Sam worked for one of the Home Office agencies — anti-terror or against organised crime — Claire had said it was something like that. He and Claire had once been an item, but the relationship had foundered on the secrets between them. Sam had been unable to share his work and unwilling to accept that Claire had her own secrets. Now Claire was dead.
I stopped a few yards away. “Sam? It was you who left the note?”
“We’re not on first name terms,” he said. “You’re not my friend.” He steadfastly looked ahead, refusing to acknowledge my presence.
“I’m not your enemy either.”
“Sit down,” he said. “You draw too much attention.”
I looked around the darkened park. “This was your choice, Sam. There are warmer, more private and more welcoming places we could talk.”
He took out a stainless steel flask from his jacket and flicked off the top, lifting it to his lips, he took a long swig. I could smell the whisky from where I stood, and it wasn’t the first swig he’d taken. I moved forward and sat on the other end of the bench, leaving enough between for someone else to sit — as if there were a presence between us. “I’m told you have something for me.” I reminded him.
“That I do,” he said. He tucked the flask back into his coat, struggling for a moment to replace it. There was a sound, like a muted pop, through the fabric of his coat. Something hit me, like punch in the side. It came again. I put my hand down and it came away red. “You bastard.” My head was swimming as the shock hit me. He’d shot me.
Sam stood up. “The first one’s for Claire,” he said, “and the second is for me. You’re a hazard, Petersen. Like a mad dog, you have to be put down. They said it would make it slow and painful — and I don’t want you to die quickly. I want it slow, so you’d get time to think about what you’ve done. One in the heart and one in the head may be the professional way, but two in the gut is more satisfying for someone who cuts a defenceless woman’s throat and leaves her to bleed.”
I was clutching my side where the blood oozed between my fingers. What had started like a kick in the side was twisting in my guts like a serrated knife. “I didn’t kill her, Sam. I was trying to save her,” I coughed.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s funny how people you try to help keep dying. Enjoy the rest of your life, Petersen, for the short time you have left.” He turned and walked away towards Edgware Road.
“Sam,” I called after him weakly. “You’ve got to help me.” I don’t know whether he didn’t hear me, or whether he didn’t care. Either way he just kept walking.
I tried to stand, but the pain in my guts was excruciating. Sweat dripped from my forehead into my eyes. My lips tasted of salt. My head felt light and I swallowed rising bile. I was losing a lot of blood. If I didn’t get help soon, I was going to pass out, and the chances of ever come round were slim. I tried to think what the treatment for gunshot wounds was, but the only thing I could remember were movies where everyone died a quick and clean death. I lifted my hands and they were slick with my own blood. Pressing my jacket to the wounds in my side, I tried to stem the flow of blood, but I had no strength and it hurt like hell. My arms were failing me. I was starting to slump — I simply couldn’t hold myself up. My chest was heaving as I tried to get more air. I thought fey were supposed to be hard to kill, but when it came to it, dying didn’t seem to be that difficult.
The roughness of the bench rested against my cheek. I was lying there with no idea how I’d got there. I must have passed out. The pain was less acute, but it was spreading through my body until the whole of me ached. My eyelids felt heavy. I had to rest, gather my strength, if only for a moment…
The room was large and dark, but airless. The big stone fireplace holding only embers and the occasional lick of flame, warmed the back of the tall man at the table. He had pushed back the platters and cleared a space so that he could read the curled sheets laid out before him, bringing closer the pewter candelabra so that the light from the candles would fall upon the pages. Another man in a blue surcoat came in and began removing the dishes, moving almost silently so as not to disturb the reader. The man at the table neither acknowledged his presence nor helped him clear.
From my position at the other end of the table I could see the three lions embroidered in gold upon his breast. This was the King, although which King I wasn’t sure. I found myself wishing I’d paid more attention in history lessons at school. He looked different from the man I’d seen by torchlight — taller, leaner, and his face had a gaunt look, though there was something of a resemblance there. The meal at the table had been simple bread and cheese with a few apples, and the plain wooden chair on which he sat could never be termed a throne. It hardly seemed a feast for a King.
The servant who’d cleared the table returned and coughed. “Sire. They’re here.”
The King nodded but continued reading. After a few moments the servant returned with six well-dressed men, who had the look of people who had seen places and done things. Their eyes took in the room, the fire, the servant and the man at the table. They didn’t immediately come forward, but hung back in a group until the King, without preamble, said, “Sit.”
They moved forward as a group and each found a seat at the table. The King continued reading until he had been through them all, and then sighed. He placed the sheets one on another and rested a small silver knife upon the pile. He regarded each man in turn, until the last acknowledged his gaze, a man I thought I recognised.
“Le Brun,” said the King.
“My Liege?” he said.
“Montgomerie, Giffard, Mowbray, Fitzrou, and Ferrers.” The King named each of them in turn, as if weighing them up. He cleared his throat. “Your families served my father, and my grandfather, and I hope you will serve my son when the time is come. That may not happen, if we cannot deal with our situation. We are beset on all sides,” he said. “There is trouble brewing again in Flanders, and the shipyards have yet more delays. There are reports of riot and insurrection in the north, fuelled by outbreaks of disease only made worse by a terrible harvest and widespread hunger. If there were food to sell, no one could afford to buy it. The coffers are empty and our debts rise faster than we can pay them off. Corruption is rife and there are men taking more in bribes than they deliver in taxes. The people are oppressed and they name me as the cause of it.”
“No, My Liege,” said Montgomerie. “Your people see you as their saviour.”
“In the next life, perhaps,” he agreed, “but not in this one. I can sit by and see it fall to ruin, or I can act, but in order to act I need men I can trust. Men who will not be bought, cannot be threatened, and would not be swayed. I need to show strength where it counts and mercy where it matters, but I cannot be everywhere. In short I need each of you to aid me, and bear a measure of this burden.
“We are yours to command, Sire,” said Fitzrou.
“Aye,” agreed the next.
“My thanks, but if that were not true you would not be here. I need more than that. I need men who can be the King’s arm, the King’s head, and the King’s heart. I need men who can be left to act in trust, who will act in my name, without fail, without expectation of reward other than they do God’s will. You will need to use your judgement, use men worthy of trust, and use them wisely. I have chosen you because you stood where no one else would. You are brave, I have no doubt. You cannot be coerced into folly, or bought by those with heavy purses and few scruples. You are intelligent and perceptive. I would have all of this and more.”