Brian Freemantle - The Run Around

‘No, sir.’

‘You never wanted a bloody overdraft in the first place, did you? You were playing silly buggers, making sure I got to know you’d had a rotten deal.’

‘Still nothing to say, sir.’

‘Don’t you ever try a trick like that again, Charlie. I don’t care who else you try to con — and I know you con everybody — but don’t you ever try it again with me, you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now get out!’

‘Yes, sir.’ All in all, decided Charlie, descending to his own office on the lower level, it really hadn’t been a bad day. Not a bad day at all.

The bodies had been kept in Geneva for the necessary autopsy and forensic examination and Clayton Anderson re-routed his return from Venice personally to escort the coffins and the widows home, to the United States.

There was a full military guard of honour when the coffins, both draped with the Stars and Stripes, were loaded aboard the aircraft and the President stood bowed-headed with his arms around Martha Bell and Barbara Giles. During the days of medical delay Martha had managed to buy a black mourning suit and a black hat, complete with full veil. Barbara wore one of the grey dresses she’d bought for the holiday she was now never going to have. The escorting press corps had remained with the presidential party, of course, and the television pictures were relayed live by satellite back to America for the main evening news.

Anderson ushered both women ahead of him on to the aircraft, personally ensuring that they were seated and telling both that if there was anything they wanted, anything at all, they just had to ask.

The President was in the rear of the aircraft before it cleared Swiss air space, giving unattributable briefings to selected correspondents about a renewed American commitment to combat international terrorism and the unquestionable Soviet links with that terrorism. He also gave the New York Times and Newsweek front page and cover stories on his regret that a settlement to the Palestinian problem in the Middle East appeared impossible to resolve, despite every effort he had made.

In the front of the plane Martha Bell turned to the woman alongside and said: ‘Don’t you just love Air Force One!’

Barbara looked back and said, dully: ‘What?’

‘This plane, Air Force One? Isn’t it magnificent?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Barbara, disinterested. ‘Very nice.’

Harry Johnson had taken over the rear room of the Brace of Pheasants for his farewell party, which had been going for an hour before Charlie arrived. The place was full of noise and smoke and men few of whom knew each other and were too professional to propose introductions. Johnson’s wife was with him, a wisp-haired, sharp-featured woman wearing a hat decorated with cherries and a confused expression, never before having met her husband’s friends and seeming surprised he had so many.

Charlie insinuated himself to the bar and was told they were still drinking off Johnson’s kitty so he chose a pint of beer, not wanting to deplete it too much too quickly.

The retiring Watcher saw Charlie as he turned back into the room and shouldered his way forward, beaming.

‘You made it!’ said Johnson. ‘That’s great.’

‘Promised I would,’ reminded Charlie.

‘All over now,’ announced Johnson. ‘No more leaking doorways or aching haemorrhoids from sitting too long on cold seats.’

‘Looking forward to it?’

‘Can’t wait,’ said Johnson. ‘I got a rotavator as a farewell present.’

‘A what?’

‘It’s kind of a digging machine: I’ve taken over more allotment.’

‘No more peas out of a tin, eh?’

‘What about you, Charlie? You looking forward to retirement?’

‘Long time yet,’ said Charlie, uncomfortably. No, he thought, he wasn’t looking forward to retirement. Harry had a wife with a funny hat and a smallholding to grow his own vegetables. What did he have to look forward to, when it was time to go? Nothing, he thought. There was a huge difference between working alone and being alone.

‘Still feel bad about that last bit of business,’ said Johnson.

‘Water under the bridge now.’

‘I know you can’t tell me but I’d like to know it worked out.’

‘It worked out,’ assured Charlie.

‘I’m glad, really glad,’ said Johnson. ‘Not a lot in our line of work ever really works out, does it?’

‘Not a lot,’ agreed Charlie.

‘Get down to Broadstairs at all?’

‘Broadstairs?’ queried Charlie, bewildered.

‘That’s where we’re going to be living most of the time …’ Johnson turned, gesturing to the woman in the hat. ‘That’s the wife, Beryl. We’ll be in the book so if you’re ever down that way give me a bell. Don’t want to lose touch completely with the old crowd.’

‘Sure,’ promised Charlie, emptily. Johnson didn’t want to go, Charlie realized. Funny how it was always the same, everyone bitching and moaning for years, counting days and weeks off the calender until the time came and when it did they nearly all wanted to hang on.

‘Don’t forget now,’ urged Johnson, knowing Charlie would never come.

‘I won’t,’ promised Charlie.

‘I’d better get back to the missus.’

‘Sure.’

‘Keep safe, Charlie.’

‘Always.’

Charlie got himself another pint and was edging away from the bar to make room for someone else when he felt a hand on his arm and a voice said: ‘Wondered if I’d see you here.’

Charlie turned, smiling in immediate recognition. ‘How are you doing, Sam?’

‘Fine,’ said Donnelly. ‘You?’

‘Can’t complain.’

‘Looks like being a good party?’

‘With luck,’ said Charlie. ‘You do it, Sam?’

The man who had searched Charlie’s apartment nodded and said: ‘Did you pass?’

‘Kisses on both cheeks,’ said Charlie. ‘Thanks for the warning, though.’

‘Couldn’t make it too obvious,’ said Donnelly. ‘Junior kid picked the lock to leave the scratch.’

‘It was pretty clumsy.’

‘He’s still learning,’ assured the other man. ‘He’ll get better.’

‘He needs to.’

‘I took over inside,’ disclosed Donnelly. ‘How did I do?’

‘Failed,’ declared Charlie.

‘I can’t have done!’ disputed Donnelly.

‘The bathroom cabinet,’ said Charlie. ‘After you searched it you closed it: people always do. It was ajar when I left.’

‘Shit!’ said the Searcher.

‘It wasn’t much,’ said Charlie, encouragingly.

‘It hasn’t got to be, has it?’

‘Hope your young trainee wasn’t offended by the place.’

‘He thought it was a pigsty.’

‘Did you tell him why?’

‘I tried to.’

‘Tell him again, so he doesn’t forget.’

There was a commotion at the door at the entry of the kiss-o-gram girl. She wore a long black cloak which she discarded as soon as she was inside. She was quite naked apart from a minuscule G-string and a suspender belt supporting fishnet stockings. She arranged herself on Johnson’s lap with her breasts thrust into his face and there was raucous cheering and explosions of camera flashes. Beryl blushed and looked away.

‘I think her tits are bigger than that October centrefold you’ve got,’ said Donnelly, contemplatively. ‘Not much. Just slightly.’

‘Prefer the centrefold, though,’ said Charlie.

‘Younger,’ agreed Donnelly. ‘Certainly firmer. Have you really read all those books you’ve got?’

‘Most of them,’ said Charlie.

‘What about another drink?’

‘One for the road,’ agreed Charlie.

‘Not staying long then?’