Gerald Seymour - The Dealer and the Dead

‘An epic, almost heroic, loser. A man of great honour and integrity, a foot-soldier with a backpack loaded down by a sense of obligation. He lost out. At first, submitting his reports, he would have been praised for his dedication and his response to the duty-of-care principle. Not for long… The bloody bureaucrats from Health and Safety would then have fastened talons into him. He went far beyond the remit of the job and was way outside the limits of his training – went to the extremes of mission creep. He never liked the target, which made his commitment all the more praiseworthy. Where now? Probably on a burglary squad in Hackney or Hounslow, or doing community liaison in Cricklewood or Camden. He actually put himself in the way of harm – they won’t have liked that. I would hope he’ll wear our tie and rejoice in the membership, that it won’t serve only to remind him of what he was in terms of his career: a loser. His disaster was the day he was assigned to Gillot. Most officers would not have been within a hundred yards of the target that morning on the Cornfield Road, and their careers would have survived intact. Not an ordinary man, and damaged by Gillot, but perhaps he discovered himself in those fields and is the better for it.’

They didn’t know the full name. She wrote Mladen, the village’s name and Vukovar, Croatia. Benjie Arbuthnot’s mood lightened.

‘He’s an old hooligan – knows how to milk the system to the full – and is also a lion of a man. He, and many like him, fought tooth and claw to save their village and bought time – whether intentionally or not is immaterial. The time could be used to rush weapons into the runt of Croatia – every arms dealer in Europe worth his salt was dealing… except that our illustrious government had a policy of non-supply and worked to prevent such shipments. I was an agent in the fulfilment of that policy… Regardless of our efforts, the state survived on the back of the sacrifices of that village and others, and of that town, and survived on the back of the profits of weapons brokers. He was, and is, a magnificent fighter and his community has an excess of fortitude and courage. I want to think they’ll have moved on. I want to believe that Gillot would have provided the spur, as he walked the Cornfield Road before he was shot, for that community, under Mladen’s leadership, to take a step forward and not always be going back into history or merely sideways. There was something extraordinary and emotive about the walk Gillot did. He faced a problem, confronted it, and made the village do the same, as if he dragged them out of their past and shamed them. I think, under that man’s influence, the village will now go forward. Not “forget” and not “forgive” but live without the aid of alcohol and pills. Of course, Gillot brought with him all the family valuables and the deeds of his home. We left them at the church. Where are they now? The church has cellars, where the wounded were treated, where Mladen’s son was born and where his wife died, and I believe they prised up a flagstone, cleared out some earth and made a space large enough to dump Gillot’s bag, then resealed the stone and would have grouted it in. Maybe, one day, we’ll go together and… He’ll come well out of Gillot. Not many others do. I’d like to take you there, and hope you’ll walk that road with me.’

Would have been his age. Not often that Benjie Arbuthnot was prone to emotion. He shook himself, a sort of shudder, then his voice boomed the next name, Penny Laing, and the address was in Yorkshire. She chose a scarf to go into the envelope with his card.

‘Loser. Sad but inevitable. Went native to the extent of putting on the warpaint and taking her clothes off. Huge-time loser, and it’s a merciless world. She had neither the training nor the coldness to confront it. She lost her place on her Alpha team and now works with a team dedicated to obstructing Value Added Tax carousel frauds, which is important for the national exchequer and about as dull as waiting for paint to dry. Her place of work is in the centre of the West Yorkshire town of Halifax and I have no doubt she cries herself to sleep each night. A nice girl, but the water was too deep. If Gillot’s file had never landed on her desk she would be a capable investigator with a good future, and there would have been a nice young man around the next corner. But the file was slapped down on the desk. The scar on her back is deep.’

He pulled at his chin, was pensive for a moment, as if he could cast his mind towards an old memory. He recalled a face that was handsome yet could flash anger, and also had emotion, passion, brightness. He said the name, Megs Behan, pulled a face, and for a moment his control was near to slipping. The address was north London, but he coughed and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

‘I liked her hugely, a rather lovely girl, ferocious but caring, and destroyed utterly. I remember her as being very quiet on the plane, spoke to none of us, refused a drink and bolted as soon as we were down. Didn’t waste her time because he – Gillot – had captivated her. She came back to London and worked the phone – knew the contacts for dealers and brokers, and passed the word of where he was and the circumstances. A hospital jet went down and collected him while he had one foot through death’s door but not quite the other, and his fellow traders stumped up for treatment in Switzerland. He pulled through… She left that NGO. It was going fast down the sink hole as funds from charities and government dried up. The credit crunch squeezed out the generosity of individuals and ministries – consciences and aspirations tend to be put on the back hob in recession. She would have been out on the street. She’d have thought that what she’d done for him gave her rights of possession, and was wrong again. She’s now with one of those legal firms that chases human-rights litigation – Midlands Asians banged up for trying to blow us all prematurely to our Maker – and she’s a duck in a dried-out pond… Gillot won her over and the casualty was her loyalty to the campaigns against the arms trade. She’s nowhere, and I think she’s sad. If she’d never met Gillot and had never gone to the cornfields of that damn village, her life would still be ticking over, not exciting but stable. Life can play very cruel, even to rather nice people. She must curse his name.’

He scratched hard at an ear, an inflammation caused by decades in fierce sunshine in distant corners, and grinned the old black-humour way.

‘And there’s Robbie Cairns, not that he’ll have call for a tie. Quite a pleasant-looking boy – he reminded me of the young fellow who gardens at Protheroe’s, pleasant but ordinary. Must have been aware of me but had discounted any threat I posed – which was a mistake… The bigger mistake was going after Gillot and never accepting that this wasn’t the usual trade he did, different quality and different challenge. “The world’s a better place”, as they say – but he had a good face, and lost big.’

One envelope remained on the table, propped against the marmalade jar, one scarf, one tie and one of Benjie Arbuthnot’s cards. He grinned, as if the years had dropped from his back. There was a flash of saucy mischief in his eyes. He told her the names of Mrs Josie Gillot and Mr Harvey Gillot, the name of the pansion and the street that led out through the historic old town of Sozopol that was a half-hour drive south of Burgas, and ended at the beach.

‘Happy as a pig in shit, I predict. Made his compromises and can live with them, but she has also. She let him set up shop, then came out to Bulgaria, found the Behan girl – status not quite explained – on site, and saw her off. I wouldn’t be surprised if she brought the dog in a crate to further her cause. I fancy that Gillot, wisely, avoided intruding into that cat fight. I’d imagine that, facing a woman who’d decided to stick with the joys of marriage – as you’d know, my dear – Miss Behan’s feet wouldn’t have touched the ground. She was out and on her neck. The Gillots run a bed-and-breakfast in that up-and-coming resort, and would have bought it dirt cheap. When the green shoots start to sprout it’ll be a good place to have invested in. His compromise: he looks after the laundry and the catering – and might sell communications equipment but nothing that goes off with a bang. His hands can stay clean while he’s a conduit for contacts in Bulgaria and Moldova, Belarus and Ukraine. Everything he does, from bookings to dinner orders and the paperwork of what he buys and sells, is bounced off her first… I’d say that Vauxhall Bridge Cross has limited contact with him, keeps him on a minimal payroll. The daughter is at an international school in Sofia and lodges mid-week with an embassy family. Who’d have reckoned it? He’s alive and well and smiles with a winner’s confidence. She looks after him with something approaching devotion, and partnership. Funny the way it all works out.’