My Name Is Nobody by Matthew Richardson

Author:Matthew Richardson
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9781405924801
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2017-07-12T23:00:00+00:00

33

The cell mattress at Charing Cross police station was lumpy. Vine held his head in his hands, terrifyingly sober. The place hadn’t seen a cleaner for weeks, reeking of alcohol and sweat. He realized, looking around, that he was no longer protected by the all-forgiving embrace of Vauxhall Cross. There would be no nods and winks on matters of national security. No plainclothes men having quiet words with the Commissioner. He was an outcast, as good as a private citizen.

He needed a gulp of fresh air, to get away from the stale smell of this place. Instead, he lay back and closed his eyes, the time seeming interminable, minutes as heavy as days. As his head rested against the mattress, the interview replayed in his mind. The blinking eye of the recording machine, the sour smell of the detective inspector with three-day stubble, the rickety table.

‘You say you knew Ms Cartier?’

‘Not really, no. I’ve met her twice.’

‘Twice?’

‘Yes.’

‘And why did you first contact her?’

Vine paused. He found himself suddenly aware of all the ways his answers could be interpreted. What had once seemed like common sense was now fanged with doubt. ‘I was following up some leads on a friend of mine.’

The DI stifled a grin at this point. ‘Following up some leads?’

‘Which is not how it sounds.’

‘How do you think it sounds? Like you’re some sort of private detective?’

‘Not quite.’

‘What are you then?’

Vine had been forced to sign a document when he arrived: name, occupation, address.

‘Says here you’re an analyst. Foreign Office. Very grand. Why does an analyst need to follow up leads with a Member of Parliament?’

Vine was tired of the half-truths. ‘You don’t understand.’

‘Enlighten me …’

Vine folded his arms and leaned back in the seat. To hell with it all. For years he had been governed by an intense fear of what he was about to do, abided by the strict rules of Service secrecy. But loyalty had found him on the scrapheap. He owed them nothing.

‘I’m waiting …’ said the DI.

‘The truth is I’m not an analyst from the Foreign Office,’ said Vine. ‘I’m an intelligence officer from the Secret Intelligence Service. I was consulting Ms Cartier on a matter of national security.’

The DI’s grin widened. ‘Wonderful. A petty criminal and a fantasist. Not what you usually get on the night shift, I’ll tell you that.’ He signalled to the PC by the door.

Vine felt a mounting unease as he was ordered to stand, handcuffed again and led away. Back in the cell, he addressed the back of the departing PC: ‘Call Vauxhall Cross. They can confirm.’ As the cell door shut on him again, he realized with a shudder that they might not.

A petty criminal and a fantasist. Vine wondered whether that would now be his epitaph.

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