D-Notice by Bill Walker (big ebook reader txt) 📗

“Not until young Thorley appears. If the bloody vampires from the BBC insist on a show, we’ll give them one. I want the whole of Britain to see him hauled away in handcuffs. Is that clear?”

The young agent nodded. The five others with him wore the same grave expression. There was a sudden rise in the level of sound as the reporters reacted. More lights snapped on and were trained on the ferry’s gangway. Thorley and his mother appeared, hesitating in the glare of the spotlights.

Sir Robert turned to his retinue of agents. “Right, let’s move!”

As one, the seven men charged across the docks, the agents forming a protective cordon around their boss. They shoved through the phalanx of reporters and camera crew and met Michael and his mother when they reached the bottom of the gangway.

Sir Robert grabbed Michael by the arm, his voice rising to be heard above the crowd. “Michael Thorley? I hereby arrest you in the name of the Queen. You will—”

And then it all went wrong.

The reporters closed in en masse, their microphones thrust into his face. One of them, an over-made-up harpy with bleached hair and blood-red mouth, shouted a question: “Sir Robert? We’ve just been told of a letter sent by Stalin ordering the massacre of a British regiment during the last war, and that our government has known and condoned it all along. Do you have any comment?”

Ignoring the bitch, he stared at young Thorley and saw the smug smile on his face, the look of triumph—and contempt. He also saw the letter clutched in his right hand.

So bloody close. He’d come so close to keeping the affair quiet, as it was meant to be. Now, it was all going to the devil.

Sir Robert turned to the female reporter, who looked at him with her own expression of smug assurance.

“I have nothing to say,” he said.

He turned and pushed his way through his own agents and stalked off toward his waiting Rolls. He reached the car, and climbed inside, blinking back tears of rage. “Bloody hell.”

A moment later the Rolls’ headlights snapped on and the stately car moved off, leaving the media circus far behind.

THE SON: 1989

Chapter Thirty-Four

He was out of whiskey again. He’d looked through every room in the house, all thirty of them, and there was nothing. Not a blasted drop. He’d gone through a whole case of the single malt given him four years ago, when he’d still enjoyed the favors and influences of his post. Now, all that was left was some bloody cooking sherry in the pantry, and some dusty memories to go along with the dusty house.

Blast.

The sherry would have to do.

Easing himself off the bed, he ignored the overflowing ashtray, dirty dishes, tangled bedclothes and stumbled out of the room and down the hall to the main staircase.

Reaching the ground floor, Sir Robert Sandon cursed when his bare foot slipped on the polished parquet flooring. Had to fire the bloody housekeeper again. None of these people knew how to wax a floor anymore. Like to break his goddamn neck.

Passing through the foyer, he made his way into the kitchen, noting the previous night’s bottle—the last of that heavenly Scotch—still stood on the draining board—dry as an Arabian desert.

Inside the pantry, his nose was assaulted by the various smells: onions, garlic cloves, and a dizzying array of spices. He found the single bottle of sherry on the third shelf nearly hidden by a sack of rotting potatoes and covered by a thin layer of dust. It would be just enough to last him until the off-license store opened. That is, if they would still take his bloody checks.

He left the pantry with the bottle cradled in his arms and headed for the library. Bright afternoon light streamed through the tall leaded-glass window and, growling with anger, Sir Robert snapped the shutters closed, plunging the room into a pleasant gloom. That was better, he thought. He’d send that housekeeper packing as soon as she came in on Monday, that is if she hadn’t quit. The ungrateful wench!

He grabbed the letter opener and used it to peel back the black foil around the cap, then twisted it off and poured the pale brown liquid into a dusty glass that sat on the stained blotter atop his desk. Nearly filling it, he picked it up in his trembling hand and took a long gulp, grimacing as the full flavor of the cheap wine muscled its way down his ravaged throat, leaving a burning trail behind. Coughing, he refilled it and drank again, finally feeling his nerves steady and his vision clear.

That was when he saw the man seated in the brocaded wingback chair staring at him from the shadows near the empty bookshelves. That was when his guts turned to jelly.

It was him.

He could tell by the Western boots, the cold eyes, and the cruel, arrogant smile.

“Well, well, Sir Robert, me boyo, we meet again,” Corwin Brady said, the smile widening. “And it’s been far too long, I might add, far too long....”

A fire blazed in the grate, keeping the temperature inside Woodhaven to a toasty seventy-eight degrees, enough to keep out the November chill in the air. Michael watched the flames dance and listened while Lillian puttered in the kitchen readying their supper. He checked his watch for the umpteenth time.

What was keeping them?

Restless, he picked up the telly’s remote and snapped it on, flipping the channels until he came to the BBC news. As always, Gordon Honeycombe was reading, his jowly face the epitome of trust and assurance. Chroma-keyed behind him played scenes of Germans celebrating wildly, their faces drunk with freedom and cheap liquor.

“...In an ironic twist