Dead Letter Drop

8

The only courtesy I had from the French police during that entire following week was a choice of bunks in the cell: top bunk or bottom bunk. I’d taken the top and was glad of my decision, for sometime during every night they brought in a drunk who collapsed into the bottom bunk and would spend the night alternating between grunting and throwing up. Every morning they’d take him away again. I never got to see the faces of the drunks clearly; for all I knew, it could have been the same one every night.

The week had been pure hell and I was nearing the end of my tether. My arm hurt like hell from where the bullet had been removed, but I hadn’t been afforded the luxury of a single night in a hospital bed — they stitched my arm up, bandaged it, and put me straight into the cell. I was sore all over, damn bloody sore.

It was hot, airless and gloomy in the cell; a few streaks of sunlight occasionally managed to find their way in through the maze of bars in a small grille high up in the wall, but all they did was to heighten the gloom below. The police had not permitted me to make any telephone calls and had firmly indicated I was not going to be allowed to make any: not to the consulate, not to a lawyer, not to anywhere. Monsieur was not going to receive any aid from anyone until he had fully divulged the identity of the entire drugs ring.

The ad in The Times, the visit from Wetherby did not seem to interest them. They insisted they wanted the truth. For seven days they had dragged me in and out of that cell, into another windowless room but with very bright lighting, where they had interrogated me. Soon I was going to start yelling at them, those mean sods that stank of yesterday’s garlic. There was nothing more I could do. I didn’t know any more, unless they wanted me to start inventing things, which I didn’t think would do me very much good in the long run.

I cursed every night, through the long nights, at having been so stupid, having landed myself in this for a lousy £500, which I probably no longer even had. If I ever got out of here I knew what I was going to do. I was going to find Wetherby and knock his block off.

But he saved me the trouble.

The warder came as usual to take me to the first session of the day and took me into the room that I by now knew only too well. I sat on the wooden chair and waited for my interrogators to show up. Instead, Wetherby came in.

He didn’t shake my hand this time but lowered himself with considerable effort into a chair near me. He was still wearing the same mac, the same thick suit, the same green tie. His shirt was of a more lightweight nature. The beads of perspiration were in place on his head and he mopped them off with what looked like the same filthy handkerchief. He puffed a couple of times, and then patted his thighs. He looked cheerful.

‘Well, old boy, you’re in a spot of trouble.’

‘Oh really?’

‘Spot of trouble all right; oh dear, oh dear.’

He did not give me the impression of being a man under arrest. ‘What are you doing here?’ I said.

‘Me? Heard you were in a spot of bother — just popped in — see how you’re getting on.’

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Hot in here,’ he said. ‘Bad on air-conditioning, the French. Can’t understand it — always hot summers, always no air-conditioning. Not much in England either. No. Americans have it. They all have it.’

Wetherby was looking smug. In fact he was looking pretty damn pleased with himself. His arrival in this room placed an extremely odd complexion on things. Extremely odd. He looked decidedly as though he knew something, and I was more than mildly curious to find out what. ‘Will you tell me who the hell you are?’

‘Long sentences, drugs, in France. Very long. Hard labour. Nasty prisons. No remissions. Heroin — minimum of five years. Yes, minimum of five years. Never usually get that. Fourteen, fifteen, maybe less; twelve, perhaps. Not good, heroin.’ He patted his thighs again; it was an irritating habit. ‘Murder’s very bad. Very bad. Still got the guillotine; rarely used, though. Usually life. Long time, life, in France. Twenty years. Maybe thirty. Not good.’

There was a long silence — very long. Oddly I felt calmer. I wasn’t so scared now, scared the way I had been during the past week. There was something about this peculiar man that was comforting.

Then I felt it all welling up inside me again, churning my stomach inside out. I was in here for real. This was a real prison. I was a real criminal. I wasn’t at school any more, about to be gated or caned for a misdemeanour. I wasn’t at Sandhurst, about to get a right dressing down for blowing up a dummy tank half an hour before the Field Marshal came to inspect the exercise. I was a heroin-runner and a murderer. A court of justice would dictate my future and they were going to put me behind bars until well into my middle age. I felt myself quivering, and started hating and loving and hating and loving Wetherby; hating him because he had been responsible for putting me here, loving him because — somehow, somewhere, someplace along the line — he had to represent hope. He had to. ‘Help me.’

He shoved his hands into his mac pockets. He drew his cheeks in and then opened his lips with a popping sound. ‘Not a good place for a young man,’ he said. ‘Not good at all.’

There was another long silence. I waited.

‘You got there early. Very early. Unfortunate. Might have missed the whole thing if you’d arrived there on time. Eleven o’clock you were told. Might have missed the whole thing if you’d gone at eleven. On the other hand, you might not. Lot of shooting. Lot of bullets.’ He pulled a crumpled white paper bag from his pocket and proffered it to me: it contained monkey nuts. I declined. He took one, and started shelling it, slowly. ‘Lot of shooting. Must have handled yourself very well. Very well.’ He paused to munch his nuts. ‘They can’t all have been rotten shots.’ He started to attack another shell. ‘You’re in big trouble, I’m afraid. Don’t need me to tell you. Interpol’s been after this lot for a long time. Long time. Big ring. Big trouble. Heroin. Gun-running. Other things too. Not much in your defence. Judges could be lenient. Twenty years for the lot. That’d be light. You’d be lucky for that.’

‘What’s the way out? Or did you just come to tell me the bad news?’

‘Expensive. Very expensive.’

‘I don’t have a lot of money.’

He broke another shell in half, and shook his head. ‘Money’s no good. Don’t want that. No. Don’t want that at all.’

‘What do you want?’

There was another interminable pause. Wetherby sat back in his chair with a whole handful of nuts to shell. He worked on them one by one. When he had finished he stared me straight in the face. ‘You,’ he said.

‘Pardon?’

Suddenly Wetherby ceased to be an overweight peanut-guzzling slob; his face sprang alive; it was intelligent and tough as iron. ‘We want you to come and join the British civil service.’

‘The civil service? Are you joking?’

‘No, Mr Flynn, I am not joking.’

‘You want me to come and push a pen in Whitehall?’ I was stunned.

‘Not exactly, old boy.’

‘But what do you mean. For how long?’

‘No idea, old boy. But it’ll be better than this. And damn well paid.’

‘What do I get: local planning or child welfare?’

‘Neither, old boy. The Home Office; in the department which deals with security — and I don’t mean locks or pensions — The British Security Service, originally Department 5 of Military Intelligence and better known by its abbreviation: MI5. You’ve heard of it, I’m sure?’

I nodded weakly.

‘We think you’d be a good chap to have on board; need young fellows with drive, initiative. Of course, there’s no obligation on you.’ He reached for another shell. ‘No obligation at all. But I personally think you’ll find it worth a try.’

‘I don’t seem to have much choice.’

‘Well. We’ll see. Put you through the training. If you make the grade, good.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘France has no statute of limitation for murder, old boy.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘In some countries if a crime is committed and the police don’t prosecute within a certain period of time — maybe five years, ten, fifteen — then the criminal goes scot free. In France they don’t have that. They can go for you tomorrow, or in six months… or in forty years’ time.’

I stared at Wetherby a long, long time. His face had slackened again and his interest was once more turned to his nuts. If this was a standard procedure the British Secret Service had a pretty damn strange method of recruiting.