SUPPLEMENTARY FILE: UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
‘Shining? Wake up. I know you can hear me.’
‘I can hear you.’
‘We must talk.’
‘I suppose we must.’
‘You got old.’
‘Yes. You didn’t. Which is fascinating. Perhaps not quite as fascinating as the fact that you shouldn’t even be here, but fascinating nonetheless.’
‘I shouldn’t be here?’
‘No. Of course you shouldn’t. You should be dead.’
‘How can you be so sure I’m not?’
‘The fact I’m talking to you?’
‘We know better in our business: things are not always as they should be.’
‘No. That’s true. Still, this would be my first conversation with a dead man.’
‘Really? I used to interrogate them all the time.’
‘Echoes. Shades. A walking, talking dead man? That’s new to me.’
‘Perhaps you were mistaken then. Would that make you more comfortable? Perhaps I’m not dead at all.’
‘No. No, sorry that won’t do. I know you died. You’ll forgive me if it’s tactless to bring it up. I know you died. I was the one who killed you.’
‘I’ve forgiven you.’
‘Then maybe you’ll untie me? My old bones aren’t what they once were.’
‘I think not. Forgiveness will only stretch so far.’
‘A drink of water then?’
‘Perhaps. Later. I must admit I wondered if you’d still be alive yourself. You’re very old.’
‘Very. We Shinings were built to last. Extraordinarily resilient.’
‘Time will tell.’
‘A threat?’
‘I would take no pleasure in torturing an old man to death.’
‘Even the old man who killed you?’
‘Even him. But we must talk.’
‘And what is it you would like to talk about? Cabbages and kings?’
‘I would like to know what you know. I think that would be helpful. I think that would be sensible.’
‘How long have you got? It’s been a long old life – as you kindly point out. I know a lot of things…’
‘But what have you told others? You always did surround yourself with agents and freaks. But how important are they? Who in power might listen to them? My sources tell me that you are operating on your own. And now I have you. Perhaps that will be enough? When the entirety of Section 37 is tied to a chair and totally vulnerable, even the most cautious man would have to admit its potential threat is diminished.’
‘They would.’
‘And yet you smile. You are alone, aren’t you?’
‘I’m sure your sources were quite thorough. Section 37’s been a one-man band for years.’
‘Yes. The world moved on, didn’t it? My own work seems to have been ignored. The department disbanded.’
‘These are impoverished times. Your country is no longer what it once was.’
‘We shall see about that. It has always struggled to thrive under unimaginative leadership.’
‘Since the glorious days of Stalin?’
‘You mock, but at least he had vision. That said, no, I had no love for the old dictator. My father died under his regime. Stalin was a maniac. But perhaps that is also what they say of me?’
‘And are you?’
‘I am… determined. I am an aggressor. I want to attack, to grind this country beneath my heel. I want power. I want control. I want… death. Yes, perhaps I am a maniac after all.’
‘Perhaps you are. And is that really how you want to be remembered?’
‘Remembered? I don’t know if that’s important to me. I resented the fact that my government turned against me, but I think that was more frustration than a feeling of injustice. They weren’t willing to do something that could so easily be done. And will be done. Soon.’
‘Ah yes – the countdown. Wonderfully theatrical. I take it I triggered that by entering the warehouse?’
‘A basic safeguard, in case you were more of a threat than you appear. So, I say again, what do you know?’
‘Ah… But here’s the problem. As you say, we’ve both been playing this game for a long time. If I give you the information you want, I become dispensable. Not what I’d want at all.’
‘But maybe I’ll kill you anyway?’
‘Maybe you will. Either way I seem to be staring death in the face. Any advice on how I deal with it? You being a man with experience.’
‘Yes, I know all about death, August. I know how to receive it and how to give it.’
‘I wonder which side of that equation you’ll end up today.’
‘I too wonder… Perhaps we should find out?’
CHAPTER NINE: RECOGNITION
a) St Mathew’s Church, Aldgate, London
Shining’s contact within the Met was not what I imagined. My experience of the police had been having to handle jaded lifers– men who wore their years served with the same apathy as they did their tired suits and ties. After this, plainclothes detective Geeta Sahni was a breath of fresh air.
She met me a short distance from St Mathew’s. I could see the police tape and the predictable gaggle of journalists sniffing around it, digital cameras poised to snatch a juicy morsel of death for their pages.
I had expected she’d take some convincing to talk to me. Shining had clearly built a strong sense of loyalty with his assets and I was not the man she had been hoping to see. And yet she was only too happy.
‘About time he had a bit of help,’ she said, and that was it.
‘I thought it best if we kept our distance,’ Detective Sahni said. ‘There’s little left to see on site anyway – we had to let the CSEs clear everything away. The last thing the brass wants is to see pictures of Jimmy Hodgkins all over the news. They’ve spent the last few weeks going on about how violent crime numbers have dropped over the last twelve months; pictures of a bloke with his skull beaten to a thick broth are “against the current promotional agenda”.’
‘I bet they are. What was it about the scene that made you think of us?’
‘Oh it’s a weird one, no doubt about that.’ She pulled out a USB drive and handed it to me. ‘I copied all the images I could – they’re not nice. Body was found by a dog walker at seven o’clock this morning. He chucked up all over the steps, which was lovely, and then gave us a call. The dead man’s name is Jimmy Hodgkins. Worked in advertising.’
‘No wonder someone wanted to kill him.’
‘I seriously doubt the attack was personal.’
‘You said his head was bashed in.’
‘Absolutely pulverised; nothing above the neck but burger meat.’
‘Sounds pretty personal to me.’
‘You’d think so, but there’s no way the attacker could have known him.’
‘You know who did it?’
‘No doubt at all. He was found a few streets away covered in the victim’s blood. Only one problem: he was dead.’
‘Maybe Hodgkins got a lick in early, a fatal wound that eventually took effect?’
‘No. You misunderstand me: the attacker was dead before Hodgkins. A long time before. Fifty years before in fact.’
OK, so that had my attention. ‘Explain.’
‘It seems impossible – which is why I called you, of course – but the attacker seems to be a man called Harry Reid; died of heart failure in 1963. Buried in St Mathew’s churchyard where, by all accounts, he had the good grace to stay. Until last night.’
‘You’re saying the other body was already a corpse?’
‘A remarkably strange one. The skin is almost like plastic, as if it’s been varnished for preservation. One of the CSEs touched its cheek and it cracked like porcelain.