A Killer for a Song Read online

  “Nobody’s asking you.” Mostyn grinned. It was a horrible sight. “Somebody else is under Pressure. You’re the Target. You and me both.”

  “Turn around. I want out.”

  “Too late. It wouldn’t make much difference now. We’ve been set-up, old lad, and we want to catch the beggar at it.”

  Boysie felt sick, the waves of nausea and depression building like a sudden bore through the estuary of his nervous system.

  IV - DIRGE

  A lament usually connected with funerals

  To find the Hotel Baltimore, you dodge around the Place Charles De Gaulle and drive about a quarter of a mile up the broad Avenue Kleber. The hotel is tucked away in a side street on the right: a nice little family hotel, not luxurious, but not entirely inexpensive either.

  A uniformed commissionaire trotted out and relieved them of their luggage as soon as the Merc drew up in front of the facade.

  Boysie climbed out, trying desperately to sublimate his fears by working at being nonchalant. He sniffed the air like a hound trying to pick up the scent. Paris had a special smell which Boysie always associated with sex. But then he associated most pleasant smells with sex. Here it was exhaust fumes overlaid by Gauloise, coffee and the aroma of svelte ladies.

  “Paris,” sighed Boysie. “Paris always affects me like this, Mostyn. Makes me bloody randy.”

  Inside, Boysie was still in near panic. It was funny, he thought, how fear always turned him on to sex. Someone once said it was a desire to escape back into the darkness of the womb.

  “You’ll really have to control the hornier-than-thou-attitude, Oakes,” snapped Mostyn. “It’s unbecoming, and, besides, I will not have that kind of trouble on this operation.”

  “It was a straightforward business trip - a Conference - when we started out,” Boysie was edging towards the main doors and natural cover. “Now it’s an operation.” Their accommodation was on the fifth floor and Mostyn called a meeting for half-an-hour after their arrival.

  In room 540, Boysie found that he had been provided with a large bed, heavy old-fashioned wardrobe and dressing table, and a bathroom which seemed to be a junction for every water pipe in the building.

  Out of habit from the old days, Boysie automatically checked the place for bugs - light fittings, the headboard of the bed, under the bedside lamps and table. He found nothing so carried on with the unpacking, laid out an impressive array of men’s toiletries on the glass shelf above the washbasin, freshened up, cast a professional eye out of the window to see if the room was overlooked by anywhere which could provide a good aiming point for a sniper, decided that there were three possibilities, left hurriedly and made his way to 542, which was Mostyn’s lair.

  The two windows in Mostyn’s room faced a brick wall and were not overlooked by would-be firing points. It was also a larger room than Boysie’s and, when he entered, two other people were there besides Mostyn and the Frenchman, Couperose. Lyric Lavenham, now wearing brown boots and a simple brown cord dress with brass buttons, relaxed calmly in an armchair. She was showing a great deal of highly speculative thigh, and brightened visibly when Boysie entered.

  “Hallo, Mr. Oakes, nice to see you,” grinned Griffin from one of the other chairs. Even though he could be aptly described as grey and nondescript, there was no mistaking Griffin - thin, ferrety and horn-rimmed.

  “I heard you were coming,” Boysie threw at him, advancing on the glowing Miss Lavenham. “Hallo, we didn’t get properly introduced on the plane. My name’s Oakes. Boysie Oakes.”

  “Hallo,” all throaty. “I know who you are, I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  “Perhaps we can get on,” a weary monotone from Mostyn. “I have to conduct a briefing.”

  “Yeees,” Boysie irretrievably distracted.

  “Well, sit down.”

  Boysie looked around him abstractedly, finally found a chair, at the end of the room furthest from the lovely Miss Lavenham, shrugged and moved towards it.

  “Drinking, Mr Oakes? It’s a long time since we had a snort together.” Griffin grinned. He was now standing by a well-stocked drinks trolley. The unclassifiable Griffin always surprised Boysie with his paradoxical subservience laced with social confidence.

  Boysie accepted a large Scotch. “You’re offensively friendly, Charles,” he tipped his glass towards the undertaker. “Business brisk, is it?”

  “Can’t grumble,” Griffin returned to his seat.

  “If you’ve finished with the small talk.” Mostyn was perched on the corner of the table, beady eyes glittering, his tone that of a sarcastic schoolmaster.

  “I finished a long time ago,” Boysie held his gaze. “I’d like to make that quite clear.”

  Mostyn switched his smile on and off. “Clarity begins at home.” He thought himself no end of a wag.

  Lyric caught Boysie’s eye. They looked at each other, deadpan.

  “Well, if we’re all set, I’ll start.” Mostyn began.

  “Oakes here said something quite perceptive when we were coming in from the airport. He said there were no secrets kept by humans anymore: that it’s all done by electronics and computers nowadays. To some extent he’s right. The trade most of us remember - the plotting and counterplotting, the game of truth or dare - has changed.”

  “Lyric’s not old enough to remember that kind of game,” Boysie tried, courteously.

  “She’s read the right books,” snapped Mostyn. “What I’m getting at is that, in the hard light of day, most of us are redundant.”

  “Like ledger clerks and travel agents-real travel agents, not package procurers.” Boysie sounded acid.

  “Like a lot of things,” Mostyn actually appeared to be showing signs of friendly agreement. “Like real vegetables, unfrozen, straight out of the ground; like some of the ideals many of us had.”

  “Is this getting us anywhere?” Boysie sipped his drink. He spoke very quietly so that only Mostyn and Griffin picked up the words.

  Mostyn looked at him, unblinking. “The ideals, the reasons, the methods have all changed. Soon you’ll be asked, what did you do in the Cold War, daddy?”

  Boysie was equally unblinking. “I killed people who were a risk to national security.”

  “Except when I did it for you.” Griffin mouthed, forming the words with his lips but letting no sound escape. He looked as solemn as one of his corpses.

  “It’s about the only thing that hasn’t changed,” Mostyn nodded. “Humans still kill to protect and defend. They also kill for revenge.” His hand slid into his breast pocket taking out a little stack of what looked like picture postcards. “I wonder if you remember any of these faces, Boysie.”

  He began to deal the cards onto the table in a line. They were photographs of people. Seven in all. Six men and a woman.

  Boysie shifted to get a better view. “Christ,” he said. “That’s old Martin, I’d almost forgotten about him.”

  Mostyn nodded again. “Any of the others?”

  “Martin. Nick Holborn. Is that Grenot?”

  Couperose craned forward. “Jean-Paul Grenot, yes. I knew him well. I worked with him.”

  “Knew him?”

  “Last year.” Mostyn tensing. “He bought it.”

  “I hadn’t heard. I’m sorry, he was a nice guy.”

  “No reason for you to have heard. Any of the others?”

  “The girl, of course.”

  “Of course. Name? Or can’t you recall unless the photograph is full-length and nude?”

  “Her name’s Palmer. Jean, no Joan. Joan Palmer.”

  “Good.”

  “And Goldfinch, Herbie Goldfinch.”

  “I recognise him.” Griffin was joining in.

  “Mike something, that one,” Boysie’s finger stabbing.

  “An American, Mike Smith.”

  “Yes.”

  “The last one’s my brother.” Lyric had come over and was standing behind Mostyn.

  “Bob Lavenham,” crowed Boysie. “Geez i
s Bob Lavenham your brother? I remember Bob Lavenham.” He stopped short looking at Lyric’s face.

  “Was her brother, Boysie.” Mostyn’s voice low, like a funereal vicar.

  “I’m sorry, Lyric. I ...”

  “Didn’t know? Why should you?” The girl gave him a shy, sad look.

  “They’ve all gone,” said Mostyn, matter-of-fact.

  “Gone?”

  “Chopped.”

  “What, Martin and Joan Palmer and ...?”

  “Herbie Goldfinch?” Griffin actually looked shocked.

  “The lot. All of them. Part of our past; of the rare days.”

  “All seven?” Boysie sounded as though he did not really believe it.

  “I’ve told you. Can you now understand why we’re all here - bearing in mind that Gerard was Jean-Paul Grenot’s junior assistant in the mid-sixties?”

  Boysie’s mind tumbled down through the past. There were a lot of names, faces, times and places which were jumbled at this distance. Martin, for instance, had been the Department’s man at Heathrow for a long time; he had also been with Mostyn during the business in Switzerland: the Amber Nine business. Boysie did not care to think of Martin as a corpse. He centred his mind on the three photographs which were out of key - the Palmer girl, Grenot, and the American, Mike Smith.

  He recalled Joan Palmer as being one of the least exotic people in the Department. Tall and rather angular, but, like so many birds who did not exude natural sensuality, she had been a cracker when the chips were down. He had a mental picture of her in some hotel bedroom, late at night – naturally - and only partially clad. She had been some lay, male chauvinist pig that he was, though he did not remember that she had complained.

  Where in hell was that hotel? There were two paintings to the left of the bed, red, gold and black, picking out the decor of the room. Plush, very plush. Big heavy lamps. Gold-flecked wallpaper. Flash, it was coming back. He had fallen asleep after they had ... well, after.

  “It’s time you were getting ready, Boysie. Time to go.” That was when he examined the wallpaper, yawning and rubbing his eyes, coming awake.

  “Coffee, Boysie. You’ve got time for coffee. It’s ...”

  It’s what? Five o’clock? Half-past? That was it, she was his alarm clock. Mostyn admitted it afterwards. He knew Boysie could never resist one of the girls from the Department, and Joan Palmer had been a set-up to make sure he was awake and off in time. But where the hell was it?

  “Puebla,” he said aloud. “The Mexican thing. Pinkney. Pinkney and Defoe. Nineteen sixty ...”

  “Sixty-four.” Mostyn nodded.

  “I was on that.” Griffin smirked.

  “We didn’t know it at the time, though, Charles. We didn’t even know you were in town.” Mostyn tapped a cigarette against a slim case which could have been made of platinum. “You were a very clever boy, Boysie, because we should have known about Charles. There were enough of us around.”

  But Boysie didn’t hear him, his thoughts, and senses, were back in ‘64, in Mexico, sitting in the big Lincoln convertible with Mostyn, the American, Smith, and Jean-Paul Grenot, sweeping down the super-highway from Mexico City and praying that Griffin had got into Puebla before them.

  V - ROMANCERO

  Song describing the deeds of heroes

  Boysie was lying on his bed, in the flat off Chesham Place, on a Thursday afternoon in late June, 1964, when he got the Pressure warning. The girl lying on the bed with him was a black lady of irresistible proportions, called Vita.

  The telephone rang. Boysie groaned, disentangled himself from the coffee-cream thighs and arms, stretched out and grunted into the receiver.

  “Mostyn,” snarled Mostyn at the other end.

  “Yes?” Wary.

  “Pressure, laddie. I want to talk to you about this one. It’s a combined op, lots of detail, and I’ll be coming with you.”

  Insects crawled itchily up the back of his neck. “When?” he asked, throwing a nervous look in Vita’s direction.

  “If you can spare the time, in about half-an-hour.”

  “Well.”

  “Sorry to interrupt anything if you’re having a chummy time, lad, but we do pay you,”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” He swallowed, the saliva thickening in his throat, the left side of his mouth twitching. “Of course, I’ll be right over.”

  “You’ll be right over what, honey?” breathed Vita, rubbing his thigh enthusiastically.

  “Work, baby,” Boysie looked at her ruefully as he replaced the receiver.

  Vita groaned. “So you’re sending me back to the jungle, just like that, uhu?”

  “No other way. In any case, your jungle has all modern conveniences including head hunters. I’ve been there. Remember?”

  She sighed, moving from the bed. The way she stretched, arching her body, brought on further frustration for Boysie, so that he was forced to turn away as she began to pull on her clothes.

  He showered, saw Vita off the premises, dressed and put in a quick call to Griffin.

  “Nice to hear your voice, Mr. Oakes. We in business again?”

  “I think so, Mr. Griffin. I’ll give you the details within twenty-four hours.”

  “Always happy to oblige a regular customer. I’ll place myself on alert so to speak.”

  Boysie trotted downstairs, climbed into his E-Type Jag - these were the days before he took to sporting a Jensen - and gunned off in the direction of Whitehall and the building which served as a front for the Department of Special Security.

  He crossed the unimposing foyer - decorated in an overall shade of Opposition Vomit - entered the lift, permanently marked OUT OF ORDER, slipped his key into the door at the back of the lift and went into the reception area.

  A girl, looking as though she had been culled from the pages of Vogue, was on duty.

  “Number Two’s waiting for you in his office,” she smiled cheerfully, yet in a way suggesting that, in some previous existence she had been Marie Antoinette, and Boysie was one of the masses whom she had instructed should eat cake if they did not have bread.

  Marie Antoinette signed him in, noting the time from a Cartier watch which would not have left much change from a five-hundred-pound cheque, and nodded him away as though her head was weighed down by her false eyelashes. One day, Boysie thought, the lashes would fall off and join all the others in that great beauty salon in the sky.

  He went over to the main lift and pressed the button for the third floor where Mostyn had his office. In the third-floor corridor a Department watchdog sat cleaning his fingernails like a hood in some old B movie - life imitating sub-art. Boysie swallowed and tapped on Mostyn’s door.

  Mostyn stood at his window looking down onto the filtering traffic below.

  He turned, as Boysie came into the room, took an exaggerated look at his Rolex Oyster, dropped his eyes to examine the high-gloss polish on the immaculate shoes, finally shifting his gaze across the carpet to Boysie’s feet.

  “Trouble with the car?” he asked, eyes narrowing and the head waggling arrogantly.

  “No.” Boysie refused the sarcastic hurdle.

  “Never mind. Sit down, old lad, and I will to thee a tale unfold.”

  “You said it was Pressure.”

  “It is Pressure, but you can’t be on your own.”

  “I’m not happy about that.”

  Indeed he was not. The last thing Boysie needed was other people in the Department weaving around the target area. They might see far too much.

  “It’s not a question of what you like, it’s a matter of circumstances. There’re two targets, one of ours and a Frog. We’ve got a lot of people near them already, including Frog security and the CIA, both of whom want them intact.”

  “And we don’t?”

  “Many heads will drop into the basket if these two jokers return.” Mostyn contrived a sinister voice.

  “Okay. Names and addresses.”

  Boysie always made a show of great profe
ssionalism at this point of a Pressure alert. It helped, he felt, to instil confidence. It also gave him maximum information as quickly as possible, which was a help for getting Griffin organised.

  “I told you it’s not easy,” the Colonel took out his key chain unlocking a desk drawer, dropping two folders onto the leather in front of his tame executioner.

  “Names: Pinkney, Norman Arthur; and Defoe, Paul.”

  Boysie looked at the two photographs. The men seemed to be roughly the same age - early forties. Pinkney was dark, square featured, Germanic; Defoe slim-faced, aesthetic features, light sandy hair.

  “Addresses?”

  “There’s the rub. They’ve faded. They’re both in Mexico.”

  Boysie’s heart skipped, his guts filling with bubbling liquid in which small sharks swam aggressively. Mexico would not, he thought, be happy news for Griffin.

  “Mexico?” he quavered.

  “ ‘Fraid so. South of the border and all that.”

  “Where in Mexico?”

  “Mexico City yesterday, but they’ve moved on now.”

  “Moved on where, for crying out loud?”

  “Don’t worry, dear boy. We won’t lose them. I’ve got a four-man tail on them.”

  “Interchangeable, I hope.”

  Some of Mostyn’s people were as casual as labourers in a minefield.

  “Of course. Four of the brightest boys in the business.”

  “They’d better be.”

  “Old Martin, you get on with Martin; and Bob Lavenham, Herbie Goldfinch, Nick Holborn.”

  “Good lads, why in hell can’t they ...?”

  “Because we pay you to do it and no questions.”

  “The problem is that I’m being Pressured as well.”

  “Ah.”

  “CIA’d like my guts on the ancestral silverware, and the Sûreté’s Department of Intelligence are muttering things not unconnected with Dr. Guillotine’s unpleasant little invention.”

  Boysie had a pleasing mental picture of Mostyn making a brave speech from the tumbril while sock-knitting crones of grim visage made cackling noises. The camera of his mind moved up the steps of the scaffold and into Big Close-Up of the Executioner. It was himself, clad in body-moulded tights and a smile.