Arthur Shepherd
Arthur Shepherd:
Arthur is a Cleaner: that is to say, a professional killer. He works for The Council and has done so for almost thirty years. In this time, he has been responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people whom the Council has deemed a threat to the country. He has always done his job with pride and has followed strictly the unwritten code of the Cleaner which is to make the whole process clean and professional and even, if possible, unnecessary by way assessing whether the target might prove a useful double agent.
He has always led a quiet life. Homosexual and with a wit drier than a Martini, he once had many friends He enjoys the Modern - that is the Modern of the early to middle 20th Century when, he believes, both art and "serious" music reached their apogee. Abstract Expressionism is the paradigm by which he judges all other art, in particular, the works of Mark Rothko, Arthur's response to art is visceral. He experiences responses to it that are almost synaesthetic and has concluded that it can reveal something about his victims which perhaps they didn't even know themselves. His tastes in music are only slightly more varied but his Desert Island Discs would be sure to include Stockhausen, Cage, Babbit, Ives and Schoenberg. Again, his responses to music are more physical than intellectual but he is fascinated by the overlap.
Arthur is a Cleaner: that is to say, a professional killer. He works for The Council and has done so for almost thirty years. In this time, he has been responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people whom the Council has deemed a threat to the country. He has always done his job with pride and has followed strictly the unwritten code of the Cleaner which is to make the whole process clean and professional and even, if possible, unnecessary by way assessing whether the target might prove a useful double agent.
He has always led a quiet life. Homosexual and with a wit drier than a Martini, he once had many friends He enjoys the Modern - that is the Modern of the early to middle 20th Century when, he believes, both art and "serious" music reached their apogee. Abstract Expressionism is the paradigm by which he judges all other art, in particular, the works of Mark Rothko, Arthur's response to art is visceral. He experiences responses to it that are almost synaesthetic and has concluded that it can reveal something about his victims which perhaps they didn't even know themselves. His tastes in music are only slightly more varied but his Desert Island Discs would be sure to include Stockhausen, Cage, Babbit, Ives and Schoenberg. Again, his responses to music are more physical than intellectual but he is fascinated by the overlap.
Vanessa Aldridge
Vanessa Aldridge:
Vanessa is a pretty ordinary young woman. On leaving university with a Desmond[1] in Business and Human Resources, Vanessa had been eager to pursue those career opportunities that the course had promised. After twelve weeks working on the complaints desk in Asda, she had taken what what seemed to be a step up, becoming a press officer for a cryogenics company – Don’t Fear The Reaper Ltd – which, one Thursday afternoon, went the way of all flesh.
She’d arrived back at her four-star hotel to find her bags in reception, along with a demand for immediate payment of the bill. In cash. Her company cards were no longer valid and she had six euros in her purse.
The manager of her hotel, La Domina, had (as men often did) taken a shine to her so he offered her a job as a chambermaid. Vanessa, out of ideas, had clutched at this passing straw of combined act of Christian charity and attempt to get laid and had taken up the offer. Within six months, Italian (at least in the somewhat restricted argot of the hotel business) improving, she had found herself working in Reception and making a pretty good fist of it. The salary, however, barely covered her expenses and she was desperate to move on.
When Andrew Mosley, looking to extend his hotel chain, arranged to examine the potential of La Domina, it was Vanessa who, on the strength of her nationality (and it had to be said, effect on male clients), had been given the task of showing him around. He'd been impressed. He'd bought the hotel and had hired Vanessa as his P.A. at a ridiculous salary. She had told him that she wouldn’t let him down.
Had she simply been conned into picking up the wrong man at the airport, she might just have got away with it but losing a ninety-seven thousand euro car and oh, she’d almost forgotten, involving said car in a double homicide on the streets of the Italian capital; well, that pretty much sealed it.
[1] Second-class honours as in: 2:2 : as in Tutu.
Vanessa is a pretty ordinary young woman. On leaving university with a Desmond[1] in Business and Human Resources, Vanessa had been eager to pursue those career opportunities that the course had promised. After twelve weeks working on the complaints desk in Asda, she had taken what what seemed to be a step up, becoming a press officer for a cryogenics company – Don’t Fear The Reaper Ltd – which, one Thursday afternoon, went the way of all flesh.
She’d arrived back at her four-star hotel to find her bags in reception, along with a demand for immediate payment of the bill. In cash. Her company cards were no longer valid and she had six euros in her purse.
The manager of her hotel, La Domina, had (as men often did) taken a shine to her so he offered her a job as a chambermaid. Vanessa, out of ideas, had clutched at this passing straw of combined act of Christian charity and attempt to get laid and had taken up the offer. Within six months, Italian (at least in the somewhat restricted argot of the hotel business) improving, she had found herself working in Reception and making a pretty good fist of it. The salary, however, barely covered her expenses and she was desperate to move on.
When Andrew Mosley, looking to extend his hotel chain, arranged to examine the potential of La Domina, it was Vanessa who, on the strength of her nationality (and it had to be said, effect on male clients), had been given the task of showing him around. He'd been impressed. He'd bought the hotel and had hired Vanessa as his P.A. at a ridiculous salary. She had told him that she wouldn’t let him down.
Had she simply been conned into picking up the wrong man at the airport, she might just have got away with it but losing a ninety-seven thousand euro car and oh, she’d almost forgotten, involving said car in a double homicide on the streets of the Italian capital; well, that pretty much sealed it.
[1] Second-class honours as in: 2:2 : as in Tutu.
Geoffrey Wittersham
Now, lets be honest, Geoffrey doesn't have many lines in The Rothko Room but it's fair to say that his influence on events is pivotal. He is the ghost at the feast on practically every page so it's helpful to know a little about him. First of all he, like Arthur, is a Cleaner - possibly the best the Council has ever had. Indeed, so good is he, that the Council has asked him on more than one occasion, to double as an actual Social Worker - the rather charming appellation that the idiosyncratic Council gives to what you and I would call "spies". When we meet him, however, he appears to have overreached himself. Naturally suave, intelligent and ruthless, he could (if we were unconcerned about copyright implications) have been called James Bond. Older, but no less attractive, Geoffrey has sashayed around the world doing what he does with style and aplomb and gets results others can only dream of. In fact his skills are almost too good, some believe and those people would not be surprised if he turned out to be first violinist in one orchestra and second trombone in another: this, by the way, is how Council Workers speak.
Arthur and he were once great friends. Of course, Arthur fancied him rotten back in the day but Geoffrey was most decidedly and almost pathologically heterosexual but they remained close until only a few years ago when things at the Council began to become a little... odd. There is still a huge affection on both sides.
Arthur and he were once great friends. Of course, Arthur fancied him rotten back in the day but Geoffrey was most decidedly and almost pathologically heterosexual but they remained close until only a few years ago when things at the Council began to become a little... odd. There is still a huge affection on both sides.
Caroline
A former Cleaner, Caroline packed it all in several years ago, married an Italian diplomat and went into secluded retirement in the foothills of the Italian Alps. She makes an impression on everyone she meets; even Vanessa.
"Vanessa knew that no matter how hard she tried or how much she might pretend, she could never hope to emulate the effortless grace of Caroline Gagliardo-Patricelli. Her age hard to determine, tall and slim, auburn hair (surely not genuine?) piled into a loose bun on the back of her head she had the manner, peculiar to the genuine aristocrat, which made Vanessa feel in every way inferior. It wasn’t arrogance; it was pure self-assuredness and an honest desire to make everyone feel at ease and unlike those staggeringly wealthy and powerful people she’d encountered in the course of her employment, this woman would expect nothing in return, save courtesy. Vanessa herself had been an early beneficiary. Desperately trying to recall her hostess’ name and probably showing it, she had been relieved to receive the exhortation,
‘And do call me Caroline, please, Miss Aldridge. Mrs. Gagliardo-Patricelli is such a mouthful. Now, drinks first, I think.’
As she and Maytham were led through the conservatory, Vanessa couldn’t take her eyes of Caroline’s clothes. Although the cheap jeans were holding up pretty well, her top was creased and crumpled beyond anything she had worn in two years and looked worth every cent of the fifteen euros it had cost. Walking behind Caroline (who was gliding along in an embroidered housecoat, silk pantaloons and sandals), Vanessa felt so dowdy, she could have wept until, with a start, she realised how little she had cared until now."
"Vanessa knew that no matter how hard she tried or how much she might pretend, she could never hope to emulate the effortless grace of Caroline Gagliardo-Patricelli. Her age hard to determine, tall and slim, auburn hair (surely not genuine?) piled into a loose bun on the back of her head she had the manner, peculiar to the genuine aristocrat, which made Vanessa feel in every way inferior. It wasn’t arrogance; it was pure self-assuredness and an honest desire to make everyone feel at ease and unlike those staggeringly wealthy and powerful people she’d encountered in the course of her employment, this woman would expect nothing in return, save courtesy. Vanessa herself had been an early beneficiary. Desperately trying to recall her hostess’ name and probably showing it, she had been relieved to receive the exhortation,
‘And do call me Caroline, please, Miss Aldridge. Mrs. Gagliardo-Patricelli is such a mouthful. Now, drinks first, I think.’
As she and Maytham were led through the conservatory, Vanessa couldn’t take her eyes of Caroline’s clothes. Although the cheap jeans were holding up pretty well, her top was creased and crumpled beyond anything she had worn in two years and looked worth every cent of the fifteen euros it had cost. Walking behind Caroline (who was gliding along in an embroidered housecoat, silk pantaloons and sandals), Vanessa felt so dowdy, she could have wept until, with a start, she realised how little she had cared until now."
Ursulet
Tough, angry, surly, vicious, angry, ruthless, cynical, angry, very very angry. Pretty much all the time.
She first turns up on the top of a mountain. It's all downhill from there. Did I mention that she's quite angry a lot of the time.
She first turns up on the top of a mountain. It's all downhill from there. Did I mention that she's quite angry a lot of the time.
Other Members of the Ensemble
Jennifer Carlisle
The daughter of the founder of the Council, Jennifer has been a Cleaner longer than Arthur. By her own admission, she's creaking a bit but she still enjoys the cut and thrust - mostly the thrust - of life in the dark recesses of National Security. She and Geoffrey have history, naturally; she being his nearest female equivalent and her appetite for meaningless sex continues unabated. At the moment, she is recovering from a bullet wound in the thigh which is giving her "gip" and so has found herself doing a spot of gentle mentoring with her young charge, Jacqueline. She is genuinely proud of her work Jacqueline but would prefer to be killing people - after having had sex with them, obviously.
Christopher Maytham
Of the F.O. Vanessa is impressed with Christopher, which is a good thing because she'll be seeing rather a lot of him:
"He was everything a consular official should be, with his tailored suit, expensive shoes and attaché case. And whilst he appeared younger than one might have expected, after the brusqueness of her Polizia experience, his assured manner was welcome...at the restaurant, Maytham (“Do please call me Christopher”) had been as charming a companion as his profession had intimated he might be. ‘I practically go to dinner for a living,’ he’d said. And it had showed..."
Mrs.Jempson
She runs the Gloucester Rd. Oxfam shop which she uses as a cover for activities with the Council. She provides field agents with odds and ends, from disguises to automatic weapons but she runs a tight ship and woe betide anyone who thinks she isn't serious about being the manager of a charity shop.
‘Ooh dear, Mr Shepherd. Was that one of yours?’
‘No, it bloody well wasn’t!’ Arthur instantly regretted being short with Mrs. Jempson, who was a good sort and had worked for the Council for a very considerable amount of time. She looked at Arthur exactly in the way he deserved and he looked at the floor.
He hadn’t been due to drop off his chauffeur’s uniform until Wednesday morning but had decided, in the circumstances, to do it immediately. The Oxfam, of course, was closed at that time of the evening and he’d been extremely grateful when, in response to his hammering, Mrs J. had appeared in the frosted glass in the side door and even more so when she had led him through to the shop itself. Even here, off the main drag and a quarter of a mile away, there was the noise of dozens, perhaps scores of sirens negotiating the gridlocked streets around the Al-Nimrah and yet the silence hung heavily in the little shop.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs J. That was uncalled for. I’ve had a bit of a rotten time of it so far this evening. I would have phoned ahead but I’m afraid my phone battery is flat as a witch’s tit. That’s what you get for leaving it switched on, I suppose. I need a change of clothes.’
‘Yes, you do. I’m surprised at you wandering about in that state.’
‘I didn’t think I looked too bad in the circumstances,’ said Arthur, his professional pride singed, along with his eyebrows. ‘You should’ve seen me before I cleaned myself up. D’you know? It blew my flaming moustache off!’ Arthur opened his hand to show her.
‘Well, I think you probably got away with it,’ she conceded. ‘Bit of a mess but I doubt anyone would have noticed. Still, can’t be too careful. Sounded from here, like one for the C.T.C. and they don’t hang about. Here, try these on.’ She handed Arthur a suit and a shirt. He took them, and made for the changing room. ‘I take it you avoided the C.C.T.V.?’
‘Absolutely,’ he said, over his shoulder, whilst flicking back the rough red curtain, which was to be all that stood between Mrs. Jempson and his Y-fronts.
The modesty screen was worn, moth-eaten and paper-thin, yet for some reason, Mrs. Jempson raised her voice when she spoke.
‘So if not you; who?’
‘I have no idea,’ Arthur called out. ‘But they can’t have just been after the prince. The thing took out half of Knightsbridge.’
‘A prince eh? I expect that pleased the anarchist in you.’
Arthur’s head appeared, cradled by swag of curtain, which he grasped tightly to his neck.
‘There is no “anarchist” in me,’ he said.
‘Chance would be a fine thing eh?’ she muttered, folding a yellow acrylic jumper and laying it neatly on a shelf.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. How’s the suit?’
‘Give me a minute, for goodness’ sake! My back’s giving me absolute gip!’ Mrs Jempson busied herself with tidying and muttered something about the feebleness of the male gender, which Arthur didn’t quite catch. Eventually, he stepped out of the cubicle. Mrs. Jempson looked him up and down for a moment, made a face, then said,
‘Mmm… it looked better on the hanger, frankly. But never mind; any old port in a storm, eh?’
‘You’re too kind, Mrs. J. How much?’
‘Fifteen for the suit, seven for the shirt and you can have this for 50p.’ She tossed him a light blue tie. Arthur returned to the cubicle and fished out the crumpled chauffeur’s uniform. He began to fold it… badly. Mrs. Jempson tutted and whisked it away from him.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘for a homosexual gentleman, you really are not much of a one for clothes are you?’ Arthur tried to look affronted.
‘I shall treat that piece of blatant homophobic stereotyping with the contempt it deserves. Just because a fellow veers towards the distaff side, it’s no guarantee that he will have a way with fabrics and the like, Mrs. J.’
‘No, indeed Mr, Shepherd.’ She rang up the ancient till and the drawer crashed open. ‘Twenty-two pounds and fifty-pence, if you’d be so kind.’ Arthur stroked a twenty and a ten from his wallet and handed them over.
‘We’ll call it thirty, shall we?’ he said and pointing at the now neatly-folded uniform, asked, ‘You’d better give me that. If the C.T.C find it here, there could be trouble.’
‘What do you take me for, Mr. Shepherd? I’ve been at this game a good long time and if and when they turn up, this will be a freshly dry-cleaned and invisibly-mended doorman’s suit complete with linen lining. We’ll get eighteen quid for it, easy.’ Arthur smiled and shook his head.
‘Forgive me, Mrs. Jempson, for underestimating you,’ he said.
‘You’re not the first, don’t worry. That’s how I’ve stayed alive so long. Right, will that be all, sir?’
‘Yes, thank you Mrs Jempson.’
‘Sure I can’t interest you in a nice overcoat? A book, perhaps? Ooh, we’ve just had a bunch of CDs in this morning.’
‘Er, no thanks,’ said Arthur, eyeing the pile of grubby jewel cases.‘Are you sure? Classical: not your usual rubbish.’
Arthur sighed and took the first one off the pile.’
‘In what universe, Mrs. Jempson, is James Last considered a) “classical” and b) “not your usual rubbish”?’
‘I never said I was an expert, Mr. Shepherd.’ Arthur smiled and was about to toss the CD back where it had come from, when his eye fell on the second in the pile. He picked it off.
‘This looks a bit more promising,’ he said. It was a compilation of modern music. A glance at the back told him there were two with which he was unfamiliar. ‘How much for this, Mrs. J?’
‘Eight pounds.’
‘Bloody hell! I was only being civil by even looking through the pile! I could probably get it new for that.’
‘You do that, then. Take food from the mouths of the needy. I’m sure they’ll be very happy you got a better deal elsewhere.’
‘Bloody hell,’ he said again, fishing in his pocket. ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered, ‘Fellow gets blown up for his country and all he gets is shafted by a charity shop.’ He gathered together the necessary and handed it over. Mrs Jempson brightened.
‘Pleasure doing business with you. Right. The back way, just to be on the safe side and I’d go straight back to Lambeth now, if I were you. They’re bound to be worried about you.’ She and Arthur looked at each other for a full five seconds before both of them began to bellow with laughter.
‘You are, Mrs. Jempson, what we used to call “a card”.
Sir Auberon Nightingale
Sir Auberon works for MI6 and is Arthur's titular boss. Titular, because Arthur really works for the Council and his MI6 job is just a cover (yes, that's how secret the Council is). Nightingale is one of those civil servants whom one cannot imagine ever having done a stroke of work in his life. Paper seems to come in, migrate to an out-tray and then leave by the same door, it's weight increased by only by as much ink as it takes to write the name, "Nightingale" on the bottom. Arthur enjoys sparring with Nightingale, for whom he has less respect than has a crab-louse for a scrotum.
Jacqueline
The trainee. She comes from a sound background (her father is career military and he thinks she's with the Sutherland Highlanders) and has the makings of a very talented and effective Cleaner. . A superb markswoman and far too clever by half, Jacqueline is devoted to her mentor and will obey her unquestioningly. She's too young to realise that obeying Jennifer Carlisle is an activity which really ought to questioned very closely indeed.
Alan
Oh dear, Alan. Alan is the luckless intern who finds himself dispatched to kill Arthur Shepherd in a toilet at Charing Cross station. It doesn't go well.
"Early twenties, green corduroys and brown brogues; Charles Tyrwhitt shirt, check jacket and honey-coloured waistcoat. He was topped off with clear skin, public school haircut and if that were not enough, he carried a small slip of paper, alternately scrutinising it and the stall numbers until he came to a halt outside stall six. It was occupied by a railway worker at present but instead of busying himself with some toilet-related activity, as Arthur had been, this chap simply stood outside stall six and waited. Arthur felt ashamed of his profession. Who on earth had recruited this… this… tit?"
Bracewell
Bracewell is a backroom boy working in Engineering. This being the Council, it does not mean that he is an engineer.. With his chum, Grafton, he works in the bowels of Century House, encrypting messages out and decrypting messages in as well as tinkering with messages stolen from the ether. He and Arthur have always got on each other's nerves - perhaps because they are carved from the same log - but Arthur, in extremis, is prepared to swallow his pride and ignore the rudeness, the snide remarks and the attitude... but only up to a point. And a point is what Bracewell will get if he doesn't stop buggering about.
Mulberry
Another bod in the bowels, Mulberry works in Clerical. For once, the Council were stumped for a cover name and so Mulberry is a Clerk; but what he doesn't know about documentation of all species is worth less than a Zimbabwean Dollar.
Gianfranco
Caroline's servant, driver, factotum and quite possibly something else, Gianfranco is a taciturn Italian who possess the sort of skill set that even a retired Council worker might find useful. He acts first and... well, that's pretty much it.
Crawthorne Beasley
Arthur first learns of Beasley via a despatch ordering his death. Discovering that Beasley once worked for the Council, Arthur is puzzled but a job's a Job. He finds him selling CDs in the foyer of the Festival Hall
"Behind a low table, upon which were neatly arranged a variety of leaflets, posters and compact disks, sat a white-haired party wearing slacks, desert boots, a navy jumper and sporting a cravat. To his right on a low dais, stood four chairs and four music stands. A ‘cello rested on the floor beside one of the chairs..."
Arthur and Beasley fall to a discussion of retirement...
‘Oh, it all sounds wonderful when you’re working but the reality of retirement can be rather a let down. My wife died, you see, shortly after I left the Civil Service. Hit and run. It doesn’t always pay to make plans.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘But listen to me going on. That’s what happens, you see.’ Beasley chuckled. ‘You find yourself sharing intimate details of your life with total strangers. Still; one step up from talking to yourself eh?’
‘What did you do in the Civil Service?’ Arthur was unsurprised that Beasley’s face revealed absolutely nothing.
‘Oh, nothing special. Troubleshooting, I suppose you might call it.’
‘Sounds exciting.’
Beasley stopped stacking boxes.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘it was. It was.’ He paused for a moment, wiped his hands on his jumper and said, ‘Well, that’s me done. Jolly nice to have met you Mr…?’ He held out his hand.
‘Henley. Arthur Henley.’ Arthur took it.
‘Mr. Henley. Beasley is my name.’ Beasley indicated the musicians. ‘They’re here every Monday about this time. Different programme every week. Hope we’ll see you again.’
‘I hope so too,’ said Arthur. ‘Take care.’
‘Oh I always do, Mr Henley; it’s the curse of the Civil Servant.’
Ashley Sullivan MP
"At one end of the table three men stood as two others entered. The shorter of them thrust out a hand in a practiced manner as he strode across the floor. Arthur recognised him at once. His name was Ashley Sullivan. Arthur could remember little about him except that he was a New Zealander and that once upon a time, as a Junior Minister in Agriculture, Food and Fisheries and shortly after a nuclear submarine had gone down off Rockall, he’d appeared on T.V. and eaten a herring. Must have gone down well with Central Office, Arthur supposed."
Jennifer Carlisle
The daughter of the founder of the Council, Jennifer has been a Cleaner longer than Arthur. By her own admission, she's creaking a bit but she still enjoys the cut and thrust - mostly the thrust - of life in the dark recesses of National Security. She and Geoffrey have history, naturally; she being his nearest female equivalent and her appetite for meaningless sex continues unabated. At the moment, she is recovering from a bullet wound in the thigh which is giving her "gip" and so has found herself doing a spot of gentle mentoring with her young charge, Jacqueline. She is genuinely proud of her work Jacqueline but would prefer to be killing people - after having had sex with them, obviously.
Christopher Maytham
Of the F.O. Vanessa is impressed with Christopher, which is a good thing because she'll be seeing rather a lot of him:
"He was everything a consular official should be, with his tailored suit, expensive shoes and attaché case. And whilst he appeared younger than one might have expected, after the brusqueness of her Polizia experience, his assured manner was welcome...at the restaurant, Maytham (“Do please call me Christopher”) had been as charming a companion as his profession had intimated he might be. ‘I practically go to dinner for a living,’ he’d said. And it had showed..."
Mrs.Jempson
She runs the Gloucester Rd. Oxfam shop which she uses as a cover for activities with the Council. She provides field agents with odds and ends, from disguises to automatic weapons but she runs a tight ship and woe betide anyone who thinks she isn't serious about being the manager of a charity shop.
‘Ooh dear, Mr Shepherd. Was that one of yours?’
‘No, it bloody well wasn’t!’ Arthur instantly regretted being short with Mrs. Jempson, who was a good sort and had worked for the Council for a very considerable amount of time. She looked at Arthur exactly in the way he deserved and he looked at the floor.
He hadn’t been due to drop off his chauffeur’s uniform until Wednesday morning but had decided, in the circumstances, to do it immediately. The Oxfam, of course, was closed at that time of the evening and he’d been extremely grateful when, in response to his hammering, Mrs J. had appeared in the frosted glass in the side door and even more so when she had led him through to the shop itself. Even here, off the main drag and a quarter of a mile away, there was the noise of dozens, perhaps scores of sirens negotiating the gridlocked streets around the Al-Nimrah and yet the silence hung heavily in the little shop.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs J. That was uncalled for. I’ve had a bit of a rotten time of it so far this evening. I would have phoned ahead but I’m afraid my phone battery is flat as a witch’s tit. That’s what you get for leaving it switched on, I suppose. I need a change of clothes.’
‘Yes, you do. I’m surprised at you wandering about in that state.’
‘I didn’t think I looked too bad in the circumstances,’ said Arthur, his professional pride singed, along with his eyebrows. ‘You should’ve seen me before I cleaned myself up. D’you know? It blew my flaming moustache off!’ Arthur opened his hand to show her.
‘Well, I think you probably got away with it,’ she conceded. ‘Bit of a mess but I doubt anyone would have noticed. Still, can’t be too careful. Sounded from here, like one for the C.T.C. and they don’t hang about. Here, try these on.’ She handed Arthur a suit and a shirt. He took them, and made for the changing room. ‘I take it you avoided the C.C.T.V.?’
‘Absolutely,’ he said, over his shoulder, whilst flicking back the rough red curtain, which was to be all that stood between Mrs. Jempson and his Y-fronts.
The modesty screen was worn, moth-eaten and paper-thin, yet for some reason, Mrs. Jempson raised her voice when she spoke.
‘So if not you; who?’
‘I have no idea,’ Arthur called out. ‘But they can’t have just been after the prince. The thing took out half of Knightsbridge.’
‘A prince eh? I expect that pleased the anarchist in you.’
Arthur’s head appeared, cradled by swag of curtain, which he grasped tightly to his neck.
‘There is no “anarchist” in me,’ he said.
‘Chance would be a fine thing eh?’ she muttered, folding a yellow acrylic jumper and laying it neatly on a shelf.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. How’s the suit?’
‘Give me a minute, for goodness’ sake! My back’s giving me absolute gip!’ Mrs Jempson busied herself with tidying and muttered something about the feebleness of the male gender, which Arthur didn’t quite catch. Eventually, he stepped out of the cubicle. Mrs. Jempson looked him up and down for a moment, made a face, then said,
‘Mmm… it looked better on the hanger, frankly. But never mind; any old port in a storm, eh?’
‘You’re too kind, Mrs. J. How much?’
‘Fifteen for the suit, seven for the shirt and you can have this for 50p.’ She tossed him a light blue tie. Arthur returned to the cubicle and fished out the crumpled chauffeur’s uniform. He began to fold it… badly. Mrs. Jempson tutted and whisked it away from him.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘for a homosexual gentleman, you really are not much of a one for clothes are you?’ Arthur tried to look affronted.
‘I shall treat that piece of blatant homophobic stereotyping with the contempt it deserves. Just because a fellow veers towards the distaff side, it’s no guarantee that he will have a way with fabrics and the like, Mrs. J.’
‘No, indeed Mr, Shepherd.’ She rang up the ancient till and the drawer crashed open. ‘Twenty-two pounds and fifty-pence, if you’d be so kind.’ Arthur stroked a twenty and a ten from his wallet and handed them over.
‘We’ll call it thirty, shall we?’ he said and pointing at the now neatly-folded uniform, asked, ‘You’d better give me that. If the C.T.C find it here, there could be trouble.’
‘What do you take me for, Mr. Shepherd? I’ve been at this game a good long time and if and when they turn up, this will be a freshly dry-cleaned and invisibly-mended doorman’s suit complete with linen lining. We’ll get eighteen quid for it, easy.’ Arthur smiled and shook his head.
‘Forgive me, Mrs. Jempson, for underestimating you,’ he said.
‘You’re not the first, don’t worry. That’s how I’ve stayed alive so long. Right, will that be all, sir?’
‘Yes, thank you Mrs Jempson.’
‘Sure I can’t interest you in a nice overcoat? A book, perhaps? Ooh, we’ve just had a bunch of CDs in this morning.’
‘Er, no thanks,’ said Arthur, eyeing the pile of grubby jewel cases.‘Are you sure? Classical: not your usual rubbish.’
Arthur sighed and took the first one off the pile.’
‘In what universe, Mrs. Jempson, is James Last considered a) “classical” and b) “not your usual rubbish”?’
‘I never said I was an expert, Mr. Shepherd.’ Arthur smiled and was about to toss the CD back where it had come from, when his eye fell on the second in the pile. He picked it off.
‘This looks a bit more promising,’ he said. It was a compilation of modern music. A glance at the back told him there were two with which he was unfamiliar. ‘How much for this, Mrs. J?’
‘Eight pounds.’
‘Bloody hell! I was only being civil by even looking through the pile! I could probably get it new for that.’
‘You do that, then. Take food from the mouths of the needy. I’m sure they’ll be very happy you got a better deal elsewhere.’
‘Bloody hell,’ he said again, fishing in his pocket. ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered, ‘Fellow gets blown up for his country and all he gets is shafted by a charity shop.’ He gathered together the necessary and handed it over. Mrs Jempson brightened.
‘Pleasure doing business with you. Right. The back way, just to be on the safe side and I’d go straight back to Lambeth now, if I were you. They’re bound to be worried about you.’ She and Arthur looked at each other for a full five seconds before both of them began to bellow with laughter.
‘You are, Mrs. Jempson, what we used to call “a card”.
Sir Auberon Nightingale
Sir Auberon works for MI6 and is Arthur's titular boss. Titular, because Arthur really works for the Council and his MI6 job is just a cover (yes, that's how secret the Council is). Nightingale is one of those civil servants whom one cannot imagine ever having done a stroke of work in his life. Paper seems to come in, migrate to an out-tray and then leave by the same door, it's weight increased by only by as much ink as it takes to write the name, "Nightingale" on the bottom. Arthur enjoys sparring with Nightingale, for whom he has less respect than has a crab-louse for a scrotum.
Jacqueline
The trainee. She comes from a sound background (her father is career military and he thinks she's with the Sutherland Highlanders) and has the makings of a very talented and effective Cleaner. . A superb markswoman and far too clever by half, Jacqueline is devoted to her mentor and will obey her unquestioningly. She's too young to realise that obeying Jennifer Carlisle is an activity which really ought to questioned very closely indeed.
Alan
Oh dear, Alan. Alan is the luckless intern who finds himself dispatched to kill Arthur Shepherd in a toilet at Charing Cross station. It doesn't go well.
"Early twenties, green corduroys and brown brogues; Charles Tyrwhitt shirt, check jacket and honey-coloured waistcoat. He was topped off with clear skin, public school haircut and if that were not enough, he carried a small slip of paper, alternately scrutinising it and the stall numbers until he came to a halt outside stall six. It was occupied by a railway worker at present but instead of busying himself with some toilet-related activity, as Arthur had been, this chap simply stood outside stall six and waited. Arthur felt ashamed of his profession. Who on earth had recruited this… this… tit?"
Bracewell
Bracewell is a backroom boy working in Engineering. This being the Council, it does not mean that he is an engineer.. With his chum, Grafton, he works in the bowels of Century House, encrypting messages out and decrypting messages in as well as tinkering with messages stolen from the ether. He and Arthur have always got on each other's nerves - perhaps because they are carved from the same log - but Arthur, in extremis, is prepared to swallow his pride and ignore the rudeness, the snide remarks and the attitude... but only up to a point. And a point is what Bracewell will get if he doesn't stop buggering about.
Mulberry
Another bod in the bowels, Mulberry works in Clerical. For once, the Council were stumped for a cover name and so Mulberry is a Clerk; but what he doesn't know about documentation of all species is worth less than a Zimbabwean Dollar.
Gianfranco
Caroline's servant, driver, factotum and quite possibly something else, Gianfranco is a taciturn Italian who possess the sort of skill set that even a retired Council worker might find useful. He acts first and... well, that's pretty much it.
Crawthorne Beasley
Arthur first learns of Beasley via a despatch ordering his death. Discovering that Beasley once worked for the Council, Arthur is puzzled but a job's a Job. He finds him selling CDs in the foyer of the Festival Hall
"Behind a low table, upon which were neatly arranged a variety of leaflets, posters and compact disks, sat a white-haired party wearing slacks, desert boots, a navy jumper and sporting a cravat. To his right on a low dais, stood four chairs and four music stands. A ‘cello rested on the floor beside one of the chairs..."
Arthur and Beasley fall to a discussion of retirement...
‘Oh, it all sounds wonderful when you’re working but the reality of retirement can be rather a let down. My wife died, you see, shortly after I left the Civil Service. Hit and run. It doesn’t always pay to make plans.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘But listen to me going on. That’s what happens, you see.’ Beasley chuckled. ‘You find yourself sharing intimate details of your life with total strangers. Still; one step up from talking to yourself eh?’
‘What did you do in the Civil Service?’ Arthur was unsurprised that Beasley’s face revealed absolutely nothing.
‘Oh, nothing special. Troubleshooting, I suppose you might call it.’
‘Sounds exciting.’
Beasley stopped stacking boxes.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘it was. It was.’ He paused for a moment, wiped his hands on his jumper and said, ‘Well, that’s me done. Jolly nice to have met you Mr…?’ He held out his hand.
‘Henley. Arthur Henley.’ Arthur took it.
‘Mr. Henley. Beasley is my name.’ Beasley indicated the musicians. ‘They’re here every Monday about this time. Different programme every week. Hope we’ll see you again.’
‘I hope so too,’ said Arthur. ‘Take care.’
‘Oh I always do, Mr Henley; it’s the curse of the Civil Servant.’
Ashley Sullivan MP
"At one end of the table three men stood as two others entered. The shorter of them thrust out a hand in a practiced manner as he strode across the floor. Arthur recognised him at once. His name was Ashley Sullivan. Arthur could remember little about him except that he was a New Zealander and that once upon a time, as a Junior Minister in Agriculture, Food and Fisheries and shortly after a nuclear submarine had gone down off Rockall, he’d appeared on T.V. and eaten a herring. Must have gone down well with Central Office, Arthur supposed."
