Lies And Consequences Collection

Chapter 6

A New Life

Unlike other branches of the criminal investigative departments within the Metropolitan police, C11 did not have a central office at Scotland Yard. There were many scattered around London and beyond its perimeters, all trying to keep their anonymity. Trenchard had an office to himself just off the Haymarket in Suffolk Street in an otherwise unused four-storeyed terrace house. My orders were to write a report on what happened with Jack and leave it on his desk first thing Saturday morning on my way to Kilburn and my car salesman role. To have left that position so soon after the bungled security van robbery would have raised suspicions, thereby endangering future operations for me, and the front.

I wrote my report in long-hand, paying heed to Jack"s warning of careful appraisal of the information he had disclosed, before leaving my flat at around eight that morning. My omission of the Prime Minister"s name was not done through any sense of loyalty to him or his position, more in a way as self-protection. If Jack had been wrong then I would have looked a complete fool in reporting a rumour and if he"d been right, then I figured that my life would have been over in one way or another. There were a couple of things I had to do before I got to Suffolk Street, but as I was in no hurry I played Jack"s game of shaking off any would-be followers by occasionally doubling back on myself before retracing my route. As I crested the Duke of York"s steps, turning to see if anyone else was climbing them and then stopping to light a cigarette when there were none, a young scrawny boy no older than fourteen thrust a sealed envelope at me, saying, “This is for you.”

At that he ran off in the direction of Carlton Gardens, leaving me speechless. For some inexplicable reason I never opened it; I waited until I was inside Trenchard"s building.

If you"re after sun, sea and s*x then do nothing about this note, but as I know you"re after much more than that be at No 74 The Albany, Piccadilly by nine. Amy sends his regards!

If you"re after sun, sea and s*x then do nothing about this note, but as I know you"re after much more than that be at No 74 The Albany, Piccadilly by nine. Amy sends his regards!

It would be easy to say that I abandoned the significance I previously placed on morality by an iniquitous value I suddenly placed on prestige, but that was not strictly true. I never believed that virtue would give me power in the first place and it was the lure of power that had me in its grasp. Not for one second did I question the authenticity of this note coming from anyone other than Jack. Ethics are fine in idealism, but dishonesty and pragmatism are the only tools that will sustain power once it"s been achieved. Every sinew in my body ached for the excitement that could be supplied by Jack Price. He held the power that I craved and I wanted to snatch it from his clenched fist. It had taken me about a minute to decide what to do with the information that Jack had given me about the Garage club and Miller"s conspiracy; it took less time to decide about this invitation. Had I taken more time to make a considered choice then maybe my future might have been different, that"s if I ever had a say over my future at all.

In order to start a new life the old one has not only to die but be buried safely away from view and interference. That may appear to be an obvious statement; however, never having had the need to change, it was not one I considered. As far as I was concerned the suitcase I carried was light on relevant history books or files of past achievements, and what there were could easily be hidden on the bottom layer, but there were others who carried not only a key to that case, but the pen that was writing my life story day by very day.

In less than five minutes after opening that note I was knocking on the designated door in the private, exclusive courtyard of The Albany. It was promptly opened by a colossus of a man with deeply scarred tissue on the left side of his face with the blackest of deep-set eyes I"d ever seen. I don"t know why, but I thought the scarring had been caused by an explosion of some sort.

“Put those clothes over there on and be quick about it, young sir. There"s a cab to catch and a new life to begin.” He pointed at a brown long-haired wig, a pair of false spectacles, a blue jacket and black shoes with built-up heels that made me look two inches taller. Without a single question or utterance I obeyed. The only sound in that room was the scraping noise of one set of clothes being shoved into a plastic carrier bag whilst another set was put on.

* * *

“Did you have someone at the rear entrance of The Albany?”

“We did, sir! We had two men trailing West this morning and as soon as he entered the courtyard one of them was around the back to that innocuous-looking rear exit. We"ve used that building ourselves once or twice. Great short cut if you know it"s there. They jumped into a cab, but the cab they used is not registered at the Public Carriage Office nor is the number plate assigned to any vehicle according at the Ministry of Transport. We"ve lost him!”

“What about Price? Is he still at that place of his in Soho?”

“Left DC West in Soho Square a little after ten o"clock last night, returning straight home. We tried his door this morning at eleven, but after getting no reply we forced it to gain entry. There was a step-ladder in the rear bedroom leading to a trapdoor into the loft. From there he had access to the roof area. He could have gone anywhere from up there, sir! The man who met West this morning was easy to recognise. The head porter knew he wasn"t a resident. Said he"d come to deliver a package to Sir Horace Butler. He insisted on taking it himself. Flashed a wallet at him with what the porter said was a police warrant card. Added he had the key and was expected to enter if Butler wasn"t there. Our man at the back in Burlington Gardens copped him straight off. West was disguised, but it was him all right. The man with him was Job, sir. No mistake with that one. Pointing his camera at everything, he was. Probably got our chap in one photo at least.”

“What has this Sir Horace Butler to do with any of it?”

“I doubt he has anything, as we can"t trace anyone of that name.”

“Blank wall then?”

“Seems that way, sir, yes!”

“I wonder where West will surface and for what purpose?”

“Tantum tempus narrabo, sir.”

Tantum tempus narrabo“Indeed it will!”

* * *

Once I was dressed, the man who had met me ushered me along a curved covered veranda to a doorway opening onto Burlington Gardens then, after producing a heavy camera from the holdall he carried, started to snap away at everything at ground and rooftop level. A black London cab drew alongside us almost immediately and we were in, turning left at Regent Street towards Oxford Circus. We turned left again, and as we reached the Bentley car showroom at Berkeley Square my fellow passenger alighted, and stood on the corner photographing every vehicle with occupants that had followed us along Bruton Street. No one at this stage had spoken a word to me since leaving The Albany. That did not change until Scarface was back in the cab again.

“It"s clear behind. Waterloo next stop! There was one I recognised who made us as we came out the back, but that was to be expected,” he said directly to me.

He had a quiet, deliberate voice which coupled to his size was reassuring in a manner that I had not anticipated. There was the trace of an accent to his speech that I could not put my finger on, but if I had to take a guess then Afrikaans would have been my choice. I was shaking, but not uncomfortably through fear. It was the adrenaline of excitement pumping through my veins. I sat patiently waiting for an explanation which never adequately came.

“In the inside pocket of that jacket you"re wearing is a rail ticket and twenty-two pounds in assorted coins and notes. I want you to check it now and then sign this receipt.”

“Where am I going?” I asked.

“Tells you on the ticket. I"m not your nursemaid. You are expected to do something yourself.” With neither a soft voice nor a bad-tempered one he told me, he just said it. I followed his instructions and whilst I was counting the money he passed me a slim wallet with an opened envelope.

“There"s a driving licence in here under the name of Phillip Marks. The envelope is addressed to you under that name with a letter from your fictional boss inside. You won"t end up with the name of Marks, nor that address, but it will do if you fall over, injuring yourself and need police or ambulance assistance until all of this is sorted out. It"s best that neither of us know much about each other. Jack wanted me to pass on a message, said you"d understand that it came from him and no one else. Said Twickenham was in the right direction for Guildford.”

The imagination I"d locked away inside now had its chance to be explored, but if it was an illustrious fanfare I had expected to be playing on my acceptance within Jack"s nefarious world then I was disappointed. However, that focused regret over a prosaic welcome was misguided. I should have shown more recognition to the abandonment of my innocence than the unquestioned approval I tacitly gave him.

“Will Jack be meeting me at Twickenham station?”

“Can"t say for sure but I doubt it. Mr Price doesn"t care too fondly for the daylight hours.”

I looked directly into those shadowy eyes, finding nothing remotely excitable in them, just a professional doing a job of work. He was roughly forty years of age, smartly dressed with hands and feet that matched his enormity. For some reason I found it odd that he was clean-shaven, as a beard would have covered those hideous scars of his. Fingernails that were immaculately manicured, but the skin on the back and palms of his hands was coarse and gnarled as though well used to manual tasks. The holdall at his feet looked of military issue which fitted how I saw him. I could not make out the driver"s face as his interior mirror was tilted upwards towards the roof of the cab, but from the little I could see of his silhouette there was nothing distinguishing about him. Younger than my companion by a few years with the same colour hair; black. A hooked nose but apart from that, nothing. My agitation had captured Scarface"s attention.

“The first time into action is always the hardest. The realisation that the unknown waits around the corner is the making or the breaking of a man"s spirit. You either bottle it or make it into something. You"ve been selected for something big, young man, be happy that it"s you Jack wants.”

“I wasn"t aware that I was being recruited and I"m certain that I don"t know why some ex-undercover spy would want me. You, yes, but me! What do I have that"s in demand?”

“Perhaps it"s your innocence. We all had that once.”

“Where did yours get left behind?” I asked with rising confidence.

“Vietnam, when I got out!”

“I didn"t know we had a military presence in that war.”

“We didn"t, but some over here had an interest in what was happening over there, so they sent me along with some others. We all came home, Phillip. Don"t you worry about a thing. Jack is a very precise and careful man.”

“Am I to become anonymous like the department that you work for?”

“No, Phillip! Anonymity means that there"s no name. You will be given a name to suit the circumstances you"re needed for. People like me have no need of a name.”

“Was Jack in charge of your venture into Vietnam then?” I asked, but he gave no answer, just stared straight ahead.

* * *

“Why is Job his name? Do you think it was mixed up with a job sometime in the past and his name was just wrongly interpreted?”

“Would that be important if it had?”

“I guess not, but it could be!”