Confessional Read online

  CONFESSIONAL

  Anthony Masters

  Contents

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part Two

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part Three

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  There’s not a nook within this solemn pass

  But were an apt confessional for one

  Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,

  That life is but a tale of morning grass

  Withered at eve.

  William Wordsworth

  Yarrow Revisited. 6. ‘The Trossachs’.

  Here, beside the naked water

  I’m searching for my freedom, my human love;

  not for the flight I may have, light or searing lime,

  but my present moment lying in wait on the sphere of the crazed breeze.

  Federico Garcia Lorca,

  Double Poem of Lake Eden.

  No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.

  John Donne

  Devotions upon Emergent Occasions. XVII.

  Prologue

  The water in the pool was lukewarm and far from refreshing, and he noticed that the mosaic tiling at the bottom was cracked and occasionally discoloured. Yet the old walled garden, with its sun-bleached statuary, ancient palm trees and fragrant herbs, gave him the all-embracing contentment, even entrancement, of at last being at home; and for a man who rarely was, the feeling was wonderfully sustaining.

  Eduardo Tomas swam luxuriously. Months in Madrid, then travelling in both Europe and America, had exhausted him, and the threat to his life, now almost a year old, had been sharp and unrelenting. However good the security that surrounded him, however vigilant his bodyguards, the shadow of his potential assassin was always there. If only he could imagine a face, an identity, then somehow the threat would be more containable, but the facelessness – that was the appalling thing. It could be anyone: anyone in a crowd, anyone close to him – even one of his bodyguards like Mrs Gandhi’s assassin. Eduardo would spend hours tormented by conjecture, never free of the fear which gnawed at him, dominating his every waking moment.

  Here on the island, the slow erosion of his nerves and confidence sometimes temporarily eased, but Eduardo knew that this was self-delusion. The threats continued wherever he was; letters typed on a machine that couldn’t be identified, phone calls that were seemingly impossible to trace. There were a number of reasons why he could have been singled out for this long campaign of lethal promises, but it was impossible to be sure who was responsible. The sheer number of permutations both shocked and terrified him. To keep calm was Eduardo’s main preoccupation, but it was far from easy. His mind seemed to be permanently in overdrive. In a long political career there were so many things in retrospect he wished he had handled differently. He was conscious that even on Molino – on the island – he had made wrong decisions. However, at least he knew that Anita would go on loving him whatever happened. Eduardo never ceased to wonder at the way his wife blinded herself to everything – except her love for him. She had ring-fenced him, compartmentalized everything. Of course it was claustrophobic, but it was also pleasurable in a way. The words of a Lorca poem drifted into his mind. But like love the archers are blind. The trouble was that as far as he was concerned they weren’t. He was being sought out.

  Eduardo increased his pace, his arms cleaving the water with neat precision. As he swam he thought of the English writer, Salman Rushdie, his isolated life protected from Muslim extremists. Could he ever be trapped in that same situation? No, the thought was absurd. Surely his tormentor would be caught soon, or give up. Please let him give up.

  For months his only comfort had been frequent telephone conversations with his old friend Marius Larche, whose logic and reasoned arguments gave him strength. A high-ranking officer in the French branch of Interpol, Larche told him he was sure he had nothing to fear, that his persecutor was bound to be a crank – someone obsessed with a public figure. It was a fairly common neurosis, he said, and the whole affair wouldn’t have lasted so long if whoever it was really meant business. Larche made him feel better – a little cosier – both as a staunch friend whose views he had always respected, and also as a professional whose experience he knew he could count on. But Larche didn’t know about Sebastia, nor did he know about the tensions in the family, and Eduardo knew that he would never be able to tell him.

  Father Miguel, his father’s friend and an old family confidant, had also made light of the threats. ‘Just a symptom of the age we live in,’ he had pronounced. Eduardo nursed the cliche to his bosom like a hot water bottle. Miguel was an acknowledged pessimist, often an alarmist, so it was good to hear his vague optimism.

  Eduardo turned over on his back in the tepid water and stared up at the deep meridian sky; he listened to the sea and the crying of gulls and closed his eyes. In the darkness he saw a shadow detach itself from an insubstantial landscape and flutter towards him. He opened his eyes and stared up towards the sun.

  Security on the island of Molino – the beloved home of the Tomas family – had been doubled, and even now guards were sitting in the shade, drinking coffee, watching the fence, no doubt noting his every move, every stroke, as he glided up and down the pool. They would know if he picked his nose, hear him break wind, probably make jokes about him.

  Eduardo dived deep below the surface, touching the intricate design of the cracked mosaic tiling at the bottom of the pool, opening his eyes and dimly seeing the translucent centaur, half horse half man, that it represented. He stayed down as long as he could and then, with lungs bursting, broke the surface. One of his guards lifted an acknowledging hand, as if welcoming back an adventurous child, reassuring him that he was still enmeshed in the web that contained his every move.

  Detective Superintendent Alison Rowe left the squash court in the New Scotland Yard Club as irritated as she had anticipated. Her immediate superior, Chief Superintendent Blake Mackintosh, was not a good loser, particularly to a woman, and the whole process of playing a game with him was utterly predictable. Once Mackintosh realized that he was unable to win fairly he had used every tactical ploy he possibly could, and his childish insecurity had been pathetic to witness. Yet the game at least brought his dislike of her out into the open, and the snide comments, the lascivious looks, the unbearable patronage were not so pronounced.

  As she showered Alison reflected that, as a university entrant to the Met, she should have known that she would have to face extreme prejudice. She had joined at twenty-three and her promotion to Detective Inspector had been fast – another reason for her unpopularity with men like Mackintosh.

  She stayed in the shower as long as she could, delaying the moment when she would have to face him in the bright morning bar. She had always been fit, but it was her mental resilience that had saved her, helping her to endure her friends’ derision when she had elected to join the police, and then cope with the male chauvinism of her colleagues. Her determination, her quality as a police officer, her professional achievements, her foresight, had put her where she was, but it had been a continuous battle.

  As Alison dressed, an image of her father drifted into her mind. Long retired, he had been Chief Constable of Dorset and the family home near Lulworth had once been one of the great bastions of a form of country house life that was now almost dead. To Alison, Seawrack represented a world of almost mystical perfection – a place she loved more than anywhere else. When she was sixteen, George Wise, a disgruntled gardener sa
cked by her father, had set light to the house and one wing had been completely destroyed. Wise had been caught and the wing restored, but the fire had seemed like an assault on her very soul. The later discovery that Seawrack had been underinsured and that most of the family money would have to be ploughed into the rebuilding had been an appalling shock. It was as if George Wise had won after all, and the injustice of it still rankled with her. The final blow came when she was at university. Her mother died and her father, unable to manage without her, decided to sell Seawrack to the National Trust, and ironically he now lived in the wing where the arson attack had taken place. Deep down, Alison felt that none of these changes would have come about without the intrusion of George Wise. It fuelled her passionate belief in law and order, and when she came down from university the police force had been her next logical step.

  The image of her father stayed with her as she pulled on her track suit and dried her long dark hair. Her emotional life had come a poor second as she ploughed her career furrow. Single-minded was what she called herself; Lady Alison was the name chosen for her by her colleagues. Unable to find anything else to occupy herself with in the changing room, Alison resolutely picked up her squash bag. She would have to face Mackintosh.

  A fountain played at one end of the pool, monster silver fish heads spewing water from gaping mouths. Eduardo swam lethargically towards them, climbing out and standing up behind the shimmering screen. He could no longer see his guards clearly from here, and could only catch shifting glimpses of the large white colonnaded villa with its Palladian pillars and bell tower, its straight lines softened by bougainvillaea. In this house he had been born, played as a child, awkwardly entered into his privileged youth. From here he had launched his political career.

  As he stared at the building through the distorting mesh of water, Eduardo heard the running of feet through the house, echoing over the tiled floors. At first, he was simply curious. No one ran here; everyone walked, sedately, discreetly, almost tentatively. The servants moved like shadows, the family, when they were here, were low-key, sheltering from public life, wanting peace.

  The first painful stirrings of unease quickly became raw fear; the sweat broke out on Eduardo’s brow and panic seared his stomach. He wanted to hide, to run, but as in the traditional nightmare he couldn’t move and anyway there seemed nowhere to go. He stood completely still, knowing he was a target; but amidst everything he felt another, conflicting, emotion: a slight sense of relief. Had it come at last? Was he going to be able to put a face to the threat? Could he negotiate – finish it once and for all? Like a child he clung to the unlikely hope, but gradually the terror swamped him. He was going to die – he knew that. He was going to die. And only then would it all be over.

  Numbly Eduardo saw his two security men rise silently to their feet, drawing guns, holding them in both hands, balancing themselves, feet apart, knees bent, hands solid on the butts of their weapons. Unreality suffused him; he had never seen this happen before. In his mind’s eye, a shadow detached itself from a dark forest and began to run towards him.

  An intruder was scrambling over the security fence. Eduardo turned silently, unable to shout out, to warn. There seemed to be a solid block in his throat that could not be dislodged. Then he saw the dark head of a man, hauling himself up the fence, gesticulating, waving a gun in his hand. He was shouting something but Eduardo didn’t wait to hear. With an undignified little squeal of fear, instinct made him dive, thrashing his way down to the mosaic centaur in the deepest part of the pool, clawing at the water, screaming inside and shitting himself at the same time.

  The bar was all plastic and formica, with imitation leather chairs, glass tables and musak. Mackintosh was sitting before a pint of bitter looking broody, but when he saw her he assumed an expression of careless bonhomie. Alison smiled wearily.

  ‘What can I get you?’ He was tall, rangy, with a bushy moustache and slightly affected side-burns.

  ‘I’ll have an orange juice.’

  ‘Right away.’

  When he returned, she could see that he would have to justify himself before they could get down to business. She looked around her; the club was crowded, mainly with men, all talking police shop. Alison sighed.

  ‘Bit off form today.’ He put the glass down gently on the table, as if a loud noise would affront her. ‘Got a bit of wrist strain.’

  She nodded politely, trying to achieve a sympathetic smile.

  ‘Awful bore – might get a bit of physio.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Thrash you next time.’

  ‘I expect so.’ She looked at her watch and Mackintosh shifted uneasily. He had a nice wife, she reminded herself. She had met her at some function or other – a young-old little doll of a woman with china blue eyes and an anxious smile. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she had said and had rattled on about their new house – a little box amongst other little boxes. But the kids had sounded less orthodox: Tony, a student at RADA, Emma playing the clarinet in the National Youth Orchestra. She had been surprised, and had immediately condemned herself for being a snob.

  ‘Better get down to it,’ he said, lighting up a cheroot. ‘I wanted to talk to you about something that might be a little delicate.’

  ‘Who for?’ she asked curiously, pleased to discover the conversation was going to be more meaty than she had imagined.

  ‘You,’ he replied gently, with just a hint of patronage. ‘Ever heard of Eduardo Tomas?’

  ‘Isn’t he a minister in the Spanish government?’

  ‘Home Affairs. There have been threats against his life over the last year which the Spanish police are taking seriously.’

  ‘Basque Separatists?’ she asked vaguely, wondering what was delicate about this for her. The suggestion had made her slightly tense and she realized she sounded over-casual, as if she knew he had an edge on her. Was this his way of getting one up on her after losing the game, or was she becoming totally paranoid about him?

  ‘I don’t know anything about Spanish politics,’ he said, making them sound like the inner workings of a Third World dictatorship.

  Alison didn’t reply and there was an awkward silence.

  ‘Hooper’s flown to Barcelona,’ he said at last, looking at her speculatively. ‘He’s using Irish papers but MI5 are sure it was him. They need corroboration though.’

  There was another long pause and Alison felt as if she had been touched inside, somewhere private, by a cold, reptilian hand.

  ‘How many years ago was it?’ Mackintosh prompted tentatively.

  ‘Five.’ She could feel the blood rushing to her face. The shock was tremendous and it vibrated inside her with a painful resonance.

  ‘Heycroft wants you to go out there. You’re the only one with a chance of identifying him – you know that.’

  ‘He’ll change his appearance,’ she replied, her words tumbling over each other. ‘Surely that’s obvious.’

  ‘We know this is a very long shot,’ snapped Mackintosh. ‘But your description of him was so detailed, despite what happened,’ he added hastily, ‘that we think you could still recognize him, even with a disguise. His voice maybe – an inflection – the way he walks.’

  ‘Perhaps …’ She was hesitant, still shocked, unable to bring herself to an acceptance of what he wanted her to do. She’d recognize Hooper, Alison was sure of that. She would recognize the bastard all right.

  Mackintosh went on hurriedly, slightly brusquely. ‘I know a member of the Spanish government is an unlikely target, but Hooper does seem to specialize in politicians. Heycroft’s certain he killed Sir Montague Peters – and James Reeney; the description of the assassin in both cases does seem to tally. Heycroft’s got this theory he’s one of those arrogant bastards who doesn’t bother with a disguise for the actual killing but goes to earth very effectively between assignments. If MI5 are correct he’s not been so careful this time and we could be one jump ahead.’

  While Mackintosh was talking, Alison
’s mind registered a series of shock waves that were so intense that she felt an almost physical pain. She had put Hooper in a sealed compartment some years ago. It had taken a long time to get him in there – a very long time – and now Mackintosh had deliberately forced him out. Jagged images filled her mind and she was back in the patrol car, sitting with Mike Stanley in Balham High Street. There was a noise, a bang, and the images sharpened, yet became more fragmented. The side street, the man lying outside the front door with another lying in the road. Minutes after, they had stopped a car – a small white Nissan – and questioned its driver. His square, slightly pock-marked face had a small purple birth-mark on the chin. Then there were the eyes, slate grey, rather large. Memorably large. They had been about to search the Nissan when he had shot Mike, then herself, and had driven off at high speed. He had never been caught.

  The memories became hazier. Mike reeling about with the blood and brains coming from the side of his head. The impact in her chest. Later a nurse told her that Mike Stanley had died from his injuries. The bullet had gone through her breast and out through her back. The scar was still there, livid and puckered. Weeks passed. Pneumonia came and went. Then the visit from the man with MI5 and the knowledge that she had surprised a hit man who had been code-named Hooper. They hadn’t got anything on him, and no knowledge of who he was. She was able to give him a brief description.

  Over the years Hooper and Wise, the gardener who had set fire to Seawrack, had merged, had formed a solid mass of pain and fear that she had to keep in that sealed compartment. They were a demonic double-act: one had attacked her home; the other had tried to destroy her body. She had survived both, but only just. Now she was being asked to reach back into the past, to pursue one of the dark pair.

  ‘There’s a lot to talk about,’ said Mackintosh. ‘And Heycroft wants to see you tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Are they sure?’ she asked, her face expressionless.