CHAPTER 1
London, 1991
A temporary river of rainwater rushes down the alley behind Brightone Street. Soft splashes pitter patter as the only person who dared to brave the downpour that early jogged with purposeful and careful steps around the block.
London is no stranger to rain, but God, it seemed was out for vengeance upon the folk of England and had been keeping the sun hidden behind a veil of black cloud and pouring water for what was already the twenty-fifth day in counting.
The afternoon light was starting to fade enough for ordinary folk to start busying themselves with whatever routine they followed after work, before preparing for bed. Arthur Hemway was sitting in his sparsely decorated, newly acquired office when the faint, yet urgent knock on the door of 21 Brightone Street broke through the monotonous buzz of rainfall.
A moment passed as Arthur closed his eyes, awaiting the inevitable arrival of what might be his first client. The footsteps drew closer with a rhythm, he realised he recognised them.
“Mickey, what tragedy must have befallen for you to darken my doorstep? I will not accept a hunt for your stolen umbrella, or …”
“Dear brother.” Mickey Hemway interrupted.
Arthur opened his eyes slowly and saw his brother standing candidly before him, immaculately dressed, and somehow, despite the downpour, not a drop of rain seemed to have escaped the armour of his umbrella. Only his shoes and seam of his trousers betray his journey to the office of Hemway and Steele PI through the wet streets.
Mickey reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small sewing needle. He held it aloft, studying it for a second.
“Dear brother, notice this needle, small almost invisible, yet should it prick you, despite its meagre size will undoubtably cause some pain. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Mickey took the needle and flicked it into a random spot of the airy, still to be unpacked room filled with boxes. It vanished the moment it left his fingers.
“I want you to find me a needle. A needle that might, or might not be there.” Mickey turned and faced the chair opposite Arthur, pondering how many clients will have the misfortune of sitting there.
Before he sat down, still facing away from his brother, he said in almost a whisper too quiet to hear:
“This is, of course a matter of the utmost importance dear brother, and I ask only that you take it as seriously as it is.”
With that, he sat down, for the first time making it real that he managed to make it almost to retirement without ever having to rely on his brother’s wit, rather than his own.
A moment of silence fell over the siblings and Arthur pressed his fingers to his lips.
“You should know me better than anyone Mickey. So if you wouldn’t mind: You did not sleep last night, you walked here from home, obviously in a hurry, you still plan on making it to The Club, however, considering that it is already 16h58, you would be late even if you left now. For something to drive the mighty Mickey Hemway to my humble office, at this time of day, brother did you lose your wits?”
“This is no matter to jest around. I almost did not come. But alas, this is too important. Dear brother I have a feeling.” He paused, almost recoiled from having uttered the word feeling.
Arthur jumped from his chair.
“My God Mickey, a feeling. Shall I call for Dr Lilly, perhaps the Hospital!”
“Oh sit down Artie. Though perhaps it would be better you stand up a while, from the creases in your pants, and the dent in that chair, you have been sitting in it for at least ten hours. And the circles under your eyes told me that I am not the only one who had a nocturnal night, so get serious. I really have to get to The Club by no later than 17h30.”
Arthur sat down, taking another glance at his brother. As a detective, Arthur had seen hundreds of people sitting in a chair intently studying their carpet, but Mickey? And why would he turn to him for help? If Mickey was in a dilemma that he couldn’t solve from his cushy armchair at home, there was no way that Arthur could.
Or perhaps it was not a problem that could be solved by pure mind, for he will never need that. Discretion? Somewhere he couldn’t go, or at least couldn’t be seen to go sniffing. Someone who couldn’t know they were being suspected of something. Someone with very classified information, like Mickey, who knows what he knows. Whatever that is.
Mickey seemed to have aged rapidly by closer inspection of his face. Yes he has gotten old, but those aren’t just the age starting to show, its weariness, this matter is personal.
“Alright.” Mickey broke the silence at last.
“Here it is: About three months ago, I announced that I will finally and officially retire come December. MI1 has appointed me a successor, or who they believe is closest qualified to be trained to something they consider ‘close enough’. I have been tasked with training him, teaching him how to do what I do for the crown. All boring stuff, but this is the bit that might interest you.” He leaned forward. “He is a traitor.”
Arthur waited for his brother to continue. When he decided that two seconds of waiting became too much, and leaned in too.
“Brother. A traitor? What did you discover?”
Mickey looked at Arthur with an imposing glare, but Arthur saw the slightest tinge of desperation behind that familiar look.
Mickey whispered his reply.
“Absolutely nothing.”
Mickey sat back straight and as if all the drama from the previous exchange vanished remarked.
“His name is Victor Crane.”
He stood up and made for the exit, but turned when he reached the door.
“Oh and dear brother, for God sakes, be discreet. National security and all.”
…
The moment he heard the door click shut, Arthur leapt from his chair and grabbed a scribble paper from his desk. He jotted down a message, folded the piece of paper neatly and perfectly in half, then in half again and ran downstairs.
He gave the message to Anna, the newly appointed receptionist, his down-on-her-luck nineteen year old niece, and said.
“Give this to any messenger boy you find at the post office. Don’t bother with checking the street corner boy, rain drove him off days ago. Tell them to Deliver this to Laura Steele at 2424 Cannon Road with the utmost of urgency.”
Anna eyed him, then pulled the curtain back looking at the dreadful conditions outside the window.
“Well Mr big shot, that will have to wait ’till tomorrow morning.” She replied candidly, revelling in the sight of the record time in which his brow furrowed and his face turned just a shade darker toward red.
“That will absolutely not do!” he replied and grabbed the letter. It took him a mere second to throw his overcoat on and nab her umbrella next to the door before disappearing out the door.
Anna simply smiled as she heard Arthur running down the street in the direction of the post office. She peeked out the window and laughed at the sight of him running full speed, at the pace of a brisk walk, splashing water all over the place, umbrella swinging at his side.
She sat down and scribbled a note on the empty calendar sitting unused upon her desk:
Remind Mr Hemway how an umbrella works.
……
Dawn came for the first time that month accompanied by an actual sunrise. Dr Laura Steele stood by her window, watching the light dance on the puddles outside. She noticed the messenger boy running down her street checking addresses, a small brown paper in hand.
She smiled and turned to go outside.
“Boy!” She called with a friendly smile.
“I believe you might be looking for me!”
The boy eyed her in disbelief, but asked.
“Are you Laura Steele?”
She shook her head with a brief laugh.
“Yes. And I believe you have a message from Mr Arthur Hemway, demanding my immediate presence.”
“Well if you knew that already why the blazes did I run all this way for?” The boy replied and shoved the letter in her hands.
He did not wait for a ‘thank you’ or acknowledgement of any kind, and by the time she looked up from the paper, the boy was already gone.
Not wasting any time, she unfolded the letter carefully and examined its content.
Steele. Mickey beckons. National importance. Traitor! Come now!
At your earliest convenience.
AH
She stuffed the paper into her pocket, opened the door slightly and shouted inside.
“Arthur has summoned me. I might be home late!”
A soft reply came back a moment later.
“Tell him to eat something.”
A chuckle from the Dr and off she went down this almost familiar path to Brightone Street. She and Arthur opened their Private Investigations firm almost a year ago now, but with Arthur’s therapy and her psychiatry practice, they have only been visiting the PI office once a week for a ‘meeting’ of varying usefulness, but mostly to remind themselves that they really wanted to get it off the ground.
The cool air tugged at her sleeves and she almost instantly regretted not taking a thicker jacket, or transport for that matter. Her old hip wound was not doing her any favours as the years were ticking on.
A traitor? Mickey? Should I have dressed up?
She reached the office with a little more hiss in her voice than she remembered having the last time she walked over. Laura lifted her hand to knock when the door swung open.
“A matter of national importance and espionage and you decide to WALK to Brightone Street?”
Casually Laura lowered her hand.
“If it was life or death, I would have hired a cab. Have you eaten anything?” She replied with jaded ease.
“What? Eaten? Do I look starved?” Arthur snapped back.
“So, this traitor among us? What is that all about?”
Arthur clicked his tongue and turned around. They sat on their respective chairs flanking the office, and word for word Arthur gave account of the exchange, colouring the tale with every observation he made of Mickey’s demeanour, outfit and choice in cravat.
“Indeed?” Was all Laura said.
“So where do you suppose we begin looking for this proverbial needle?” She asked.
“We shall do nothing until we find that blasted actual needle he so carelessly tossed somewhere in here. Did he not appreciate the irony of his request demanding urgency, then carelessly having us start with at least a day wasted by flicking that godless prickly prick into the most filled space in this room. Come on, on your knees, we go nowhere until it is found.”
Laura and Arthur spent a good two hours crawling around the cramped room, and Laura was almost tempted to call for Anna, or the Yard when Arthur started whispering in French.
“AH HA!” Arthur Exclaimed.
At last, back on track. Laura thought, regretting once again that she was not strong enough to refuse his asking, no, his begging for her to start this PI endeavour with him.
They sat together for the rest of the day, pondering how to start. Mickey gave them nothing. Nothing but a feeling. A feeling. That was, however, in itself enough to convince them both that something was definitely afoot. Mickey didn’t get feelings. Laura knew that, Arthur definitely knew it, and Mickey sure as hell knew it too. He probably had to take a long bath with special candles after uttering that admission.
But… Something sparked it. Something so small not even Mickey could put to words what he noticed. But he noticed something. A discrepancy so small, a word said with just the wrong infliction, a conversation at The Club where just a word too much was known. What was it. The needle. A man of pure routine, noticing a slip in someone else’s.
Arthur twirled the needle between his fingers as they spoke, then he stopped abruptly. Looked closer at the needle, deliberate in turning it slowly in his fingers, testing it’s give and bend. He shook his head and poked it into the armrest of his chair, poking out pointedly.
“A fitting flag for a fool’s errand, eh Laura?”
…
Mickey was sitting across a familiar gentleman at The Club after leaving Hemway and Steele’s shabby office. His name: Forger. Mickey often relied on Forger for information on particularly slippery individuals for MI1. They sat in silence, familiar rather than awkward.
They have sat together like that once every month for decades. Forger is the only person outside of MI1 that knows about his retirement. And coincidentally, the only person in his line of work, he grew to trust. Trust that took forty three years to build. They have saved each other’s lives a hundred times over, and no one, sometimes not oven the gentlemen sitting across from each other knew about all of it.
“Will you remain in London when you are free from the clutches of intellectual labour for our queen?” Forger finally broke the silence.
Mickey gave him a cold smile.
“You know Forger, I don’t think I will live at all.”
