Tim Stevens - Jokerman

Rossiter had been Claire’s handler and mentor, and was now in maximum security somewhere, never to be released. But it had taken Purkiss the better part of a year to acknowledge to himself the reality of Claire, and of himself: that he was a dupe, and had allowed himself to fall in love with, and trust, a conscienceless liar. He began to wake at night with the sheets rucked up in his clenched fists, the fury too intense for sleep to contain. Such wakenings would lead to long rambles in the early hours of the morning across Hampstead Heath, until he arrived back home at dawn, drained and exhausted. But instead of catharsis, he achieved a kind of dreary numbness which he knew would only ever be temporary.

Now, Purkiss came to the Allegro of the sonata’s first movement, and he understood something bewildering and, in its way, even harder to bear than the surges of anger he’d been experiencing over the summer. He loved Claire still, despite everything he’d learned about her. Loved her with undiminished intensity. And that impossible, absurd love would keep him imprisoned, stunted and stagnant, forever.

Purkiss reached the second movement, the Adagio , and the slower pace caused his thoughts to drift away from Claire and roam free. They settled on his encounter earlier that day, with Vale and Kasabian.

Kasabian had blinked when Purkiss said no to her request for help, as if she hadn’t been expecting quite so bald a refusal.

‘Might I ask why not?’ she’d said.

‘My brief is to investigate and neutralise rogue elements among current or former members of SIS,’ Purkiss said, trying not to make it sound like a recital. ‘I have no jurisdiction when it comes to the Security Service.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘One could argue that your jurisdiction within SIS itself is doubtful. Your job hasn’t been approved by Parliament. It doesn’t even exist on paper, as far as I can tell.’

‘That’s not the point.’ Purkiss shifted in his chair, not quite standing up to leave yet but making it clear he was getting there. ‘You’ve got a problem here, I can appreciate that. I fully understand why you’d want an outsider to investigate this, given its sensitive nature. I can even understand why you’ve approached me. But the answer’s no.’

For the first time, the anger he’d seen in her eyes seemed to be directed at him. ‘Is this the old interdepartmental rivalry rearing its head? You can’t help the old enemy? Six versus Five all over again?’

‘Oh, for crying out loud.’ This time Purkiss did stand, and Kasabian reacted as though he’d slapped her. She rose to match him, her face darkening, her eyes wide. Purkiss thought that Mo Kasabian wasn’t used to people terminating meetings with her before she’d given the go ahead. ‘If we’re going to play that game, I could ask you what it would do for relations between SIS and the Security Service if it ever came out that Five’s deputy director had hired a Six man to investigate her own service. You and your organisation would never live it down.’

They held eye contact for several long seconds. At last Kasabian glanced sideways at Vale.

‘Then there’s no more to say. Thank you for your time, Quentin. Mr Purkiss.’

She held a hand towards the door.

As they left, Purkiss gesturing Vale through first, she said to his back: ‘You realise of course that you’re privy to information more properly kept within the Security Service.’

Purkiss stopped, turned.

Kasabian stood at the table, her anger gone, or at least concealed. ‘Information which cannot be allowed to spread further.’

Purkiss had had enough. He said, ‘That sounds like an insult, Ms Kasabian. Or maybe it’s a threat. I don’t take kindly to either.’

On the street, the two men resumed the striding pace they’d adopted before the meeting. This time it was Purkiss taking the lead. But as before, he didn’t know where he was going.

Vale said, ‘That wasn’t very clever.’

‘Why on earth did you agree to the meeting in the first place?’ Purkiss didn’t get angry with Vale, as a rule, but now he felt himself teetering. ‘You must have known I’d say no. And in any case, what I said was right. This is beyond our reach, Quentin. They should clean out their own stables.’

‘The boundaries are shifting, John.’ They were heading towards Oxford Street and Purkiss veered away, to the right. He didn’t need the bustle of a busy shopping thoroughfare just then. ‘We’re no longer in a world of clearly defined roles. The economy’s in a mess. The State’s broke. It’s reasonable for us to muck in, help each other out.’

‘And score points with the deputy head of the Security Service in the process.’

‘That’s not fair, John.’ Purkiss had never seen Vale angry, either. Even now, the older man kept his melancholy composure. ‘Empire building has never been my goal.’

After a beat, Purkiss said, ‘Sorry. That was uncalled for.’ He sighed. ‘I can see your point. Sort of. But there have to be some boundaries. If only to keep the concept alive in people’s minds. Otherwise, the death squads flourish. The Rossiter types. People who see themselves as unlimited by rules, or roles, of any kind.’

‘It’s hardly the same thing,’ said Vale.

But he didn’t push it; didn’t try to argue any further with Purkiss. That was one of the things Purkiss respected about Vale. He respected your decision, even if he didn’t agree with it.

At the piano, Purkiss came to the Rondo , the final movement of the number eight sonata. With the change to a more forceful playing, he felt his mood shift to one of restlessness. He was unsettled by the encounter earlier. It was the first time he’d ever turned down a job Vale had proposed to him. True, he’d never been asked before to track down a rogue agent of the sister service. And it was also true that he wasn’t obliged to take on this or any other job. He was a freelancer.

Nevertheless, Purkiss was conscious of a vague sense of unfinished business. As if he’d let somebody down — Vale, possibly, or even himself — and needed to make amends in some way.

A sound broke through the piano melody. Without pausing in his playing, Purkiss strained to hear.

The scrape of a shoe’s sole on concrete.

Still playing, Purkiss half-rose from the piano chair and craned to peer down the hallway that led to the front door.

Through the opaque glass next to the door he saw the blurred outline of a human shape.

Kasabian’s words recurred to him: You’re privy to information… which cannot be allowed to spread further .

He brought the Rondo to a natural-sounding close, long before it was supposed to end, and moved quietly across the living room and down the hallway.

He opened the door.

Standing on the doorstep was a man of medium height with cropped hair, stubble shadowing grizzled cheeks, and teeth the colours of the coming autumn. He was dressed in camouflage trousers, a denim jacket, and a stale-smelling T-shirt.

‘Prepare to die,’ he said, and raised the object in his hand.

Purkiss stepped aside to let Kendrick in.

‘Bastard.’

Kendrick levelled yellow, vulpine eyes on Purkiss.

Purkiss raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re mellowing. Before, you used to call me far worse things when I was beating you.’

‘You’re not beating me,’ snarled Kendrick. ‘So you can fuck off.’

Purkiss was impressed. Kendrick, playing white, had opened with a Vienna Game. He’d done so with a certain smugness, and Purkiss realised he’d been doing some reading and practising. Purkiss let Kendrick bask in his tricksiness, before transposing into a King’s Gambit Declined. It was a counterintuitive move, Purkiss refusing to take the pawn Kendrick was offering as a sacrificial lamb, and it wasn’t in Kendrick’s script.