Reaction of the tiger, p.11
REACTION OF THE TIGEr, page 11
part #4 of André Warner, Manhunter Series
I slid down the incline, almost sharing her fate. At the bottom I knelt beside her, checked her pulse. Not even a flutter. I let her wrist slip from my grasp and her arm thumped on the sand. I stayed beside her, kneeling as if in prayer. Glad she was dead, glad it wasn’t death by shooting. Her fate was well deserved. Some might say it was God’s will.
The pro in me came back to life. I stood, went through her pockets for the car keys. They weren’t there. I dragged the body off the beach and into the water. Launched it. It floated away, slowly at first then faster as the sluggish current captured it. Using my handkerchief to guard against prints, I tossed the shoe in after its owner. It floated, and the current swept it away in her wake.
There was other evidence to clear up, and quickly before any more tourists come visiting. The body of Jerome was the priority. Weldon’s father’s Nissan would wait a bit, but had to be dealt with before I left – tricky one that. I would have to drive the Nissan a couple of miles down the road, park up then return on foot for the Audi. Weldon had parted company with her purse when she fell from shrubbery. Likely it would contain the car keys. After that, I would need to sweep the whole area for stuff that might incriminate; shell cases for instance.
Meanwhile, Jerome had to join his paramour. He was a big boy. Dragging him down to the beach and giving him a send-off took all my strength. A pair of ducks quacked a protest as he drifted past them like a cruise ship attended by tugs. The search for evidence occupied the best part of a half hour. By that time I had located all five shell cases and a fresh cigarette butt that was almost certainly Jerome’s. At the place where I had shot Jerome in the leg there were splashes of blood. I uprooted a turf sod and used it to scrub them into invisibility. The place where he had died showed no bloodstains. His death had been instantaneous, consequently his heart had stopped pumping before he hit the ground. A last scout around, in case I had missed something. But no, the crime scene was as clean as I could make it. Clean enough to buy me a head start, at any rate.
As I made haste down the grassy path back to the parking lot, a Mini drove up and curved into one of the marked spaces with a show of panache. I tugged my baseball cap down to my ears, hiding my hair colour, and replaced the horn rims with sunglasses, though the sun had retreated behind the clouds again. A couple, young, wrapped up in each other, came up the path and passed me with eyes only for each other. Pity they hadn’t come a few minutes later. No matter. Even if they remembered me, all they could describe was my height (which people usually get wrong by several inches) and the clothes. A couple of hours from now my outfit would be on a bonfire in a wood on the lonely stretch of the Ring of Kerry between Cahersiveen and Glenbeigh. The Beretta, along with its attachments and Weldon’s and Jerome’s guns, would be at the bottom of the Kenmare Bay.
The only obstacle to a speedy getaway was the Nissan. The ideal was to park it someplace where it wouldn’t raise questions. That meant driving it to Cahersiveen and leaving it in a public car park, then walking back to the castle for my own car. The drive, plus the walk back, would take thirty to forty minutes. If the young couple spotted anything – a body for instance – they could raise the alarm by cell phone, and I would walk into the welcoming embrace of the Garda on my return. On the other side of the coin of risk, the Nissan, if left in the parking lot, could raise questions as early as tomorrow morning. The owner would be traced and Weldon would duly become a missing person.
The second option would give me twenty-four hours, by my reckoning. So I opted to go that route. In twenty-four hours I would be out of Ireland, probably back in the UK, and only the Audi’s description to worry about. A fast ride to Nuper’s Hatch to switch back to the Evoque. Tagd would credit me ₤3000, less the cost of a respray, new papers and plates for the Audi, which he would sell on for ₤5000. Easy profit.
It all went smoothly, even the Irish Sea. During the crossing, I texted Giorgy.
Contract completed.
No names, not the victim’s, certainly not mine. No acknowledgement would come. Communications with The Syndicate were always brief. Sometime within the next forty-eight hours a text from my bank would confirm receipt of the fifty per cent balance of the $500,000 fee, less commissions to The Syndicate, less bank charges.
I called Jacqui from the ferry and announced my impending return. She sounded pleased. We said flattering things to each other. Me especially to her, hoping to allay any suspicions about the reasons for my absence. By three o’clock in the afternoon of the following day I was in the Evoque heading west to Tintagel.
Eight
The lovemaking on her side had a dash of desperation. As if I had been absent for a month, not mere days. Our mating was almost an act of violence. She bumped and she writhed and she did things that were firsts in our lovemaking. In my travel-weariness I was content to let her be in charge, and she seemed to revel in the privilege.
If this new, steamier Jacqui was the product of my absence, I decided I should try going away more often.
When it was all over and we were just lying on our backs in her king-size bed, hearts pumping, bodies sweaty, she was repentant to the point of apologising.
‘Sorry if I was too much.’
I laughed into the darkness. ‘If you can stand it, I can.’
She turned onto her side, started fondling me. It didn’t do anything for me, it was too soon. I didn’t brush her off though. She had a sensitive touch.
‘Not hurting you, am I?’ she said.
‘You’ll know if you do. I’ll give an almighty yell and leap out of bed.’
Her chuckle was soft, contented.
We remained in that position for a while. As always in the afterglow of sex my over-active conscience was busy. Maura’s image tended to come to me at such times. I was learning but slowly to chase it from the front of my mind to the back. Jacqui continued to fondle me and my tactile self continued to enjoy it. The analogue alarm clock on the bedside table continued to count the minutes. Outside, the branch of a tree chattered against the window pane, as it always did when the wind came from the south. Otherwise the quiet was total. Now and again Sam would rise from his bed in the living room and pad around the house. When he came to our bedroom door he would stop, whine, scratch once at the jamb, and shamble on.
‘André?’
‘Mm?’
‘You’re not really here, are you?’
‘Not here? Then who the hell did you just ravish just now?’
A ladylike snort.
‘Your physical being is here, but your mind and spirit are somewhere else, and I can’t reach them.’
Insightful woman.
‘You’re talking nonsense,’ I blustered.
‘No, I’m not. Who are you rebounding from, André?’
‘Who said I was rebounding from anybody?’
‘You just did. By your answer.’ She touched my cheek with her fingertips. ‘The master of evasion. It doesn’t matter if you’re on the rebound, not really. Just like to know a bit about her. Call it feminine curiosity.’
I remained silent. Our breathing was out of sync. Hers was faster and shallower than mine.
‘Well?’ she prompted.
‘Do you mind very much if we don’t discuss her?’
She was no longer turned towards me, but on her back.
‘Do you mind very much if I do mind?’ Her hand wasn’t groping me anymore. I was at risk of being seriously out of favour. ‘At least tell me her name.’
‘All right,’ I said tersely. ‘Her name is Maura. That’s M-A-U-R-A, Maura. Satisfied?’
‘You still love her.’
It wasn’t a question. She knew. Woman’s intuition about matters of the heart.
She nudged me. ‘Don’t you?’
‘For fuck’s sake, Jacqui!’ I sat up, throwing the covers off and swinging my legs off the edge of the bed. ‘What does it matter? She finished with me and I haven’t seen her for a year. It’s over, it’s dead, and I’m here with you. Isn’t that enough?’
I sat there, my feet on the floor, my hands palm down on my thighs, breathing hard and staring into the darkness. She had exposed me for a sham and it wasn’t pleasant.
Her fingertips traced my spine from neck to the cleft of my backside. Her sigh, which somehow I was expecting, had travelled a long way to reach her mouth.
‘It’s not enough, I’m afraid, my darling. It might be for some women – the subservient, hero-worshipping type. I’m just plain greedy. All or nothing, that’s me. Having just your body doesn’t quite satisfy me.’
An honest response was beyond me.
I stood up. Fumbled around on the floor for my shorts, and pulled them on.
‘I’ll sleep in the other room.’
From zenith to nadir in the space of a few ill-chosen words. She didn’t try to dissuade me. As I stepped out into the corridor Sam came bounding to meet me. I let him into the spare room, and he made himself at home on one of the two beds. And there we stayed for the rest of the night.
* * * * *
The temperature was hovering around the mid-twenties Celsius and a hazy sun was trying to pierce the skeins of cloud when I kept my rendezvous with Tony Dimeloe at his venue of choice: a scruffy little cafe called Valenti’s, situated on the edge of Hoe Park in Plymouth. Its only distinguishing feature was a bare flagpole at the end of the terrace, its shadow bisecting the terrace into two roughly equal halves. The view was of most of the statue of Sir Francis Drake repelling the Spanish Armada, and beyond it the island that, like many parts of Plymouth, is named after him. October was almost upon us, but girls were still disporting themselves in skimpy summer outfits for our male appreciation. The coffee was passable at best. Tony had ordered a croissant and was dipping it in his bowl-sized cup. My prissy side didn’t approve of the habit or the calories.
‘You should try it some time,’ Tony said, eyes twinkling. He was familiar with my penchant for healthy eating. ‘Loosen up, why don’t you?’
‘You should try losing some weight,’ I countered.
In fairness he wasn’t in that bad shape. A bit of a roll of fat over his belt, otherwise he looked good for his forty-five years. His fair hair was thinning at the temples, and a strand or two of grey was infiltrating the rest, but he was light on wrinkles. The thin moustache was the only real negative. His pale grey suit was tailored to flatter, though its ultra-conservative cut aged him somewhat.
He wolfed down the last of his croissant, showering flakes over his plate and beyond. We both rocked back in our plastic seats and regarded each other with speculative eyes. Still munching, he said, ‘You look fit, buddy. Work out much?’
‘Most days when I’m home. When I’m not, I improvise. You?’
‘Gym twice a week. Samantha makes me.’
‘Ah, yes, Samantha. The lovely Mrs Dimeloe.’
He let his chair drop forward. ‘Lovely is right. Here, take a squiz.’
He produced his wallet, slid a photo from one of its multiple compartments. It was a head and shoulders of a woman with lightly-waved, dark brown hair, worn very long with bangs, or a fringe as they say in the UK. Brown eyes, oval face with a slightly heavy jaw, lips with a built-in pucker. Brown skin too. She wasn’t smiling, just oozing sex appeal.
‘I can tell you’re dying to ask the ethnic question,’ he said, ‘so I’ll save you the trouble – she’s Anglo-Egyptian.’
‘How old is she?’ I asked, handing the picture back.
He hesitated then, almost defiantly, ‘Twenty-eight.’
‘Twenty-eight! What’s she see in an old crock like you?’
‘Fuck off, you’re just jealous.’
An elderly couple at the next table frowned their disapproval at Tony’s bad language. I simpered an apology at them on his behalf.
‘You could be right. Wait till you see Jacqui though. You might wish you’d waited for someone more your own age.’
His dismissive guffaw was unconvincing. For some reason, it made me wonder if all was bright and beautiful in Tony’s married heaven.
Then the photo was back in his wallet, and it was down to business.
‘So, here we are.’ He tasted his latte, grimaced.
‘That’s right. And just why are we here?’
‘We’re here because I remembered you did a job for us the year after you left the service. I didn’t realise you’d made a career of it.’
Inwardly I stiffened. Longstanding friend though he was, Tony Dimeloe’s first and last allegiance was to Queen and Country, not to Yours and Truly.
‘You don’t need to confirm or deny it, Anders,’ he went on, then, in an apparent switch of topics, ‘Shall we talk about Pauline Weldon?’
My expression remained poker. My emotions, on the other hand, were running amok.
‘Shall we?’ I returned. ‘Why?’
‘Ho-ho. Why, eh? Not who. I expected more caginess from you, with all your training.’
‘You misjudge me. I give you credit for knowing that I know Weldon. What really intrigues me is why we should talk about her.’
He nodded. ‘It’s like this, buddy. From nowhere you come into the Weldon bitch’s life. She goes off the radar not long afterwards. So do you. A few days later she disappears and her remains turn up on a beach in southern Ireland. No bullet holes, which was a surprise. Now you’re back in the UK and back on the radar.’
I cleared my throat. ‘How did I get on the radar in the first place?’
‘I don’t suppose it will do any harm to put you in the picture. She was under police surveillance. Everybody she had dealings with was of potential interest to Scotland Yard. They were especially curious about you, being a newcomer, not one of her regular contacts. Then they matched your mug to their files on ex-military intelligence operatives. They checked with us in case you were back in the field, and we were running you for reasons best known to ourselves. They didn’t want the Department cocking up the case they were building against the Weldon empire.’
It sounded as if I should get ready to run.
‘Is there a warrant out for my arrest?’ I said at length.
‘You’re suspect number one as far as the police are concerned. They reckon you either pushed her off a cliff or were in cahoots with the person who did.’
‘Pushed her off a cliff? A primitive way of killing someone.’
He shrugged his wide shoulders.
‘Not if you wanted it to appear to be an accident. But to answer your question, no, you’re not about to be arrested.’
‘An OBE then?’
Now he chortled. ‘It could be argued you deserve one if you topped the Weldon piece. Being serious though, I’m vouching for you for now. Whether I continue to vouch for you depends on your cooperation.’
No mention up to here of Jerome Julius. In him there were bullet holes – three of them.
‘And another thing …’
‘Yes?’ I said, all wide-eyed innocence.
‘Her boyfriend and minder-in-chief has gone missing. Jerome Julius, big, black bastard. Know him?’
I shook my head, hopefully with conviction. At least they hadn’t found the body.
‘Whose side are you on, Tony?’
‘I might ask you the same thing.’
At a table beside the flagpole, just outside earshot, was a guy in a grey sport jacket woven with some sort of fleck like snowflakes. A shade overdressed for the Hoe in the middle of the day. Definitely not a tourist. He was smoking a small cigar and was buried in the Daily Telegraph, the breeze riffling the pages.
‘Friend of yours?’ I asked Tony, indicating Sport Jacket with my nose.
‘I was wondering when you’d spot him.’ Tony was unfazed. ‘Representative of Scotland Yard, actually. Looking after their interests.’
‘Their interests being?’
‘You and your activities. Perhaps they suspect we’re a little too cosy. After all, I’ve provided you with a phoney alibi, so they’re right to be dubious.’
‘An alibi?’ I was mildly stunned. Tony really was going to bat for me.
‘Just to keep them off your back.’
‘Look, let’s cut to the chase. You’re telling me all this for a reason. Spill it.’
He eyed me, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
‘Let’s just say I like having you in my debt.’
‘I already owe you one for Afghanistan.’
‘Agreed,’ he said gravely. ‘Now you owe me two.’
Two favours owed to Tony Dimeloe meant two favours owed to HM Government. Inside my head I groaned.
‘Spit it out then. When do you want to collect? And how?’
‘Oh, there’s nothing you can help us with at present. On the horizon perhaps, it’s hard to say. Developments are afoot that might suit your peculiar talents. A little cooperation would strengthen your position with the constabulary.’
I didn’t grill him for specifics. In any case it wouldn’t have worked. He was a close-mouthed bastard, but then he had to be in his line of work. You took a vow of silence when you joined the Secret Intelligence Service, and Tony had been in the job for over twenty years. Keeping stumm was second nature to him.
We switched to reminiscing about the days when Saddam Hussein was the big bogeyman and we were the heroes. Sport Jacket got up after a while and angled off towards the city centre, newspaper under his arm. I watched him out of sight, suddenly fearful for the future.
* * * * *
Andorra was subtly altered when I returned. The trees and the grass were less green, even beginning to yellow at the edges in places, and the temperature was a degree or two lower. People were no longer dressed for summer. I even spotted scarves and gloves.
My house had been sold. For the asking price, to my surprise and even more so to the surprise of Marta Fuentes. My regret was huge. Then so was my relief. Not living there would make it that much easier to jettison the memories of Maura and Lindy. Maybe kicking Jacqui into touch would help in that respect too.
