A Killer for a Song Read online

  “Why me?” Reprise.

  “You do have special knowledge.”

  “What special knowledge?”

  “As I recall it, you did a number of clandestine operations for Special Security - correct me if I’m wrong, but you were our government-sponsored hit man, weren’t you?”

  Boysie’s stomach performed a masterly series of tight turns. Mostyn knew very well that he had subcontracted a major percentage of the security killings with which he had been entrusted. All that had been revealed to the colonel during the Madrigal business.

  “So?” he gulped.

  “So you sit on the committee and give us the benefit of your knowledge.” He dropped the key onto the floor. “Move in as soon as you like. Salary starts Monday. I’ll be in touch over the weekend, the office is shrouded in mystery as always. Number 23 Pembridge Court, Shooter & Crump, Wholesale Toys. I’ve arranged for a hot and cold running redhead.” Mostyn rose and walked, with his little prissy steps, towards the door. “Oh, and Boysie, there will be the odd jaunt: International Conferences and the like.”

  That was four weeks ago, and experience since then, had put Boysie’s nerves on the brink. The flat was splendid: the money helped. He began to look more spruce and was able to fill some of the spaces in his record collection - Sinatra was being superseded by Stan Kenton, a fact probably of great significance to any passing shrink.

  With the new cash-flow came women. Not in droves but at least in pairs and trios - a marked improvement, even though the hot and cold running redhead, to whom Mostyn had referred, turned out to be a henna-haired cleaning lady of indeterminate age.

  It was the work which bothered Boysie. He did not mind the daily slog to Shooter & Crump Wholesale Toys, it was what happened there during the day that gave him a twitch. The whole thing tasted strongly of the Department and the old days. The ciphers and cut outs, odd couriers, the routine and scent of secrecy.

  Boysie spent most of his time checking the Telex messages which, to be fair to Mostyn, were mainly en clair, dealt with wide security and terrorism and remained in the abstract, leaving Boysie personally uninvolved. Yet, in the background, between the Telex, the two secretaries, the nights out with Deborah Morton-Chambers and Anne Pilsbury-Worthley - who loved jazz and obscure foreign films respectively - Boysie was constantly nagged by a small and shrouded spectre in the back of his head. Something was up - high as a long-hung pheasant.

  Then one morning a Telex arrived which he could neither decipher nor trace, apart from its Paris prefix. Mostyn smiled serenely when it was handed over.

  “That’s it, laddie. We’re on our way.”

  Boysie felt the dormant nest of snakes uncoil in his nervous system. “On our way to where?”

  “Conference. I warned you. International Conference in Paris.” Mostyn’s look doing credit to a jackal. “Go pack your case.”

  “We going to be away long?” Boysie swallowed. “Who can tell?” Mostyn spread his hands. “Just pack your case and don’t leave out your pop gun.”

  The snakes writhed angrily. “I have to go heeled? Come on Mostyn, let me have the truth. It’s the old old story, an operation, isn’t it? Something’s up.”

  “Not specially. But it is a conference on anti-terrorism and I’d hate us to get clobbered with no means of retaliation. Pack your iron.” He patted Boysie’s arm. “I’ll feel that much safer. Travelling is dangerous these days.”

  Here he was then, packed and ready to go. He switched off the radio, plummeting Jimmy Young into oblivion, heaved on his coat and padded to the door. Leaving like this had an all too familiar feel about it, reminding him of the past. Leaving to be projected into danger. Danger was not Boysie’s natural element.

  He closed the door behind him with a lot of regret. After all he had been forced to cancel a crucial date with the lovely Anne Pilsbury-Worthley. Fornication had been high on the list of planned activities. More fish in the sea, he thought. Then, romantically, another time, another place: male chauvinist pig that he was.

  III - REFRAIN

  Words and music recurring at the end of each stanza

  Mostyn was waiting at Heathrow, all done up in a dark brown suit covered by a long, fur-collared suede coat. Boysie thought he looked like an expensive rat.

  As always, it was crowded and a lot of flights were late in getting off; the coffee tasted like superior sewage and all the young women, uniformed, stamping tickets, shepherding passengers and making announcements, had a self-satisfied, hygienic look: all margarine and Tampax, Boysie thought, clutching his duty-free cigarettes, sipping the deplorable coffee, and cocking an eye at the departures monitor.

  Mostyn had little to say, his small eyes moving constantly over the changing sea of faces. Tourists had that glum look peculiar to their breed; bored lovers hunched over tables, not talking because they had said it all before and wanted nothing more than to be rid of one another. Outside the terminal the occasional sound of a jet winding down, or roaring off down a runway, made Boysie’s stomach revolve with gentle regularity. He hated airports at the best of times, but international events - hijackings, terror attacks-had made it worse.

  When their flight was eventually called they rose, in unison, still not conversing, flashing their magic plastic cards at passport control and waiting until the Special Branch man cleared them.

  It was not until they were on board the Trident, with its engines growling, and some manic creature depositing dry ice in Boysie’s veins, that Mostyn began any serious talk.

  “Saw a friend of yours yesterday,” he said, hardly moving his lips.

  “Oh yes?” Boysie’s voice sweeping unnaturally up the scale.

  The tension was building, inseparable from his terror of flying. The additional fact that Mostyn had met an old friend merely compounded the fear. Two things engulfed Boysie’s life - hysterical apprehension when flying and the consistent machinations of the wily little Mostyn.

  The aircraft was taxiing up to the runway threshold and the combination of his two major horrors put Boysie’s nervous system seriously on the blink: his mouth was filled with bile, palms oozed sweat, about sixty-four scaly creatures scuttled around in his stomach. Some of them appeared to be equipped with wings. Boysie shot an agonised glance towards his smirking chief. Mostyn seemed as relaxed as a bag of feathers.

  Up on the flight deck, the captain called for full power, the engines leaped to a boiling whine, brakes came off and the Trident surged forward with all the accustomed thrust and judder.

  Boysie closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on clearing his mind. Some people read books during take-off and landing. That would be a terrible way to go, thought Boysie: to be consumed in an aircraft disaster while reading Stanley Morgan.

  The juddering ceased as the aircraft lifted and the familiar nausea rose. This was the dangerous moment. Or was it? Everything was a multiplication in danger when sitting next to James George Mostyn.

  Boysie opened his eyes again.

  “A friend of yours,” repeated Mostyn, leaning casually towards the window. “Go uphill damned fast these things.”

  Boysie snapped down his lids again, blindly fumbling for the little paper bag they provided against throwing up.

  Then the engines wound down to a gentle thrum. Looking around him, Boysie saw that the Seatbelts/No Smoking sign was off. People were lighting up and talking in the animated way they did when snatched from the edge of the grave.

  “What friend?” Boysie struggled, trying to sound at ease.

  “Charlie Griffin.” Mostyn did not even smile.

  “Oh Jesus,” breathed Boysie.

  Charlie Griffin of all people. Charlie Griffin, the undertaker to whom he had subcontracted a large proportion of the deadly assignments in the days with the Department. Mostyn knew all about Charlie Griffin and he would not mention him unless there was cause. Mostyn, devious little bugger that he was: devious Svengali whose psychological hold over Boysie was so inexplicable that it even frightened him
to think about it. It was from Mostyn that all good things flowed, and all bad.

  “There’s something bloody on,” said Boysie. A flat and tired statement.

  “Can’t think what you mean.” Mostyn beckoned to a passing hostess. “Two large whiskies, my dear.”

  The girl nodded, and Boysie was flattered to see that her gaze rested on him rather than the oily Mostyn. We could render him down, Boysie thought. Render the little devil down and the result would go a long way to solving the power shortage. There was enough oil in Mostyn to light London for a month or two.

  “Of course you bloody know what I mean. You think I’m a cretin? Don’t answer that. You’ve done it again you evil little bastard. Whip in Oakes, he’s the perfect idiot fall-guy. What are you, Mostyn, the Marquis de Sade or something?”

  “Or something. I bumped into Charlie Griffin quite by chance. By accident. He was with a dark young woman with obviously over-active glands.”

  “Freud maintained there are no such things as accidents.” Boysie had heard the remark on a TV chat show and cherished it ever since.

  Mostyn gave him a quick look of reappraisal and the hostess arrived with the drinks. As she leaned over to serve Mostyn, her right breast lightly brushed Boysie’s left cheek. He automatically raised a hand. The sap rose and spring blossomed in the aircraft cabin.

  “Down, Oakesie,” muttered Mostyn. “She works for us.” There was a long pause.

  “That’s a coincidence.” Boysie bit out the words. “I work for you as well. You’ve done it again, haven’t you? There’s something on.”

  Mostyn gave him an unctuous smile. “Nothing much. But there’s always safety in numbers. She’ll be joining us in Paris and, old Oakes, I want none of the familiar.”

  There was the usual ten minutes hell as they made their let-down and final approach to Paris, Charles De Gaulle. During the approach, Boysie tried to be objective about himself, but all he saw was a big tough-looking man with fading good looks and the knowledge that inside that steely exterior there was a persistent mass of jellified cowardice. It sickened him.

  They touched down, the engines howling in reverse thrust, the aircraft slowing to a steady roll. Boysie breathed freely, savouring the feeling of intense relief and mentally kissing mother earth.

  “Now that we’re down will you tell me about it?”

  “As far as you’re concerned we’re here for the SEAT International Conference,” chanted Mostyn smugly.

  The hostess was standing by the exit as they deplaned: five-ten, dark hair, large brown eyes, a figure not only built for glory but also lavishly tended, and a face which reflected vulnerability, helplessness and sexual promise in equal proportions. Boysie knew about girls whose faces reflected vulnerability, helplessness and sexual promise. They were usually quite capable of looking after themselves, thank you very much. They were also apt to kick you in the crotch.

  “Goodbye, sir, hope we see you again,” said the hostess, metaphorically kicking Boysie in the crotch.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he grinned. “Yes, ma’am, indeed.”

  The car which awaited them had a uniformed chauffeur who looked not unlike Sean Connery. The car looked like a souped-up Mercedes, and there was another fellow tagging along - big, with muscles like great lumps of iron. A heavy, Boysie rightly deduced.

  Mostyn waved a hand, flapping back and forth between the heavy and Boysie.

  “Boysie Oakes, this is Gerard Couperose. Sûreté Nationale.”

  The two men looked at each other like wrestlers before a bout.

  “Department of Intelligence?” Boysie questioned. Couperose gave a small, friendly, nod and extended a massive hand.

  “Enchanté Monsieur Oakes. The Colonel has told me much about you.”

  They locked hands. For a moment it appeared to be a trial of strength.

  “Gerard is attached on this trip,” Mostyn cut in. “Liaison and all that.”

  “All that,” repeated Boysie with a tone meant to convey significance, reflecting upon how much he had learned over the years. He knew about girls like the one on the aircraft; he also knew about men like Gerard Couperose from the Sûreté’s Department of Intelligence. They were, like the girls, prone to kicking one in the crotch.

  Aloud he said, “Why did I ever fall for it?”

  “Fall for what?” Mostyn, spry from the rear of the Merc.

  Boysie got in, slumping next to the dapper little Colonel. “For whatever you’re going to do to me,” he answered. “Or for whatever you’re going to make me do. For all the pain and bloody danger you’re going to expose me to.”

  “To which we’re going to expose you,” corrected Mostyn, punctuating the sentence with a smile: a blizzard of some proportions.

  The Merc set off smoothly with Couperose sitting next to the driver.

  “Mademoiselle Lyric is here?” he asked, twisting to look back at Mostyn. They were obviously old buddies. “She’ll join us at the Baltimore.”

  “Lyric?” snorted Boysie. “What sort of a name is Lyric?”

  “The name of the young woman whose tit you were touching up on the aircraft.”

  “Oh her. One of ours, you said. Spies and secrets. I thought that kind of skulduggery went out years ago.”

  “Yes, one of ours; and, no, it didn’t go out years ago.”

  “I didn’t touch her up, but you couldn’t blame me if I did: it’s about the only genuine human pastime left. Everything else is electronics and computers. Even the secret world is remote-controlled - no secrets, not ones kept by humans anyway; it’s all memory banks and tapes that wipe if they’re opened the wrong way, self-destruct mechanisms; there’s nothing individual anymore.”

  “You are jaded, Monsieur Oakes, yes?” Couperose fixed him with a look of stressed steel.

  “I am jaded,” agreed Boysie sadly. “Bloody jaded. What gives with the Lyric bird?”

  “Lyric Lavenham.” Mostyn savoured the name.

  “Sounds like someone from Dornford Yates.”

  Couperose looked puzzled. “What is Dornford Yates?” “I might have known a Frenchman wouldn’t have heard of Dornford Yates. Besides, you’d be too young to remember him. He was a writer of fiction, Gerard mon vieux.” Boysie bitter. “He did what they used to call adventure yarns. Telephones ringing in Surrey mansions. Night drives across Europe. Mysterious schlosses in pine forests, where the heroes meet the gross villains; and there were splendid heroines who never screwed and had small feet. Gave me quite a foot fetish, Dornford Yates.”

  Couperose raised his eyes to heaven. “Fou,” he said quietly.

  They were in heavy traffic, moving, in the middle lane, at around seventy.

  “You’re becoming boring, Boysie,” sighed Mostyn.

  “And what about Monsieur Griffin?” Couperose asked the Colonel.

  “I knew it,” murmured Boysie. “Bloody knew it. Hoist with your own petard, Mostyn you bastard.”

  “Shut up.” Sharp from Mostyn.

  “I bumped into Charlie Griffin quite by chance,” chuntered Boysie. “By accident. He was with a dark girl with over-active glands.”

  “I like Monsieur Griffin,” Couperose smiled. “So droll.”

  “He’s about as droll as a bloody hearse.”

  “We’re being followed,” Mostyn said suddenly. “White Peugeot two cars behind. Three men. They pulled out of the airport just after us: been leeching it all the way. Could have taken us a dozen times but they’re deliberately holding back.”

  “Jesus,” said Boysie.

  Couperose was speaking rapidly to the driver. “I’ve told Charlot to test it,” he turned, looking back along the road.

  Boysie had been right about the Merc, it was souped-up. Charlot, the driver, had extended his arms like a racing driver.

  “He know his stuff?” Mostyn asked quietly.

  Couperose nodded as the Merc swept forward, dancing to the left and picking up speed like an executive jet.

  “Jesus,” said Boysie again
as Charlot weaved the car through traffic with the speedo needle flicking into the high figures. The winged and scaly creatures were performing an intricate ballet in his guts again.

  “Limpet.” Mostyn terse, his eyes on their rear. “They’re further back but shortening distance.”

  Couperose was talking into a transceiver. “The man himself?” he asked.

  “Not a chance.”

  “What man?” Boysie knew he was showing signs of personal fear.

  “There they go, dropping back. You can tell Charlot to ease off.”

  “What man?” asked Boysie.

  “Just a marker?” queried Couperose.

  “What man?” asked Boysie.

  “Straightforward,” Mostyn answered Couperose. “A check to make sure we’re going where they think we’re going.”

  “It makes sense.”

  “What bleeding man?” Boysie shouted.

  “Not yet,” Mostyn answered quietly.

  “Why not yet?”

  “All in good time.”

  “Why not yet? For Chrissake I know I’ve been conned into something, so what man and why not yet?”

  “All in good time. When we meet Lyric at the hotel.”

  “And Griffin?” There was considerable frustration and menace in his voice.

  The pause was punctuated by a voice chattering French police matters on Couperose’s transceiver.

  Mostyn nodded. “And Griffin.”

  “Not even a clue?” Boysie wheedled. “A small hint?”

  Mostyn smiled. There were fangs in there somewhere, thought Boysie.

  “Thirty-two across,” smarmed Mostyn, his voice cooing.

  “What do you hit under pressure?”

  Pressure was the code word they had used in the Department when a kill was imminent. Cloak and dagger again.

  “Target,” said Boysie, sounding as though he had found the lost chord.

  “Good. That’s your clue and the answer.”

  “Oh no.” It was Boysie’s turn to smile. “No, Mostyn. I’m not hitting any more targets: not for you, the Prime Minister, the Leader of the Opposition, the Chiefs-of-Staff or even the Lord Privy Seal himself.”