Dark Clouds (18 page)

‘Come in, honey,’ Carla says cheerily.

‘This is preposterous … we’re not criminals!’ Annalise shouts when she’s taken in her husband’s dressing gown on the sofa.

‘No, of course not,’ Carla concedes. ‘But I think your guy’s been playing away from home, babe.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well – this is kind of personal, ma’am … but can you honestly say that Jeremy here has really satisfied you in every way … and I mean emotionally as well as physically?’

This seems to be a subject that Annalise Wagstaff could talk about with the right person for some time. As it is though, she’s feeling both hard done by and furious.

‘Who are you?’ she screams, advancing on Carla. ‘You’re not British … you’re an intruder in my home … and I know someone who works for a national newspaper.’

My controller is quite enjoying being upbraided in this way, but as Wagstaff attempts to get up from the sofa she pushes him back down into the cushions. His wife then intervenes with flaying fists. It’s a brave gesture, but as she advances, Carla slaps her hard across the face, twice.

‘Sit down – and shut the fuck up, lady!’

‘But – ’

‘Believe me. By the time we’re finished with you this morning, you’re not going to want to talk to anyone … and you know why?’

Annalise shakes her bedraggled hair and bites her lower lip. She has definitely misjudged Miss Hirsch’s capacity for assertiveness. Her hands are shaking and she’s glancing anxiously at her husband’s ankles when Earl appears with two Anti-Terrorist officers.

‘Jeez – there’s so much fucking junk in that attic,’ he says to Carla, ‘but I think we’ve found something interesting.’

His colleagues are carrying large boxes. One has a label that says,
Sociology – pre- Thatcher
while the other has a
Recent Russian Politics
sticker. Each box is filled with postcard-sized photographs, most of which have been stuffed into unlabelled envelopes. Wagstaff has suddenly become very pale and his dressing gown has slipped to reveal an unflattering view of definitely untoned thighs. His wife, Annalise, is staring fixedly at an ugly pattern on her stained slippers. Carla Hirsch smiles at both of them as she spreads photographs from the
Sociology – pre-Thatcher
box across a glass-topped IKEA coffee table.

‘Well … hot dickety, Jeremy!’ she exclaims. ‘And I think we could be speaking almost literally here, because you do seem to be unusually well endowed. Although, to be honest, if I had just met you socially for the first time, I’d probably have put you in the
not too interesting – possibly under five inches category
.’

Wagstaff is embarrassed and concerned. The situation is serious, and as his wife looks at him with a puzzled expression, he’s doing his best to avoid eye contact with her.

‘What are you talking about?’ she asks apprehensively. ‘And what are these photographs?’

‘I hate to break it to you this way,’ Carla says when she’s fanned out a few graphic images on the coffee table. ‘But your husband’s been a very naughty boy. In fact, I think he’s been a real prick, Annalise, because he doesn’t seem to have included you in any of the fun he’s been having.’

The guy in the dock is cornered, irrational and foolhardy when he gets up and charges towards me. ‘You fucking cunt!’ he yells.

I’m retreating, but I get kicked hard between my legs before Wagstaff is manhandled back into the sofa by Earl’s Anti-Terrorist officers. His wife, Annalise, is meanwhile gazing in horror at the photographs of her husband’s organ being sucked, licked and accommodated anally by three different Thai boys, who in turn are satisfied by Jeremy.

‘You absolute fucking shit!’ she exclaims, kicking her husband mercilessly on his unprotected shins. ‘And presumably this all happened while you were representing the University?’

For it seems that the King’s Cross Academy had a reciprocal arrangement with a Bangkok polytechnic, which meant that Jeremy Wagstaff got to visit Thailand a couple of times a year to facilitate the transfer of UK degree schemes in sociology and political studies.

My testicles are numb, but Wagstaff has been fired up by the assault.

‘All right …big deal!’ he shouts. ‘So what the fuck do you want?’

‘I think we’ve got quite a little treasure trove here, Jeremy,’ Carla says. ‘And that’s without even opening the second box or going through the rest of your house, which of course we will.’

‘What do you mean?’ Wagstaff asks nonchalantly. ‘They’re just photographs. It was all a bit of fun … it’s not a big deal.’

‘Oh, but it is, honey,’ Carla says. ‘First off – you could … no – would lose your job if your Principal saw what you’ve been up to. They couldn’t afford to keep you on, sugar … and I don’t think anyone else would want to employ you, which could be tricky. Because my understanding is that you have a large mortgage on this house … and I don’t think your wife works, do you babe?’

Their marriage may be on the rocks. But whether they stay together or split up, their income requirements are important.

‘All right …what do you want?’ Wagstaff asks. His tone is petulant, but Carla’s cool.

‘There is an al-Qaeda cell operating here in London,’ she says matter-of-factly, almost like it’s no big deal. ‘We think they’re going to do something really silly, which could have a nuclear dimension … and we’d like you to help us stop them, Jeremy.’

Suddenly, it’s gone from sex with minors to conspiracy, treason and radiation. It’s big time stuff, and it could be jail for life.

‘I don’t know anything about these people,’ Wagstaff protests and there’s a red flush creeping up from his neck to his face.

‘But you are friendly with some fundamentalists,’ Carla says.

OK – he might put his hand up to this. He is after all a liberal, lefty academic in a multicultural institution. Talking to people with pro-Muslim views is part of his job.

‘It is a free country you know,’ he answers snootily. ‘People are permitted to have views and opinions … we’re not all die-hard neo-con supporters.’

I’m impressed by the way he’s standing up to my Controller even though my fragile nuts are still numb from the bastard’s kick. I think their marriage has had it. I can’t see Annalise ever forgiving her hubby for the way he romped around with the Thai boys. Only the plates are moving. Miss Hirsch has had enough fooling around. Her expression has hardened, and she wants results. I can sense it in the way her eyes and mouth are moving. It’s Guantanamo time for the Wagstaffs. Earl’s standing well back towards the door. He and his wife have just put down a sizeable deposit on a holiday home in Jamaica. He doesn’t want to jeopardise anything, but his mouth opens when Carla takes a Glock pistol and a small camera from her calf skin designer bag.

‘Fill that basin,’ she tells one of the Anti-Terrorist officers. He hesitates for a moment, but then goes to turn on a tap in the kitchen sink.

‘Now, Annalise – come here!’ she commands.

‘No … what do you want?’

‘Move your fucking ass, bitch!’

The cops are all up against the back wall and I’m feeling uneasy when my controller slips the safety catch on the Glock.

‘Take off your shirt,’ she says to Annalise.

‘No – I won’t!’

A single shot from the Glock goes through a Cuban lampshade in the ceiling. And as Annalise screams, Agent Hirsch rips her blouse apart. I can’t collude with any more of this. Wagstaff’s just soiled his pants, but it’s the sink full of water I’m worried about. It looks like water-boarding with extraordinary rendition in Muswell Hill. I’m moving forward when my controller glowers and fires her Glock again. A shot goes over my head; another shatters the remains of the Cuban lampshade and she’s pointing the pistol at Wagstaff’s slavering wife when the polyversity tutor vomits onto their Persian carpet.

‘No – please!’ he cries. ‘I’ll do whatever I can to help you …but no more of this … it’s not necessary!’

‘OK – ’ my controller says as her suspects kneel and shake amidst the debris in their sitting room. ‘But if you fuck with me any more, I’ll take some photographs of you, Annalise, pleasuring your asshole husband. We’ll then enhance the shots and incorporate them with that stuff on the table.’

I can see the results selling around the world. Any tabloid editor with a flair for leverage would find Wagstaff’s errant youths in Thailand. They would of course be suitably pampered and rewarded. After which, they would deliver graphic accounts of how they had been maltreated and abused by the visiting tutor from the King’s Cross Academy.

None of that will now be necessary, however. Agent Hirsch has made her point. A woman police constable has been called in to take care of Annalise while an Anti-Terrorist officer escorts Wagstaff to the bathroom. We’re having a break before the interrogation begins and Earl has volunteered to make tea.

Chapter 15

I’m still concerned about the sink full of water in the kitchen. It’s quite big and I can see a suspect’s head and neck being submerged. ‘
This may not be Guantanamo in South Cuba, or Abu Ghraib in Iraq … but we can get whatever you have, fellah, simply by holding your head down under until you deliver for us.
’

Wagstaff is subdued and respectful when he returns with clean trousers and underwear. Carla’s sitting at a large table in the kitchen. She motions her target to sit opposite her and Earl pulls out a chair between the two of them.

‘I think we’d better start with Mohammed Sharif, Jeremy … he has sent you some money, right?’

For most of the past twenty years, Wagstaff has hated the Americans and everything they stand for. He feels we are responsible for most of the world’s problems, and have been for almost a hundred years. It’s therefore difficult for him to sit down with US Homeland Security Agent Hirsch and to start negating everything he believes in. The kitchen sink full of water, however, and the Glock pistol in my controller’s bag are scary reminders of what lies in store for him if he doesn’t co-operate.

‘There is a lot of anger in Muslim communities just now,’ he says and Carla Hirsch nods. ‘
Of course …we know all about that, babe. We’ve been taking serious stick from you Brits and liberals everywhere since the war in Vietnam …we’re used to it.
’

His wife, Annalise, has now returned with her female police escort. Her face is pale. She’s been crying and the future with her husband is uncertain. ‘
He’s a pederast who enjoys having his cock sucked by under aged Thai boys. So what does that say about my relationship with Jeremy …does he seriously think I’ll ever be prepared to stay in the same room with him again after what he’s done … I don’t think so.
’

‘Come and join us, honey,’ Carla Hirsch says, beckoning her over to the table. Annalise sits reluctantly facing Earl with Carla and her husband on either side of her.

‘So – the money, Jeremy. How much did you get?’ My Controller asks.

He doesn’t know exactly. The cash came with a courier and he then passed it on.

‘OK – so are we talking tens or hundreds of thousands … or millions?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Wagstaff mumbles. ‘Maybe five hundred thousand US dollars … I only counted one bundle of notes.’

‘So you were the go-between … who got the money?’

He’s holding his head in his hands and looking down at the table when Carla gets up. She stands behind Annalise with her hands around the unfortunate woman’s neck.

‘You like swimming, honey?’

‘No – ’

‘Well we got a basin full of water over there … how would you feel if we put your head in it … maybe for fifteen seconds to start with? Then we can extend the time – OK?’ 

Annalise sobs uncontrollably. I’m opening my mouth to protest, which gets me a kick in the shins from my controller’s pointy stiletto. Wagstaff jumps up and there’s a shriek in his throat when Carla takes out her Glock pistol and shatters a huge Victorian mirror.

‘There is a cleric called Mustapha!’ Wagstaff shouts. ‘He’s presently in Afghanistan … and there are some mentor figures who come to the UK.’

I’m feeling for him. There’s an increasingly large damp patch on the front of his trousers and his spirit is broken when he sinks back into the chair.

‘So – the mentors?’ Carla asks. ‘You’ve met them?’

‘Just one … he was a scientist.’

I think my shin’s bleeding. I’m not prepared to tolerate any more violence. I’m disappointed in Earl. He’s just sitting there taking notes and behaving himself. I guess it’s down to the second home he’s buying with his lawyer wife in Jamaica. ‘
Put one foot out of line, Connors, and you’ll be joining an unemployment queue, or worse. There won’t be any rum to sip by the Caribbean, and your wife will probably want to divorce you
.’

‘Well, Jeremy – we’ve got Mustapha the cleric, who’s with the Taliban and a mysterious scientist … you know his name?’

‘No!’ Wagstaff blurts and this time he’s shaking.

‘That’s not good enough, sugar … is he an Arab or an Asian?’

‘I believe he’s from Pakistan,’ Wagstaff answers, and there’s perspiration on his forehead.

Carla’s examining her nails. Her two tone hair spikes are neatly gelled. I think she knows that I don’t approve of her intimidatory tactics with defenceless people. One has to draw a line somewhere, and if she gets physically frisky again, I’ll make a strong complaint.

‘We have a couple of options here,’ she says. ‘We can take you and your wife into custody. We can charge you here in the UK with funding terrorists … and I guess you could go down for ten to fifteen years – maybe longer.’

‘But you have no evidence.’

‘Oh, we do,’ Carla says passing Wagstaff and Annalise copies of the e-mail I had photographed in Sharif’s Geneva study. ‘Alternatively, we can get you both to a US Air Force base here in the UK. A transport plane would then take you to a holding facility, which could be anywhere … and I guess we’d keep you there for as long as it takes. Either way, your academic career would be finished. No one would ever employ you again, and you wouldn’t be able to keep up the mortgage payments on this nice house … you’d be on the street.’