Time to Kill (10 page)

There were some files and boxes on a table to Patrick Bell's left when Mason entered the lawyer's office and Mason wondered which held the all important strongbox that he had deposited among his mother's belongings when her Alzheimer's was too advanced for her to know what he was doing: too advanced, even, for her to know him.

‘How's it going?' greeted the lawyer.

‘That's a question I was going to ask you,' said Mason.

‘I haven't made a formal approach to the prison authorities yet,' said Bell. ‘I thought I'd give you time to reflect upon what I said in the penitentiary.'

Which is the excuse, not the point of the meeting, thought Mason. ‘Nothing's changed.' If he'd genuinely intended going ahead with a compensation claim he would have been pissed off at the man having done nothing.

‘I have done some research, though, tried to find precedent cases. I can't find an exact comparison that might give us a judgement to base our case on.'

‘I'm not really surprised, are you?'

‘It would have helped.'

‘Maybe we'll help some other poor bastard by establishing a precedent for them to follow.'

‘So now we can get to work!' said the balding, bespectacled man, as if he were making some revelation.

‘That's what I'd hoped we'd already started. And I am sorry to learn that we haven't.'

‘I haven't been idle,' protested the other man, defensively. ‘I've set everything up with the bank.' He went into the nearest box beside him, extracting things piece by piece and counting them out on the desk between them. ‘Chequebook, bank card, deposit book, my surrender of power of attorney over the account …' He looked up. ‘I've retained the poste restante facility, for statements and letters to continue coming to me here at this office. I don't imagine you've got a permanent place yet?'

‘I haven't,' confirmed Mason. ‘At the moment I'm at the Watergate Guest Quarters. And thanks for the forethought. What about formal identification? Do I need an affidavit from you? Or for you to come to the bank with me? I need to start drawing on the account right away.'

Bell went into his box again, offering a card. ‘The guy with whom I dealt, John Stevenson. I told him by letter you'll be taking over the account.'

‘What
exactly
have you told him about me?'

‘That you've been working abroad; no reason for him to know you've been in prison. None of his business.'

‘Thank you again,' said Mason.

Bell indicated the other boxes. ‘This is all of your mother's effects – those that you asked me to hold after the clearing and selling up of what was disposable, the house the most obvious. You gonna take it with you today?'

‘Like I said, I don't have anything permanent yet. You mind going on storing it for a few more days, until I sort the bank stuff out? I'll obviously pay whatever fee there is. I'd like to look over it, though. You got a spare office I could borrow for a while?' He wasn't going to chance losing what it contained to a sudden CIA swoop.

‘No problem,' smiled the man.

Mason was only interested in the mobile strongbox and found it in the second container. The memorized combination moved back and forth smoothly, although the lid wasn't initially easy to lift. Everything he needed for his carefully planned new life lay in the separate packages and envelopes in which he'd sealed them, which had to be …? Mason had to concentrate, to remember the preparation. Seventeen years ago, he calculated, more like eighteen. It was an indication of Mason's rigidly inculcated control that he didn't undo anything but closed and re-secured the strongbox and put it back with everything else, none of which interested him in the slightest.

When he returned to Bell's office he said, ‘It's quite upsetting, seeing things you haven't seen for so long.'

‘It must be,' commiserated the lawyer. ‘How long you going to stay at Guest Quarters?'

‘Certainly for the next week. I'll let you know if I move on.'

Mason maintained the walking regime to make sure he remained alone, believing that he did, to get to the First National Bank. John Stevenson was a tall, humourless man whose enquiries about his overseas postings rehearsed Mason for the other bank meeting that was shortly to come. Mason endured the sales pitch of the bank's services, warned he wasn't sure where he was going to settle now that he was back in America and thanked the man for the bank's care of his mother's affairs. Stevenson accompanied him to a teller's window and when Mason withdrew $6,000 said it would probably be more convenient – and certainly safer – if Mason took out a credit card, which they could organize for him. Mason said he'd think about it.

From the first day Mason had established a fitness regime, automatically awakening at his regular 5 a.m. to jog around the perimeter of The Mall, initially using the Lincoln Memorial as his starting and finishing point. He maintained it as the week progressed, all the time continuing his surveillance caution, keeping it up going to and from one-visit-only bars and restaurants in Georgetown, not wanting to become recognized or remembered in any of them. On the fourth day he went to others in DC, like the new Old Ebbitt and the open-air bar of the Washington Hotel, overlooking the Treasury Building. That night he window-shopped the familiar hooker bars along 14th Street and saw several girls he would once have chosen but for whom now there was no physical stir, reassuring himself that sex, which had once been so essential to him but suppressed for so long, was something else that couldn't be quickly recovered.

It was not until the end of the week that Mason arranged the demanded interview with Glynis Needham, whom he knew from his twice-daily computer checks had still not made contact with California, the one thing on his priority list that needed to be most carefully timed and scheduled.

‘So how's it going?' greeted the woman.

‘Good,' said Mason. Which it was. Even after such a short time he didn't have the apprehension at going out in public that had gripped him the night he'd arrived at Guest Quarters and he was as sure as he felt he could possibly be that he wasn't under any CIA monitor.

‘Any problems?'

‘Not that I can think of.'

‘Thought any more about the compensation claim?'

‘In the hands of my attorney.'

‘So you've instructed him?'

Fuck you, thought Mason. ‘He's looking into it.'

‘What's his initial reaction?'

‘That he needs to think about it.' It was going to be a pain in the ass keeping up the pretence with this woman for as long as it was going to be necessary.

‘Anything else?'

‘I've pretty much made up my mind about California,' said Mason, the usefulness hardening in his mind. ‘If it's all right with you I thought I might fly out for a look-see.'

‘How long you planning to be away?'

‘No longer than a week.'

‘I could set up something in advance for you there. They might be able at least to give you a steer?'

‘That might help,' said Mason. ‘You're being very helpful.'

‘That's what I'm here for. You'll let me know about the meeting with your attorney?'

‘As soon as he can fit me in and I've made a decision,' lied Mason.

Eight

A
nnouncing to Glynis Needham on the ride from the penitentiary that he was considering relocating to California had been little more than a throw-away line, reflecting the minimal importance he then attached to the woman beyond her immediate convenience. But over the course of the settling down week Mason isolated the potential advantages of such a move. Objectively, despite planning as far as possible, he couldn't insure against the unexpected. And from more fouled-up professional operations than he could remember, he could most definitely recall that there was always the unexpected – which dictated that there might well be the need for an alibi. And what better alibi was there than provably being 3000 miles away on America's west coast when tragedy disastrously struck the Slaters in the country's east? And who better to confirm the word of a respected parole officer than an equally respected attorney? Who anyway needed a kick in the ass to keep Howitt dangling in the wind. Added to all of which was Mason's final conviction that he wasn't being officially watched and was therefore able to collect his second and most guarded form of protection, held like a wish-granting genie not in a bottle but in the mobile strongbox.

Finally satisfied that he was not the subject of any CIA attention and despite the man's protests that there had not been any response from the prison authorities – to whom, from his monitor of the man's computer facility, Mason knew there hadn't yet been an approach – Mason fixed another appointment with Patrick Bell.

‘I'm thinking of relocating,' he declared after the initial greetings.

‘Relocating?' queried the lawyer. ‘I thought your parole was in DC?'

‘There's nothing here for me any more. I'm going to California.'

‘Just like that?' questioned Bell.

‘I'm a model prisoner, remember?' That was almost too glib, criticized Mason.

‘What about the claim if you go to California?'

‘What about the claim if I go anywhere?' demanded Mason, irritated as he knew from accessing his computer that the lawyer had done nothing since their last meeting anyway.

‘I'm still not sure it's in your best interest to start an action,' cautioned Bell.

‘We went through this last time. And I told you then what I wanted you to do. You know I've got money to pay you.'

‘Money's not what I'm talking about!'

‘It's what I'm talking about.'

‘How much money – taking costs into consideration – do you think you're likely to be awarded against how much public attention you're going to attract!'

It was difficult to believe there hadn't been contact between Patrick Bell and Glynis Needham: maybe there had been, by telephone to which, frustratingly, he had no unobvious access. ‘How much would I be likely to get?'

‘I told you last time I can't find a statute case, for a criteria.'

‘Give me a ballpark figure.'

Bell shrugged. ‘Depends on the malice and intent I could prove. The internal investigation will help but that will concentrate upon negligence. Malice and intent would bring about a criminal prosecution, if I established it existed, but I can't guarantee your being sufficiently able to prove either: everyone will close up against you and you're the convicted felon, whose word is the least likely to be accepted.'

‘So I could come away with nothing?' Mason was growing bored.

‘Apart from a lot of costs …' The man raised a halting hand, against protest. ‘Which I know you're not worried about, although for an action that could take a very long time you should be, because costs could swallow up most of your inheritance. More importantly, you've got to think about your loss of anonymity.'

‘I won't have the bastard get away with it!' insisted Mason.

Bell sighed. ‘It's your decision.'

‘And I've made it.' Mason reached into his jacket. ‘What I'd like to do now is pay things up to date and take all my mother's stuff away.'

Bell must have had the account prepared from the speed with which it was produced. As a secretary summoned a cab, Bell said, ‘You'll let me know where you are, if you go to California? I'll need to have an address.'

‘I'll keep in touch,' promised Mason.

‘Think some more about it,' urged the lawyer.

‘We'll talk,' said Mason.

The concern of both Slater and Ann was concentrated upon David. Over the following days they subjugated their own fears, which Slater worked equally hard when they were alone to convince Ann were unfounded and self-generated, to allay those of their son that their marriage was falling apart. And there was some recovery from the upheaval of the Peebles letter. By the end of the first week Ann agreed to David walking by himself to the school bus pick-up. Slater still emptied the mail box and read everything before going to the office, via Ann's gallery. The next improvement was Ann's acceptance that the gallery detour wasn't necessary either, going back to driving there in her own car.

Psychology had been an integral part of Slater's Russian intelligence training and he utilized it by not avoiding talk of the knife incident. What he did avoid, very determinedly, was any discussion to appear that they were proud of what David had done. Through the conversations, they learned when each member of the gang, with their parents, had been individually interviewed and that one girl had been added to the list of offenders. David assured them that he had not been subjected to any threats or intimidation. When Slater told David of him and Ann being summoned for their second meeting with the school principal, to hear the governors' decision, the boy said at once, ‘What about my staying there?'

‘Let's hear the governors' decision first,' said Slater.

They weren't kept waiting this time, although they still arrived early. Spalding's opening remark was: ‘I hope I've got everything sorted out,' to which Ann's overly sharp retort was: ‘We hope you have, too.'

The principal insisted there had been an extremely thorough investigation, during which it had emerged that only four out of a total of eleven had actually carried knives. The governors had considered metal detector entry arches as well as police presence, neither of which the school had so far decided necessary. The greatest consideration, of course, had been what to do with each of the offending students. A prime concern in every case had been the stigma – and its effect upon their future education – of expulsion. Spalding, and the governors, had been impressed, and influenced, by the reaction of each parent, all of whom, without exception, had given personal assurances that their child would never again be involved in such an episode.