Ken McClure - Dust to dust

After another hundred metres Steven stopped, half turned and pretended he was looking for something in his briefcase while really glancing back out of the corner of his eye to see what the man was doing. He was still there but, as Steven prolonged his ‘search’, he turned off up a side street and disappeared from sight. Steven relaxed, feeling slightly embarrassed at having let his imagination run away with him. He was starting to wonder about his stress levels when he came to his own turnoff and started up the lane leading to the street where his apartment block was located. A faint smile at his own gullibility crossed his lips but disappeared in a trice when he caught the scent of aftershave on the breeze — it was a scent he recognised. He continued walking but, as soon as he had turned off to the right, he slipped into a doorway and waited.

The dark figure of a man passed the doorway and Steven had his arm up his back and his cheek pressed to the wall before his victim realised what was happening. ‘This had better be good, Ricksen,’ he hissed. ‘Very good.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Dunbar,’ stammered the MI5 man. ‘I’m here for your benefit. I just wanted to talk to you.’

‘You’ve been following me since I left the Home Office. You had every opportunity to talk to me but instead you’ve been tailing me for the past ten minutes. Then you circle round ahead of me and wait in a quiet lane…’

‘That’s because I didn’t want anyone to see me talking to you,’ groaned Ricksen.

Steven released him slowly, still unsure of the situation and remaining very alert as he watched as the MI5 man dust himself down. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘There’s something going on and I don’t like it,’ said Ricksen. ‘In fact, a number of us don’t like it, including my boss, but for reasons I don’t fully understand there’s nothing he can do about it.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘An ex-MI5 man has reappeared on the scene: he’s behaving as if he’s back in the fold although I’m assured he isn’t. The fact remains, however, that certain people are dancing to his tune whether we like it or not. Rumour has it he’s been detailed to keep tabs on you… maybe more than keep tabs…’

‘Why?’

Ricksen shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Nobody seems to. But you and I, we’ve always got on. I thought I’d warn you. I swear it’s nothing to do with 5 officially, even though it might look like it.’

‘Who is this guy?’

‘Monk. James Monk,’ replied Ricksen. ‘He was with us for three years before being dismissed the service for being — as the euphemism goes — too enthusiastic in the execution of his work. Too many “accidental” deaths. People he was assigned to monitor as possible hostiles kept ending up “taking their own lives in the woods”, if you get my drift.’

‘If you can’t solve a problem, remove it.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Psycho?’

‘Borderline if not official, but comes from a “good” family. Daddy owns a chunk of Berkshire. Rumour has it, it wasn’t Daddy’s foxhounds that were tearing the foxes limb from limb… Any other background and Monk would be in a cage, but, with Daddy smoothing the way through public school and Oxford, Her Majesty’s Secret Service ended up with the pleasure… until we got shot of him like a bad smell.’

‘And now he’s back.’

‘Like I say, it’s not official.’

Steven nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I owe you one. This guy Monk: six-two, well built, wart on the left cheek?’

‘That’s our man. You’ve come across him?’

‘Not personally, not yet.’

‘Take care,’ said Ricksen.

‘You too,’ said Steven. ‘And if you’ll take some advice? Change your aftershave.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Ricksen. ‘My lady loves it: she bought it for me.’

‘Then she’s probably KGB. You’d be as well painting a bullseye on your arse.’

‘She’s the mother of my children,’ protested Ricksen.

‘Could be a quantitative thing,’ said Steven, enjoying teasing the MI5 man. ‘Maybe half a litre’s too much.’

‘I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t bothered.’

‘Seriously, I’m glad you did,’ said Steven. ‘Thanks.’ He started to walk away.

‘Aren’t you even going to tell me what it’s all about?’

‘I don’t know either,’ said Steven. ‘It’s a secret.’

Steven showered and changed into jeans and trainers. There was a chill in the air so he pulled on a sweater before putting on his denim jacket and heading for the lift down to the garage. His first port of call was going to be the Jade Garden restaurant, where he was a once-a-month customer. There were a number of restaurants he visited on a fairly regular basis, chosen first because they were good and second to interrupt the more usual packet-meals-from-a-supermarket foundation of his diet. He’d never learned to cook and had no plans to alter the status quo.

Chen Feng, the owner of the Jade Garden, who’d spotted he was a doctor from the first time he’d used his credit card, never failed to keep him apprised of her state of health and that of her family. Because he liked her, Steven tended to offer very general medical advice which often translated into extra dishes on the table but not the bill. It was a nice, simple arrangement between two people who were less than friends but more than strangers. More importantly, they liked each other.

As he walked back to the car after eating, Steven wondered how he should spend the rest of the evening. He could return to the flat and have an early night but he doubted if he would sleep: he was too uptight, particularly after what Ricksen had told him. It was unsettling to know that he was being targeted without knowing why. The investigation was on hold until the analysis of the donor samples was complete, but rather than just kick his heels he thought he might have a sniff round the hospitals that might have admitted MRSA patients from St Raphael’s.

After a moment’s thought, he changed his mind. If it was his intention to glean what he could from gossipy sources rather than the official ones Macmillan had already failed with, he would be as well trying to make contact with staff from St Raphael’s itself.

He drove over to St Raphael’s and started touring the surrounding area, looking for likely watering holes that the hospital staff might use. A wine bar called the Pink Puffin was nearest but Steven had reservations about the name. Thinking it might be a gay haunt, he decided to leave it for the moment and look for somewhere more inclusive.

Rene’s looked as if it might be a possible. He found a parking place a couple of streets away and walked back, went in and ordered a bottle of Czech beer at the bar. The place was small and about half full of mainly couples although there was a group of four businessmen at a table with their briefcases tucked underneath at their feet, exuding the confidence of the mob-handed as they exchanged stories of their prowess in the commercial jungle. A couple of loners were at the bar, one reading an evening newspaper opened at the accommodation-to-let section and the other, a young woman, concentrating on the screen of her mobile phone.

Steven looked for a clue to suggest she might be a nurse on her way home — sensible flat shoes, black stockings, a glimpse of white uniform dress beneath her coat — but didn’t find any. He lingered over his beer for twenty minutes or so before giving up and leaving. He thought about driving round the area some more but no longer felt confident that this approach was going to work. Most hospitals had a choice of pubs within easy reach where many of the staff would be regulars but St Raphael’s was different. It was located in an upmarket, exclusive area: there weren’t any pubs round here. On the way back, however, he decided he might as well give the Pink Puffin a try.