Late evening, Friday 5 August 2006
"Where are we?" Ruth wants to know, distaste evident in her voice as she looks round at the unexpected surroundings and wrinkles her nose at the cobwebs in the corners and the musty smell of old furniture. From behind high-stacked storage crates, I explain, "The box room of my house. Ah, here it is!" I drag my find into a clear space in the middle of the floor, and begin to set it up, coughing at the accompanying dust rising from the worn canvas. "What's that?" she asks, and I look up in surprise at her suspicious tone. "An Army camp bed, of course. It was my grandfather's, from the war, but it's perfectly serviceable. I take it you weren't planning to sleep on the floor?" Ruth stares incredulously, first at the khaki-coloured contraption, and then at me. "But I don't understand…why can't I stay in one of the guest rooms, or, or with you?" She moves towards me, smiling uncertainly, and I step back smartly towards the doorway.
"I'm sorry, but I can't risk Mother seeing you, and there aren't any guest rooms in my wing of the house. As for your other suggestion, it's out of the question, Ruth." I turn away from those brilliant, bewildered eyes, and rummage in a battered steamer trunk until I find an old, soft blanket and a slightly moth-eaten cushion of green velvet. I proffer them to Ruth, but she doesn't take them. "I don't understand why you're doing this, Malcolm…" – she gestures round the box room as though it were a prison cell – "it isn't like you at all." I set the bedding down on the camp bed and move towards the door without looking at her. "If you need to use the facilities before turning in, the maids' bathroom is at the far end of the corridor. It's old, but it's still in working order. Otherwise, there's always this, at a pinch," and with my foot, I delicately indicate my grandmother's flower-painted porcelain chamber pot in its hiding place beneath an inlaid ebony Victorian dressing table. This time, I make the mistake of glancing at her, and the look of sheer indignation and outrage on her face is enough to make me question my motives. She's right, of course, she would never have expected this when she propositioned me for a night's accommodation; why would she, when she has hitherto only known my most eager hospitality? But there's no help for it; if Mother knew she was in the house I can't even begin to imagine the fracas that would ensue. Besides, Ruth is currently a fugitive, which makes her presence under my roof doubly dangerous, not to mention a certain gleam that I thought I caught in her eye, just before we left the restaurant. I don't want her here at all, and certainly not roaming about at will…heaven knows what she might try, if she thought it would be to her advantage.
"Well, it's up to you, of course. One final caveat: I have to lock the door to this floor when I go downstairs, or I won't be able to arm the security system. I'll unlock it again at five a.m., and you can be on your way." Ruth snaps, "So I'm to be shut up in the attic all night, like something out of a Gothic novel?" I retreat another few steps as I say apologetically, "It can't be helped, I'm afraid. The system won't arm until everything is locked, and tonight of all nights, it must be turned on. You're a huge liability, Ruth; if the police get an inkling that you've given them the slip, the search will be on, and their very first line of inquiry will be amongst your colleagues, don't you see? Why do you think I brought you here through that old passage under the Heath, then up the back stairs? Why do you think I can't risk Mother seeing you?" Ruth sits down hard on the camp bed, as if her legs are suddenly incapable of holding her up. "My God, you're right. I never thought about it like that. I've crossed over, haven't I? I mean, we've always operated in the shadows, but at least I've known where they were. Now I have to feel my way in the dark."
She looks up at me appealingly, and I steel my heart against those extraordinary eyes, grey as a winter storm in the dim yellow light of the lightbulb suspended from the beams. "It'll be all right," I tell her with an assurance I do not feel, "You just have to lay low until Harry irons things out with Mace." She snorts disparagingly, "Harry can't do anything until we know what was going on with Mik Maudsley; he's the key to it all." Silently, I agree with her; I have rarely known Ruth's instincts to be wrong, and after Mace's menacing performance this afternoon, he is obviously trying to conceal something. "It's very late; I'd better get to bed. Good night, Ruth." I leave the box room and hurry along the corridor to the narrow, steep staircase. At the foot of the stairs, I turn to lock the door, just as Ruth appears on the top landing. "What is it?" I ask warily, and she hesitates before saying, "I just wanted to say thank you for everything, Malcolm. You've been brilliant, tonight." Her voice deepens on my name, and I gaze up at her, at the soft curves of her body, at her hair falling loose around her shoulders, the harsh lines of exhaustion creasing her face, the tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth. In spite of, or perhaps because of, everything that has been between us, my treacherous heart skips a beat as our eyes meet, and just for an instant, it is as if the events of the last year had never occurred…but they did, and she loves Harry bloody Pearce, not you, the small, cold voice of reason reminds me, and the impulse to race up the stairs two at a time and take her in my arms passes, leaving me shaken at its intensity.
Thoroughly unsettled, I stammer, "You're m…most welcome," as I shut the door and turn the key with trembling hands before hastening down to my own bed, where I lie, sleepless, staring at the ceiling while my brain replays the events of the last twenty-four hours on high repeat. Eventually, inevitably, I fall to wondering what would have happened had I responded to the gleam in her eye at dinner, or the spark that had flown between us on the attic stairs. What if…I glance across at the emptiness on the other side of the old four poster bed, and remember how it had been when she had slept there, her hair spread across the pillows, the warmth of her, the feel of her, all soft and yielding, and yet there had been strength there too, in the tensing of back and buttocks as my hands glided ever lower on the ivory satin of her skin; and then she would turn to me, her fingers skilful as a concert pianist's, her breath hot in my ear as she told me what she was going to do next, setting my blood racing. Sometimes, I had pre-empted her, and she would be the one who went first, her whole body focused on the electric sensations coursing through her as she heaved and bucked against fingers or tongue, and then I would enter her before the last tremors subsided. Disoriented by this new sensation, her eyes would fly open as I slid slowly inside, and she would stare at me as if I were a stranger, just for a second, before beginning to move with me.
I would watch her closely, waiting for that look of fierce concentration to appear, and then I would pause; and when I felt her nails in the small of my back, I would start again, until the inevitable could be delayed no longer, and she would gasp, "Yes!" or "Now!" and her whole body would tense around me urgently, and… but tonight would not have been like that. No, tonight would have been a betrayal, not only of the man she loves, but of my own standards of integrity and decency. I know Ruth well enough to recognise that, chameleon-like, she is capable of adapting to whatever the circumstances call for, but it's merely camouflage, a means of hiding in plain sight. Yes, but what if I had gone up the stairs, and taken her there? How would that have gone? Closing my eyes, I try to will myself to sleep, but it's no use; the seed has been sown, and is germinating rapidly in the fertile fields of my imagination. Would it have been a tender meeting between old lovers, or an opportunistic coupling fuelled by loneliness and lust? The latter, I fancy; already I can see how it would have gone… "Well, it's late; I'd better get to bed," I tell Ruth, and she says, "Yours, or mine?" as she unbuttons her jacket, and starts on her blouse; her eyes convey all the invitation I need, and in the next instant I make my decision. One last night, one final fling…it's what any man would have done in the same situation, isn't it? I ascend the stairs slowly, my eyes on Ruth as she continues to undress, and by the time I have reached her she is standing there in nothing more than a few wisps of scarlet lace, her eyes huge and black with desire, and the scent of her arousal is like an ocean breeze blowing through the close, stale air of the attic. We do not kiss; it is not that sort of encounter. Instead, we… but this is wrong, and I know it by the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Remembering a lived experience is one thing, but fantasising about something that will never happen is quite another, and feels somehow disrespectful to Ruth, to Harry, and even to myself. "Don't go there, mate," I can almost hear Colin saying, "What do you want to give yourself all that grief again for? The best thing you ever did was end it with her. Her heart was never in it, even if yours was." I fervently wish that he was here, for together, we might be able to work out what is going on with Cotterdam, and Mace, and poor Maudsley. As it is, I don't like the look of any of it; these are dark and deep waters we find ourselves in… as dark as the Styx and as deep as the abyss, and about as impenetrable.
I must fall asleep at some point, for I am wakened by the strident blast of my alarm clock. The sky is starting to lighten as I disarm the alarm system, but the circuit schematic shows that the backstairs door stands open already. Racing upstairs as I pull on my dressing gown, I find that the box room is empty. The blanket, neatly folded on the camp bed, still holds the warmth of her body. How does she do it? I fume silently, how the hell does she get in and out of the most secure places in the country, as if she were a ghost? I trot down the stairs, along the stone-flagged passage to the narrow servants' entrance that we had come in through last night, and find it, too, unlocked. Opening the door, I look out across the lawn, where small footprints are visible in the dew-decked grass, going towards the secret gate hidden under the pink briar rose that covers the entire garden wall. There is no other sign that Ruth was ever here, and I wonder if I have dreamt the whole thing, except for those footprints, and the faint fragrance of a garden after rain that seems to hang in the fresh morning air, quickening mu pulse at the heart-wrenchingly familiar scent.
Oh, Ruth…
Wearily, I trudge back upstairs to prepare for another day, alone.
Saturday 6 August, 2006
The Grid is humming with activity when I arrive an hour later; red-eyed and as yet unshaven, Harry looks as though he has slept under his desk, and Adam and Zaf are poring over a mass of black-and-white satellite images. Jo is in too, clutching a takeaway coffee in one hand as she logs onto her systems, but Ms Meyers is nowhere to be seen: of course, she must still be stuck at Ruth's house. I wonder how she enjoyed being there all night, and hope she at least fed the cats, poor things. Jo looks up as I walk past en route to the tech suite. "Hi, Malcolm!" she chirps cheerily, but there is a false note to her voice that stops me mid-stride to study her more closely. "Good morning, Jo. How are you?" I enquire, and she raises those big blue eyes to mine, a smile painted on her face. "Fine, thanks, Malcolm," she assures me breezily, but I wait, watching her patiently, until she glances away. "Can I have a word in private?" she asks, returning her gaze to mine, and I nod once, almost imperceptibly. "Come along, then," I tell her, and continue on my way. Jo follows, carrying a stack of dossiers, but nothing further is said until we are alone.
"What is it?" I ask her gently, for everything about her demeanour warns me that she is striving to maintain her outward composure. She sets her files down carefully before facing me. "You know how you're always saying the devil's in the details?" she begins, and I respond with a wary, "Yes," wondering where she's going with this. She shuffles her feet uncomfortably. "I've done something silly," she continues in a small voice, "but I didn't mean to. It was just for fun, really, and so I could tell Zaf, for his book." I stare at her uncomprehendingly. "I'm sorry, Jo, but I'm going to need a few more details here," I probe gently, and she says, the words tumbling out, "I just wanted to find out if Ruth and Harry were going off on a date. Zaf's running a book on are they or aren't they an item. I put the tracker in her bag, Malcolm, that's how Ros knew she was at Maudsley's. And now Ruth's in trouble, and it's all my fault… what am I going to do?" Jo's slender shoulders are rigid with tension, her chin tilted high, not out of defiance, but in an attempt to stop it from trembling, and she looks very young as she waits for me to speak.
I say nothing at first, as my weary brain tries to sort through the implications of what she has just told me, and in her anxiety she misinterprets my silence as disapproval. "Oh, shit. I'll have to resign, won't I? I mean, I've breached the privacy of two officers, one of whom is the Head of our section, I've misused government resources, and…" I put up my hand. "Jo, wait a minute. What did you just say about Ros?" Jo blinks as she clarifies, "I put the tracker in Ruth's bag, and told Ros about it. It was just meant to be a lark, that's all." So that's how she knew Ruth was at the Maudsley place…I wonder if she called in Mace, too? And if so, why? Apart from her general loathing of Five, that is, and her misplaced loyalty to Six… Misplaced loyalty. Hmmm… In front of me, Jo has turned so pale I think she may be about to faint. "Will you do it again? Misuse government resources and spy on your colleagues, that is?" I ask her, and she shakes her head. "No! Not unless I've been directed to," she replies, with a touch of the old Jo sparkiness. "Right. That's that, then. I don't think there's any need to bother Adam or Harry with this, do you?" The colour starts to come back into her face, and before I know what she's doing, Jo is hugging me, exclaiming, "Oh, you're a darling man, thank you so much!" I carefully disentangle myself, and look at her as sternly as I am able. "Yes, yes, that's all very well, but the darling man kindly asks you to never take any kit again without following the correct sign-out procedure. Rules are there for a reason, Jo, and now you know why." She nods contritely, and I tilt my head toward the doorway of the tech suite. "Go on then, they'll be looking for you."
She practically skips out; I wish I could solve everything as easily, but even with clues like the one Jo has inadvertently just provided, I am not optimistic about the outcome of this particular investigation. There's a strange sense of inevitability hanging over Thames House, as though an ancient Greek tragedy is starting to unfold, and we were all nothing more than pawns of the gods. I start to boot up my array, before thinking better of logging onto the main LAN. If things are as bad as I suspect, I will have to be extraordinarily cautious while conducting my enquiries into Ms Meyers' comms history for the last twenty-four hours, looking for evidence that she has contacted Mace. I take myself off to the server room, and begin the tedious task of searching the servers. Diligently, I comb through numerous emails, SMS messages and telephone calls, but nothing stands out, until I access a Hotmail account she has apparently set up for one of her legends, and spot an email in the draft folder, written in an old Six cypher. I am just about to start decoding it, when a call comes in from Adam, snapping, "Malcolm, who's Fox?" It takes me a second to understand what he is asking. "That's not a legend I recognise." Adam mutters, "Then we have a bigger problem than I first thought," he mutters, and rings off before I can ask him why. I turn back to my screens, and it is but the work of a minute to read Ms Meyers' treacherous little communique.
Fancy a game of Hare and Hounds with the hunt master's favourite bitch? I read, she's slipped her collar and needs to be drawn off the scent. That is all, but it is enough for me to infer that Ms Meyers has capitalised on Jo's silliness to her own advantage. There is no address in the Send field, but there doesn't need to be, as the intended recipient would only have to access the account using Ms Meyers' credentials. After a few more minutes of electronic sleuthing, I have the ISP of the last device used to log in to the account, and my deepest suspicions are confirmed; the ISP is a false one used to mask Intelligence servers, or, to put it more precisely, a server located at Vauxhall Cross. Over the years, I have memorised long lists of these technological aliases so as to screen out intra-agency communications when sorting through chatter on operations. Of course, I can't prove that it is Mace who read Ms Meyers' message, but every spook instinct I possess is telling me it must be him, and with a flash of insight, I realise why: not only is Ruth pursuing the Cotterdam cover-up with her usual dogged persistence, but Ms Meyers has seen what must have seemed to her a golden opportunity to exact revenge on Harry for Jocelyn Meyers' imprisonment. Misplaced loyalty, indeed: an act of such exquisitely underhanded vindictiveness such as is rarely seen outside of Shakespearean tragedy. But while I may have identified the means, and guessed at the motive, the ultimate aim of this hideous game is as yet unclear.
I feel an aching need to be amongst people, instead of huddled over my screens, alone with my suspicions and conjectures, and I close out of the mainframe quickly, leave the chill sterility of the server room, and step onto the Grid just as all hell breaks loose. Jo is nowhere to be found, and a junior analyst appears to be the only person manning Section D; they've all begun to look alike to me, these bright young things who come and go, year after year, but after a quick rummage through my memory, I dredge up his name. Eric Compton, from Section C, who must be putting in some weekend overtime with our team: lucky him. He seizes upon me as a drowning man grasps the rope that is thrown to him. "Thank god you're here. The reports that are coming in are mad, I don't know what's going on. Ruth Evershed's been arrested on her own street, trying to escape, and now they've gone and charged her with murder, and Zaf's just called to say that Mr Pearce has been arrested for assaulting Oliver Mace with a broken wine glass at Mr Mace's club…is it always like this in Section D?" I dismiss him with a brief word of thanks, and sit down at my desk to make sense of whatever chaos is going on beyond the walls of Thames House. Just for a moment, I think I hear Colin sigh, If only we'd managed to get those microtransmitters approved as standard operating kit, the whole team would already be trackable and wired for sound, as I wonder where to start. Oh, Colin. I could really do with your help today…I miss you, you know, and some days are worse than others...
At least Mace's very old, very exclusive club is a fixed reference point, and so I bring up the CCTV network for that part of St James, and begin trawling the live feeds. I've already done a search for the tracker on Harry's car, but he must have caught a cab or had a driver drop him off, for his Range Rover is still in the garage underneath the Grid; at the same time I hack into the London Metropolitan Police's dispatch system, looking for a call to that most hallowed of clubland addresses. And there it is: a panda car was dispatched fourteen minutes ago to attend a reported assault. My fingers move rapidly across the keys as I pull up the feeds from outside the club, and my heart thuds against my ribs as I spot the police bundling a truculent-looking Harry down the steps and into the vehicle. Across the street Adam, Ruth and Zaf confer in a hasty huddle, half-hidden by the big black Lexus Adam likes to sign out from the car pool. After a minute or two, Zaf and Ruth race off along the empty pavement on foot in one direction, while Adam follows Harry, who has now been installed in the police car. I fervently pray to Whomever might be listening that someone would call in and let me know what they're planning: I could be of so much help to them, but the field officers, and Ruth, are running on adrenaline and instinct now, and there is no carefully thought through tactical operation in place, just the age old game of hunter and hunted, where survival is the only outcome that matters. Adam's car, like all the pool cars, is fitted with a tracker, and I follow it to the Mayfair police station. Only the best for Harry bloody Pearce…if he's going to be arrested, of course it's going to happen in a W1 postcode. I watch as Adam goes inside, and comes out again some fifteen minutes later wearing an expression I haven't seen since the first dreadful days after Fiona's death. It is the look of a man who has nothing left to lose and doesn't care who knows it, and it chills me to see it now. Oh, Adam, what are you up to? What are you about to do?
A pod whooshes open, and Jo comes in. "Sorry, I was called away to deal with Ros being arrested as Ruth. She was about ready to kill someone, having to play along with it. Where's that?" she asks, her eyes resting on the CCTV image of Mayfair police station, and I succinctly bring her up to speed. She lets out a long, low whistle when I finish, her face serious. "Do you know what they're planning to do now?" I shake my head, and she rolls her eyes in mock-annoyance. "I'll talk to them," she offers, pulling her mobile phone out of her jacket pocket and flipping it open. As a field officer, it's her prerogative to question the others, and I gladly turn my attention to poking about in the Met's systems, hoping to find Harry's charge sheet. After a bit of detective work, I find it: aggravated assault against one Oliver Mace. There is a notation indicating that other charges are pending, but before I can dig any further, Jo manages to catch my eye. "OK, so Zaf says that Harry wants to sell himself down the river to save Ruth, so he attacked Mace to force his own arrest. Zaf and Ruth are heading for Adam's place now to work out what to do next, and Adam's just told him that the Met's charging Harry with Maudsley's murder. Also, the drop Ruth found was a cache of documents about some covert meeting none of them know about. Harry wants Adam to expose them but he's refusing to obey; he says Harry's got no authority now because of the murder charge. What a mess!"
A mess it most certainly is; I can't recall anything quite like it in all my years at Five, but behind all this surface sound and fury, I sense meticulous planning and a malicious intelligence at work. Once again I think of poor Tom Quinn, and the macabre, twisted brilliance of the Joyces' plot to destroy him. There's something about the current situation, some similarity or resemblance which recalls that dark time, and if only I could talk it through with someone who was there too, I might make the connection between the two; but there is no one. Colin and Danny are dead, Zoe is banished, Adam has enough on his plate without adding my nameless fears to them, Harry is in gaol, and Ruth is probably plotting to break in and rescue him, like the faithful spaniel she is. Only "spaniel" isn't quite the right word for Ruth, not really; she is more like Gelert, the ill-fated hound whose unquestioning loyalty to his master was ultimately his undoing, and the thought fills me with nameless apprehension, for reasons I don't care to consider. Love and loyalty, jealousy and revenge: the answer to Cotterdam lies somewhere between a nameless danger that threatens to engulf us all, and the ever-elusive truth.
"Earth to Malcolm, or should I call you Major Tom?" Jo regards me with a mixture of affection and concern as I try to pick up the dropped ball. "I'm sorry. You were saying?" She repeats her question. "When was the last time you ate something?" I gaze at her, confused, and she adds, "You've been sitting there staring into space for the last five minutes. I get like that when I've gone too long without eating, so I thought…" I actually can't recall when I last ate; it must have been last night, for I don't remember having breakfast this morning. "Erm…" I begin, but she has already made up her mind. "I'll be right back," she tells me; and sure enough, she is, carrying a plate of freshly cut ham sandwiches, a couple of apples, and two bottles of lemonade. If she produces a large bar of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut next, I could be forgiven for thinking I was in a Famous Five adventure, I think wryly. "Help yourself," she invites, taking a bite of her apple, and at the sight and smell of food my stomach rumbles embarrassingly loudly, confirming her suspicions. "So, what do we do now?" she asks through a mouthful of apple, and I hastily swallow a bite of my sandwich. "I don't know, Jo. This is an unprecedented situation: Harry's out of action, Adam and Ruth are off plotting God knows what, and we're sitting on a secret that could destroy the security services if it got out. We don't know who's involved, so we can't talk to anyone outside our own section. The one thing we do know is that the conspirators are deadly serious, but we haven't any idea what their end game is, nor what the stakes are."
Closing my eyes, I press my palms against them, willing away the dull throbbing in my temples. I hear Jo slide off the corner of my desk, where she had perched to eat, and cross to her own workstation; next I hear keys clicking rapidly, and then the quiet buzz of the printer. "This might help," she says, slipping a sheet of paper onto my keyboard, and I sit up, trying to make sense of the grainy black and white image she has handed me. I turn it this way and that, and then I see. No…it can't be. Not here, not in this country I love as much for its democratic beliefs as for its Royal traditions. We're better than this, more civilised…at least, I thought we were, and then one of our own murdered my best friend in the name of the same kind of ideology... "Where did you get this?" I ask Jo dully, but I already know the answer, or most of it. "From Zaf. It's a Russian satellite image." She doesn't go into further details; there's no need. The seven black-shrouded prisoners and the bus in the satellite images of Cotterdam tell the rest of the story. Rendition, followed by torture in some wretched country where life is of less value than a few cigarettes, all for the sake of gleaning a few scraps of questionable intel…or meting out a sadistic revenge. No wonder Harry had been so reckless as to physically attack Mace, if he had been told to hold his tongue about it; what most people either don't know or have long since forgotten about the head of Section D is that he has experienced torture himself, more than once. Oliver Mace, on the other hand, strikes me as someone who would have enjoyed pulling the wings off flies as a small boy.
"I didn't know we did this kind of thing," Jo says shakily, "I thought it was only in places like Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo…" With what I hope is a reassuring expression, I tell her, "We don't. I've never seen anything like this, Jo, not in all my years at Five. If this is what Mace is up to, he's operating without official sanction." She gazes at me solemnly for a long while, her eyes searching mine; finally, she gives the tiniest of nods. "I believe you. But if Ruth's stumbled onto this, and now Harry knows about it, why don't they just confront Mace and drag it all out into the light?" Oh, Jo, sometimes I forget that you are still so very new at the spy game… "You're thinking like a journalist, Jo. Look at the bigger picture. Ruth didn't just stumble onto this, she was set up. This whole thing's an elaborate trap, but for whom?" Jo frowns, "For Harry, surely," but before she can continue, her mobile phone rings insistently, and she turns away to answer it. The simple gesture reminds me that I haven't checked my own phone in hours; I retrieve it from the inside pocket of my jacket, hanging on the back of the chair, and sigh when I see no less than nine missed calls and five messages, all from Mother.
Dutifully, I listen to them: it would seem she saw Ruth leaving, early as it was, for all the messages are about a stranger in the garden. It is only when I listen to the final message, left half an hour ago, that I realise she is speaking in the present tense, her voice full of fear. "Malcolm? Where are you? What's the point of having a mobile phone if you never answer the wretched thing? There's a man poking about in the garden, and I'm so frightened…I've called the police and I've locked myself into the panic room in case he tries to break in…oh, what's the use, you're never there when I want you…" The rest of the message is garbled by sobbing, and I leave the Grid at what is very nearly a dead run, mouthing the word, "Mother" at Jo as I enter the pod, my heart clenching with apprehension, half a dozen dreadful possibilities tumbling through my brain. I'm sure this unprecedented breach of my privacy and security is connected with harbouring Ruth, and the idea of Mace's goons in my garden keeps my foot flat to the floor as I urge the Rover towards Hampstead.
There are three police cars drawn up outside the gates, testament to my mother's powers of persuasion when hysterical, and several police officers are going over the grounds; two more are stationed in the portico, and as I drive up, a burly sergeant appears at the front door. "Your name, sir?" he inquires, and as I answer him I can hear the all-too-familiar sound of my mother in full flight; she must have been let out of the panic room, then. "Your mother's physically unharmed," the sergeant assures me, "but she's had a big shock. The intruder had gone by the time we arrived, but there's definitely been someone here, going by the freshly dug holes all over the garden…unless you have a serious mole infestation?" I stare at him blankly, thrown by his use of spy terminology, until I realise what he is referring to. "No, I've never had a problem with…with moles," I assure him, while wondering if, in fact, this is entirely true. "I wonder what they were looking for," he muses, even as my mother's voice reaches new heights from within. I entreat, "Please, let me go to her," and the sergeant steps aside with alacrity. As I pass, I hear him mutter, "Rather you than me, mate," under his breath, but before I can take issue with such rudeness, my mother appears in the hall, and my heart sinks like a dropped stone; she is wearing her champagne-coloured mink coat over an alarmingly low-cut negligee, and on her feet are preposterously high heels. Oh, no, not now…not again!
"Malcolm! Where have you been? I don't know why I even bothered ringing you, you're never there when I need you…I was terrified, simply rigid with fear when that brute appeared in the garden…I thought Jocelyn had sent him to do away with me, so I ran into the safe room and called the police, and you, and they came so quickly…I rang you nine times, and you're only just here now. What's the use of you, I'd like to know?" Mother totters towards me, her voice rising as she continues, "Thank goodness I insisted on having the safe room installed after I came home from the clinic. You'd never have done it otherwise, and as for your so-called security systems… I want a proper one installed by a reputable firm, not your useless tinkering around with bits of wire. I told you my life was in danger, I told you, I told you, I told you!" She lurches at me, weeping; staggering slightly, I catch her and make what I hope are soothing noises, while the policemen in the hall dart sympathetic glances in my direction. "I'm sorry, Mother, you've had a terrible shock. Why don't you come into the parlour and I'll make you a nice cup of tea?" But before we can move in that direction, the sergeant comes up to us. "Sorry, sir, but I couldn't help overhearing. Did the lady just say that someone was threatening her life?" My mother turns a swollen, tear-stained face towards him, her mouth already opening indignantly, and I say hastily, "I'll explain later. Could you give me a hand here?" indicating her not inconsiderable bulk, and the sergeant – Jackson, his name badge reads – nods and helps me carry her into the parlour.
After I make Mother a very Valium-laced cup of tea, and she has passed out in her favourite chair, I join Sergeant Jackson in the kitchen. "My officers have finished outside now. There are eleven freshly dug holes, all about fifty centimetres deep, in various locations around the garden. They also noticed some very sophisticated surveillance and security systems. If I may ask, Mr Wynn-Jones, what line of work are you in?" Handing him a mug of tea, I sit down at the scrubbed oak table and look him in the eye, trying to determine whether or not to tell him the truth. He adds, "I wasn't always a copper. I've done my time in the army, too. You're a spook, aren't you?" There doesn't seem to be any point in denying it, given this point-blank approach. "I'm a Senior Technical Officer, actually, with MI5." He looks totally unsurprised at this. "Yeah, I didn't have you down for a field officer. Now, I'm wondering why a strange man would be digging holes in your garden; can you tell me anything about that?" I've been wondering the same thing, but I'm not about to share my speculations with this stranger, sergeant or no. "Well, I collect rare and valuable plants; British orchids, heirloom varieties of Dutch bulbs, things of that kind. I dare say the intruder was looking for something like that, stealing to order, perhaps. I can see that I'll have to improve the perimeter security; my mother has a nervous disposition, and this sort of thing doesn't help." Sergeant Jackson clears his throat in what sounds like, but I hope isn't, disbelieving amusement. "About 'this sort of thing'; you do realise your mother has caused the Met a lot of bother?" I begin to apologise for her irrational behaviour, but he holds up a hand. "Oh, we get that all the time in the job; but she attempted to assault one of my constables with a poker as he was letting her out of the panic room. We could press charges, but it's clear that she's…not very well. I'm sorry to have to ask you this, but has she ever been sectioned?"
I'm finding it harder and harder to breathe, let alone speak, and I fumble through my pockets for my inhaler. It's clear where Sergeant Jackson is heading with this, and the mere idea fills me with dread. Mother, involuntarily detained under the Mental Health Act; Mother, locked away in a secure unit somewhere; Mother, no longer my concern… I scold myself for such disloyalty. "No, she hasn't, and I resent the implication," I begin indignantly, "She might be a little…eccentric, sometimes, but my mother is not…not…" I hesitate, unable to find the words I want to say, and the sergeant says, not unkindly, "Mr Wynn-Jones, I think you know she's not well. We won't press charges, but only if you agree to get her some help." This can't be happening; I'm not having this conversation with a policeman at my kitchen table, not with Ruth on the run, Harry locked up, and Adam and Zaf planning God knows what. I'm needed at work…but Mother needs me, too. I can't think what to do… "Mr Wynn-Jones? Are you all right?" Sergeant Jackson asks solicitously as I loosen my tie and undo the top button of my shirt collar, which is suddenly too tight; I'm perspiring profusely, and I find my handkerchief with trembling hands. "F…fine, thanks. It's just a little warm in here with the Aga on, that's all," I assure him, but my voice sounds strange in my own ears, reedy and insubstantial. The sergeant studies me closely. "Right. Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to call in a AMHP and ask them to assess your mother. In the meantime, I need you to look at the holes in the garden, then give me a statement." I gaze at him in dismay, calculating how long all this is likely to take. "I'm sorry, but I'm needed at work; we're in the middle of an operation, you see."
Abruptly, Sergeant Jackson stands up, scraping his chair back noisily on the Welsh slate floor. "Right now, you're needed here. If you could just come along with me, please." Numbly, I follow him out into the garden, and inspect the damage. I don't know what the intruder was looking for, but they haven't conducted a systematic search; each hole is no more than a couple of spades of earth, dotted about the vegetable garden, the herbaceous border, and even in the rose beds. None of my important plants are missing, though, and my breathing comes a little easier with this realisation. "It looks like some sort of practical joke, or perhaps a silly schoolboy dare," I venture, and Sergeant Jackson counters, "Your mother certainly didn't think she'd seen a schoolboy. Over six foot tall, she said, wearing a balaclava and big boots," as he points to the imprint of a size 13 foot in the soft soil. "I'm sorry, but there's really nothing I can add to this investigation," I tell him, "and I must get back now." He frowns, "What about your mother? You can't just leave her, you know." Ah yes, Mother, the problem I can't even begin to start solving. "I could ask her sister to come and stay," I suggest, but the policeman shakes his head. "When I said she needed help, I meant professional help." Just then, his shoulder radio crackles, and he listens intently for a few seconds before informing me that the AHMP is here. I pull out my phone and key in the code that will open the gates remotely, and the sergeant whistles. "Nice bit of kit, that." I barely hear him, though: I'm transfixed by the sight of the little red MG roadster purring up the driveway. No, it can't be…surely she's not back, and working for the NHS! And yet my heartbeat quickens, my breathing comes faster, and my palms grow clammy in an instant at the mere possibility that it just might be Dr Sally Chapman, returned from America.
It's not.
The driver is a tall young man with a shock of curly auburn hair and an engaging smile; once he has unfolded himself from behind the polished mahogany steering wheel, he introduces himself as Dr Stephen Chapman, psychologist, and asks to see his patient. I stare at him stupidly for a moment, my brain in a spin. "This way," Sergeant Jackson says briskly, and the doctor looks from him to me enquiringly. "I'm s…sorry, it's just that you look awfully like someone else I know, who drives an identical MG. I'm Malcolm Wynn-Jones, and it's my mother you've come to see." The young man offers his hand, peering curiously at me as he laughs, "Oh, it's not my car. I wish! It belongs to my big sister; I'm just using it while she's away overseas." My thoughts finally fall into some semblance of order: I didn't know she had a brother! No wonder he looked so familiar… did he just say she was still overseas? The sergeant grunts impatiently, and I realise I'm wool-gathering again. I tell the young doctor to follow me, and lead him into the house and to my mother, still sprawled in her favourite chair, snoring gently. "She's had quite a lot of Valium, I'm afraid. If it's all right with you, I'll leave you to it. I fear I will only be in the way; here's her GP's number, and her psychiatrist's. They will be able to fill you in just as well as I can, you'll need to contact them in any case, and I'm awfully sorry, but I really do have to get back to work." The younger Dr Chapman eyes me thoughtfully. "Yes, I imagine you do. Just jot down your number for me, in case I need to contact you." In the hall, I pause to speak with Sergeant Jackson, who is also preparing to leave. "You'll be in touch, then?" I ask, and he replies sardonically, "If anything comes to light, you'll be the first to know, if you don't already, that is."
Safely ensconced in the Rover, I make one final call. "Aunt Em? I'm sorry to ask you on such short notice; it's Mother, I'm afraid. She's had a… a little relapse, but I… I just… I can't. I can't take care of her right now. Please, can you come up today? Oh, thank you, thank you so much. Yes, I'll have a car meet you at Waterloo station. There's a doctor with her now, so she should be all right until you get here." I offer up a silent prayer of thanks for Aunt Emily as I make all haste back to Thames House, even as I berate myself for leaving a junior officer alone on the Grid for so long, especially with Section D in disarray; anything could happen.
And the very next day, it does.
A/N: A AHMP is an Accredited Mental Health Professional. A 'section' refers to the relevant section of the UK Mental Health Act being invoked to detain a patient (section 2, 3, etc). Two doctors, one certified in the assessment and treatment of mental illness, and one AHMP are usually required to make the decision to section a patient, which is what Malcolm is referring to when he says Dr Chapman will need Mother's doctors to attend too.
My apologies for the wait between this chapter and the last. I didn't intend for it to be quite so long, but that's RL, isn't it, always getting in the way. A bit like Malcolm's dear old Mum! I hope you enjoyed it, anyway. There are a few public holidays on the near horizon, and I intend to use them to crack on with the next instalment (but I can't promise anything!) Thanks to everyone (and anyone) who is still reading and reviewing – I really appreciate you sticking with the story. We're nearly there…