‘I have no idea what you mean.’
‘Raymond told you what had happened; he admitted that last night. He said that he told you why Starr had done it too. And he said that you went absolutely crazy.’
‘And wouldn’t you?’ Weston shouted. ‘That boy is my flesh, my blood, my bone, and I love him whatever he does. To see him hurt, violated in that way by a pitiless animal like that little creep. . What would you have done?’
‘I’ll tell you, man to man. I’d have gone to see him and I’d have beaten the living shit out of him, beaten him to within a centimetre of his life. But what I wouldn’t have done is drugged him, tied him to his kitchen table, cut off his hands before his eyes with the carving knife that’s missing from the set in his kitchen, then let the poor bastard watch his own death flow out of his veins. What sort of a pitiless animal does that? And how the hell, Professor,’ McGuire’s voice rose, ‘did you know that Starr was a little man?’
The surgeon thrust himself to his feet, towering over the still-seated detective. ‘Chief Superintendent,’ he hissed, ‘if you had a shred of evidence to back up that allegation, you would not have come here alone. We both know that. This interview is over.’ He strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Ninety-three
Bob Skinner stood against the boundary wall of the small churchyard, listening as the priest intoned the words of committal, watching as the oaken coffin was lowered into the grave. There were few mourners; most were people in their thirties dressed in traditional black. No one present wore any other type of uniform. As they dispersed, they filed respectfully past the bereaved family, shaking hands with the weeping mother, and with the sister, brother-in-law and two young nephews.
He waited until they were gone, and until Esther Craig caught his eye. She said a few words to her husband; he glanced in the Scot’s direction, but did not follow as she walked towards him.
‘Hello, Bob,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming, and for helping us do this for Moses.’
‘Please give my condolences to your family,’ he replied. ‘Whether you tell them what I have to say to you now, well, that’s your choice to make.’
She looked at him, and saw his hesitancy. ‘What is it?’ she asked him quietly.
‘There’s something I held back from you when I saw you last, something you have a right to know. I told you that Moses died on an operation, in a fire-fight.’
‘Yes.’
‘That was true, but there were facts I left out, important facts. The situation, the thing that happened, well, through his beliefs, Moses found himself on what most people would regard as the wrong side.’
‘Was Titus involved?’
The question took him by surprise. ‘Yes, but why do you ask that?’
‘Because my stepfather is a very mysterious man, and because he and Moses were thick as thieves. Where Titus led, he would follow.’
‘In this case, I’m not sure who followed whom; in truth I think they were both manipulated by someone else. But the most important thing I have to tell you is that I was involved in that operation, on the other side.’
‘But you’re a policeman, not a soldier?’
‘Nonetheless, I was.’ As he spoke he saw something in her eyes, and he knew that she was remembering the sensational news coverage from a time not long past, and details that he would rather had been kept secret.
‘That thing,’ she whispered. ‘Your name; I remember now.’
‘That thing,’ he repeated.
‘What happened?’
‘Lots of things happened, and very fast. It was dark and we couldn’t see the faces of the people we were shooting at, but we knew that we had to. When it was all over, I found that I’d shot my friend Adam, your brother Moses.’
She looked at him for moments that seemed to stretch out, as if a scream, a denunciation was building up within her. But when it broke, it was quiet, a question. ‘Are you saying it was a mistake?’
‘Friendly fire? No, not in the sense you mean. Your brother made a choice he believed to be right for his country. Unfortunately, it brought him into conflict with me. I will live the rest of my life regretting that it happened, but it did. The way I rationalise it is that I believe, as he did, that it was something I had to do.’
‘I understand that,’ the woman told him. ‘I sense the same strength in you that was in Moses, although you’re very different men. But there’s one more thing I have to know, Bob. Why have you chosen to tell me this, when you didn’t have to? I think I realise that it’s not the sort of thing that’s ever going to be made public. So why have you come?’
He shrugged his shoulders, then straightened them, as if he had thought the gesture might convey indifference. ‘Because it would have been cowardly not to,’ he replied, ‘and also because, if things had been the other way round, it’s what my friend would have found a way to do.’
Ninety-four
‘I’m sorry to call you up here again, James,’ said Russell Goddard.
‘Rector,’ Proud replied sincerely, ‘I wish I’d come up here more often over the years. What can I do for you?’
‘You can ease my conscience, James.’
‘About Claude Bothwell? You don’t have any need to reproach yourself there. You were the key to finding him.’
‘No, it’s not about Adolf, damn the swine. This is something else; it has to do with the murder of that awful man Starr.’
‘I beg your pardon.’ Proud gazed at him, taken completely aback.
‘There’s something I should have told you before, but I couldn’t believe that it was relevant. I was sure that there must be some explanation other than the most terrible one. Also, I was expecting to be asked about it by one of your people, but none of them ever called on me.’ The chief constable thought that he detected a note of criticism.
‘I’m an old man, James,’ Mr Goddard continued, ‘but I’ve retained most of my faculties. My vision is sharp, with glasses, and I’m remarkably fit for a man of my age. One of the ways I’ve achieved that is by remaining active. I go out on my bike during the day and sometimes I’ll even go out for a walk at night, when the television starts to bore me. I did so on the night of Starr’s death, at around ten thirty. I put on my coat and hat and I went out of the back door, for convenience. It’s easier to lock and unlock and not so heavy. I was just stepping into the lane when I saw a man. He was opening the door to Starr’s back garden. He didn’t see me at all, but I got a good look at him, and in the moonlight, I recognised him. I knew him because we were reacquainted at a school reunion last Easter. . one that you missed, incidentally.’ The rector smiled.
‘Who was it?’ Proud asked, as eager as a schoolboy.
‘It was young Nolan Weston, the surgeon.’
Ninety-five
For once, the Scotsman, the Herald and the red-tops were united in their view on what was the lead story of the day. Their headlines trumpeted the appointment of Aileen de Marco, newly elected leader of the Labour Party in Scotland, as the country’s First Minister, the youngest person to hold the office, and the first woman. Their reporters reviewed her meteoric career, praising her skill and her courage; the few who referred to her private life reached the conclusion that it was exactly that. Their leader writers decreed, again with unprecedented unanimity, that her accession signalled the start of a new era for the country, in which the old stagnant political attitudes and structures would be swept aside.
Sir James Proud studied them all, his satisfaction growing with each favourable finding. He ended with the Herald, and was about to set it aside when a headline leaped at him from the foot of page one: ‘MI5 Chief and MP Die in Chopper Crash.’ Beneath it, there was a sub-head: ‘Tories Face By-election Test.’ He folded the newspaper and read.