as I might, I cannot imagine what she could possibly want at Maudsley's house.
What on earth is Ruth doing? Why is she snooping around that poor man's private life? For she is snooping, of that I'm certain, and with that thought a cold little hand clutches at my heart. Something is either very wrong, or very peculiar, and quite frankly I've had enough of both where she's concerned. I'm tired of the endlessly enigmatic air of mystery with which she cloaks herself, and my instincts are telling me that whatever is happening now is somehow bound up in everything that has happened since I first realised she was surreptitiously taking the Tessina. Oh, Ruth…what are you up to? I wonder, steeling myself to hack into the local CCTV network, despite all the protocols, rules and regulations that I can cite, chapter and verse, and which are designed to prevent exactly such misuse by Her Majesty's security services, and protect what little is left of civil liberty in this intrusive age. I marvel at my temerity as I gain control of a camera mounted high on the wall opposite Maudsley's house. Already nervous, I nearly jump out of my skin when Ruth looks directly into the lens, almost as if she knows I'm watching her… Come on, Wynn-Jones, don't be so fanciful, I tell myself sternly; and in the next heartbeat, everything I know, or thought I knew, turns so topsy-turvy that I feel as if I have been catapulted into a parallel universe where nothing is as it seems, for Ruth takes out a large bunch of keys from her bag, selects one, inserts it into the front door lock, and lets herself in.
I can't believe my eyes; how has she gotten hold of Maudsley's keys? And that's when it hits me. She must have stolen them from the morgue, taken them from a dead man's body, or at least rifled through his belongings to find them, and a wave of nausea threatens to overwhelm me as I recall her wheedling for the details of Colin's contact there. In that moment, I realise that I know nothing, have never known anything, about Ruth Evershed. She's a complete enigma to me, this woman I was once so intimate with, an impenetrable mystery that I have tried, and failed, to solve. I stare at my screens, unseeing, while a myriad of moments spool through my memory like badly spliced film, all of them now leached of colour and meaning. Desperate for something to focus on, as a seasick sailor fixes their gaze on the horizon, I look at the tracker display: the frequency is locked, indicating that Ruth is still inside the house. She must be conducting a very thorough search indeed, I note, struggling for a semblance of professionalism, or at least functional numbness, which has served me well in the past where Ruth is concerned. Taking deep, slow breaths, I force myself to concentrate on the images from Clacy Street, and I spot Ms Meyers' bony frame hovering in a doorway just down the street from Maudsley's house. "Now, why are you lurking there?" I mutter, zooming in on her as she slips her mobile phone back into her pocket. Shortly after, she is joined by Zaf, and I begin to wonder if anyone is who they seem any more: Zaf is Ruth's friend, or so I thought. What is he doing, skulking around with her?
It must be open day at the Maudsley residence, for Ms Meyers picks the lock with impressive speed, and the two of them disappear inside. Shortly after, I receive several images from Zaf's phone; the black, brutal profile of a very rare gun indeed, which I identify as a Chinese Type 67 silenced pistol, and my already chilly blood turns to ice, for the preliminary ballistics on Abdul's murder indicate exactly this sort of weapon was used. I have no idea what such an object is doing in an East London terrace house, but I'm willing to bet that it's no coincidence. Ruth's tracker shows that she is now somewhere on the local High Street; I would love to see what she's up to, but hacking one CCTV camera without the appropriate paperwork is bad enough, so I content myself with following the little red blip of her tracker instead, all the way back to Thames House.
When Jo appears in the doorway, saying that we're all to gather on the Grid, I follow her silently, full of trepidation. Whatever is about to happen, it is not going to be good, and I wish with all my might that I was at the furthest reaches of the universe, a feeling that intensifies tenfold when I see Oliver Mace, Chair of the Joint Intelligence Committee, waiting with Harry and the rest of Section D for Ruth to arrive; the atmosphere is very tense, and when Ruth appears on the other side of the pods, Mace's attention fixes on her as a shark's might fix on an unwary seal. I choose a spot at the back of the room, ready to observe whatever it is we have been called to witness. Try as I might, I can't school my face into an impassive mask like Mace's, or Harry's, and so I do not look at Ruth when she first steps onto the Grid. Even the sound of her voice, once so beloved, makes me flinch as she asks, "Is there a problem?" in an admirably normal tone, given the circumstances; Mace replies, unable to keep the gloating out of his own voice, "Yes, Ruth, I think there is." She parries with "What's going on?" and I sense the level of discomfort in the room ratchet up a notch as Mace oozes, "We need to talk to you, Ruth." The shark is circling…
Ruth asks, "Do I…do I need to sit down, Harry?" and I glance up to see that her eyes are fixed on him, not Mace. Of course… Harry murmurs, "It's going to be all right, Ruth," but I doubt he even convinces himself, let alone the rest of us. Mace says silkily, "Let's go into Harry's office, only to be foiled by Ruth, who responds, "No, no, whatever it is, let's…let's just do it here." Mace pauses for emphasis before asking her, "Are you sure?" and she answers, "Yes," and meets his eye for the first time. There's something about the look of her that sets my teeth on edge, even as the odious Mace looks round to make sure everyone's attention is riveted on him, for all the world like a pantomime villain, before he asks her equally theatrically, "What were you doing at Maudsley's house?" Ruth blinks in well-simulated surprise and says, "Nothing, I mean, I…" but Mace steamrolls on, saying archly, "You don't deny you went there?" Meekly, Ruth murmurs, "No," as Mace raps out, "Authorised?" She replies in the negative again, and Mace goes on, "Luckily, you were reported. At the Maudsley house, a Chinese Type 67 was found, the same one that killed Mr Abdul. Do you know anything about it?" I look up at that, for ballistics can't possibly have been run on a weapon that just an hour ago was still somewhere in Maudsley's house; something is very fishy indeed. What is Mace playing at? I wonder, just as I catch sight of the expression on Ms Meyers' face. A tiny, cruel smile plays at the corners of her thin-lipped mouth, and her green eyes glitter with malice as she watches Harry. She must have reported Ruth's unauthorised visit to Mace… but why would she do that? Why would she turn on Ruth, of all people? What has Ruth ever done to her?
Oh.
Dear.
God.
This isn't about Ruth at all: this is about Harry, and Sir Jocelyn Meyers, and a daughter's cold, calculated revenge. Unable to strike directly at the powerful head of counter-terrorism, Ms Meyers has instead taken a leaf from Harry's own playbook, and moved to deprive him of the one person who matters most. She's a masterful spy, all right; if I'm right, she intends to make Ruth pay for Harry's sins, and tear her pound of flesh from the very core of his being. Everything around me slows as if in freeze frame, and people seem to be speaking in slow, distorted voices, while my heart lodges in my throat, beating like a frightened rabbit's. It's the same as every nightmare I've ever had, the paralysing fear creeping into my limbs, rooting me to the spot as every muscle and nerve screams at me to run away and never look back, and all the while I feel as if I'm only seeing the monster's shadow, while the true horror is yet to be revealed. What am I missing? Colin would have known, but Colin's not here, and I'm so very, very tired…
Harry quickly steps in to defend Ruth from Mace's accusation, his hackles rising at the insinuation. "Of course she doesn't. This is insane," and Mace replies smoothly, "As you know, Maudsley was under suspicion of colluding with terrorists." Ruth chimes in with, "I didn't believe that." Mace observes coolly, "Whether you believed it or not is immaterial. You were at his house, you went to the mortuary to search his body, you were behind him when he committed suicide. None of these events have been logged or officially trailed." Harry says, "She was following my orders," and I blink at this; Harry is dangerously close to perjuring himself, for I am quite certain that he does not know all the details of Ruth's excursion to East London. Ruth interjects, "I thought he was making a drop," and Mace sneers, "You were working with him." Harry snaps, "That is ridiculous!" but Mace ignores him, and rounds on Ruth. "The two of you together were working for Acts of Truth. When Maudsley died, you went to his house to destroy the evidence." For the first time since stepping through the pods, Ruth looks frightened, her face a pale contrast above her dark brown jacket as she says, "That is not true. There was a drop…" Harry says her name sharply, a warning, but she blunders on, "I found it." Mace stares at her coolly. "So where is it?" The Grid is so quiet, I can hear my heart drumming as Ruth produces a manila envelope from the folds of the newspaper under her arm. Mace doesn't seem in the least perturbed as he removes a compact disc from within the envelope. "OK, let's see it," he suggests, and to my horror, he hands the wretched thing to me; all eyes turn in my direction as I load it onto the nearest machine, initialise a safe operating environment, and click on the disc drive: nothing. No, no, no…
In a tight voice, Adam asks, "Is there a problem?" and I stammer, "I… I'm not sure," as I quickly reboot and load the disc again. Please let it work this time… Harry rasps, "Malcolm?" and I know I can't hide the terrible truth any longer. "It's blank, "I tell him, flinching as Ruth exclaims, shocked, "What?" and at the same time Harry asks, "Are you sure?" in a tone that says I'd better be, if I value my continued employment in Section D. Taking a deep breath, I answer them both in a voice that surprises me with its steadiness. "Sorry, Ruth. There's nothing on it." Six little words, so insignificant by themselves, yet each weighing a tonne on my tongue. I feel like a traitor as Mace crows, "There was no drop, Ruth, you and Maudsley were working for Acts of Truth. Things got out of hand, and you pushed him." Eyes wide with fear, Ruth insists, "That's not true!" but Mace smirks as he saunters casually towards his briefcase, which is sitting on Ms Meyers' desk, and opens it to extract a CD case.
Before I can protest the possible contamination of my operating systems, he commandeers the primary videoconferencing screen. "I'm sorry, Harry," he begins, before turning on Ruth. "You met Maudsley, followed him to the platform, and pushed him," he accuses her. On the big screen, black and white CCTV footage, apparently from Kennington station platform, plays silently while he narrates the action; the images are very clear, especially the last few seconds, and almost immediately Zaf speaks up. "That's been tampered with, it's a fake!" I'm inclined to agree with him, at first glance, but before I can say anything, Mace dismisses this protest. "Please… Zaf? Let's not make this any more upsetting than it already is." Looking at Ruth, he continues, "We have witnesses saying they saw you push him." My skin prickles as Ruth fights back gamely. "What witnesses?" she demands, and Mace says unctuously, "you were seen, Ruth. Apart from the CCTV, you were seen."
Before anyone else can think, or speak, or even move, Mace gestures, and the two Special Branch officers standing along one side of the Grid move towards Ruth. Anyone, that is, but Harry, hurrying to her side as she is taken into custody. "I will sort this out, I promise, Ruth, I will sort this out," he tells her earnestly, but far from being moved by this gesture of good faith, she shakes her head resignedly. "Harry, I've seen it before, too many times. We've done it to too many people." For once in his life of power and influence, Harry is lost for words; he knows she's right, and when one of Mace's heavies asks him to move as Ruth is walked into the pods, he explodes, "Do not address me!", much to the JIC chair's delight. The shark has struck, and there's blood in the water… As more Special Branch staff move towards Ruth's desk, I decide that I've had enough; besides, I know the routine. I've seen it happen more times than I care to recall, and it never gets any easier. As I leave as unobtrusively as I can, I overhear Adam asking, "So, do we back off Cotterdam?" and Harry reply crisply, "Absolutely not, Cotterdam's the key." Is it? I'm not so sure…
Safe in the clean, cool surrounds of the server room, I slip between the blinking, humming stacks to my makeshift workstation, and sink onto a chair, legs stubbornly refusing to hold me up any longer. I need to be alone, to think, to sort things through logically and put them in order. Closing my eyes, I recall the look of veiled triumph that had passed between Mace and Ms Meyers, a tiny, telling moment in which they have given themselves away. There's no doubt in my mind that they are working together to bring down Ruth; Ms Meyers is motivated by revenge, but what does Mace think he's going to achieve by making an enemy of Harry? Something else occurs to me; at Havensworth, Ms Meyers had met clandestinely with someone of Mace's height and build. The more I think about it, the harder it is to dispel the idea that their unholy alliance has existed for longer than the evidence of the last twenty-four hours would suggest. Come on, Wynn-Jones, put that brain of yours to work. What's the use of it, otherwise?
Mace and Ms Meyers have Six in common, for one thing, and that instantly puts me on guard. I know that sounds bad, but over the years I have learnt to be wary where our sister agency is concerned; often their agenda is convoluted and murky, and not necessarily aligned with Five's best interests. For form's sake, I try calling Ruth's mobile, but it is switched off, as I would expect. Before I can make further enquiries, I hear Jo's voice from just inside the entrance to the server room. "Malcolm? Are you in here?" Getting to my feet, I answer in the affirmative, and she takes a step in my direction as I appear at the end of a row of stacks. "Adam says doghouse in an hour; we're to scatter immediately." My heart sinks, even as I nod in acknowledgement; the last time this protocol was enacted, Tom Quinn was on the run and wanted for murdering the Chief of the Defence Staff, not to mention shooting his commanding officer. "All right. Have you got your route worked out?" I ask, and Jo nods, already turning towards the door. "See you there, then," she calls over her shoulder, and I give her the faintest shadow of a smile, before heading for the airlock fire escape at the rear of the room, planning to make my way out of Thames House via the service corridors. Once outside, I deploy my counter-surveillance skills, such as they are, and make my way to the doghouse, which is located rather insalubriously beneath a tower block in… well, that's not important.
By the time I get there, the others are already gathered, and deep in discussion; the field staff are far more adept than I at moving fast and covertly through the city, and an old fox like Harry never loses his cunning. Mace, it seems, has given Harry a day's grace to sort out whatever is going on with Ruth; I'm of the view that an entire lifetime wouldn't suffice, but then, what would I know, where she's concerned? As if to underscore my ignorance of women more generally, the very last person I would have expected to see suddenly appears, scowling blackly until Adam notices her. "Surprised to see you here," he observes, and Ms Meyers replies tersely, "Can I have a word?" tilting her head, indicating that she wishes to speak to him alone. Adam's not having any of it, though. "Say it to everyone," he tells her, and she turns to the rest of us, her face set in hard lines. "I'm not sorry. I was doing my job," she declares, haughty as the devil, and Adam cuts in, "But you were wrong." Unfazed, she adds, "I agree she's been set up, if that's what you mean." Yes, set up by you, and Mace, I want to shout, but Jo interjects, "Why frame Ruth though, what do they gain?" I note that her voice sounds different, somehow, and her face is white; I wonder if she's unwell. Before I can speak, Harry grates out, "They get to me." Of course, it's always all about you, the still point of Five's ever-turning world…
Addressing no-one in particular, Ms Meyers enquires insincerely, "How is she?" and I answer shortly, "No one's been allowed to speak to her." What else do you expect? At almost the same moment, Harry snarls, "How do you think she is? Scared out of her wits!" Ms Meyers stares at him, utterly unmoved, and Adam, sensing that a stand-off is imminent, cuts in. "We need to think quickly, find whatever it was that Maudsley was trying to get to Ruth." Zaf clarifies, "So we all agree, Maudsley made a drop." Ah, so that's what they must have been discussing as I arrived… Adam looks across at him. "Yeah, I think it's time to trust Ruth." Our little group falls silent, until Harry says ruefully, 'If I hadn't been so pig-headed I would have done that in the first place," thus confirming to us all that he is far more emotionally invested in that, that chimera, than he would ever admit, even to himself. For that's what she is, an insubstantial spirit, taking on different forms, but never, ever appearing as herself. Even her sensible, kind outward seeming is just that, a fabrication; the image of her plying Maudsley's house keys and the knowledge of how she came by them have destroyed my final illusions of Ruth, but she is still a colleague, and there is still such a thing as professional loyalty. Besides, there's Mace, with his strange, menacing demeanour, circling like the predator he is, and while his end-game may well be to strike at Harry, he won't hesitate to take out anyone who stands in his way; I've seen his sort before.
Adam's calm, sensible voice breaks into my dark musings. "Let's assume for a moment that Maudsley is innocent. He's in the prison that night; he knows that Special Branch is hiding something in their report. He identifies Ruth as the right person to get information to Harry. It's a good choice, close but not too close." Ms Meyers counters, "Why not go straight to Harry?" and Adam explains, rather unnecessarily, "Too risky. Chances are he's being watched." Playing along now, Ms Meyers asks him, "What the hell is it?" Shrugging, Adam says, "I don't know, Pandora's box. Something worth dying for to expose." Zaf joins in with "What do we know about Maudsley?" and Adam fields his query neatly. "Military background. Before working in Prisons, he had some intelligence training." Jo pipes up, "So the drop could be anywhere," and Ms Meyers shakes her head. "No. It'll be somewhere very specific." Adam adds, "Somewhere that only Ruth would be able to uncover. He'll have laid the drop with extreme care. Zaf, I want you to check all satellite images of Cotterdam that night. We can't rely on any official evidence. Harry…" He pauses, and Harry finishes the thought for him. "I know, stay level-headed." With that, we are dismissed, everyone going their separate ways, but as I walk off, I hear Adam speaking to Ms Meyers. "Ros, I need you to do something for me," he murmurs, as they move off in the opposite direction, and out of earshot. I'm not sorry; whatever Adam's got in mind for Ms Meyers' penance, I don't want to know about it. My mobile phone buzzes; it's Mother again, wanting to know if I'm ever going to come home. Glancing at my wristwatch as I answer her call, I see that it is almost eight p.m. "Sorry, I was unavoidably detained at work; I'm leaving now. No, I haven't eaten yet. Oh, in that case, I'll get something across at the village first, shall I? Mother, please don't..." But she has hung up crossly, and with a sigh I return my phone to my pocket, and trudge after the others.
Out on the street, I look about for a cab, too tired to retrace the complex multi-mode journey I took to get here, and longing for nothing so much as a nice meal followed by an evening of Bach, blissfully alone in my music room. Finally, one hoves into view, and I hail it gratefully. "Hampstead Heath," I tell the cabbie, and his countenance lights up at the prospect of a good fare. "From 'ell to 'eaven in one trip, eh mate!" he comments, and I smile wearily through the security glass, as I perch myself on the slightly sticky simulated leather upholstery. He peers at me in the rear-view mirror, eyes narrowing in concentration. "I know you from somewhere, don't I?" he tries, and with a self-conscious chuckle I say, "No, I shouldn't think so." His expression changes, becoming thoughtful. "I'm really good with faces, and I'm sure I've seen yours before. Do you catch cabs often?" I shift uncomfortably under this scrutiny, and reach for the nearest grab handle as he takes a roundabout at speed. "Not really, no. I prefer to drive myself," I tell him, and with that, I close my eyes to signify the conversation is at an end; unperturbed, the cabbie fiddles with the radio, settling on a station that plays classic hits from the Fifties and Sixties, or what Colin used to call "the golden mouldies." Annoyingly, he insists on whistling along to some of the songs, so I retreat into my mind and return to pondering a far more pressing problem: what to do about Mother. I seem to be doing this a lot, lately, going over all the factors and possibilities in search of an answer that will suit us both, for I'm keenly aware that she is not happy, and I have begun to fear that making her happy is beyond my limited capacity; after all, I'm only her son.
The night before she left, Aunt Emily had suggested that the two of them might like to take a little holiday together, perhaps a cruise around the Mediterranean, but Mother had been staunch in her refusal to leave Hampstead. "Oh, I simply couldn't, Emily, not with my nerves. How could you even suggest it? Imagine if something happened to the ship, or if we all got food poisoning… one hears such terrible stories. And then the people, my dear, that one would be forced to mingle with. Dreadful little salesmen from Swindon, probably, and gaggles of shop girls, as common as muck… No, I simply couldn't bear it. I'll just stay at home with my son. When he's here, that is," this last with a reproachful look in my direction.
Aunt Emily had rolled her eyes at me – sorry, I did try – and I had wished that I was anywhere other than Mother's stifling, overstuffed parlour. My aunt must have had similar ideas, for she had finished her sherry and gone up to bed without another word to her sister; the following morning, I had found her waiting for me in the hall, her bags packed. "I think I'd better get home now," she had said, and I had nodded. "Yes, I know. Mother isn't making it easy at the moment. Shall I drop you at Waterloo?" My aunt had looked me straight in the eye and said, "Your mother has never made it easy, for any of us. What I can never quite understand is why you put up with all of her nonsense. Why do you?"
Picking up her suitcase, I had attempted to explain. "Because she needs me, and I suppose I need her too, in a way. I haven't exactly blazed a brilliant trail through the social stratosphere, and it's nice not to have to come home to an empty house. And, well, I promised Father." Laying her hand upon my sleeve with gentle insistence, my aunt had asked, "Whatever happened to that nice lady doctor? She was lovely." Colour had burned fiercely in my cheeks as I avoided her gaze and mumbled, "Nothing. She… she's gone abroad." Aunt Emily had sighed, "Malcolm, whatever you do, please don't let your sense of honour and filial duty stop you from finding your own happiness. Life's much too short, and your mother would be off like a shot if another man so much as gave her the time of day." I had hugged her then, trying to convey my affection and appreciation. "What is it that Father used to say? There's a time for everything, and everything in its time?" My aunt had replied, close to my ear, "Yes, he did, bless his soul. You're so very like him, and he would have been so proud of you, taking such good care of your mother. Just don't forget to take care of yourself, too, fy nai."
I open my eyes as the cab pulls up in Hampstead's High Street, just as the cabbie turns round. "That'll be thirty-two quid, mate," he says, and as I pay, he studies my face closely. "Got it!" he announces, just as I am about to alight, "You were in my cab with Miss Evans last November, and I took you to Covent Garden. She recruited me for Operation Flagfall, yeah?" He grins at me cheerfully. "S'all right, I know the gummint don't have that sort of coin any more. Still, it was good work while it lasted." I do recall now; it was the night that we had reconciled in the French restaurant in Neal's Yard, after the Implanon episode. Ruth had told me she wasn't the woman I was looking for, and blinded by love and desire, and not a little desperation, I had chosen to ignore her warning. "Yes, of course. Gus, wasn't it?" There are times when having an eidetic memory is a blessing, rather than a curse; this is one of them. "Right you are, mate," he beams, and with a final wave, he drives off. I wait until the cab is out of sight, and then walk towards my favourite little Italian trattoria, stomach rumbling at the thought of scaloppine di vitello, or perhaps tiny, perfect tortellini floating in golden brodo. And wine, I decide, opening the door to the warm, deliciously fragranced interior, definitely a nice glass of red of some sort, a Barolo or a good Valpolicella. As I step inside, the elderly proprietario bustles up andgreets me with, "Ah, Mr. Malcolm! Your fidanzata, she is here waiting already. Come, come."
My girlfriend? I puzzle over the words, wondering if the old man's mind is quite what it ought to be, and then my eyes adjust to the dimly lit room: Ruth is seated in a booth at the far end of the room, her eyes on the door, her back to the wall. She looks down at her menu as I arrive, but I know she has seen me; her foot beats a nervous little tattoo under the table, as befits her fugitive status. An unfamiliar, long black coat is piled beside her on the seat; so this must have been the favour Adam wanted of Ms Meyers. I can't think why Ruth would be here, though, until it dawns on me that Gus must have tipped her off. The chorus of a well-known song that the cabbie had been whistling along to earlier echoes in my ears as I allow myself to be led towards her, even though every spook instinct is warning me that this is a setup. Carefully, I slide onto the bench seat opposite hers. "Good evening," I greet her civilly, keeping my voice low, "this is a surprise; fancy seeing you here!" Her eyes shoot daggers at me, but the corners of her mouth tug upwards the tiniest bit as she says softly, "Hello, Malcolm. Please, I need your help."
Of course. How did that song go again? You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need. Apparently, what I need right now is not a nice, quiet dinner and then an even quieter evening listening to one of Bach's toccatas, in splendid, sound-proofed isolation, but the career-threatening pyrotechnics and emotional roller-coaster ride that Ruth On The Run promises to be. I don't know why I'm thinking in fun-fair metaphors, when the situation I find myself in is neither; I really must need a holiday. Ruth watches me impatiently, and I realise I haven't responded to her no doubt sincere and heartfelt request.
"Oh, yes?" I query cautiously, signalling the waiter to bring the wine list, "What did you have in mind? And why are you asking me? Can't Harry just make all this disappear?" Her eyes shine in the candlelight's soft glow, and I have to remind myself that she had let herself into Maudsley's house with a dead man's keys only a few hours ago. "That's just it, I don't think he can, and anyway I don't want him to. He's got to be kept out of it, Malcolm, because he's the one that Mace is really after. I… I don't matter, not in the grand scheme of things, but Harry does. The thing is, I can't go home, and I don't fancy sleeping rough on the Heath. Could you put me up, just for the night?" I have to admire her courage, if not her sheer bold-faced audacity; she's not lacking in nerve, that's for certain. "It's not quite that simple, Ruth. Mother is at home, and she hasn't been well lately. Any sort of disruption or shock might set her off, and besides, it would be a security risk if she saw you; she might say something to someone, and then where would we be?" In a spot of bother would be putting it mildly; I can just imagine the histrionics that would ensue if Mother were to find 'Rachel Evans' in her kitchen, wrapped in my old dressing gown; oh, the panic! Oh, the accusations! As for asking her to say nothing about it, I might as well ask the moon to cease orbiting Earth; it would be a physical impossibility for Mother not to broadcast the news far and wide, and considering the undesirable company she has kept recently, I have no idea what the implications of that might be…
"Malcolm? Malcolm! Where do you go when you're inside that head of yours?" Ruth says in exasperated tones, and I look up to see the waiter, hovering to take our order. Ruth waits until he is gone before she continues, "Your mother wouldn't have to know. Didn't you once tell me there are secret passages running all over the house? All I want is a safe place to sleep, and a hot shower, nothing more. I'd be gone by dawn." Her eyes implore me as I consider my reply. "Why not just go to a hotel? You could pay in cash; I can give you some if you don't have enough. Surely that would be the best solution." The wine arrives, with a pile of hot, crunchy whitebait fritters, and a bowl of rich, buttery Sicilian green olives. I busy myself with the wine, pouring Ruth's glass first. She accepts it with a faint smile, but the look in her eyes betrays her anxiety, as with a small but definite shake of her head, she plays her trump card. "Because your house is the safest place I know, and I trust you with my life." She meets, and holds, my gaze as she speaks, palest aquamarine answering dark blue, and I groan inwardly, for when she puts it like that, how can I refuse?
Exactly.
A/N: With thanks to Messrs Jagger and Richards of the Rolling Stones for the lyrics to "You Can't Always Get What You Want." Malcolm might be as conservative as they come, but even he recognises a Stones classic every now and then.