The Conspiracy Theorist (29 page)

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Why don’t we do anything?
 
Orders.’

‘He’s still operational?’

‘Must be.
 
But not for us, he’s not.’

‘By ‘us’ you mean the Met?’

‘Or SOCA, as far as I know.
 
What Box is up to, or what else is going on within the NCA, I will soon
no doubt find out.
 
Or not.’

‘It will be in the next room.’

‘Precisely,’ he said.
 
‘All I know is there’s an unholy row
going on.
 
The Commissioner made it
clear that he could not use that ID on the UK mainland.
 
But the Commissioner’s no longer the
boss.
 
The head of the NCA outranks
him on such matters.’

He took a packet of chewing gum from
his pocket and folded a stick into his mouth.

‘That’s why I didn’t want you involved,
Becket.
 
It was bigger than both of
us.’

‘And I would think it was you,’ I said.
‘Because of your past.’

‘That too.
 
And the fact I didn’t really want to believe he was involved in the
death of Sir Simeon.’

‘You were told to back off.’

He nodded.

‘And we did.
 
We couldn’t even do those little cunts from the Alconbury
for aiding and abetting.
 
That
hurt.
 
Even the Coroner’s Court was
a pain in the arse’

‘You got the second PM, then?’

‘Yes, injuries consistent with the use
of baseball bats,’ he said dryly.
 
‘Usually a strong indication of premeditation.
 
Not much baseball played in North
London.’

He laughed sourly.
 
I had a sense of humour deficit around
Richie.

‘Haloperidol in his bloods?’ I asked.

‘Yep.’

A child chased a squirrel and shouted
at it in Italian.
 

‘So where are you going with this,
Becket?’

‘Me?
 
I’m just handing over the evidence I’ve got.
 
To you, DCI Richie.
 
This is a CD with CCTV footage of
people searching my flat last night, removing surveillance devices.’

Richie opened his mouth but nothing
came out.
 
I went on,
 
‘Exhibit B is a photograph of Marchant
talking to the Djbril Mustapha.
 
I
got it from Darren Paterson’s phone, and finally this is a still of ‘Lukas
Merweville’ entering the country.
 
I’m sure you have all this information already Richie, but I thought I
would hand it over while someone takes photographs of us.
 
You see that fat chap over there, the
one in the rather unprepossessing anorak?
 
You can’t smell him from here, but he’s got a zoom lens.’

I waved.
 
Littlemore waved back.

‘That’s my insurance policy, Richie.
 
That someone arrests them before they
do any more damage.
 
And then
someone has a serious chat with Mrs Jenny Forbes-Marchant.’

Richie smiled.
 
In a certain light, he really did look
like Jimmy Somerville of Bronski Beat.

‘You really are unbelievable,
Becket.
 
I would do all these
things for you, if they hadn’t been done already.
 
Why do you think the top brass were so exercised by all
this?
 
No one told them.
 
One of them was caught at your office
in Canterbury.
 
The other two in a beat
up Range Rover on the M2.’

‘You got all three of them?’

‘Yes, you dumb fuck.
 
They have been trying to contact you to
do a formal ID for the last day.
 
Don’t you have a phone?’

He had pulled the rug from under me.

‘I should go down there now,’ I said.

He sighed.

‘
Don’t worry
,
I sorted it
.
 
Not without a great deal of pain and expense.
 
You see, our friend Merweville asked to talk to the Chief
Constable of Kent, who in turn woke our dear Commissioner as he slumbered in St
Valery-en-Caux.
 
That’s why I
agreed to see you, Becket.
 
Not
because I thought you had any new information for me.
 
But because I could tell you it’s over, and
finally-finally-finally to please, pretty-please, pretty-please-with-knobs on,
stay out of it.
 
I will try my best
to clear it up and then I will let you know what really happened.
 
Promise.’

We
sat at her little kitchen table overlooking the square below.
 
The window was slightly ajar letting in
the soft, diesel-and-dust London air.
 
It still felt like summer, but the leaves drifted from the trees as
carelessly as sweet wrappers from the hands of schoolchildren.
 
There was an air of celebration, but I
wasn’t quite sure why.

‘He actually called you a ‘dumb fuck’?’
Kat Persaud said, as I finished telling her about my meeting with Richie.
 
‘I thought people only did that in
American films.
 
You dumb fuck!
’

Her accent was so bad it made me
laugh.
 
She refilled our glasses
with some fizzy wine that could have been Cava once.
 
We had started on the expensive stuff I had brought round and
worked ourselves down the price range of whatever was in her fridge.
 
Her flatmate was out for the evening.

‘You stupid schmuck, Becket!’ I said.

‘You lookin’ at me, you freakin’ mook?’

‘That’s the best!’ I said.
 
‘But it’s so true.
 
All this FBI-speak will be coming in
with the NCA.’

‘It will be
de rigueur
, as they say.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Anyway, all the bad guys are safely
locked away,’ she said raising her glass.
 
‘Thanks to Becket.’

‘Yes indeed.
 
Three cheers for me.
 
Richie
rang Kent’s Finest and I can ID them tomorrow.
 
After the funeral.’

She stood abruptly and starting putting
some plates down on the table.

‘I’m afraid we are just eating up
what’s left,’ she said.
 
‘Or tapas,
as I call it.’

I scanned her report on my iPad.

‘What I still don’t get is why they let
it get so far.
 
What you say here,
it all makes sense until the final part.
 
It’s 1961-2; Simeon Marchant is in South Africa.
 
Has a liaison with a local woman,
marries her, a child is born.
 
Mark.
 
The boy dies a few
months later.
 
No one knows what
happens to his mum, except she and Simeon are divorced.
 
We have that in black and white, if you
excuse the pun.
 
Fast-forward to the
mid-Nineties.
 
Someone needs a
false identity with dual British-South African citizenship.
 
This is a two-passport job, for
operational reasons.
 
RSA not too
difficult back then, 1994, and our very own High Commission in Jo’Burg even
easier.
 
And Mark Marchant is
reborn in the form of one Lukas Merweville.
 
We have very little background on Merweville before then...’

‘Pre-internet, of course.’

‘...
or
who he
worked for.
 
Could be South African
intelligence or de Klerk’s disbanded secret police.
 
It doesn’t matter.
 
He is South African by birth and heritage
,
we know that
.
 
His
job, commissioned by someone, their government of ours, probably both, is to
infiltrate a group of white South African expats in Earls Court.
 
Not too difficult as it seems they
spend most of their time in the pub—either drinking or behind the
bar—talking about how bad things were ‘back home’.
 
Not exactly white supremacists, more
like
Daily Mail
readers concerned
that their country is going to the dogs but not prepared to do anything about
it themselves.
 
How did you get
this stuff, by the way?’

She leant over me.

‘Click on the footnotes.
 
There!
 
Operation Flametree
, it was called.
 
Declassified in 2011, in South Africa not here, of course.’

‘The object being to neutralise any
threats to the peaceful nature of Nelson Mandela’s state visit to the UK and,
in particular, Brixton.
 
Marchant-Merweville reports there is no threat, just hot air, and the
visit proceeds without incident.’

‘They would all be locked up these days
just for talking about it,’ she observed.

‘True.’ I said.
 
‘Of course what would happen next,
according to the book, would be for the identity of Marchant to be closed
down—it had been compromised after all—and Merweville returning to
normal duties.’

‘But for some reason that did not
happen,’ she said.
 
‘Do you like
sardines?
 
There is a can somewhere
in here.’

She was rummaging in the back of the
cupboard, standing on tiptoe, her t-shirt riding up at the back.
 
It was a surprisingly tanned and downy
back.
 
It reminded me how young she
was.
 
I averted my eyes.

‘My guess is cock-up rather than
conspiracy,’ I said.
 
‘Both sides
thought the other was dealing with it.
 
Whatever the reason, Merweville leaves, sets up REsurance...’

‘Catchy title.’

‘...
and
for
some reason names one ‘Mark Marchant’ as a partner.
 
Perhaps it looks better.
 
Perhaps he needs a British citizen on board to get some
contracts.
 
Perhaps, even at that
stage, he has been digging around into Sir Simeon Marchant’s background.
 
Whatever the reason, he keeps the ID but
uses it sparingly.’

‘None of which answers your question,’
she said, sitting down.
 
‘Eat.’

There was a bowl of sardines, some pita
bread, a roulade of goat’s cheese, salami slices,
one
boiled egg cut in half.
 
She topped
up our glasses.

‘None of which answers the question:
why did they let it go on so long?’
 
I said.
 
‘The only answer is
that he must have been working for them.’

‘I guess so.
 
Among other things: Zimbabwe, Egypt, Somalia, Eritrea,
Kuwait, Kurdistan, East Timor, and latterly Iraq and Afghanistan.
 
Places not entirely separate from British
foreign policy.
 
The perfect
sub-contractor: someone deniable.’

‘So why spoil it all?
 
What did he do to piss on his chips?’

‘His passport was up for
renewal—he renewed it in 2004—perhaps they wanted to pull the plug
on him?
 
That would explain it,
perhaps.’

She didn’t seem too sure.

‘Perhaps it affects his business?
 
None of it makes any sense.
 
The extremeness of his actions seem,
well, too
extreme
...’

‘Well put, Mr Becket!’

‘Can I ask you a question?’ I asked.

‘Fire away.’

‘This website for Hawesworth and
Breckenridge.
 
Does it seem strange
to you?’

‘You noticed that too?’

‘Yes, it is as if they are not selling
anything.
 
Most solicitors are
selling their wares. But...’

‘It is as if they don’t have to,’ she
said.
 
‘I’m in Washington next
week.
 
A routine
meeting.
 
What does that
sound like?
 
I’m an academic
jetsetter.
 
No, we have a joint bid
with Washington State.
 
But I could
have a look at their files, over there.
 
They tend to be more comprehensive.’

‘Can I ask you another question, Dr
Persaud?’

‘Go ahead, Mr Becket.’

‘Doesn’t alcohol affect you at all?’

I
was late getting to Meg’s and she didn’t seem too keen on my explanation for
the reason; that I had to meet my researcher at her flat to go through her
report.
 
It seemed pretty thin to
me too when I said it.
 

‘How old is she?’ Meg asked.
 
‘And did you come to any conclusions?’

‘I’ll tell you in the restaurant.’

We managed to find a place still
serving down the Edgware Road.
 
Extended families of middle-eastern heritage clustered together, drinking
tea and eating sweetmeats.
 
Older
men sat outside smoking from hookahs, sending up blue flumes of smoke into the
night air.
 
I knew Meg loved this
part of London as it reminded her of our time abroad, or perhaps just her time
abroad.
 
Whatever the reason, it
was a place she had moved post-Becket, a place where she had reverted to her
maiden name and used the title ‘Ms.’.
 
And who could blame her?
 
The
other one had not done her much good.

I had tried to put the consequences of
my actions out of my mind.
 
Not
just the whole pre-history of selfishness and neglect, but also the night
before last.
 
In retrospect, that
too seemed like a selfish act on my part.
 
I shuddered at the thought of it; what Meg made of it.
 
And now, this very evening, I was doing
exactly the same; I was two hours late having spent the early evening at the flat
of an attractive woman two decades my junior just because—sorry,
obviously not
just
because—I was
interested in something out there, something that was not us, a problem to
solve at whatever costs.
 
I had
ceased to see myself as a crusader—a discredited term anyway these
days—someone with crusading zeal, to make the world a better place, a
fundamentalist, with absolute values.
 
It was not like that.
 
I was
a relativist like the rest of them, just less of one.
 
A less efficient one.

We ordered sparkling water with our
kebabs.
 
Meg was on an early shift
the next day and I’d had enough of drinking.
 
I explained the background to the case and why I had seen
Kat Persaud.
 
Somehow
Jenny Forbes-Marchant had been duped by a man impersonating her
dead half-brother
.
 
For
whatever reason she had been complicit in the murder of her own father.
 
But what was the level of that
complicity?
 
That was what I wanted
to know.
 
That was why I could not
leave it alone.
 
I told the story
to Meg as if it was an article in a newspaper that I was reading her across the
breakfast table.
 

From time to time she would glance from
my face to my untouched food.
 
It
was like an admonition.
 
So I had
to eat.

‘What I don’t understand,’ she said,
‘is why
you
have to do something
about it.
 
The guys who attacked
you are locked up, thank god.
 
You
have handed over the evidence to the police.
 
But you are still going to the funeral...’

‘That’s different.
 
I have to pay my respects.
 
I can’t leave it without...’

‘Don’t give me that.
 
You are going to ask that woman whether
she knew about the attack on her father, aren’t you?
 
You won’t leave it to the police as that man, Richie,
said.
 
You don’t trust anyone.
 
You just have to do it yourself.
 
You never really trusted anyone, Thomas.’

She let that hang in the air, and I
chewed through some very nice cardboard masquerading as pita bread.
 
More pita bread.
 
A surfeit of pita
bread.
 
I thought about a
suitable response, but she was right I could never leave things alone.
 
She smiled.

‘You think I'm wrong, don’t you?
 
You’ve gone quiet.
 
That’s a sign Becket thinks I'm wrong.’

‘I just don’t regard human behaviour as
acts of nature,’ I said.
 
‘Crimes
are not accidents.
 
They arise out
of choice.
 
This is not A&E we
are talking about.
 
People do not
present with conditions, or whatever you call it; they make choices...’

‘I know that.
 
I’m not stupid, Becket.
 
I know it isn’t like A&E.
 
I’m just saying you have a choice, too.’

I excused myself and went to the
toilet.
 
My heart was beating
fast.
 
I was furious with Meg.
 
This was not the way it was meant to
be.
 
This was meant to be the end,
or almost the end of the case, a time for celebration to moving on to the next
thing.
 
But the next round of
things did not look too good to me.
 
They seemed flat and lifeless and of no interest to me.
 
Whereas knowing whether Jenny
Forbes-Marchant was involved in the killing of her father was fascinating.
 
To know why she made decisions, or
choices, seemed to me at the heart of existence, my existence anyway.
 
And to ignore it, as Meg was doing,
seemed as wrong as the crime itself.
 
With anyone else I would have stormed out, but with Meg I couldn’t, we
shared too much pain to do that.
 
And I loved her.