called, as you might guess, Fiona. I met her at Vansittartâs third wedding. After that one, unable to face any more alimony, he fled. He now lives elsewhere, drawing his dividends via the Turks and Caicos Islands. Even if you could find him he couldnât give you any help. Heâs been out of the business for ten years.
Anyway there was I, five years ago when this affair started,MD of HVPS, charming wife, two adorable blonde kiddies, nice house and, as far as family and neighbours were concerned, the model of respectability.
I had a small factory near Preston which made the security equipment. It was a cover to disguise the other parts of my work, of course, and handy for filtering through unusual sums of money. Itâs a major problem of our times, isnât it, William? Not how to get hold of the money, but how to explain it afterwards.
Where did it come from, this income of about forty times what your average bus driver will get every year for his nine, ten, eleven, twelve-hour day? Guarding people and property accounted for about a third. The remainder came from my little set-upâs work as an NGO â non-governmental organisation, working alongside governments or for them and receiving payment from them. Think of Oxfam or Save the Children. Then think of me, the evil, the unsanctified, the unadmitted NGO.
Think of a place where the native people want to go on leading their simple lives, fishing in the river, hunting and eating the local wildlife, drawing water, cutting wood for the fires, planting crops. Simple, Arcadian, backed by the good NGOs. Then think of a government who wants to mine minerals, uranium, oil and so on, at the same time keeping in with the multinational who will most likely be involved, build some airports, buy some planes and some weapons and put something prudently aside in private accounts in Switzerland. This is where the lads and I come in â hired to make sure lifeâs not worthwhile for the simple indigenes standing in the way of international trade and the personal enrichment of interested parties. I turn up with my boys to go through a few villages at night killing and setting houses on fire, or assassinate the local leaders, or poison the water supply so that people have to roll up their blankets and move on. We do what the job demands.
Or take a little island not far from a bigger one. This island is split into two bits, one small bit owing allegiance to the big island, the other autonomous. Only a lot of people in the small bit want to link up with the autonomous side. And what a mess the place has become. Awash with drugs, arms and money, crammed with
spies, patriots, traitors, infiltrators, collaborators, double â triple â agents. Who do you call on to do some of the dirty work? Good old Sam, rogue-element, never-heard-of-him-before-in-my-life Hope, thatâs who. I tell you, in the end I didnât know whether I was working for MI5, MI6, the IRA, the Unionists or Che Guevara.
Well, Iâd always known it had to end, one way or another. That was why I left bundles of cash in different places. But I must say, although I knew something, sometime, would give, Iâm a bit surprised by what it turned out to be. I suppose you always are. To think that stupid little job years ago, done just to oblige and involving three hopeless down-and-outs, could lead to all this â your Enquiry, me having to disappear and all the other consequences. Itâs a funny old world, and no mistake.
So â now to our muttons, as the slaughterman said
â¦
Seven
Fleur woke up next morning and suddenly remembered she was supposed to let in the man who was going to inspect the wine barâs oven.
There was no noise from the flat next door and as she hastily showered and combed her hair Fleur told herself the night with Dominic had been brought on by the shock of Vanessaâs near-death experience. Death and sex were closely linked in the human
Anyway there was I, five years ago when this affair started,MD of HVPS, charming wife, two adorable blonde kiddies, nice house and, as far as family and neighbours were concerned, the model of respectability.
I had a small factory near Preston which made the security equipment. It was a cover to disguise the other parts of my work, of course, and handy for filtering through unusual sums of money. Itâs a major problem of our times, isnât it, William? Not how to get hold of the money, but how to explain it afterwards.
Where did it come from, this income of about forty times what your average bus driver will get every year for his nine, ten, eleven, twelve-hour day? Guarding people and property accounted for about a third. The remainder came from my little set-upâs work as an NGO â non-governmental organisation, working alongside governments or for them and receiving payment from them. Think of Oxfam or Save the Children. Then think of me, the evil, the unsanctified, the unadmitted NGO.
Think of a place where the native people want to go on leading their simple lives, fishing in the river, hunting and eating the local wildlife, drawing water, cutting wood for the fires, planting crops. Simple, Arcadian, backed by the good NGOs. Then think of a government who wants to mine minerals, uranium, oil and so on, at the same time keeping in with the multinational who will most likely be involved, build some airports, buy some planes and some weapons and put something prudently aside in private accounts in Switzerland. This is where the lads and I come in â hired to make sure lifeâs not worthwhile for the simple indigenes standing in the way of international trade and the personal enrichment of interested parties. I turn up with my boys to go through a few villages at night killing and setting houses on fire, or assassinate the local leaders, or poison the water supply so that people have to roll up their blankets and move on. We do what the job demands.
Or take a little island not far from a bigger one. This island is split into two bits, one small bit owing allegiance to the big island, the other autonomous. Only a lot of people in the small bit want to link up with the autonomous side. And what a mess the place has become. Awash with drugs, arms and money, crammed with
spies, patriots, traitors, infiltrators, collaborators, double â triple â agents. Who do you call on to do some of the dirty work? Good old Sam, rogue-element, never-heard-of-him-before-in-my-life Hope, thatâs who. I tell you, in the end I didnât know whether I was working for MI5, MI6, the IRA, the Unionists or Che Guevara.
Well, Iâd always known it had to end, one way or another. That was why I left bundles of cash in different places. But I must say, although I knew something, sometime, would give, Iâm a bit surprised by what it turned out to be. I suppose you always are. To think that stupid little job years ago, done just to oblige and involving three hopeless down-and-outs, could lead to all this â your Enquiry, me having to disappear and all the other consequences. Itâs a funny old world, and no mistake.
So â now to our muttons, as the slaughterman said
â¦
Seven
Fleur woke up next morning and suddenly remembered she was supposed to let in the man who was going to inspect the wine barâs oven.
There was no noise from the flat next door and as she hastily showered and combed her hair Fleur told herself the night with Dominic had been brought on by the shock of Vanessaâs near-death experience. Death and sex were closely linked in the human
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