Ghost And Ragman Roll E-Book

Pete Adams

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

His French honeymoon continually interrupted by a series of misdeeds, DCI Jack Austin returns to Portsmouth to find the missing link.

When an ambitious new detective infringes on his territory - and his ego - Austin resorts to illogically effective tactics to protect those that matter most. 

With a corpulent gangster gone missing and a banker murdered in Paris, can Austin reveal the perpetrator and bring him to justice?

Leseprobe

GHOST AND RAGMAN ROLL

KIND HEARTS AND MARTINETS BOOK 4

PETE ADAMS

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Disclaimer

Preface

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2019 Pete Adams

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Marilyn Wagner

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

"There is no grievance that is a fit object of redress by mob law"

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

“And what would he know about the price of fish?”

PETE ADAMS

My children and grandchildren all of whom do not think me silly.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A.J. Griffiths-Jones, author, lovely writer, lovely person.

DISCLAIMER

This Novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and some localities, are entirely coincidental.

The story is principally set in my adopted City of Portsmouth but I have adapted some of the locations, settings and buildings to suit my imagination and the narrative. I love my adopted home town of Portsmouth and Southsea and I apologise to any citizens if they feel I may have taken diabolical liberties. The same applies to the scenes in Honfleur, an ancient French harbour town I consider magnificent and have spent many days of peace and relaxation and enjoyed a good few plats de fruits de mer.

PREFACE

Redress - setting an injustice right; the term may imply retaliation or punishment

Ragman Roll- I first learned of the term Ragman Roll as the origination of the modern-day expression of rigmarole in the book Red Herrings and White Elephants by Albert Jacks. Jacks says the expression dates back over 700 years, and was used to describe a deed of loyalty to Edward I, signed by Scottish noblemen that eventually became a shambles of dishevelled documents that when unrolled was forty feet long. I liked the sound of Ragman Roll and I used it completely out of context. The modern derivative is thought to be ‘rigmarole’, now used to describe anything or anyone, of a troublesome, time consuming, awkward nature.

Ghost – A Spectre, or aSpook?

There are only three possible endings to any story aren't there? Revenge, tragedy or forgiveness - that’s it. All stories end like that. - Jeanette Winterson

PROLOGUE

Four weeks ago

You had to laugh, and people did, since the fight was on a distant beach, the seaward side of Fort Cumberland, situated on the barren South-Eastern tip of Portsea Island. It had been a moonless, pitch black, October wintry night. Apparently, Richard the Lionheart, the founder of Portsmouth as England’s proud strategic Naval Port, turned in his grave; his heritage defended by the 6, 57, a collection of seedy, fascist, football yobs, from an attack by Lenin’s Britain, an equally seedy group of moth eaten, radical, left wing thugs; though not all was as it seemed.

The rip tide sucked out many of the protagonists, those few taken by Police, mainly the wounded, were not talking, and those supposed to have survived, disappeared.

The local paper likened it to the Mods and Rockers, rival fashion gangs that held pitch battles in coastal towns in the nineteen sixties, going on to preach about modern values to a populace that had yet to recover from being raped and pillaged by greedy Bankers. The British people were still saturated in debt, and life remained difficult with little prospect of change, despite the pressure supposedly being eased after the Nation’s debt had been rescheduled over seventy years, and not a penny paid back by the Bankers. There remained a natural suspicion, latent anger bubbling below the surface, people suspected the Bankers were at it again and grumbled, and those who knew the British temperament warned, this could be a precursor to something a lot worse; letters of complaint? God, and then what?

“It’ll be a lot worse,” Jane Austin said sagely to the newspapers, tapping his nose, “the pressure may be orf, but there’s a residua…, linger…, a lot of anger ‘anging abowt, and that can be manipulated,” and this, ironically, from a man who enjoyed a laugh.

Three weeks ago

It was time to turf the fat bastard out, and he was unceremoniously dumped on Eastney beach amongst a gathering of tramps, ‘Serve the fucking arse right,’ a passing comment as they turned and left.

Two weeks ago

The financial world was stunned, Banker, Jacqueline Parmentier had left her chic Paris apartment, tipped her hand to her eyes to deflect the gusting rain saturated wind, she never saw the gunman, bumped into him; “Excusez-moi” bystanders reported her saying, just before being shot, twice, in the head.

Now

‘Av a bleedin’ egg and bacon sarnie for Christ’s sake and let’s get going, you can eat it in the car on the way.’

They were getting breakfast at the cabbie cafe in Charing Cross, a quintessential London, greasy spoon, and Delores loved it. She didn’t like her travelling companion though, a hideously overweight misogynist oaf, who will almost certainly end up in Portsmouth with egg yolk down his trousers.

He did, and he tried to wipe it up with his grubby index finger elbowing Delores in the process, causing her to drive all over the place, ‘Oi, watch what yer bleedin’ doing tosspot!’ She rebuked, in her spiky cockney accent.

‘You wouldn’t let me stay and eat this in the cafe, so how am I supposed eat wiv you all over the fucking show?’

‘Shut it, bozo.’

So he shut it, and she continued weaving down the A3 to Portsmouth.

ONE

The fat bastard hotel manager, Brian Pinchfist, was no longer fat. Whether he was still a bastard remained to be seen? He claimed to police he’d been kidnapped and held, underground, by people unknown to him who disguised their appearance and voices. He had been found by a Portsmouth Ranger, Jet (John Edward Thomas) Norris, having been unceremoniously dumped beside the incongruously garish, pastel coloured, bathing huts on Eastney beach, the pink one. Frozen, soaking wet and filthy, his almost skeletal body lost in his baggy shabby rags, he had shivered uncontrollably on a foul, early November morning. He had only a motley crew of noxious smelling tramps for company, if you excluded or could see, the equally skeletal, Ghost, hauntingly concerned for Pinchfist’s welfare. Standing off from the toxic collection of human detritus was Jet, who, although more aromatically agreeable, had an equally comparable toxic personality.

The street people were too polite to mention that Pinchfist, this skinny, raggedy bastard, smelt pretty much as they did, except for maybe the Meths and Special Brew. Jet was not so circumspect in his verbal exchanges to Fat Bastard or the tramps. He was often on the receiving end of critical denigration, not least his colleagues calling him Knob-head when he wanted people to call him Jet; a cool name. So, he enjoyed any opportunity to pass on some vitriol, in equal measure, in the manner of all good bullies.

Apparently, during his near three months of captivity, the fat bastard was made to negotiate every scrap of food, frequently unsuccessfully, and had to learn to go without, or so he claimed. The Doctors said he was in reasonable shape, considering, as though he had been on a well-controlled emergency diet; quite remarkable. There appeared to be no ill effects if you ignored the pong, they said, ignoring the pong and Pinchfist himself, who cowered, cartoonlike, behind a drip stand.

Pinchfist was unaware he had been missing for so long, and looked forward to being reunited with his family, and was amazed when, after hospital discharge, he was immediately arrested, and within a short time incarcerated, again, although this room did have a window, even if it had evident bars, and the police were moderately polite. His confusion was exacerbated when it was explained to him the cell’s Teasmade was on the blink, though they did give him a sausage sandwich, but that sense of temporary rapture was spoiled when the Chief Inspector, a man called Jane Austin, said he would like to shove the sausages up his arse; meteorologically he said, but probably meant metaphorically?

Prior to his disappearance, the obese manager had huffed and puffed his way through his hotel remedial and refurbishment works, had manipulated all of the payments to suppliers, and reneged on the final account, so the builder lost a considerable sum of money. He had excuses of course, and all the builder could do was watch as everyone believed the fat bastard. The Builder and his family suffered, they cut back. People gave him time to pay the incurred debts; he was a good man, but enough was enough and other people had their own bills to pay, didn’t they? A deal was offered, but it would go nowhere near what was owed, although it was acknowledged a good job had been done; small comfort. “What goes around comes around”, more small comfort, and offered by comfortably well-off people who knew only square meals. Even if it came around and visited itself upon Brian Pinchfist, what would it achieve? Everybody believed the fat bastard, he was making a profit for the hotel for the first time, and the owners turned their own blind eye. So Pinchfist was arrogantly immune, and snuffled his piggish way around the hotel, bullying, stuffing and gorging, uncaring of the pain he caused other people.

“Penny-pinching, that’s how you make money in this business”, is what he would proudly say as he would negotiate and renegotiate on previously agreed bargains, until he had bled people dry. If you refused to negotiate or to accept his offers, “So sue me”, he would stutter, not through any speech defect but because his words had difficulty in passing the layers of facial fat that constituted corpulent chops.

The builder fretted; what could he do? Then, out of the blue, the hotel settled the debt plus a bonus and a letter; a full apology. It saved the builder and enabled him to pay everyone else and the back payments on his mortgage, but where was Brian Pinchfist? It seemed he had disappeared with not a word of leave-taking; a last magnanimous gesture? People said if it were, it had been his only one, and had been a Brahma at that. The Pinchfist family were equally mystified, fat and mystified, but unmoved emotionally and physically as they stuffed their faces around the telly and looked upon the unrecognisable image of their dad, mum’s husband, like a pencil on the TV screen. Found, but where has he been? Please contact… the kids changed the channel; Sponge Bob was on the other side.

The Portsmouth Community Police Department were equally mystified, not so plump, though some thought Detective Chief Inspector Austin could maybe shed a few pounds. Ironically, it was Austin who had suggested the hotel owners appoint an auditor, to see if Pinchfist had enabled the hotel to shift a few pounds of their own, which he had, of course, the irony being, the shedding of the fiscal had enabled the growth of the manager’s larded pounds and his family’s combined blubber. It became apparent that over a long period of time, Pinchfist had sifted and sorted small amounts here, and little bits there, of cash. DCI Austin called it sausage and mash; he was from the East End of London. “An irony that”, he told people, who were themselves mystified. Jack Austin liked being an irony, it made a change from being an enema, by which he meant an enigma. DCI Jack (nicknamed Jane) Austin was known as the Mr. Malacopperism of the Portsmouth Community Police Force, getting words and expressions wrong, and often inappropriately used, at the most inappropriate times and places. This is what made him so funny, people said. He couldn’t see it himself, but then he only had one eye.

“There were probably more funds missing than could be interpolated through the books and through those suppliers who were prepared to turn the Queens Shilling”, Austin had said, meaning Queens Evidence, but maybe he didn’t? They were in the naval port of Portsmouth, where in the not too distant past, men were pressed into naval service, forced to take the King’s shilling. “The navy was after all a sausage and mash business, like hotels”, Austin also said, knowledgably, checking to see if his nose grew. “Money over the bar and dealing with suppliers, backhanders, greased palms, know what I mean, nudge, nudge”, he had said, fluttering his hand under his arm pit which caused a slightly malodorous (he called it manly) breeze downwind.

Following the arrest, interrogation, and charging of the equally fat accountant, Gertrude Git (she had German origins, “probably the Gestapo” Jack Austin had commented and had later been rebuked for), and if Pinchfist had been around at the time, he would also be well and truly banged to rights.

Later on, it was concluded that in total a very large sum had been taken over a long period, and clearly Fat Bastard had done a runner, albeit everyone agreed this was a highly inappropriate use of the term, to infer he could run anywhere. The local Evening Newspaper suggested he had done a “Wobbler” with the money, and reported the owner of the hotel group, who had turned a blind eye, had suffered an extraordinary accident that left him blind in one eye, ironically, not unlike Chief Inspector Austin of the Community Police Unit, who seemed oddly proud of that particular Irony! But then again, he was a drinking pal of Bernie LeBolt, crime reporter for the local Evening News.

TWO

The honeymoon - Honfleur, France, a few weeks after the fat bastard, now skinny, had been found.

Sunday was market day in the historic square in Honfleur, and Jack was in amongst the throngs, clearly, or evidently not so clearly, speaking his pigeon French; not to pigeons-francais but to the confused market stall holders-francais. Mandy could see the Gallic shrugs from the window of their hotel room in the Hostellerie Le Chat, although the hotel is now known by another name, Jack insisted on calling the hotel by its “proper” title; he couldn’t pronounce the new name anyway. What you call a “Jack-no-say-quoi” he had said, laughing. Jack Austin was not the sort of person who took change all that well, or speaking another language, and that was obvious to Mandy even from a distance. She reflected, and then smiled to herself watching him, secretly admiring his confidence in amongst the old enemy, as he called the French. She thought she would nip out and join him, maybe they could have a coffee on the square together.

Waltzing out through the swishing, former Le Chat’s electric glider doors, she managed to catch up to him as he regaled a trader about selling pets from a stall. He was preparing to buy all of the mangy kittens just before Mandy stopped him, ‘Jack, we’ll not be able to take them back with us. Let’s have a coffee on the square, eh?’

The magic word, coffee, a bit like fish or seafood, all words that got his attention, and the kittens were immediately forgotten; some Dr Doolittle. He changed her mind about coffee on the square and suggested they would prefer the harbour front. She was okay with that, even though it was chilly, but the rain was holding off and the French had it sorted of course, the outside seats had clear plastic enclosures ready to roll down should it rain or if the wind picked up, so yes, that would be nice.

They were enjoying a wonderful honeymoon and were not about to let the November weather distract from the pleasure they were having in each other’s company, entering their second week away, and they had visited many places in Normandy. Mandy, practiced in the art of living with Jack, had listened with a great deal of patience and not a little amusement as he made like he knew the history of everything, and insisted on telling her. In Bayeux he had explained parts of the tapestry, and when she pointed out that the card describing the exhibit said something else altogether, she had to stop him approaching the assistants to point out their error. But this was the Jack she fell in love with, and he loved her, and this made her feel amazing inside.

She stood patiently watching her eejit trying to organise the best seat by the harbour of the particular cafe that currently took his fancy. While he argued incomprehensibly with other patrons, she reflected on their, what seemed like a long and incident-filled journey, over what was, in reality, a short period of intimacy that had brought them to this point in their lives. She was a successful police officer, Detective Superintendent Amanda Bruce, now Mrs Austin, as she had married Detective Chief Inspector Jack (nicknamed Jane) Austin. She smiled to herself as he was not much of a copper, and little by little she had found out over this short time, that seemed like ages, he had probably never solved a crime in his life. He was though a mustard spy, and Jack would agree he was brilliant, not action man spook, but the cerebral kind. In fact, you had to keep the inept, clumsy, gigantic oaf of a bloke, definitely out of the front line or he endangered not only himself but anyone in the vicinity, and that included the bad guys.

It had come as a surprise to Mandy to learn, eventually, he had never retired from MI5, although he did pick up his gong, a CBE, for pretending to do so, and a lot of people, those that knew anyway, would say that about summed up Jack. Typical of the man though, he had surrounded himself with an entourage of amazingly clever but cowboy misfits, and it was this bunch of loyal monkey spanners that did all the solving for him. What he was good at was piecing things together, assembling and dissembling, thinking laterally, seeing the overall picture, and that is what he had always done in MI5 and still did, only in the guise of a community policeman. The fact that this cockney, jumped up barrow boy, spiv of a bloke had settled himself in the Southern England coastal City of Portsmouth was also no coincidence. He had left London, he says, because he wanted to be beside the sea, which was in part the truth. However, in reality, he was charged to set up a benign, low level police unit that could investigate anything that worried MI5 in Portsmouth, a strategically important naval and commercial port.

He had recently been instrumental in solving a conspiracy that caused the country to be submerged into chaos and saturating debt, and if Mandy knew anything about the price of fish, and living with Jack the renowned seafood nut, she obviously did, there would be repercussions. But for her, she was fifty-four, and for Jack, sixty and suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, it was time to slow down and look to retirement, which she knew scared the bajeezers out of him. Still, this was good, a holiday, and he had handed the reigns over to Jo-Jums, Detective Inspector Josephine Wild, who had a good control of the spook operation known as the Community Policing Squad, which occasionally, and for good form, did what it said on the can.

She thought she would like to continue taking her ease and muse more this morning but the Patron was signalling for her to do something about Jack. She stepped in, ‘Jack, please, this seat is the one I would prefer. I can see the old carousel and I like to look at the mediaeval buildings,’ she said, heading for the new table.

‘Well, why didn’t you say? Only I thought as we sat at this table last night…’ he had a hang-dog look.

‘I’m not like you and have to have the same place all the time, I like a change, prefer a change, even,’ and she expertly disguised her exasperated look. He wasn’t listening, naturally, he was busy directing the waiting staff away from the other table, much to the relief of the woman and the amusement of the man already sitting there.

‘Cafe espress et un Americano seal vous plate, mate,’ and Jack wobbled his head as clearly the waiter understood his order, ‘Douze points je pense.’ The waiter understood these words also, but not the rhyme or reason. Nevertheless he toddled off to get the beverages.

‘Oui Jack, tres bon,’ and Mandy relaxed into her seat and looked around her, whilst acknowledging his twelve points; she knew what was important to her husband. Honfleur was truly a magical place, an ancient harbour that Jack insisted William the Conqueror sailed from in 1066, but the man at the museum had told her, quietly, it had in fact been Barfleur. She thought she would not disillusion him, he was so excited and was sure William the Bastard wouldn’t mind. Leaning back in her chair and drifting, she said, ‘It’s truly divine here Jack, I’m glad we …’ she was brought back to reality as Jack interrupted her discourse and ducked under the table, ‘…Jack, I was talking to you.’

‘Shush, look away, love,’ he whispered, so naturally everyone heard as he was, as he says, a bit Mutt and Jeff and consequently shouted everything. He wouldn’t wear hearing aids, arguing he didn’t want to look daft, so she was having this so-called hushed conversation with him under the table and the both of them looked daft. She saw him crawling away and halt at the feet of a man who had parked himself beside their table before sidling to intercept Jack.

The man looked down, amused, but with no appearance of surprise, ‘Bonjour, Jacques, comment allez-vous?’

‘Custard, you old tart,’ and Jack began the slow and rambunctious exercise of standing and pretending he’d just found a franc.

‘Jack, please, sit down and introduce me to your friend, and it’s Euros now.’

‘But we’re on honeymoon and I was talking about a mate of mine, Frank.’

Used to her man and his face-saving inanities, she gestured her head to this rather suave, intelligent looking, forty something swarthy Frenchman; tall, even if he was slightly stooping with more than a hint of a hunch. He had the look of a warped George Clooney she thought, and with synonymous confidence and flare, the man took a seat from an empty adjacent table and sat next to Mandy. Jack eventually joined them, two puddle stains on the knees of what he called his cream, holiday, round the houses. He didn’t notice, but if the chuckling from the other customers was anything to go by, they all did.

The deformed George Clooney took Mandy’s hand, kissed the back, and introduced himself, ‘Henri Cousteau, Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur, to you ma chérie; French intelligence.’

‘Yeah, yeah, Custard now renard pied Oscar,’ apparently French for foxtrot Oscar, fuck off; Monsieur Malacopperism, ‘we’re on our honeymoon as I’m sure you know.’

‘Custard, Jack?’

Henri explained, ‘Jacque mixes up Cousteau with custard for which we French have no word, apart from crème anglaise, but what do I know, they all call me Custard in the office now, and even my kids do. My wife thankfully sticks to Henri.’

Mandy smiled, recognising the effect Jack and his nicknames seemed to have everywhere, which clearly extended into mainland Europe, then pulled herself up, ‘Why are you stalking us, I saw you yesterday evening?’

‘You did?’ Jack looked surprised.

‘Yes Brains, but don’t worry, I’m a real police officer.’

Custard stifled his grin when he saw the look on Jack’s face, and halted any facial expression of mirth when he caught the menacing stare from Mandy.

‘Okay Custard spill the feckin’ flageolets ami, and then feck off, seal vous bleedin’ plate.’

Custard laughed at Mandy’s use of Jack’s famed Cod Irish, cockney and Franglais, but her face indicated it was not intended to be amusing.

‘I am sorry Mandy, Jack can take care of himself, certainement, but for you, I am truly sorry. So I will be quick,’ he signalled for an espress.

Mandy told the waiter to feck off, but nicely, and in her perfect French, and then to Henri, ‘Parlais frog, maintenant!’ not so nice, or perfect.

Jack wobbled his head in French and sent the gesture that said let that be a lesson to you, to Custard, adding a few knobs de brass, but the suave French spy ignored it and opened-up, focusing on Madam Sensible.

‘We have intelligence there is an extreme right-wing faction working from our port of Caen and your own of Portsmouth. The reasons, we do not know, but Jacqueline Parmentier, a senior banker who was instrumental in the deal that changed the financial map for Britain and then Europe, the deal you were involved in Jack…’ Henri’s was a face scrawled with sadness, ‘…well…’ and he wobbled his head, then said with a heavy heart, ‘…she has been killed.’

‘Jacqueline, she’s dead?’

He nodded, ‘Oui Jacque, murdered. We suspect these right-wing individuals, and we are worried this is not just reprisals, but another conspiracy. They want to continue to disrupt society further, still rocking from the knock-on effects of the credit crunch and subsequent recessions, and someone is using right-wing factions to achieve this. How, we are not sure, but we think it is being driven from your side.’ Henri accompanied all of this with the manual Gallic flourishes that so amused Jack and mesmerized Mandy, doubly so as George Clooney’s hump was not so evident as he sat facing her; this was a handsome Frog.

However, Mandy noticed Jack looked care-worn, in significant contrast to the joyous face he had put on especially for the holiday; his visage vacation, as he called it, was shattered.

‘Oh merde on it Custard,’ he sighed in French, a token Gallic shrug and he vibrated his lips like a satisfied horse. ‘We expected years of social unrest following on from the deal, of course, people were seriously unsettled by recent events, but Jacqueline, she was a lovely woman. I knew she was scared. It was mainly her idea to spread the debt over seventy years, did you know that?’

Custard nodded, he understood, ‘We do not know what is happening but something is. I thought I would, err, how you say, tip you the wink.’

Mandy stepped in, ‘You do know we are thinking of retiring don’t you, Henri?’

‘I do, and I wish you well, but you should tip your guys in the field. You know how it is Jacque, it takes time for les grunts to find out what is really happening, and sometimes…’ he shrugged and pursed his lips, ‘…it’s too late.’

Jack nodded, acknowledging this sad fact, looked up and waved and shouted ‘Garden.’

Custard corrected him, ‘Garcon.’

‘That’s what I parled diddli?’

Mandy shared the laugh with Henri and sipped the strong espresso coffee, and Jack ordered three glasses of Armagnac, it was nearly lunchtime and he fancied it and Custard did too; it took the chill off, physically and emotionally. Custard quaffed his Armagnac, had already finished his espresso, and excused himself, mission accomplished. He kissed Mandy three times. Jack noted this and knew he’d got the old European kissing off Pat, she didn’t seem to mind, and so if anyone asked, he could say Custard does three, and how could they argue against that, and if they had a problem, they could even ask Patricia?

‘A good point, Jack, I will remember to support you also on that,’ Mandy responded. Jack was known for his propensity to speak his thoughts, some saying this contributed greatly to the difficulty people saw he had in life, a picture of life that eluded him, but nobody else.

‘Did I…?’

Mandy nodded, smiling, ‘You did. Shall we go back to the hotel and have lunch? They had some lamb I wanted to try. You can have fish, naturellement, and then an afternoon in bed, eh?’ She raised her curvy eyebrows he thought gloriously lush on her beautiful, if aging, Sophia Loren face. He stood and took her hand and as she raised herself so he pecked her cheeks, three times, looked around to see if everyone noticed, but all he saw was a Patron seemingly pleased to see the back of him, which didn’t worry Jack as the bloke was French, so what would he know, apart from the price of fish.

THREE

As they strolled back, hand in hand, Mandy gently enquired about Custard, ‘I suppose we have to expect a bit of this, eh?’

‘Not really, I told Del-Boy to get the word out I was winding down, but Custard probably thought if he told me to my face, I would get the message through to the right people…’ He held his hands out in supplication as he paused, and she looked at his face, etched with sadness. ‘…Aaaah shit on it… Jacqueline. John Sexton was close to her as well, and, well, I liked her, she had balls.’

Mandy stayed looking at his face, which, if you could get past the ugly and brutal scarring, always magically portrayed his emotions. It was not what you would call a poker face, although she often thought it looked like it had been hit with a poker, the dustpan and brush plus a few lumps of coal. He was not a good looking fellow in any classic sense, especially compared to the humpbacked George Clooney, and she tittered to herself. Glimpsing looks as they continued walking, she saw what she knew, a face lined almost as a chronicle of his emotional life. You saw this if you got past the empty eye socket, the sunken puckered skin and horrendous scarring that he saw as a minor blemish and never considered covering up.

They reached the Square. The market traders were packing up their stalls and the street cleaners were out, the thrum of vacuum lorries killing stone dead the tranquillity of an emptying market square. Jack noticed the kittens had been discarded and left to fend for themselves, scavenging scraps of food yet to be swept up. He resolved not to think about it but felt oddly triste for the plight of the enfant chats; he always insisted he was like a comedian and could blend in anywhere, and France was un piece de gateau.

Mandy noticed again the animation on his face and the direction of his gaze to the kittens, slipped her arm into the crook of his chameleon elbow, and squashed him to her. He felt the comfort trickle titillate his body and turned to face her, ‘Shall we put lunch back?’

She offered him a radiantly beautiful smile, Mandy’s face, in contrast to his, was beautiful, ‘Yes, let’s do that,’ and as they trotted toward the hotel entrance, deliberately plunging in the puddles and avoiding the stares of the people who tried to avoid their splashing, so their good humour returned as they ran for the stairs and their bedroom. Jack thought it was a bit like running slow-mo through the cornfields in the Rom Com films he liked so much, but rapidly dismissed that as nonsense; Jack Austin was a town man and was distinctly unnerved in the countryside.

‘Jane.’

The call halted their progress just as they swept through the hotel reception and were about to put their feet on the lower steps of the broad staircase. They turned in unison to face a man, about five foot eight, stocky, charcoal five o’clock shadow and an immense nose, not unlike Mandy’s in shape, which was full-size and Roman, but this was bigger; this man was from Nose City. The man held his hands out in Jack’s New York Jewish expression, and hunched his shoulders, which Jack could not resist mimicking.

‘So what can I tell you, Abe my boy?’

‘Oh no, Jack, please…’ Mandy said despairingly.

The nose pointed at Mandy as Jack made to explain, at the same time mock dodging the gigantic proboscis as it swept past him, ‘Sorry babes, this is Abe Hyman, probably not his real name, he’s a Tin Lid.’

Abe, the Yid, airily tripped his way across reception to Mandy who was backing up the stair and he raised himself two steps and pecked her three times, and Jack thought, yep that’s definitely it, but marvelled how the man had managed to get his lips to reach Mandy’s cheeks and kiss her, and he tried to picture what Abe had done with his nose in order to achieve this feat.

‘Yes, it is three, Jack, and people like us, from Nose City,’ Mandy said, ‘turn our heads, but please, let me guess, Mossad?’ a little of her good mood had faded.

‘Oui cherry douze points, eh, Abe my boy,’ Jack said in a remarkably cod, French accent.

In fairness, Abe looked embarrassed and a little guilty at the intrusion, ‘I am sorry Mandy, and even for you, Jack. I was going to leave this until your last day but I noticed Custard talking to you just now, and thought I had better intervene. He thinks this is a right-wing fascist faction in Caen and Portsmouth, and to a certain extent we are always worried about the rise of Fascism in Europe, but my government think this is more Middle Eastern; Al Qaeda, who knows? You know the word being put around is that the Jews caused the crash and then funded the bail out of Britain, making fortunes in both of the processes?’

Mandy said what Jack was thinking, ‘Abe, should we not be talking somewhere more discreet?’

Abe shrugged, which fascinated Jack as he thought he had the Jewish shrug off Pat, and he so admired that woman, she knew everything, but Abe seemed to shrug contemporaneously with his face. As Jack experimented with the shrug face movement, looking across to a mirror on the flank reception wall, Abe addressed Mandy.

‘I’ve said what I needed to, and now I will leave you to have a wonderful honeymoon, and please accept the congratulations of my government, they are always grateful for past services, Jack, you should know that. We never forget, and will always look out for your welfare, and now you of course, Mandy, you can rely on that.’ And Abe turned on his heel and Mandy watched his bum in tight jeans disappear, aware of the swish of the doors as well as Abe’s arse. She thought, apart from Abe’s backside, whatever happened to the really good-looking spies, or was that only in films, but then Henri was a bit tasty, even if he had a wonky back.

She turned back to Jack, ‘Stop playing with your face, and what have you done for Mossad? I suppose all we need is the CIA and we’ll have had a full set,’ and she laughed but noticed Jack didn’t. ‘What is it, are you not diverted?’ it was Jack’s favourite Pride and Prejudice quote.

‘Oh yes sweet’art I am excessively diverted,’ he replied in his best Pride and Prejudice accent, ‘can I introduce you to Felix Lighter of the CIA.’

She laughed and pushed him gently, lovingly, ‘Oh, stop messing about,’ a poor Kenneth Williams impression. ‘Let’s go to bed, pretty please with brass injuns on pleeeeease,’ and she dipped her head down from the steps, kissed him on his monks spot and tugged his arm. He didn’t move, and returning to the first step she looked around his shoulder to see a stodgy, unattractive man, making an equally diabolical fashion statement; checked jacket and ill-matching window pane checked trousers, Hawaiian shirt and a pork pie hat. The man was tall but portly, not unlike Jack, but with no style, very much not like Jack, and this man appeared almost bloated, not like Jack either who had the hint of the muscular, but you had to be determined to look. Okay, I’m in love with him she thought; so kill me.

Felix Lighter was clearly American, a Septic, as Jack would say. She exhaled a long held in breath, and speaking as she did so, ‘For feck's sake, a Frog, Tin Lid and a now a Septic tank,’ and looking around, and through clenched teeth, ‘let’s have lunch. Felix or whatever your name is,' she pointed and prodded his tummy, it sunk right in, and Felix blew out stale smoker's breath, 'you say your piece then I want you to Foxtrot Oscar, comprend?’

The man nodded, but not knowingly, and followed as Mandy strode deliberately, ignoring the Maitre d’Hôtel. She heard Felix ask Jack what Foxtrot Oscar meant, and Jack relaying it was “Strictly come dancing, only instead of the ‘come’ its ‘fuck off’ dancing”.

Mandy sat at a corner window table, permitting herself the tiniest of titters, especially as Jack had gone to the table they normally dined at. He saw her sit and decided, maybe the corner table was nicer. The waiters also thought better than to challenge her decision, and set the recently cleared table for three places. Mandy, in her superb French, told the waiter to set for two, and beckoned Felix to sit; Jack had taken his seat opposite her and Felix went to sit next to Mandy. She gave him the look, and he sat next to Jack.

‘It’s not Felix Lighter, it’s Bubba French. Please, don’t laugh.’

She didn’t, she was not in a frivolous mood, ‘Talk, Bubba,’ the famed Mandy impatience, and even the CIA must know of this by now.

He turned to face Jack but had to look at his blind eye, Jack’s good one was preoccupied adoring his wife. ‘Jack, Mandy, we know what has been happening and what people think is happening, here in France, and in your country, but to us the perception is wrong. We’re worried about your Government.’