Walking the Dog Ch. 11-13

We waited about half an hour with Steve surveying the surrounding area through the nightsight. He shook his head. “Nothing moving, Boss.” Liam and Niall slipped out of the front door and vanished into the darkness. The three ex-soldiers waited with apparent total calm. I was beside myself with nerves until they reappeared. Liam grinned and said, “Eight down for sure. Another couple, possibly more, wounded. Blood trail withdrawing into the dunes. We counted twenty earlier. I think we got a couple first time around. Best guess is they are down to about eight or nine effectives. They won’t like those odds, not now they know our fire-power.“

We heard the sound of approaching sirens in the distance. “Trust the Old Bill, “ said Steve, “Bloody late, as usual.” The ‘Old Bill’ – a cockney nickname for the police – duly arrived. Several white-faced young constables and a couple of old hands in flak-jackets ringed the cottage. Niall called out to them. “It’s OK, gentlemen. The bad guys have already left. Do come in!” There was a hasty consultation until someone who has seen too many cop movies yelled for us to come out with our hands up. Dutifully, like any law-abiding citizens, we trooped outside. We were bundled into the back of assorted police cars and rushed off to Cromer Police Station, sirens still wailing. They tried to split us up inside the station but we weren’t having any.

Niall stuck his face into that of the senior police officer and almost spat out his angry words.

“Listen, sunshine, you have a bunch of Chechen nasties running all over your manor. They attacked that cottage twice tonight. We defended ourselves. There is something going down here that constitutes unbelievably serious shit, well out of your league. I suggest you ring Lieutenant Colonel Rollo Yeates of Army Intelligence immediately. He is aware of the situation and will tell you as much as you need to know.”

The policeman was not intimidated in the slightest. “Been listening to the news, have we, sir?” The ‘sir’ was dripping with icy contempt. “Lieutenant Colonel Yeates and two companions were killed by a car-bomb late this afternoon. Special Branch thinks it was your countrymen, sir. Now what do you to say to that?” His eyes flickered a little with surprise when he saw the genuinely shocked looks on all our faces. I stepped forward.

“My name is Martin Booth and these gentlemen are in my employ. They have been assisting me to protect this lady. We met with Rollo Yeates at Felixstowe Docks around noon today. The senior Customs Officer for Felixstowe and two other gentlemen were also present. As my friend here told you, there is a gang of Chechens in the area who are trying to kill Miss Sable and her father. Her father is a representative of the Estonian Government who has come to this country bringing evidence of a terrorist plan of almost inconceivable dimensions. We handed over the evidence to Lieutenant Colonel Yeates and his companions earlier. We were also given strict instructions not to discuss the matter with anyone.

“As you can see, Colonel Yeates’s death has come as a great shock to us. Even more so perhaps because these gentlemen – I indicated the twins – and I were all at school with Rollo Yeates and knew him personally. I should also point out to you that these same gentlemen served this country with distinction in the Parachute Regiment and you have no right to cast any slurs on their character simply because they are Irish. Such an attitude is both inappropriate and offensive in the extreme.

“Be that as it may, you are wasting time. I would suggest that you contact the security services as a matter of some urgency. We are all prepared to render such assistance as we can to the proper authority. I would also suggest that you send some armed police back to the cottage. You should find the remains of some eight Chechen gunmen. In the cottage you will also find two frightened dogs. I would be grateful if someone could see to them for me while we remain here.”

The policeman was visibly taken aback. “Just what the fuck is going on here?” he said. I took the question to be rhetorical. At any rate, they stopped trying to separate us and brought more chairs into the interview room. A young constable in an ill-fitting blue uniform came in with a tray of mugs of tea. Angela giggled. “How very British,” she whispered in my ear. “The world is going to Hell and your police make tea!” I grinned back at her. “Don’t knock it,” I said, “It’s a sovereign remedy for frayed nerves, gunshot wounds, bombs, fire and flood. The country wouldn’t function without it.” We all sat around and drank our tea, which turned out to be a singularly pernicious brew and waited for the wheels of the State to turn.

We sat around for about three hours. The police left us alone but nobody was in the mood for small talk. I could see Liam and Niall were starting to get a bit antsy and did my best to calm them down. Eventually the door opened again and two plain-clothes officers came in with the local senior officer. The elder of the two newcomers introduced himself as Commander Swann of Special Branch. We rehearsed the entire story for his benefit and he listened attentively, sometimes interrupting to get clarification or to check a detail here and there. When we’d finished he gave a low whistle. “We’d heard rumours in the last year or so but nobody thought it was for real,” he said. “You say the Felixstowe Customs were dealing with this shipment? He turned to his subordinate and told him to contact Felixstowe immediately. The man gave a brief nod and hurried out.

When he returned a few minutes later, his face was grim. “Bad news, Guv,” he said. “It seems someone got to the shipment before Customs. They can verify meeting with these people earlier today and they are quite convinced they’re genuine. Seems that Colonel Yeates gave them a clean bill of health.” Liam glared at the local policeman with an ‘I told you so’ sort of expression. Swann thought for a moment or two. He came to a decision and turned to face us all.

“The difficulty we have is that there is no corroborating evidence. We have the gentleman’s list, of course, but, with respect, he could have just invented it. The local force found no bodies out at the cottage, either. They did find what appears to be bloodstains and some spent cartridge cases but that is all. Don’t misunderstand me. I believe every word but we have no concrete evidence.”

There followed a hurried consultation between the three policemen. The local man was arguing vehemently with Swann but eventually threw up his hands in a gesture of resignation. He came across to us. “Against my better judgement,” he said, “I’m going to let you go. I don’t begin to understand what is going on, and if I had my way, I’d keep you banged up safe until this is sorted. The Commander here has other ideas, however, and he insists upon your release. I will certainly require the pleasure of your company again so kindly keep yourselves available. I am releasing you on police bail in your own recognisance. That doesn’t mean you’re off the hook!”

The bastard wouldn’t even have us driven back so we had to get a taxi. It was well past midnight when we finally got in doors. A young policewoman was playing with Trotsky and Magic in the parlour. “Are these your dogs, sir?” she asked me. “They’re really lovely.” I thanked her for the dog-sitting and she left with a smile.

Angela and I were too exhausted to do anything except cuddle. I fell asleep with her cradled in my arms. I didn’t sleep at all well that night and woke several times in the darkness. Angela seemed blessed with the ability to sleep anywhere at any time. It really was as if that simply having my arms around her was enough to make her feel safe. I had learned that she had not had many lovers; certainly not for a woman of thirty-five. I don’t think it was because of her early experiences with the Russian soldier. It was more that she needed to feel the emotion of love before she could let her obviously passionate nature come to the surface. For her, sex without love was hollow and counterfeit somehow. I have always felt that love itself is the best aphrodisiac so I certainly could relate to her feelings.

I don’t class myself as any sort of stud but I reckon I know how to please a woman. I had the very good fortune at the age of twenty to meet an older woman. It was really quite strange, looking back. Jane was thirty-four, divorced and had a couple of children. She had a lovely face but it was hard, somehow. I think she had had a bad time in her marriage and there was a hint of bitterness etched in the fine lines around her eyes and mouth. We met when I walked into her father’s pub. A friend of mine was having a birthday party just down the road. It was one of those weekend-long affairs and I had wandered off to the pub for a change of scenery. Then as now, I’m not really a social animal so it was a relief to get away from the crowd.

The pub was relatively quiet and we started chatting. It turned out that she was just there for the weekend and helping out behind the bar. I invited her back to the party at closing time and we spent the night together in severe discomfort in the back of my car. She asked me to visit her at her place a week or two later. She’d sent the children away to friends for the weekend. I drove over from the University to the town where she lived on Friday afternoon. She didn’t let me out of her bed until the following Sunday. I mean it. I only got up to take a piss or use the shower. She fed me steak and eggs in bed to keep my strength up. I wasn’t complaining; it was every young man’s fantasy.

Jane had inverted nipples and she encouraged me to suck them out. She loved having her nipples sucked and swore she could come from that stimulus alone. She taught me how to eat her pussy, showed me the divine mysteries of the clitoris. She helped me to control my own orgasm and helped me to learn how to make sex last. Every lover I have ever had since Jane should club together to raise a statue in her honour.

I suppose the overriding lesson I really learned from Jane was that sex can have many moods. It can be funny, passionate, slow, gentle, raunchy or what-have-you. There are no rules. We did it every way and in every possible mood or combination of moods over the next few months. I didn’t love her but I was crazy about her. It was one of the few truly reciprocal relationships that I have ever had. I got more sex than the rest of my friends put together; she got an eager young man with bags of stamina who was willing to be moulded. It was never going to last but it finished without any trauma or regrets. We simply had each taken from the affair what we both needed. When we stopped needing it, we drifted apart. There were no recriminations. I think she found someone to be a father to her children and I soon put my new expertise to good use with a fellow student.

I think word of my prowess must have spread throughout the female contingent at the University. I never had to look too hard to find someone to share my bed. It was largely mechanical but nonetheless fun for that. I wasn’t looking for true love and, in the most part, neither were the girls. There were one or two sticky moments when some girl or other would confuse the experience of her first orgasm with falling in love and once or twice it happened the other way about. I would proclaim undying love and the object of my affections would disappear rapidly over the horizon. Nobody got really hurt; I reserved my first experience of that particular emotion for Steph. What staggered me was how Angela had healed that wound so fast. I had thought it terminal. Angela appeared in my life like balm from Gilead. OK, I accept the circumstances were unusual and we were rather thrown together by events. It didn’t matter. I loved her and I was healed.

Chapter 13

The next morning began with a Council of War. The Chechens appeared to have withdrawn from the game, at least for the present. What we were left with was the colonel’s papers. The theft of the bronze shipment weakened our position a bit but we weren’t looking for admissible evidence. That was a job for the police. We were in the dark as to how they would now proceed. The talk went round in circles and led nowhere. The colonel was the most gloomy. He had pinned all his hopes on British Intelligence. Swann of Special Branch hadn’t been too encouraging. Elsewhere, the news was bleak. The main story on the bulletins that morning was the car bomb that had killed Rollo Yeates and his two companions, now identified as ‘members of the security services.’ I thought the Chechens, assuming it was them, might have done us a favour. Murdering three men to keep the story quiet and then trying to kill us would surely prove something big was afoot.

According to the News stories, the police were pointing the finger at some splinter group from the IRA that had ‘claimed responsibility’ as the saying goes. Claimed responsibility – admitted their guilt, more like; but not on this occasion. There was no Irish connection in the colonel’s lists. This seemed to be a piece of opportunistic publicity seeking on the part of some murderous bunch of thugs. Nothing made any sense. We wondered aloud how the opposition had cottoned onto the bronze shipment in the first place. We didn’t have any answers for that one either.

“We need to find that bronze,” Liam said after a deal of further aimless discussion. “If the Chechens took it, where would they take it? It’s not small, you couldn’t just hide it in the boot of the car or something.” The colonel then let fly a volley of excited Estonian. Angela translated, “My father says that they would have to have had help, need contacts here in England. We should look at his list and see if we can see someone who might fit.” Of course, once she’d said it, it was obvious. The Chechens needed a base of operations. Mickey Cornell couldn’t have been their only helper in the UK. He wouldn’t have had the resources on his own. We needed to find someone with access to storage facilities. Someone who was wealthy and had underworld connections or, at very least, was known to be unscrupulous.

We pored over the colonel’s lists and identified four or five who might fit the bill. Two were Asian businessmen who had come to prominence in a scandal a couple of years previously. They had been discovered to have links with Palestinian terrorist organisations. They would certainly be up for something like an Islamic Bomb but Niall thought they would be under surveillance; they were too obvious, somehow. The colonel’s notes showed them as having helped finance the project but with no other involvement. We decided to discount them for now. Another man was a known head of an organised crime gang that operated out of South London. His involvement in the affair was suspected rather than proven. There was a large question mark against him because he was avowedly racist and unlikely to support Middle Eastern causes. On the other hand, there was a lot of money involved, which would certainly tempt him.

I had a thought. “Look,” I said, “I’ll bet Special Branch are doing the same as us. I can’t believe it would be anyone obvious. Let’s have a look for the least likely looking ones. They’d still have to be rich, of course, but those on record as having the type of places that could be used are bound to get a visit from the police. I think this calls for some lateral thinking.” We went back to the list and came up with three names. One was a senior civil servant, one was an MP and the third was a newspaper tycoon of dubious origins. All three had become involved, according to the notes, simply for money. They were linked together and, more importantly, all had the possibility of being linked to Michael Cornell. We needed to find out more about them. Information in the public domain was one thing but we needed the hidden stuff. I thought immediately of Bernie. If anyone would know how to get the dirt on someone, Bernie would; and if he didn’t personally then I was willing to bet that he had the contacts.

I called him and explained what I wanted. “You’re fishing in bloody deep waters, Mr Booth,“ he told me. “I don’t know about this Travers geezer (Travers was the civil servant) but Charles Brownlock, MP, is a right nasty bastard. And as for Renfrew, you’ve only got to read that rag he calls a paper to know what he’s about. Bloody thing ain’t nothing but porn and attacks on decent people. If you go after him and he finds out, your name will be splashed all over that scandal sheet. Probably accuse you of cheating the taxpayer and throw in some allegations about child-abuse or drugs for good measure. You must remember what he did to Mr Young?” I did remember but somehow it didn’t matter what happened to my reputation. Three weeks before it would have bothered me. It didn’t any more. The situation was too awful to let small things like personal reputation get in the way. Anyway, if he was involved, he wouldn’t be in any position to blacken anybody’s name for quite some time to come, if all went according to plan.

Bernie agreed that he would do some ‘devilling.’ He promised to get back to me as soon as he had something but said I wasn’t to hold my breath. I reported the conversation back to the others and we agreed to let things take their course. There was always the chance that Special Branch would find the shipment before Bernie or his pals dug up anything interesting. All we could do was ‘hurry up and wait’ – as the saying goes.

Angela, Bill and I walked the dogs. Bill was determined to get Magic to act like a proper retriever but he had little luck. I told him Magic was simply a disgrace to his breed. He was simply too daft to get the hang of it. He treated the whole thing as a huge game. He’d fetch the stick Bill hurled far out into the sea but as soon as Bill approached him to pick it up, Magic would grab it again and be off down the beach. It was hilarious to watch. Bill was getting more and more and frustrated. Just at the point we thought Bill was ready to explode, Magic would drop the stick at his feet. He wanted Bill to throw it again and start off another round of ‘tease the human.’ Angela and I fell about laughing. The look of controlled fury on Bill’s face contrasted perfectly with Magic’s daft grin. He has this habit of curling his upper lip back to expose his teeth. It’s supposed to be a sign of canine intelligence but I reckon Magic was the exception that proved the rule.

It was a dull, dampish morning with curtains of rain sweeping across the flat grey sea. All the rain seemed to be falling a mile or two offshore so we were spared a soaking. Even so, the damp was penetrating and with it came the cold. We were glad to be back in the warm and we shook out our coats and settled ourselves by the fire. It was far too early to expect to hear from Bernie and there wasn’t much else we could do until we had the missing information. Angela decided to start work on a new sculpture so I went along to watch her. It is one thing hearing a process described but quite another to see it put into action.

She started to make some sketches of Trotsky. She sketched quickly. She never drew the whole dog, just portions of his anatomy; the curve of his leg, the line of his shoulders and the like. Then she did his face and captured him perfectly. One never thinks of sculptors as being draftsmen but she had real talent. I found myself staring at Trotsky’s face on the paper. She had caught his expression perfectly, slightly disdainful but alert. The artist’s model wandered over as to have a look for himself. He put his head on Angela’s knee and gazed at her soulfully. After a minute or two of ear-scratching he decided his beauty had been sufficiently recognised and had received sufficient compliments for him to go back to his position away from the fire. In all truth he had probably just got too hot but it is easy to ascribe human reasoning to a dog like Trotsky, he’s so damned bright.