Control, who had taken only one day off work, returned to an empty flat on the Friday night. For a time he busied himself in a general tidying up and at eight sent out for a home delivery chou mein. He retired early to bed and slept badly.
His Saturday morning newspaper, however, had relegated news of the forest fire to the much unread interior of that organ, and his spirits rose. He felt confident that the park entrance stonework was safe from chalk.
He had reluctantly agreed to a ten day gap between action and meeting, having been persuaded to acknowledge that such a period safeguarded the cell in the event that something went pear shaped. They had smiled tolerantly when ‘John’ insisted on fail-safes. A deep suspicion of ‘John’ assailed him. The fail-safes seemed to be to John’s benefit alone.
There was a discreet knock at his door. She’s come back, he thought, and opened the door just as it occurred to him that the main entrance security module had not buzzed and she had letterboxed her key.
Two neatly dressed men in dark suits and plain ties stood on the landing.
“May we come in, sir?” one said. Then with extreme brevity, “Police.” Both men showed an impressively embossed card in a leather holder.
“What?” Control said stupidly. He was vaguely conscious of deep shock loosening him, of a hot trickle of urine in his boxer shorts. Both servants of the law advanced to place shiny shoes on the threshold and he backed into the apartment.
“We would like you to come with us, sir,” the man spoke again, his eyes fixed on Control’s eyes.
“We trust it’s not too inconvenient,” the second man said. He too stared unblinkingly into Control’s face. Control retreated further.
“Jesus,” Control grasped the top of a chair to steady himself, “what’s this about?”
“Perhaps you can guess, sir. It’s best to bring your coat,” the first speaker advised, his gaze locked on Control’s whitening face. “Now, where can I find your footwear?”
Legs oddly weak, Control staggered slightly then buckled. Strong hands under his armpits guided him into a chair. The two men suddenly seemed to have become extremely tall. He looked mutely towards the cheap shoe rack next the front door to the apartment and sat with rubbery legs while his feet were swiftly encased. The second of the duo had gathered up his laptop.
“Now, if you’ll get your coat, sir…” the words were solicitous but the tone peremptory with a trace of the schoolmaster (there was a hint of “there’s a good boy”).
Control allowed the two men to support him as he fumbled to lock the apartment behind them. During their journey no-one spoke and he sat numbly in the back seat of their car, uncaring of being observed in the rear view mirror. Lapsed into shock, he required manhandling through dingy doorways. Guided along magnolia corridors with skirting boards of bilious green, Control was gently pushed into a small room and felt hard hands no more. He halted, confused. There was no furniture other than a wooden chair. Time passed.
Reflection of light from brightly whitewashed walls and ceiling induced a disorientation that had the odd effect of triggering awareness. He found himself seated alone in the middle of a near whiteout. It was warm and he no longer wore an overcoat or jacket. He pulled back his cuff and peered, but his wristwatch was unaccountably absent. He did not bother to check his trouser pockets. He closed both eyes and sat stiffly for what seemed a very long time.
The lock clicked quietly and he opened his eyes. A plumpish man entered and regarded him without speaking. Despite being somewhat overweight, this person had an unusually erect carriage. In the dazzle of light, he felt quite certain that the plump man was smiling in an apologetic manner, as if to say ‘oh, well, it can’t be helped, but let’s make the best of things’.
There was a comradely silence. A sense of rapport built.
“You can tell me about it,” the man finally spoke softly, encouragingly. “How did you get mixed up with our mutual friend in Fort William? I should show you a recent photograph.” He slid his hand into the back pocket of his trousers, “Ah, here it is,” he held out a 4×4 sized glossy.
Control blinked repeatedly at the vertical man, fascinated by thin hair stranded over a gleaming scalp, then remembered to gaze at the shiny image being dangled before him. He seemed unsurprised and his eyes lifted back to Comb-over.
“Best that you tell me your side of things,” the man sympathised, his head leaning encouragingly forward.
Control found himself smiling at the comfortably built gentleman. Here was someone in whom he could confide, someone to guide him through this crisis.
“It’s always hard at first,” Comb-over said. “We can help, you know.”
Control was overwhelmed by waves of trust. Burdens were intended to be borne by the homely figure standing before him. With great humility, Control began to talk. His words were unhurried and his tone was even. Once begun, he prattled on without the slightest hesitation or restraint. Whatever he said, whenever he digressed, he was allowed to continue uninterrupted. The plump man nodded affirmatively from time to time, understanding everything.
A hidden recorder taped it all, events, names, ramblings, reminiscences. It was as if a river had broken its banks and flooded surrounding fields. Functionaries of the rounded, balding man would determine relevance. The final coherent account would be constructed later from interviews conducted by specialist interrogators.
From Control’s cathartic outpourings it was learned that the cell called chummie ‘John’ – although Control knew that his real name was Jeremy Yorke (much amusement at this); that ‘John’ described himself ‘a green conservationist of private means’, that some unspecified outrage by the Commission which either harmed or dispossessed his family had turned him ‘anti’, with much colourful background besides. How ‘John’ had introduced himself remained unclear.
What was clear, however, was the identity of Polloch’s arsonist.