Raymond Benson: Doubleshot

“James,” Tanner said gently. “Don’t turn this into an obsession. You know the Union is a very high priority, but right now we have our hands full with the Gibraltar situation. You’ve heard what happened this morning?”

“No.”

“Domingo Espada’s supporters threw rocks and bottles at the Immigration officials at the La Linea border. There was gunfire. We don’t know if anyone was hurt yet. It’s becoming ugly. Espada’s a menace.”

Bond vaguely remembered reading the memorandum on Espada. He was a Spanish millionaire, a businessman with a political agenda. He had recently made a loud noise in southern Spain with renewed calls for the U.K. to give back Gibraltar. He was even at odds with the government in Madrid but apparently had an enormous amount of influence in the country.

“Go home,” Tanner said. “You look terrible and obviously need some rest. Don’t let M see you like this. Please. Do yourself a favor.”

Bond shut his eyes again and took a deep breath, forcing the headache to subside a little. Finally, he nodded.

“Good,” Tanner said. He got up. “Call if you need anything.”

After the Chief-of-Staff had left the room, Bond slipped the Adult News receipt into his pocket, threw the book into a desk drawer, and made his way to the lift.

Bond rarely had a reason to visit New Scotland Yard, the imposing and unsightly twenty-story structure that seemed to be made of nothing but windows. Since MI6 dealt with cases outside the U.K., the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard or the people at MI5 usually handled crimes that were committed within the boundaries of Great Britain. Most of the time this jurisdiction was strictly enforced. Nevertheless, Bond had never paid much attention to protocol. If he needed information from one of SIS’s sister organizations, he wasn’t afraid to go and get it.

Bond took a taxi to 10 Broadway, not far from Westminster Abbey, and gave his credentials to the guard at reception.

“Detective Inspector Howard will see you now,” the man said after calling upstairs.

Bond took the lift and was met at the floor by Stuart Howard, a medium-built man in his forties with a mass of curly brown and gray hair.

“Commander Bond,” he said, offering his hand. He squinted when he saw 007’s unkempt appearance.

“Hello, Inspector. Please excuse the way I look; I’ve been working round the clock.”

“I hate it when that happens,” Howard said, chuckling. “Come on down to my office.”

They walked past a dozen secretaries, both male and female, and into a private office that was cluttered with files, papers, photographs, and faxes.

“It may look like a mess, but I assure you I know where everything is,” Howard said. “Do sit down. Would you like some coffee?”

“That would be fine,” Bond said. “Black, please.”

“Right. Be back in a sec …”

Bond sat and rubbed his temples, glancing around the room for anything pertaining to Helena’s case, but the only things that stood out were various unrelated gruesome crime scene photos tacked to the bulletin board.

Howard returned with the coffee and sat behind his desk. Bond took a sip and said, “You fellows must use the same coffee vendor as SIS.”

“Well, it’s not the gourmet stuff,” Howard said, smiling. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Helena Marksbury. I’d like you to tell me how the investigation is progressing.”

Howard frowned.

“Please.”

“Commander Bond, this is slightly irregular, wouldn’t you say?”

Bond leaned forward. “Inspector Howard. Helena was my personal assistant. I had a nasty scrape with the Union a few weeks ago, as you know. I just want information. I’d like the peace of mind of knowing what is happening with the case. That’s all.”

Howard studied the disheveled man in front of him and, against his better judgment, said, “All right. I don’t suppose there can be any harm in telling you what we know. It’s confidential, of course.”

“Of course.”

Howard dug into a pile of folders on his desk and found the appropriate one. He opened it and scanned two or three pages quickly.

“I’m afraid we haven’t got very far,” he said. “Whoever killed her at that hotel in Brighton left no traces. No fingerprints. Nothing. The blue van that was seen outside the hotel was abandoned at Heathrow. It had been stolen.”

“I suppose you’ve investigated her background?” Bond asked. “She had family in America.”

“Yes, with the help of the FBI in California, we were able to locate them. No leads there, but we’ve arranged for their protection. We conducted interviews with Miss Marksbury’s neighbors, people listed in her address book, and her landlord. No clues there either.…”

Bond held out his hand. “May I?”

Howard shrugged and handed the file to him. Bond scanned the typed pages of interviews. There were two or three girlfriends who all stated that Helena never mentioned anything unpleasant, and several neighbors and a building maintenance man who reported that they barely knew or rarely saw her. Bond stopped at the interview with the owner of her building in West Kensington. His name was Michael Clayton.

“You won’t find anything there,” Howard said. “The landlord seemed clean enough. He claimed he had never met his tenant. A superintendent looks after the building and an estate agent handled the lease.”

“English?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This Michael Clayton. Is he English?”

“Yes. Owns a number of residential buildings, a pub, and some bookshops in Soho.”

This news shook Bond. “Bookshops?”

“Yes, what does he say down there near the bottom? About his business partner?”

Bond read further and found the passage Howard was referring to. Michael Clayton had a partner named Walter van Breeschooten. They owned the various properties jointly.

“His partner is Dutch?” Bond asked.

“That’s right. Kind of a sleazy character, but we did a background check and he came up spotless. The bookshops are the adult variety. They sell pornography, you know, videos, magazines, books …”

Bond did his best to keep the excitement of this discovery to himself. Helena had told him before she died that the two men from the Union whom she had “dealt with” were English and Dutch. She had always spoken to one of them on the phone and had never met them until that fateful day in Brighton.

Bond closed the folder and gave it back to Howard.

“I’m sorry there isn’t anything else, Commander Bond,” Howard said. “We’re doing our best.”

“I understand. I am sorry to have troubled you.”

“No trouble.”

“Do me a favor, please, and keep me informed, would you?” Bond asked.

Howard nodded. “Certainly.”

Bond got up, shook the inspector’s hand, and left the building. Rather than going back to Chelsea, however, Bond grabbed a taxi and told the driver to take him to Soho.

FIVE

ESPADA

THE WOMAN WHISTLED SHARPLY SO THAT HER GLORIOUSLY WHITE Percheron stallion performed a neat elevada, a trick in which the horse rose high on its back legs. She gave him a gentle kick with her boots, and the horse leaped into the air, executing a flawless cabriola, one of the most impressive stunts the animal could do in front of an audience. The horse literally jumped up and kicked out with all four legs, suspended in midair for a moment. Its beautiful, sleek rider completed the picture by holding her hat high above her coal-black hair that was tied neatly in a bun.