The Sheriff of Tesco Page 2

then?”

  “Died unhappy.”

  “But the legend didn’t die with him.”

  “The Pinkerton story? Why, it’s just been lying dormant, waiting for someone to come along and pick it up where he left off.”

  Russell saw something surprising in her snowstorm eyes. “Hey don’t look at me,” he said.

  “You ever read detective stories, Jane Russell. Chandler, Ross McDonald, Elmore Leonard, all the greats? Dashiell Hammett was their inspiration.”

  He was about to reply and get down to business when, with a sudden jolt of recognition he spotted the badge on her lapel, the helmeted face of a cartoon cat.

  “Felix,” he said, surprised.

  Her expression changed and as she glanced down as though recognising the broach for the first time there came that telltale flash of pain in her eyes which triggered the response they warned him would happen, the reaction, which left him sweat drenched and screaming in the night. He tried to resist but the tug was too strong. Suddenly he was back in the heat and the flies of Khukumati, Nadi Ali District, Helmand Province, Afghanistan, playing out the scenes lodged forever behind his eyes.

  The Chinook came in low over the berm on the outer perimeter of Forward Operating Base Bravo, touched down like a great ungainly bird and in the swirl of red dust from the rotor wash a figure bounded from the tail ramp and made a crouching run for the safety of the FOB as the helo spooled up, rising through the dust cloud.

  Russell met the visitor at the entry control gate in the Hesco, which fortified the makeshift base. Major Mike Doyle, the S2 from Bastion in shabby fatigues, scorning the helmet for the green beret. They exchanged salutes.

  “How’s it hanging Colours?”

  “By a thread, boss,” Russell replied as Major Mike gripped his bicep in a gesture of comradeship, “the lads are knackered, good job we’re pulling out tomorrow and they can get a bit of down time before somebody cracks.”

  Major Mike looked him in the eye. “I’ve got bad news on that score I’m afraid, Jane, that’s why I’m here.”

  “I guessed as much,” Russell said, “We don’t get tourists out here at Bravo, what’s the SP Major?”

  “The ANA got bushwhacked out in the badlands, that’s where the helo’s off to, pick up the body bags. We’ve got to give ‘em a breather to lick their wounds, stiffen their sinews and give ‘em a fighting chance when we’re gone.”

  “Don’t tell me, boss,” Russell groaned.

  “Like always, Royal,” the Major grinned, “the old man volunteered Lima Company to hold the ground.”

  “Gib all over again,” Russell said.

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way, would we?” the S2 said, “Here’s the new Op Order,” he dug out a manila envelope and handed it to Russell. “It’s a tough call all right, would you like me to break it to the troops?”

  “No, I’ll do it boss,” Russell replied, “I would hate for you to be embarrassed by the language.”

  “It isn’t all bad news,” Major Mike grinned, “I’ve brought you a present.” From the leg pouch of his fatigues he produced a jar of coffee. “Taster’s Choice, French roast, liberated from the Star Spangled Banner.” He tossed the jar to Russell. “Just time for a cup that cheers before my ride gets back.”

  Russell blinked, “Felix,” he repeated.

  She managed a smile but he could see it was hard work.

  “Yes,” she said, “Felix the lucky cat with nine lives, a fitting logo for the EOD or to give it its full title Explosive Ordnance Disposal Regiment, Royal Logistics Corps. My husband was a High Threat Operator until his luck ran out one day Felix wasn’t watching over him.”

  “I’m sorry,” Russell said, “How long?”

  “Two years next week,” she said, “Seems like only yesterday.”

  The memory caught her off guard and she flashed back to where she vowed she would never go again:

  A grey day at RAF Brize Norton, the speck in the leaden sky growing larger as the chill gnawed her bones.

  The Globemaster emerged from the overcast, touched down and rolled to the apron where the reception party waited. Through the keening wail inside her head she wondered why such a behemoth of a plane was needed to bring home such a small cargo.

  The Regimental Honour Guard was inching down the ramp with the casket on their shoulders when she felt the hands of her escorts grip her elbows the instant before her knees began to buckle and realised this was a duty they had performed many times before.

  The coffin was draped with the Union Flag as they slid it onto the cradle inside the hearse and a silent scream tore through the noise swirling in her head: This is too cruel!

  Peering at the blur of faces as the cortège crawled through the streets of Wooten Basset; streets lined with the folk who turned out time after time for someone they had never met but who was instinctively one of them. Old warriors lowering their British Legion standards as they passed by: Marks of respect. Veterans, berets from another era dug out for the occasion, crumpled faces frozen as palms snapped into stiff salutes: Marks of respect.

  Cocooned in the back of the limousine, that was when the tears began o flow.

  Eulogies at the funeral from kindly men who had known him only as a soldier. The soothing Royal words when she went to The Palace to receive his posthumous Military Cross. All passing in a daze. Among his effects shipped back from Afghanistan there was a cardboard box of his favourite books, the crime classics, Hammett, Chandler, Ross McDonald, Elmore Leonard. She’s never been much of a reader, but now she fell on them, devoured them eagerly, each slim volume reminding her of him. And slowly she healed.

  Staring into her coffee cup, she pulled herself together.

  “I had an e-mail from him the day before he died,” don’t bottled it up they’d told her, let the grief out, but the passage of time had made no difference, it was still a running sore; too cruel, “he said he’d disarmed fifteen devices before lunch and the Taliban were getting smarter. They couldn’t keep up with the workload and he was tired.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Russell said, fighting back his own ghosts, “We provided close protection for the ATOs day in day out, our nerves were fried so god knows how they coped. ISAF ran ‘em into the ground.”

  But the ghosts prevailed and despite himself he was back at FOB Bravo, sipping that scalding coffee with Major Mike.

  “There’s an EOD team going out with you,” the Intelligence Officer told him, “the AFA won’t put a foot outside the wire until we convince ‘em the area’s been swept clean. The insurgents’d be back in like a dose of salts while they’re twiddling their thumbs, so we’ve got to put on a good show.”

  “Politics?” Russell said.

  “Loya Jirga,” the Major said, “tribal warlords getting their heads together while we do the dirty work.”

  “We’ve been wasting out time here, boss,” Russell said, “its just history repeating itself.”

  “Not according to the Old Man,” Major Mike said, “reckons we’re doing a bang up job for democracy.”

  They both laughed.

  “Any INTEL I ought to know,” Russell returned to the task in hand.

  “Take your pick, Colours,” the S2 said, “I’ve got it by the barrel-load. Only things I guess you should watch out for are the dogs and the black widows.”

  “Dogs?”

  “Bomb dogs,” Major Mike said, “nice friendly tail wagging mutts strapped with bomb belts, latest gimmick from Taliban Central. Who’s going to shoot the puppy dog comes lolloping up, gets in amongst the soldier boys and some clown up on the ridge lights up Fido – boom, bloodbath. Took out six grunts just last week.”

  “I heard we’ve been shooting the strays, so I guess this is canine revenge.”

  “Even worse are the black widows.”

  Russell groaned. “Don’t tell me…”

  “Deadlier than the pooches, Jane, rumour has it that there are a whole bunch of women who have sworn to avenge their m
en-folk, Taliban honchos who got waxed in a drone strike. Suicide burkas. One of ‘em lured our comrades in arms in the Americal sector into an ambush and blew herself up, forensics reckoned she detonated the belt with a smart phone.” The Major sighed, “nothing like hostiles embracing technology, needless to day the Yanks are mightily peeved.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, boss,” Russell said. He cocked an ear to the signature whap-whap of the returning Chinook. “Sounds like your taxi.”

  The Major nodded, finished his coffee and gripped Russell’s arm again, his face suddenly serious, “We’re taking a beating out there, so keep ‘em safe Russell, I’m counting on you.”

  Her voice brought him back.

  “I kept his e-mails and after it was all over, the funeral and everything, they started up again, coming back to me one after the other. I’d open up the laptop and there would be the next one and I felt my heart pounding telling me it was all a mistake and he must be alive. Of course now I realise I was forwarding them to myself, but oh did I look forward to seeing them pop up each morning. Grief plays tricks like that.”

  Absently she wondered why she was unburdening herself to this complete stranger.

  “Only this one day I pulled up at the traffic lights and someone got into the back of the car, and I just knew instinctively that it was him and he said: I just wanted to be sure you were all right. I looked in the mirror and he was there, smiling at me. The lights had changed and all the traffic was honking at me, I was so flustered I pulled away in a panic and when I looked in the mirror again, he was gone. That was when I had my breakdown.”

  “Did you get any help from the Army?” Russell asked.

  “Oh after all the pills and the psychobabble; the chaplain came to see me…” She slipped back into her memory:

  That first encounter with the Regimental chaplain did not go well. Perched on the edge of her settee nursing the obligatory cup of tea the religious insignia looked strangely incongruous with the uniform. “He was a very brave man, you know, the Military Cross doesn’t come up with the rations and besides…”

  “Please don’t start feeding me the hero line, please don’t do that,” she interrupted him harshly.

  “But you know he saved a lot of lives, not just soldiers, but civilians, little children. IEDs don’t discriminate, and it’s the locals who suffer most. Surely you’re proud of him.”

  “Brave, hero, saviour of the people,” she gave a brittle laugh, “I’ll tell you what he was, father, is that what I call you, father? When it comes down to it he was a selfish hypocrite.”

  “Oh come on, surely you don’t believe that.”

  “No? Let me finish. I know people don’t want to hear this, dead soldiers are always knights in shining armour, but the truth of it is different. He was in the Army when we met, the Logistics Corps, moving stuff around, safe as houses, he said. He didn’t tell me he’s put in for EOD and when I found out I begged him not to do it, but it was no contest, the Army won hands down.”

  The chaplain sipped his tea. “The ATOs are all volunteers,” he said, “It takes a special kind of nerve to walk towards a bomb when everyone else is running the other way.”

  “Oh he didn’t volunteer to save lives if that’s what you think. He volunteered for the thrill of it, all he wanted to be was a High Threat Operator, pitting his wits against the bomb maker, playing Russian roulette in the dirt.”

  The chaplain put his cup down. “I understand you’re bitter now, it’s only natural, but in time you will come to celebrate his courage.”

  She laughed. “He abandoned me,” she said, “he left me for his whore, The Regiment, and when the crunch came she took his life.”

  “That’s too harsh,” the chaplain said, “you need to go easy on yourself, find a way to heal the wounds.”

  She shook her head, “The Army’s a cruel bitch, and he was too blind to see he was just cannon fodder.”

  The chaplain sighed, “Old men start wars, young men fight them, it’s always been that way.”

  “For Queen and Country, band of brothers, or some warped and twisted religion.”

  A sad smile flickered across his face. “You know, I’ve been here many times since Iraq and Afghanistan, consoling families, doing God’s work.”

  “Oh, and you still believe in God?”

  “Tell you the truth, I’m drained down,” he admitted suddenly, “running on empty, but it’s fierce women like you that make me carry on. So lets see how we can save each other, shall we?”

  She looked up at Russell, “I told him all about it, and he gave me the best advice. Write it all down, he said, exorcise the demons. He found me a writing course, an evening class at the local college, and that’s when finally the wounds began to heal.”

  “Thank God for the padre eh,” Russell said, drifting back into his own thoughts.

  The next Chinook to arrive at FOB Bravo brought MREs and ammo for the surge. It also brought the Chaplain. In combat fatigues sporting the commando flash on his shoulder, the sandy haired padre helo hopped around the Forward Operating Bases on his morale boosting mission and was invariably greeted with good natured banter as he set up his portable altar for an alfresco service. But this time the dog-tired marines were sullen and silent.

  “Don’t take it personally padre,” Russell told him, “They’re dead beat and they’re going out again in the morning.”

  “God goes with you,” the Chaplain replied, a grin forming as he anticipated the riposte.

  “Good,” Russell replied, returning the grin, “He can hump the 50.”

  “Thank God for the padre -- you can say that again,” she said, “in a way that chaplain saved my life. Before he gave me some purpose in life, for a time there I went way off the rails.”

  She didn’t tell him about her wild days after the funeral, running around with the warped thrill seekers, searching frantically for something intangible, something she never could find, the itch she couldn’t scratch, the unbearable loss. All through the booze, the drugs, the joyless sex, risking everything to find that adrenalin rush he must have felt sprawled on his belly in the Afghan dirt second-guessing a Taliban bomb maker. No, she didn’t tell him how much she despised herself; that would have been just too painful.

  Not that the man across the table in the blue work-shirt with the Pinkerton badge would have been listening. He didn’t tell her about the time he was moonlighting as a bouncer at the Topaz night club at The Elephant when he was still raw after the Corps cut him adrift; how he’d picked the wrong fight and was beaten to a pulp by a bunch of squaddies on a drunken night out. How they’d bundled him into a car and taken him to St Thomas’ A&E after finding his veteran’s badge. She didn’t need to know that.

  They filed out through the wire into the searing heat of the Afghan day and almost immediately Russell felt the sweat jump from his pores, trickling down his ribs under the Kevlar body armour which grew heavier with every step, soaking into his shirt, the Bergen backpack chafing his shoulders, head boiling in the pot of his helmet; sweat stinging his eyes.

  They RVd with the EOD team on the outskirts of an abandoned mud hut settlement and Russell was dismayed to see the IED hunters were accompanied by a dozen Afghan National Army special forces. ANA and Special Forces didn’t sit well together in his book. He redeployed the patrol so that he could keep an anxious eye on the local cowboys. In this end game of the conflict, green on blue incidents had mushroomed.

  First contact came three klicks later as they approached a village, which had been a hotly contested Taliban stronghold. Russell scoped the terrain looking for signs, just goats and a few lethargic dogs. The Sappers from the EOD Field Squadron were busy demonstrating their Vallons to the Afghan troops. Quite why the locals would want state of the art metal detectors complete with ground penetrating radar beats me, Russell thought to himself. The HTO, a grizzled WO1 stood next to him, arms folded. “They love the dials and flashing lights,” he said, reading Russell�
��s thoughts.

  They moved on and immediately came under sniper fire from low dun coloured buildings on the edge of the village. Spud Taylor got hit in the hand, said he thought it was a bee sting until he took off his glove, and they scrambled for cover in a drainage ditch and started putting out rounds. Shit, Jock McEvilly took one in the neck, through and through, missing the carotid artery by a millimetre, the medic said as he patched him up. Oh shit, Russell knew they couldn’t risk getting pinned down, so he signalled to Eddie Wilson to start putting out rounds towards the muzzle flashes.

  Wildman opened up with the minimi, firing short bursts, his outline blurred in a golden rain of cartridge cases. Shit and double shit..Russell slotted a grenade into the under-slung launcher of his SA 80 jumped up and fired, watching the bloom of the explosion as the snatch team worked their way around the ditch and came back with a couple of prisoners, their wrists plasticuffed. Shit Almighty, now he’d got wounded and prisoners. Russell was about to radio a mission abort when the Afghan troops took the prisoners away for “field interrogation.” They came back without them, claiming they’d escaped. Russell had the distinct impression that the Afghans had taken the pair back to the wadi and slit their throats, but he wasn’t going to follow up on that right now. Instead he called over Pete Davies who had the headcam feature attached to his helmet and told him to film the Greens as much as he could without becoming too obvious. Shit was raining down. In the oppressive heat of the day they stopped to take on water and ate their beef stew MREs cold and tasteless. Nobody spoke; there was none of the usual banter, their own soldiers’ superstitions told them that this patrol was going bad. As if in agreement, the malevolent bloodshot eye of the midday sun glared down on them. Her voice brought him back to the present. He drank a little of his coffee.

  “You know,” she said, “That’s when I got the bug”

  “The bug?”

  “The writing bug,” she smiled.

  “Like what’s his name, Dashiell Hammett?”

  She nodded. “I went around all the newsagents checking out all the women’s magazines, and then started writing stories, the kind of thing they wanted, true confessions, only mine were all made up.”

  Russell grinned. “You made up true confessions?”

  “Oh it was