Walking the Dog Read online

  Angela pronounced herself satisfied and said that the next day she could begin the delicate task of covering the model with a fine, even layer of wax. She promised me hard labour, mixing sand and old motor oil for the mould. Then she would heat the bronze into the mould, melting the wax in the process. The wax would run out of prepared drainage channels and the bronze would replace it. Once the bronze had cooled in its turn, she could extract the model, which by then would be inside the bronze casting. She would simply shatter it to remove it; she produced ‘one off’ pieces and would have no further use for it. Then her work would start again, burnishing and refining the raw piece until it was the finished article.

  I have probably given the impression that Angela worked exclusively in bronze. Although that was her main medium, it was not exclusively so. She worked in other metals and stone as well but her favourite was always bronze. That metal never seemed cold to Angela. Somehow, she imbued each piece with life and movement. The rich colour of the metal added to the impression of something vibrant. I could only stand back and admire. Lacking any talent whatsoever in that direction, I cannot due justice in any words of mine to the creative process that she engaged in. I have made it sound as though it is nothing more than a simple matter of physics; of one substance having a lower melting point than another. It was much, much more than that. You’d have to witness her at work to understand.

  It was around midnight by the time she was finished and satisfied that all was well. It had taken over two hours to extract the model from the kiln and clean and prepare it to Angela’s demanding standards. I found myself looking at a life-sized statue of Trotsky. It was a bit like looking at a photographic negative. The clay lacked that special quality that bronze brings. It was Trotsky to the life but life was the one thing that was missing. It must have showed on my face for Angela gave me a hug.

  “It looks like his funeral mask,” I said.

  She laughed and agreed. “At this stage, it does not live, it is true. The clay is dull. You will see; bronze will bring fire to him. Then it will come awake.”

  I knew she was right but it didn’t stop me from giving a vague shiver as if someone had walked over my grave.

  Liam was extremely anxious by the time we came back into the kitchen. He was trying to disguise it but he couldn’t sit still. By contrast, the colonel was like one of Angela’s bronzes, immobile but filled with blazing power. There was still no word from Niall and the other two. We sat around discussing all the plausible reasons for not contacting us but every one sounded hollow. After a while, Angela and I went to bed. I heard the colonel and Liam discussing in Russian as to who should take the first watch. Even without speaking the language I could guess that Angela’s father was urging Liam to get some rest while Liam was protesting that he couldn’t possibly sleep so the colonel should go ahead. Immovable object meets irresistible force. I gave up worrying about who would prevail. I trusted either one to keep us safe.

  We made love very tenderly that night. It was almost a transcendental experience. I had the sense that we became very much a single being. A rich aura of warmth surrounded us. Our love was a liquid essence that flowed between us. Love is a deep mystery that only the initiated may understand. That night, we proved ourselves to be higher adepts of the rites. It wasn’t our most athletic or gymnastic display, it didn’t need to be. There was a quintessential purity about our lovemaking that made us weep with the utter sweetness of it. We didn’t need pyrotechnics. Angela transported me to places I have never been, whose existence I had never guessed. Yet it was soft and slow, dreamlike at times and breathless at others, when her orgasms rolled and crashed like great ocean breakers.

  The darkness of the night itself had the quality of warm velvet. Our bed was an island was in a sea of dreams and hopes for the future. At times, when my brain was tumbling and spinning and my body poured out its seed into her, I could catch glimpses of our coming life together, or so it seemed. The magic was strong that night. It hummed and crackled between us. Unicorns pranced and dragons flew and fauns danced in the meadows of Norfolk. Time was suspended, the stars reversed their courses; and we made love.

  I could breathe her scent. Her very presence consumed every conscious thought and seared them from my brain. For a while, we didn’t notice that a thunderstorm had stolen up the coast. Once we realised, we pulled back the curtains and revelled in the display. Angela’s body looked unearthly in the harsh white flash of the lightning. I saw he as a sprite, ethereal and fascinating in the oldest sense of that word. The smooth roundness of her buttocks and the curve of her breasts; the slightly convex swell of her belly falling towards the central altar at the junction of her thighs seemed to be dusted with a phosphorescent glow. It was as though she was lit from within by the love that burned there. And I knew that love was for me. My heart swelled in my chest so that I could hardly breathe. My vision swam and I caught my breath. She looked so lovely that it hurt. A physical longing consumed me that had nothing at all to do with bodies and lust. I yearned to be joined to her, soul merging with soul and mind with mind. I wanted to see through her eyes, feel with her senses the loving invader penetrating her, filling her and finding its release.

  It was a long time later that we finally fell asleep, satiated and happy.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The thunderstorm had gone by morning and patches of blue sky were doing their best to pull apart the low drape of cloud that hugged the sea. We walked along the beach again though I swear we left no footprints. Some of the magic from the previous night seemed to linger about us still. It may sound callous, but I wasn’t particularly worried about Niall. Angela made me feel immortal – that protection had to include my friends. It sounds lame now but I really felt that. Of course, there was no justification and anyone who wasn’t consumed by the madness that had seized me could see it. Even Angela, a fellow traveller in never-never land, was concerned. I dismissed her fears with a lofty “If anything’s wrong we’d have heard by now.”

  I’d missed the early morning News when we went out so when I did turn on the radio on our return, the main story had really gathered a head of steam. The clipped matter-of-fact tones of the BBC announcer seemed fantastically at odds with the story he was relating.

  “Police forces across Europe have made hundreds of arrests following what appears have been to a plot by international terrorists. Sources in the Home Office have indicated that this is the result of an intensive investigation by the Security Services and Special Branch. Special Branch officers have made a number of arrests in London and elsewhere in the UK. Prominent among those arrested was Alexander Renfrew, the media tycoon. A spokesman for Mr Renfrew said that he was cooperating with the authorities voluntarily and was innocent of any wrongdoing.

  “Reports have been coming in of a gun battle near Southwold in Suffolk. Local police report that a number of bodies have been recovered from the scene at isolated Newgale Farm. Those involved are believed to have belonged to an organised crime syndicate with links to Chechnya. Unconfirmed reports suggest that members of the security forces were also present. A news conference has been scheduled for midday.

  “Elsewhere, it has just been announced that the body of Charles Brownlock, the controversial MP for New Malden, was discovered in his car in a lay-by on the A12 early this morning. Police are not treating his death as suspicious. Mr Brownlock, an MP since 1987, was frequently associated with left-wing causes and in recent times had become a marginalized figure on the Labour back benches.”

  The announcer then switched to more on the deepening crisis in the Middle East. Liam rose and switched the radio off. He looked around at us.

  “It’s over, then,” he said.

  I can’t really describe my feelings at that point. I certainly didn’t feel triumphant. I can’t even say I felt a great sense of relief. It was more like a feeling of calm descended on me. I looked at the others. The Colonel was nodding his head. Angela looked stunned. Only Magic seemed to react appropri
ately. He heaved himself up from the corner where he had been lying and stalked across the room towards me. His tail was wagging so furiously that everything aft of his shoulders was wiggling. A large wet nose pressed into the back of my hand and an even larger paw landed on my knee. His long, tatty ears twitched forward and he gazed as me as if to say “what was all that about?” Angela leaned over and hugged his neck. He look bemused; then again, he usually does.

  We’d just started to discuss what had happened to the other three when Niall phoned. I took the call but Liam snatched the phone out of my hand and began to berate his twin in extremely salty language. His voice trailed away as he listened to Niall’s replies until he stood in silence, face grave. After a brief interval he put the receiver down slowly and turned to face us.

  “It got bloody,” he said. “Steve’s dead and Bill took a couple of rounds. They found the shipment but got caught before they could send for the cavalry. Niall’s OK and thinks Bill will pull through.”

  “Where’s Niall?” I asked.

  Liam pulled a face. “On his way back. He said he got pissed and passed out when it was over. He’s sorry he didn’t call. Couldn’t think straight. He’ll be here in about half an hour.”

  “Oh! Poor Steve!”

  Angela looked close to tears. The Colonel said something filthy in Estonian. It deflated us all. Liam was blazing with fury:

  “The stupid bastard!” He was almost spitting with rage. ”They found the container hidden in a barn. All three went inside. The Chechens rumbled them and opened up when Steve started to leave. They are lucky they weren’t all killed. Why the fuck didn’t one of them keep watch?”

  “Bad,” the colonel muttered but his face was a picture of understanding. He knew Liam’s anger for what it really was: relief that his brother was alive. Liam rounded on him.

  “How the fuck do you know? You weren’t there!”

  Then he caught himself and gave a wry smile. “At least the stupid git is all right.”

  The colonel nodded, his normally flinty eyes full of sympathy. We lapsed into silence. Angela took my hand and held it like it was a crucifix. Then we heard the sound of a car approaching.

  “That was quick,” I said, thinking it would be Niall.

  Liam shook his head, it wasn’t the Range Rover’s V8. Someone knocked at the door. Angela let go of me and went to answer it.

  A stranger’s voice said, “Miss Sable? Detective Inspector Fowler, may I come in?”

  Fowler walked into the parlour. He was about my age and height with silvery blond hair and a clean-cut look about him. His suit was elegantly tailored and looked expensive. I made the brief introductions and he smiled urbanely before producing his warrant card from a leather wallet.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m terribly sorry to bother you but my guvnor, Commander Swann, asked me to drop by.”

  He reached into an inside pocket and pulled out the photocopied pages of the colonel’s list.

  “The thing is, this isn’t an original document.” He gave me another dazzling smile.

  “As I’m sure you know, sir, we have a ‘quality of evidence’ issue. The guvnor asked me if you could let us have the original? We’ll also need an affidavit from the good colonel to explain its provenance. We’ve got a special sitting at Bow Street Magistrates Court at six this evening and the CPS (he meant the Crown Prosecution Service) will need to get this one right. We can hold them all under the Terrorism Act but we are going to have to produce the real McCoy.”

  I nodded understanding. Evidence Rules are such that copies of documents, rather than originals, can cause problems. He produced a transfer of evidence form and asked the colonel to sign. Angela translated; the colonel’s English wasn’t up to the arcane mysteries of the British legal system. The old boy wasn’t happy about it but he handed over the oilcloth roll with good enough grace. He asked, via Angela, for an assurance that the documents would be returned. He would need them back home in Estonia. Fowler flashed his pearly-white teeth again and promised this would be no problem. He tucked the oilcloth into an inside pocket and patted the resulting bulge.

  “Great stuff! Well, I won’t keep you any longer. I just have to tell you that you have done an outstanding job. I dare say there will be some more official recognition in the not-too-distant future.”

  I don’t know why but he grated on me. The bonhomie was just a tad overdone. He came across as an oily bastard. He made more effusive goodbyes and headed for the door. The four of us stood there. I had the feeling we were all glad to see the back of him. Angela had a strange look on her face. She suddenly paled.

  “Martin!” she grabbed my arm. “He is one of them! He had that badge! It was on the inside of his lapel!”

  We stared at her for a second or two.

  “Are you sure?” Liam asked.

  “Yes, yes!” her voice was desperate.

  All four of us ran to the door and rushed outside. Fowler was halfway to his car. I shouted after him

  “Hang on a minute!”

  He turned. He must have realised we had rumbled him because he started to run towards the car. Just then, Niall appeared in the Range Rover. Liam made frantic hand signals. Niall apparently understood for at once the Range Rover accelerated off the winding track and started bucketing across the grass, cutting off the angle.

  Fowler spun around again, his lips working as he cursed us. He rapidly calculated that Niall would reach his car before he could. He turned and started to run off along the edge of the dunes. We took off in pursuit. I might not be as strong or as fit as the twins but I have always been faster. I was also better dressed for running in soft sand than Fowler, I was wearing trainers and jogging pants whereas he was in a suit. I halved the distance between us in the first hundred yards. He was now no more than twenty or so yards ahead of me. He put on a spurt and opened up a bit more of a gap. I knew then that I had him. The only sport that I had ever been any good at at School was cross-country running. Even though I didn’t run much these days, I still knew how to do it. Chopping and changing pace takes it out of you. It’s much better to set a cadence, get into a rhythm.

  We must have left the cottage door wide open because suddenly I was joined my Magic and Trotsky. They thought this was a great game. Magic bounded along beside me while Trotsky obviously thought it would be an even better game to catch up with the stranger ahead. Fowler threw a backward glance over his shoulder and his face showed alarm as he saw the husky bearing down on him. If you don’t know your dogs, a running husky can look pretty scary. They do look like wolves even if their nature is quite the opposite. Fowler didn’t know his dogs; he looked terrified.

  He angled left onto the beach. Trotsky was going flat out by this point and skidded on past for a few yards before starting to turn. I leapt to my left over a tussocky mound and went crashing down the edge of the dunes onto the beach. Magic kept pace with me until he suddenly swerved in front, causing me to attempt an elaborate side-step that didn’t quite come off. I stumbled on for a couple of paces, arms wind-milling for balance. The slope was too steep and the surface too soft and slippery. I tumbled to the ground with a thump that knocked the wind out of me. I dragged myself to my feet; nothing seemed broken. Magic was in close orbit around me. His body language seemed to suggest he loved this game. I cursed him for a useless sod and staggered after Fowler.

  Trotsky, in the meantime, had approached Fowler via the Great Circle route and was rushing up on him from behind. Fowler must have heard the huffing breath or the pounding paws for he spun around just as Trotsky arrived. Trotsky gave his normal greeting jump. For the first time ever I was grateful that that dog has no manners. Fowler recoiled, throwing up a protective arm to guard against the imagined teeth. Two great husky paws impacted on his chest and he lost his balance, falling flat on his back on the sand like a kid making a snow-angel. Trotsky danced around a couple of times then took off like a cream and brown rocket after some seagulls that had caught his attention.

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nbsp; I’d got my breath back by then and was less than thirty yards from him. He saw me coming, struggled to his feet and set off again at a stumbling run. Looking ahead, I saw he’d made a fatal mistake. He was running towards the estuary where a fierce ebb was rushing into the North Sea. I turned back to the others and waved them to stay on the dune path, to head him off if he tried to cut back in land. Liam, or was it Niall, waved a hand in acknowledgment and carried on at a determined jog trot. Fowler had recovered and was moving more easily but I was into my running again and was reeling in him steadily. I saw him look around wildly. His position had obviously just hit him. He pulled something white out of his pocket and began to shred it frantically as he ran. Small pieces of white confetti snowed on the beach and dispersed in the stiff onshore wind. He headed closer to the sea.

  A series of low wooden groynes lay along this stretch of beach. The sand was piled high on one side and had been excavated on the other by the ceaseless tide. We hurdled the barriers like athletes in a steeplechase. Fowler angled his run out onto a low spit of sand that curled like a protective arm across the mouth of the estuary. This spit was hidden at high water so I guessed we were about halfway through the ebb. The ‘rule of twelfths’ sprung into my mind. One twelfth of the water ebbs during the first the hour, two in the second, three in the third and fourth, two in the fifth and one in the sixth. The tide would be at its strongest about now. There was no way he could get across the estuary. There was something like a seven-knot tide running. If he tried it, he’d be swept away.

  I was barely ten yards away now. Fowler skidded to a halt. I saw his arm come back and caught a flash of yellow tumbling end over end against the dull grey loom of the sea. He had flung the oilskin roll of documents out into the turmoil of water that marked where the wind-driven waves did battle with the rush of the tide. Sandbanks and currents further confused the sea into a nasty chop of broken grey and white, shot through with the muddy silty stream of the river itself. He turned to face me, a look of triumph on his face.