The Retreat Read online

  ‘Niall. Niall! It’s me. It’s your Ma. Can you hear me?’

  One of his eyes was filled with blood. Blood was seeping through his jeans. ‘Ambulance!,’ she shouted into her phone. ‘And police. My son has been assaulted and injured.’

  There was nothing more to do but wait. She knew better than to try and move him. Within ten minutes, a paramedic car arrived. The ambulance pulled up behind it. No sign of the police.

  ‘He’s Niall Divine.’

  One of the paramedics crouched down beside her. ‘Can you hear me, Niall?’ The other paramedic was on his radio.

  ‘Where are you taking him?’

  ‘University College Hospital. That’s the nearest.’

  ‘Is he going to be all right?’

  ‘Let’s get him to A & E.’

  The ambulanceman didn’t take his eyes off her boy in the minutes it took to get to the hospital. A group of doctors and nurses was waiting outside. She joined the procession that took him indoors: ‘Let me through. I’m his mother.’

  ‘You need to wait out here while we assess him.’ A nurse led her gently to a chair in the corridor. ‘I’ll fetch you a cup of tea.’

  ‘I should be with my son.

  ‘We’ll take care of him. Try not to worry.’

  ‘You’d worry, wouldn’t you, if he was your son?’

  ‘I’ve got daughters.’ The nurse made a helpless gesture with her hands, and backed away.

  7

  She sat and waited, her mind and body battling over her need to sleep. It was just twenty four hours since she walked with Schmidt from Pont du Calvaire, tipsy from drinking cider and brandy. The air was full of smoke. Roman was in the conference centre with Lucie. That couldn’t be. He’d gone with Scout. Niall was in hospital. She was in hospital. Nothing was real.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  She opened her eyes and sat upright. ‘Sergeant Harris.’

  ‘I’m acting inspector now.’

  ‘Why aren’t you out looking for the villains who beat up my son?’

  ‘What happened, ma’am?’ the constable asked.

  She told him what she’d witnessed. He wrote it all down in his notebook. She didn’t look at Harris. The nurse came back with a cup of tea that tasted like the styrofoam it came in.

  ‘It won’t be long now, Mrs Divine. The doctor will come out to you.’

  ‘Is he alright?’

  ‘You need to talk to the doctor.’

  Harris flashed his ID. ‘We’re police officers.

  ‘I’m sorry. He isn’t allowed visitors.’

  Mackie looked at the doors though which Niall had gone. Would he ever come out again? She hadn’t even asked him about the performance. She had tried, throughout his short life, to make time for him. Now time was running out. There was only Harris, shifting from leg to leg. Shifty was the word. But this was not the time for recriminations. Not here.

  At last, the swing doors opened. A doctor in surgical scrubs came through. He was guarded.

  ‘Tell me. Will he be all right? Tell me.’

  ‘He’s sustained concussion, so we’re sending him for a scan. We’ve patched up his wounds – all superficial. There’s no sign of any knife being used.’

  ‘His eye was full of blood.’

  The doctor addressed Harris. ‘The scan will tell us more.’

  ‘Tell me! Mackie cried. ‘I’m his mother.’

  ‘I’ll stay here with her,’ Harris told the uniform. ‘Go back to the station, and file this.’

  ‘Don’t file anything. Get out on the streets and round up the scallies. The Camden Road flats. You know where they are. I don’t want you on it, Harris, after the mess you made with the Colston case.’

  She waited for most of the night on the hard chair in the corridor. The nurse tried to persuade her to go to the visitors’ lounge, where she’d be more comfortable, but Mackie stayed put. She didn’t want Harris coming back and trying to worm his way in to see Niall when he awoke.

  Niall. Her boy. He had never flown the nest, unless you counted weekly boarding at the ballet school. That had fitted in nicely with her work schedule. She felt guilty about it: self interest. She had never been able to be there for him as much as she should, because police work was inimical to parenthood. It got worse when she became a detective.

  As the night wore on, she began to drowse, in spite of the numerous cups of styrofoam tea brought to her by the nurses. She was never fully asleep, just in that semi conscious state when dreams and memories merge. On the beaches at Magull, Litherland, West Kirkby. Niall being thrown off a donkey and bumping his head on the hard sand. She picked him up and his eye was full of blood. No, that was now. His eye was full of blood because he’d been set upon by devils. She tried to see their faces, but saw only hood like executioners wore. A large pink penis paraded down Euston Road. Priests in barettas shook their fists at it. She hadn’t prayed enough. She hadn’t asked the Mother of God to defend him from dangers and demons.

  ‘Mrs Divine?’

  She opened her eyes.

  ‘I’m John Heart, consultant neurologist. I’ve got some news for you about your son.’

  ‘Is he going to be alright?’

  ‘The scan didn’t show any brain injury. His leg wound is superficial.’

  ‘He can dance again. Thank God. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do.’

  ‘He’ll have to take some time out. He’ll need to rest after the surgery.’

  ‘Surgery. What does he need that for?’

  ‘I’m afraid that the injury to his eye has caused the retina to detach. We have to operate as soon as possible. An opthalmic surgeon is on his way.’

  ‘Jesus. Can’t it heal in its own time?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. The sooner we proceed, the better his chances of regaining sight. It’s a simple operation. The surgeon will inject a small amount of gas into the eye which will push the retina back into place. He can go home in a couple of days. Will someone be with him?’

  ‘I’ll be with him. He lives with me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll look after him. I suggest you go home and take some rest.’

  ‘I’ll wait till he comes round.’

  The doctor frowned.

  ‘I want him to know I’m here.’

  8

  The living room was full of roses, brought by Niall’s mates from the corps de ballet. He lay on the sofa in his kimono, a gift from a Russian prima. His bruised and swollen face, and bandaged eye, looked very painful. He’d been told to rest his leg. He winced in pain when he walked on it.

  ‘D’you want a drink, Niall? I’ll make you an Irish coffee.’

  ‘I don’t want anything.’

  ‘You’ll mend, son,’ she said. ‘They told you they’re looking forward to having you back.’

  ‘You just don’t get it, do you? I’ll have to pass another audition to get back in the corps. I’ll never have the chance do dance solo again. That’s finished.’

  ‘Don’t be defeatist. It’s not like you...’

  ‘You’d be defeatist if you were booted in the eye.’

  ‘The surgeon told you they managed to save it. It’ll heal.’

  ‘I’m finished. I’m good for nothing, except teaching. You wanted that, didn’t you, Ma? You had the studio put in because you wanted to keep me home. That was your cunning plan.’

  ‘I planned nothing of the sort. The studio was so you could practice. I sacrificed a basement kitchen for that.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have bothered. I don’t want to hear about your sacrifices. I never wanted them.’

  ‘So you think you can stand on your own two feet?’

  ‘Are you making fun of me?’ At least he was looking at her now.

  ‘Niall, you’ve had a bit of bad luck, but you’ve come through it. You’re on the mend. All things pass.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear this.’

  ‘Well, shift then. I’m not moving. Was that the bell?’

  ‘I don’t wa
nt any more visitors.’

  ‘It could be for me.’

  Another florist was at the door. Harris and a uniform stood behind her. Mackie signed for the flowers , and looked Harris in the eye.

  ‘Can we have a word with him now, ma’am? They wouldn’t let us talk to him at the hospital.’

  ‘Come in.’

  Uniform took off his hat and followed Harris into the sitting room. He looked around at the décor. An arrangement of Aunty May’s best bits and stuff from IKEA. The effect was quirky.

  ‘Niall, this is Detective Sergeant Harris, a former colleague of mine.’

  ‘Acting Detective Inspector,’ Harris corrected.

  ‘I know who he is.’

  ‘They want you to tell them what happened.’

  ‘They know what happened, don’t they, because you’ll have told them?’

  ‘In your own words, son.’

  ‘Don’t call me son. You’re not my father. My mother, Inspector Divine – you know her, right? — sent me to get her take away from round the corner. She’s just come back from holiday in France. I picked it up, and got attacked on the way back. They said I was gay.’

  Uniform made a note.

  ‘Did you see their faces, son?’ Harris asked.

  ‘I said, don’t call me that. It’s bad enough when she does it. How could I see their faces when they were kicking the shit out of me? Are you dumb, or something?’

  ‘I know who they were,’ Mackie said. ‘It’s that gang from the flats. I already told you, Harris. Haven’t you been there yet?’

  ‘We’ve been asking in the shops in Drummond Street.’

  ‘They all wear jerkins in Burberry check. Hoods up. Mixed race. I’ve cautioned them before. They’ve got records. All you need to do is go and arrest them.’

  ‘We’ll make inquiries.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. Look what they did to his face. I saw them doing it. Bring them in and charge them with assault. Some of them are minors, but the older ones can face trial.’

  ‘The hospital took photos of your son’s injuries, ma’am,’ Uniform said.

  ‘So you’ve got evidence, a witness. Why are you dithering about asking shopkeepers?’

  ‘We’ve been directed not to approach street gangs, unless we see them committing a crime.’ Harris said. ‘The Chief Constable doesn’t want a situation. We’re only stopping men with red and black tattoos. That’s the directive. The constable here’s got a tattoo on his backside. Your ex girlfriend, isn’t it Soames? It caused a riot in the locker room.’

  ‘You have grounds for bringing Niall’s assailants in. Never mind directives. I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘With respect, ma’am, you’ve been off work.’

  ‘Have you been to the all night store on Drummond Street? They’re always nicking from him.’

  ‘He says he didn’t see anything.’

  ‘Talk to him again. Talk about the need to come down heavy on this gang for the sake of the Asian community. They’re afraid of reprisals if they point the finger. That shouldn’t stop you talking to them. Get to know them. They’re a community under threat. They’re boxed in.’

  ‘I could up the ante. Warn them about refusing to cooperate.’

  ‘That will only make them close ranks. You should be out on the streets, community policing, not driving around in police cars.

  When the scallies see you drive past, they know they’ve got a window for causing trouble. The community think they’re not supported by the police.’ She looked at Niall. ‘I want this sorted.’

  ‘Are you coming back to us soon, ma’am? We miss you.’

  ‘What are you grinning about?’ she asked Uniform. ‘You’ve got a tattoo on your arse. Addressing your question, Harris, I haven’t decided yet. But be sure that the powers that be know all about it.’

  She went to fetch the papers from the elderly Indian newsagent two streets away. He was one of those who didn’t see anything. She bought The Guardian, The Independent, and The Sun, to get a spectrum of today’s news reports. The Sun reported a Blaze in Berlin. The Independent ran an article about the recent spate of arson attacks on the Continent, the latest being in the German capital. There was damage to government buildings, and a reporter was injured when he went to photograph the fire. The Guardian put all this down to social unrest caused by failing economies within the euro, and the widening gap between rich and poor. Foreign corporations were threatening democracy in Europe by holding a sword over governments strapped for cash. They were making demands to eschew corporation tax and use the law to sue government if the public opposed their business practice.

  Rudyard called, and told her to come and see him in his office.

  ‘I’d like an interim report.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This afternoon. Two o’clock.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave my son. He’s been injured.’

  ‘He’ll be OK for an hour, won’t he?’

  Niall was still on the sofa, checking messages on his phone. He seemed to manage OK with one eye.

  ‘I’ve got to go out for a bit,’ she told him. ‘It’s work.’

  ‘Isn’t it always. Go on then.’

  ‘I’ve made you a flask of tea and a sandwich.’

  ‘I’m not an invalid.’

  ‘You’re behaving like one.’

  ‘You don’t care.’ He sounded bitter. ‘You actually don’t care. Well, you don’t need to worry about me. Tanya’s coming.’

  ‘Who’s she? Another Russian?’

  ‘She comes from Acton. She’s moving in because it’s nearer.’

  ‘To the theatre?’

  ‘No, to Albany Street. Where d’you think?

  ‘Thanks for running it by me first.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. It’s your house.’

  ‘It’s your house too, Niall. It’s your home.’

  ‘You know, when you were in France, I felt great. I didn’t get the third degree. I didn’t get nagged at. You overshadow me. You take my light. You stop me evolving.’

  ‘I’m sorry you feel like that. I’ve brought you up.’

  ‘Here we go.’

  ‘I’ll go to the meeting then, give you some space. But I’ll just say this: Don’t you ever, ever accuse me of not caring about you.’

  9

  Rudyard’s office building was grand. A Whitehall edifice. The usher led Mackie up a marble staircase with frescoes on the walls. Most of them depicted heroic battles. She recognised The Dukes of Wellington and Marlborough, Lord Nelson at Trafalgar. From the cupola, a group of angels looked down benignly on these august men. Not half a bad place to work. She thought of Albany Street, which was modern, sunlit, but grim. A concrete box. She’d been walled up there with Harris and co.

  They climbed to an upper floor where the corridors were narrower. The usher inserted a pass key in one of the doors, stepping aside so she could go through. The door closed behind her. This room was light and airy, with another frescoed ceiling. Rows of workers were scrolling up and down computer screens. A casually dressed young woman in her twenties left off, and got up to greet her: ‘Are you here to see Commander Rudyard?’

  ‘Yes. I’m Inspector Divine.’

  ‘This way.’ They went down another passageway. This one had black and white photographs on the wall. The Great and Good of the service, Mackie supposed. Her escort rapped on an unmarked door.

  Rudyard stood before her. He was more convincing on his own territory They shook hands then sat facing each other on opposite sofas. A coffee table marked the no man’s land between them.

  ‘Did you get into the computer?’

  ‘Yes.’ He handed her a small padded envelope. ‘This contains a USB copy of his files. There’s nothing significant in there that you haven’t told us about already. You might find some of his his writings interesting.’

  The assistant came in with a tray of cups and saucers and a cafetière.’

  ‘Cream and sugar?’

&nbs
p; ‘Is it possible to get a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She came back with a cup of hot water and a teabag. She glanced at Rudyard, and closed the door quietly behind her.

  ‘Tell me what happened on the night of the fire,’ he said. ‘When you were questioned.’

  ‘I was asked about my relationship with Roman. It was interrupted when an officer brought a note for Le Brun, the investigator. It turned out that there’d been a confession from the cleaner, but we were all told to stay at the château. Schmidt left before anyone else. He was only questioned for about five minutes. The others had at least fifteen before they came back to the library. That’s where we were told to wait until we were called.’

  ‘Roman and Dingle weren’t there?’

  ‘Apparently, Roman drove Scout to the station after the funeral. He hadn’t returned when Schmidt and I got back just after midnight. Schmidt was with me all afternoon. We were told not to attend the funeral, so we watched it covertly, from the woods.

  ‘We’ll get on to the Germans again. If there’s no record of an agent being sent to Brittany, then my money is on US intelligence. The CIA are everywhere we are. Of course, there’s another possibility. He could be working for Babel.’

  ‘He didn’t start the fire. I was with him.’

  ‘He might have engineered it. You were his alibi. You didn’t think it plausible that the fire was started by the cleaner.’

  ‘She’s a bit simple. Too simple.’

  ‘The French like things to be over and done with. They’ve got a confession. Suppose someone — Dingle, for instance — found out you’d got hold of that list of delegates. It was easy to find, and it looked as though Roman wanted you to find it. Babel finds out he’s flaky, and he’s killed. That’s plausible, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t believe Roman’s dead.’

  ‘Could you go back to the château? Find out what’s going on. The calm after the storm, so to speak.’

  ‘I’m persona not grata. Part of the reason for that, of course, is that they’re angry about the fire and Roman’s disappearance. They want someone to blame.’