Stella Rimington - Illegal Action

She took all this in, while mentally assessing the flat for vantage points, visibility, means of access and egress. One side of the room overlooked the alley from which she’d entered, the other fronted a building undergoing restoration, pitch-black inside. Facing her, she could see a short corridor, which must lead to a bedroom and bathroom. She doubted there was a second entrance to the flat.

He didn’t offer her a drink but sat down immediately in one of the chairs, motioning her to take the sofa, where at one end a skinny black-and-white cat was curled up asleep. Ugh, she thought, sitting at the other end. She disliked all animals, especially house pets.

“Have you come from the gym?” he asked, gesturing irritably towards her clothes. His agitation was obvious.

“Yes. I’ve not been home. Now tell me, what is the matter?”

“Everything,” he said brusquely. Beside her the cat stood up and stretched. “I had a telephone call this morning from the police. A detective at the Art Squad. He said he wanted to talk to me as soon as possible. I tried to delay him, but he wasn’t having it. I am due to see him tomorrow.”

“Is he coming here?” she asked quietly. The answer would be crucial.

“No. I said I’d go to him.”

“Do you know what he wants to see you about?”

“He wouldn’t tell me, but it’s obvious, isn’t it? He must know about Blue Mountain .”

“I don’t see why.”

“What else could it be?” When she looked at him with raised eyebrows, he shouted, “That was in the past. No one here knows about it except you. Besides, I served my sentence—what more could they want from me? No, it must be Blue Mountain. ”

“All right,” she said quietly. “Let’s suppose they have heard something—possibly from Morozov’s people. Why should that alarm you? You can say that Forbes got in touch with you about the find and you simply relayed the news to Brunovsky. That’s not hard to remember, is it? And it has the merit of being perfectly true.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” He groaned and put his head in his hands. “I should never have listened to you. You said it was foolproof, if I did what you said I would have no worries. Che incubo. ” He raised his head and stared at her, his eyes red and strained.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” she said soothingly, and got up and went to the large range at the back of the room. He was getting hysterical, she realised. She would have to calm him down. And this time there was no one to disturb her.

As Peggy dialled the sixth cruise company on her list the rain was streaming down the glass of her office window. Caribbean Leisure Works (“Your Leisure, Our Pleasure”) had its headquarters in Bridgetown, Barbados. Their website showed the city’s sun-soaked harbour, a flotilla of berthed cruisers and sailboats forming a white armada on an azure sea. If only, thought Peggy.

The friendly Barbadian voice at the other end stopped in its tracks when she explained what she wanted, and went off to consult, leaving her on hold, listening to the thump, thump of reggae. Eventually a cut-glass English voice came on the line. “This is Marjorie Allingworth. I’m the personnel director. You wanted to know about Monica Hetherington?”

“That’s right. I’m ringing from the North Middlesex Hospital in London. I’m trying to find her because her mother’s not well,” said Peggy smoothly. “The last information I have, she was with your company—I believe she worked on one of the cruise boats.”

“That was a long time ago.” From the curtness of her voice it was clear that Marjorie remembered Monica, and not fondly. Peggy could hear the tap of computer keys. “Let me see—1996. She was only here for two seasons.”

“Would you have any record of where she went next?”

There was an audible sniff. “No idea. She didn’t keep in touch.”

“Would anyone there be able to help? It’s really important,” Peggy pleaded.

There was a long pause. “Let me see.”

Peggy waited, listening as she heard the cut-glass voice making brisk enquiries in the background. Eventually she returned to the phone. “One of the girls here says Monica was great friends with Sally Dubbing. She still works for us during the season. The rest of the time she lives in London. Hold on and I’ll give you her address.”

Wow, thought Peggy. I don’t think much of her security. I could be anybody.

Tulse Hill was alien territory to Peggy. She had walked from the bus stop, past a betting shop that belched cigarette smoke through its open door, a newsagent with steel protective bars on the windows, and a unisex hair salon that specialised in straightening hair. Some boys wolf-whistled at her from a hoopless basketball court, and a pregnant woman wheeling a buggy had sent her the wrong way. Now she was sitting in a living room four storeys up a decaying sixties block, while Sally Dubbing made coffee in the kitchen.

Peggy looked around at the shabby furniture and stained walls hung with photographs of faraway exotic places—Tahiti, an aerial photograph of a string of small Caribbean islands, the harbour of Key West. They were meant to bring some sunshine into the flat but to Peggy’s eye they just brought home the cramped grimness of the place. It seemed a long way from Belgravia.

“Here you go. No sugar, right?” Sally set the mug down on the stained table next to Peggy’s chair, where it sloshed gently as it cooled. Peggy looked closely at Sally sitting opposite her on the small sofa. She was a sweetly pretty baby-faced blonde—except for the inch-wide band of blotchy pink that stretched like watery jam from one ear to her nose. No one could call it a beauty mark; it was far too big even to say it had “character.”

“So you want to talk to me about Monica?” The accent was South London mixed with aspiration.

“Yes,” said Peggy, getting her notebook out of her bag, “it’s for an article about the wives and girlfriends of these Russian oligarchs.”

Sally nodded. “I saw her in Hello! magazine a few weeks ago. Is that who you work for?”

“No. It’s a new magazine, not out yet.” She smiled and pushed her spectacles up her nose. “Tell me, do you ever hear from Monica these days?”

“Are you taking the piss?” she said curtly, reaching for a pack of cigarettes. She lit up and, blowing out some smoke, said, “I haven’t heard from Monica for over two years.”

“But you used to know her, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes,” she said easily. “I knew her. She was my best friend. She was a different Monica then.” She stared at Peggy for a moment, with a glazed look that suggested her thoughts were elsewhere. She seemed to make up her mind about something, for she got up and went into the kitchen, returning with a half-bottle of Bell’s whisky. Peggy shook her head when she proffered the bottle, then watched as Sally poured a neat two inches into her own coffee. Sitting back, she sipped the mixture carefully, and then she started to talk.

That winter when they met they were just two teenage girls fresh out of school without a GCSE between them. Monica was selling kitchenware in Debenhams’ basement and Sally was learning more about Hoover bags than anyone should ever know. They’d become friends at once, joined by a simple detestation of their jobs, and a common passion for clubbing.

“Monica was always the leader,” said Sally reflectively, pausing to sip her coffee. It was Monica who had come up with the idea. A friend of a friend of a friend worked on a cruise ship in the Caribbean—and was having the time of her life. Monica made it sound like one big party in the sun. Six weeks later both she and Monica were crew members of SS Prince Albert , sailing from Tobago to Miami.