Gerald Seymour - A Deniable Death

A man in a striped suit, with an open camel overcoat and a trilby low on his forehead, said, ‘Bit of a dump, don’t you think, Bob? Probably all right on a spring morning, certainly not a November evening. I suppose if that’s what was wanted it was right to do it. It’ll bring closure. It was a good result and achieved at a rather low cost… Can’t ask more than that.’ The thick-set man with him might have been, Doug Bentley thought, a bodyguard. He nodded his head, on which the hair was almost shorn, and might have murmured, ‘Yes, Director.’

They crossed the road, had to wait for an old saloon, speakers thumping. A young woman, with fine golden hair hanging loose and bright under a street-lamp, parked up the High Street and came at a jog towards the Cross Keys. She met a man – another suit, but creased and with shapeless trousers. ‘It’s Len, isn’t it?’

‘And you’re Abigail? Good to meet. Funny old place this, but a funny old occasion. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against it, only that it’s a bit left-side, irregular, sort of off the beaten track. What is it – a week since you were back?’

‘A long week.’

‘And the colleague?’

‘Bizarre. Out on his feet when he went into the chopper, and wouldn’t let go of Foxy – you remember they were Badger and Foxy? – and was talking to him, soft and quiet, all the way to Kuwait, a lengthy flight even in a Black Hawk. When we landed Badger had to be separated from the body – it was stark bollock naked. Weird. It took two of my escort to get him to free it. The corpse went into the care of the ambassador, formalities to be gone through. We had to quit sharpish, and did. We were out on the first London flight, straight after he’d had a medical. What did I expect? That he might sit with me, put his business seat flat and sleep? He went into Economy and I never saw him until Heathrow. Frankly, Len, I might have enjoyed a drink with him at the airport and we might have shared a ride to… God, we went through tough times in a tough place, and in a sense were together – don’t quote me or I’ll throttle you – but he walked past me in the concourse and said not a word – like I didn’t exist. The last I saw of Badger he was at a bus stop, waiting for the shuttle – creepy.’

‘It all went well. I had time for a quick shop on the way out for some marzipan, useful as a present for home and my office. Then it was a cloud of dust and gone. I assume he knows how it all turned out.’

‘I don’t know who told him, if anyone did. We sent a message to the opposition.’

‘Sent it in clear and loud.’

‘Will it be listened to?’

‘What matters is that we sent it, and it’ll hurt them and bloody their nose. I value that as justification.’

‘Good. Where should we be standing? Is this right, or should we be on the other side?’

‘Where he is, I suppose. But… Can you believe it? That big bastard cut me dead in the bar, didn’t know me. We stand near to the director but on pain of death we don’t speak to him. We don’t show the world we know him. Did I get a glass of sherry? Did I hell. Did I get a nod and recognition? Not yet. I think it was something to be proud of.’

‘I’ll catch you.’

The one she’d called Len crossed the road, now empty, and took a place a dozen steps from the director. Doug Bentley’s eyes darted. She had a pretty face, with frankness in the eyes and a jut at her chin. Her cheeks were red and the freckles alive. She wore old jeans and a quilted anorak, and every few seconds she swept the hair off her face. He realised she needed a moment of privacy from view – and lit up a cigarette.

He looked the other way, up the High Street, not down it, and saw the woman. He recognised. Gagged for a moment. Saw her and wondered about her blouse, the buttons on the front. Another woman was hurrying down the High Street with two girls, skinny teenagers, in tow. So much for Doug Bentley to absorb – and a guy was hovering behind Ellie… Ellie wore black, and her blouse was white but not buttoned high. He could see the ornament she wore and wanted to stare, had to force himself not to. He was uncertain whether the buttons were out of order.

The other woman caught up. ‘You’re Ellie?’

‘That’s right, and you are…?’

‘Liz – and these are my daughters. It wasn’t a pretty divorce, but I was told this afternoon what was happening – wasn’t told much else. Wasn’t really told anything, except that I might want to be here. I took the girls straight out of college and we hit the road. I’ve moved on but that doesn’t mean I don’t remember the good times with him, and I respect him. You have my deep sympathy.’

‘Thank you, Liz, that’s really kind. I don’t have any answers and I don’t even know where to go to get them. I’m utterly devastated. He was such a wonderful man, so caring and kind. All I feel is emptiness. This is Piers, from the office where I work, Defence, and he’s being very supportive. Foxy was such a generous man and so much loved. What’s happening here tells me he died a hero, and this is the least he can be given, what he deserved.’

So much to tell Beryl, might keep her up half the night. Smug little sod, Piers. He was standing too close to Ellie. The bell sounded. Doug’s line shuffled, straightened, and the bottom piece of the pole went into the leather slot above his privates. His hands, immaculate in the gloves, took the strain of the standard. A policeman had walked out into the High Street and was waving brusquely at a car to go through and leave the road clear, like they always did. He could see, across the High Street, the women, the top man and his minder. Bikers had joined them and they cupped cigarettes, which glowed in the near darkness. Lights were coming on in the upper rooms above Doug Bentley’s line of colleagues and the war memorial. Further up the pavement a man was in a heavy tartan dressing-gown, with his pyjama trousers and bedroom slippers; a woman on the other side of the street had put on a quilted dressing-gown but a nightdress hem peeped free. The bell tolled from the tower of St Bartholomew and All Saints, and more came out. The town seemed to wake. The pavement was well lined opposite him, could have been two deep, and plenty more on his side, but no reporters, no cameras and none of the satellite trucks the television brought.

The blue lights came up the hill, flashing garishly. It would have passed the Pheonix Bar and the Methodist church, the entrance to the Rope Yard and the front of the dental clinic. It would now be level with the Wagon and Horses. The lights were on a police motorcycle. They had the standards high. Doug Bentley was next to a Canal Zoner, and beyond him was a para from their association. A man slipped into place beside him. He gave him a glance, fast. Scruffily dressed, what Doug Bentley would have called out of place, in old cord trousers that had smooth bits above the knees, a T-shirt, a windcheater, and a casual acrylic beanie hat. He hadn’t shaved. The police motorcycle came level with the standards and crawled. He looked again to the side. It was wrong that a man should stand close to their line and be turned out like a vagrant. The blue lights went slowly and lit the face. He blanched and the standard rocked. The face was burned, might have had a blowtorch at it. There were big circles where the flesh was raw and the skin was broken, and they were coated in a cream that glistened. He thought the man had been under attack by mosquitoes or flies. The face was gaunt. The hearse came.

A funeral director walked ahead of it. He had a good stride and swung his stick with practised ease. Doug Bentley recognised him from some of the daylight repatriations. The escort was not what he was used to, no police car, no military Range Rover, no back-up hearse, but in essence it was the same, and the Legion people gave it reality, with the gathering opposite, the crowds who’d abandoned their beds or the late-night stuff on television and the bars. They dipped the standards. He should have hung his head and looked at the pavement, but he could tilt a little and it would not be noticed. He knew who it was – would have been an idiot not to have known. The face was ravaged, as if the man had starved, and the pocked cheeks were sunken. He wondered where it came from, the name ‘Badger’. His neck had the scrawniness of an old man’s, and the coat hung loose. The man, Badger, had his hands in his pockets and kept them there while on both sides of the street men stiffened and stood erect. Doug Bentley did not feel the hands in the pockets showed disrespect. Likely they had been so close that respect was proven.