Collusion: Chapter 5

A meeting with a retired terrorist changes the direction of the investigation

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’ll publish a section from the novel. Chapters 1 2 3 4 are here for those who missed them. The story so far: Michael Ashton, a journalist, has been violently attacked after meeting the Football Lads Action Group. Now he meets a veteran Ulster Loyalist who he fears have links to right-wing groups on the mainland

Chapter 5: Orange alert

The voice told Ashton to go to Loughhall and visit James Sloan’s House, the Museum of Orange Heritage, at 1pm. He put the directions into his phone. There was plenty of time so he stayed on the back roads. He did not stop for anything. He did not want to see another memorial.

Armagh is apple-growing county but the trees had been pruned back and the orchards looked ugly, stunted and angry, like furious petrified forests. The tight lanes were squeezing the sanity out of Ashton’s brain.

He reached the town and pulled up outside its park and golf club, in front of overwrought early 19^th century faux hermitages. He was early so he crossed the road and walked around the ruins of an old church to clear his mind. It didn’t help.

Just before one he approached the museum. From Main Street it looked like a row of traditional terraced houses that had been turned into a café but the entrance was down an alley at the back and very modern. Two elderly men sat behind a desk and said jolly hellos. Ashton paid £3 to enter and signed a false name in the visitors’ book. He was the first tourist in six days.

One of the men ran through an overview of the museum. This was where the Orange Order was formed, in the parlour upstairs after the battle of the Diamond in 1795. The guide took Ashton to a lighted cabinet and showed him a document with William III’s signature. “Are you a member of the Order yourself?” the man asked.

“Er, not quite.”

“We are members,” the guide continued, “and we help out here in our spare time. We’re all volunteers.”

That was a loaded word in Northern Ireland and Ashton glanced at both men to see if it was an in-joke. There was no indication of mischief. A plaque on the wall indicated that the museum had been renovated with money from the European Community. “How do you feel about Brexit,” he asked, his journalistic instincts momentarily overriding his caution.

“Get out and close the border,” the one who remained behind the desk said. “We want nothing to do with the Free State.”

The other volunteer led his visitor up to the famous parlour, where three mannequins were positioned around the original table where the Order was created. Guns and pikes used in the battle decorated the room. After explaining this centrepiece, the guide seemed to lose interest in Ashton and the visitor was left to wander around the other rooms. On the top floor of the house was a selection of Lambeg drums. Ashton was intrigued. One instrument was painted with an image of a cockerel with the words “King of the hill” written above the bird and the name of the lodge, Derryscollop No 2, below it. As he studied it a voice behind him spoke softly. “Thrills Protestants and chills Catholics,” it said. Ashton jumped. “The drum,” the new arrival explained. He was short – probably only about 5’ 2” – and in his mid-60s. “You’re looking for information, I hear,” he said. “What is it you want to know?”

“I’m Mike,” Ashton said, extending his hand but the Ulsterman did not move. He stared at the outsider through narrowed eyes. He was dressed in a Barbour waxed coat, wore a cap and had thick trousers tucked into Wellington boots. The look said country farmer but there was no folksiness about him. This was a hard, hard man.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you to see the battlefield.” They descended the stairs and left the same way that Ashton had arrived. The men on reception feigned not to notice their departure.

“I saw you looking at the church,” the farmer said. “The natives put 170 men, women and children into it in 1641 and set it on fire. Those who survived were thrown off a bridge into the Bann. If they tried to get out of the freezing water, they were pushed back with pikes.”

“Jesus.”

“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain,” the man said angrily.

They climbed into a Land Rover and travelled into the countryside for 15 minutes. The driver stopped in a layby near a monument and climbed out. It was remote. This was not a place where eavesdroppers were a threat. “Turn off your phone,” the man said.

A history lesson began. “The Diamond is the crossroads. The Defenders – that’s the Irish – came down this way.” The local pointed out the direction. “And occupied Dan Winter’s house. That one there.”

The farmhouse, with its whitewashed exterior, thatched roof and adjacent barns, was just up the road. “The Peep O’Day Boys – the Protestants – were on the high ground. They picked their enemies off with muskets.” He laughed. “We had guns, they had mostly pikes. Do you know what it was all about? Not religion. It was the linen trade. After the battle the Peep O’Day Boys smashed Catholic looms and drove their people out of Armagh. The Orange Order were the respectable face of Protestantism but the Boys did the dirty work. It was always thus.”

This time he shook his head and snorted in a disapproving manner that Ashton had not expected. “All the killings… it always comes down to money and power. What can I tell you? Let’s get this over with.”

“Sir John Armstrong,” Ashton said. “He’s been mixing with an organisation called ExSat made up of former soldiers. They’re right-wing fanatics. They have connections with Loyalist groups. I want to know how strong those links are.”

“Aye, I know about them,” the farmer said. “They are not Sir John’s type…” He spat out Armstrong’s name with contempt. “He was just Johnny Og when I first met him. He’s come a long way. Made a lot of money out of it all.”

Ashton waited. It had clouded over and spots of icy rain were beginning to fall. “He started out in the 1970s on the political side. In those days we got most of our weapons from the Ulster Defence Regiment and the British army. A lot of us served in the UDR.

“In the 1980s that flow of guns dried up. Armstrong helped get them from different sources. His last big score was in 1988. He’d been doing business in South Africa, getting around the sanctions, and brokered a deal with the apartheid government to get armaments. We got 200 AK-47s, 90 Browning pistols, hundreds of grenades, 12 Russian rocket launchers and 30,000 bullets.”

Titch had sent him to the right man. The details were surprisingly specific.

“The consignment was split between the UDA, the UVF and Ulster Resistance. Someone tipped off your friend Sherwood about the UDA’s share and the army seized it but the others got through. Go look at the statistics. There was a big spike in killings in the late 1980s and early 90s. Most of those guns have been decommissioned.”

“What could ExSat want with Armstrong?”

The farmer did not seem to hear the question. “Using the money he made in South Africa, Johnny Og moved to London and went respectable,” he said. “Now he’s quite powerful, I hear.”

This man had little time for Armstrong. “Could ExSat have been either trying to get access to some of these South African weapons,” Ashton asked, “or trying to get Armstrong to broker a new deal for them?”

The Ulsterman thought for a moment. “I suppose so,” he said. “If they’d served here, they might know about the guns and be trying to buy some. There’s no chance of that happening. The boys here are not on war footing at the moment but that could change quickly. They may need every last bullet.

“And Armstrong is way beyond gunrunning. But they might have tried him. They are probably stupid.”

None of this helped. It was a wasted journey.

“There are easier ways these days,” the man said.

“Go on.”

“The best places to get weapons are where there’s been war and there’s lots of guns flying around.”

“Libya or Syria?” Ashton asked, thinking of the most recent sources of conflict.

“No, too far away. If I was arming up, I’d go to Serbia. Once you’re back in the EU it’s an easy drive and the biggest problem is getting them across the channel. The people you’re talking about probably don’t want huge quantities. If they can’t get them here, that would be the way to go.”

They stood for a while as the rain became heavier. “So there’s no chance they are getting weapons from Loyalist groups?”

“None,” the man said walking back to his Land Rover. “We might need them soon.”

Without warning he turned and stepped close to Ashton, almost nose to nose. “Lord help us,” he said. “I’ve had enough of guns and death.”

They drove back to Loughgall in silence until Ashton spoke. “So you know Sherwood? He’s a good fella, isn’t he?”

“He put me in jail,” the farmer said. After that no words were exchanged and the goodbyes were restricted to nods when Ashton was dropped off at his hire car.

*

On the way back to Newry Ashton made two calls. The first was to Pierce. “I think there’s a real threat to Orlanda York,” he said. “When I get back to the hotel I’m going to email her. It might be worth another meeting when I get back.”

“What have you found out?”

“I think ExSat are trying to get weapons. It’s likely Armstrong turned them down. It seems that when I saw them on the boat they were probably heading to the Balkans or to meet Balkan contacts.”

“Are you sure? Armstrong’s a wrong’un.”

“Agree completely, Barry but this isn’t his style.” After giving Pierce a brief rundown of events he hung up and rang Titch. This time Ashton was less forthcoming.

“I met your, er, friend,” he said. “He’s a scary man.”

“A very scary man,” Titch agreed. “I’ll tell you about him some time.”

“He didn’t really help me.”

“Really?” The scepticism in Titch’s voice worried Ashton. Had he somehow already become aware of the conversation at the Diamond? “Well, we’ll have a full debrief when you’re in London. What time are you back tomorrow?”

“By 8pm I should think.”

“Come straight here again. I think they’re still looking for you. Some people I don’t like the cut of have been hanging around the pub.”

Something didn’t feel right about the whole episode. As he approached the turnoff for Newry, Ashton’s paranoia began to build again. He flicked off the indicator and pushed down on the accelerator. It was time to get out of Ulster. He was carrying everything he arrived with and the bill had been paid in advance. Tonight, despite the expense, he would stay in a hotel outside Dublin, near the airport. He kept checking his rear-view mirrors but felt confident that no one was following. After making a brief stop at Applegreen Services where he booked inexpensive accommodation in Swords, he made reasonable time and reached his lodgings just after 6pm. It was a Wetherspoons pub. He groaned but not from any snobbery. The chain’s owner was an avid Brexiteer. That political crisis had got Ashton into this mess and he was hoping that for at least tonight he could forget about it. Still, the beer and food were cheap.

He had a quick pint before freshening up and changing. Then he went to explore the town.

At the precise moment Ashton left his hotel, a man in the bar at the hotel in Newry checked his watch and ordered another coffee. He had been sitting there for three hours.

Earlier he had approached the receptionist – the same one who had confused Ashton’s booking the previous night. “I’ve a friend staying here,” he said, “Mike Ashton. Can you tell me his room number, please? He’s not expecting me and I’d like to surprise him. Good friend of mine. Guy from Liverpool.”

“Oh, I remember him,” she said brightly before assuming a reluctant, professional tone. “I’m not allowed to give out room numbers, sorry. I can phone and tell him you’re here.”

“No, no,” the man said. “I’ll wait for him in the bar.”

Now his patience had run out. He was back at the desk. “Can you just let me know if Mike Ashton is in?”

“I can call him,” the girl said.

“OK.”

But the phone rang out. He went back to the bar, briefly catching the eye of another man sitting in a leather armchair. Both settled in for a long wait. They would be ready when Ashton came back.

*

On the train back from Stansted Ashton made the decision to go home. At this point he’d had enough. It was time to be normal. Maybe it was even the moment to go to the police.

Even so, he got off the tube at Victoria rather than Pimlico, which was clearly easier to watch for anyone looking for him. He walked down St George’s Drive until Clarendon Street, where he turned right into the grid of small roads and wriggled his way down to the supermarket on Lupus Street. Confident that he was not being observed, he picked up some provisions. The big question was whether his flat was under surveillance.

There was little to be suspicious about in the locale. Kids were playing football and basketball in the caged court adjacent to the flats. A group of youths were talking near the entrance to the block and Ashton knew a number of them. He said hello and one asked what had happened to his face. He had almost forgotten about his fading black eye and bruised cheeks. It occurred to him that when people in Ireland had stared with a little too much intensity that they might have been checking out his injuries. “I was in a car crash,” he laughed, thinking that was true in its own way.

Once inside his front door he relaxed. It was good to be back in his own place. He took off his jacket and sat down on the couch. Within 30 seconds his mobile rang. It was Titch.

“Where are you?”

“I missed the flight. I’m staying overnight in Dublin. Any beer you can recommend?”

“If I know you, you’re somewhere where they have plenty of Orval,” Titch said scornfully, staring at a computer screen showing the living room. The camera was aimed at the door and Ashton was at the very edge of the fisheye. “Just be sure you’re in the sort of place where you’re safe. Don’t make bad choices about where you drink.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Fine.”

Titch hung up and sighed. Ashton had obviously lost trust in him and was doing his own thing. He picked up the phone again and considered making a second call but, after a moment’s thought, put it back down. If the door opened again he would get an alert. There was also a chance that no one was watching for Ashton’s return. It was six days since he had come out of hospital and Titch guessed that the people looking for him had neither the resources nor the level of professionalism to maintain round-the-clock surveillance. He expected that they’d check a couple of times a day. There was nothing he could do. Ash was a big boy and had to make his own choices. For better or for worse.

Still, Titch was morose when he went to the pub that night. After closing he walked the long way home and strolled down Johnson’s Place like a man in no hurry. There was nothing obvious to worry about and he was glad to see the lights were out in Ashton’s flat. No one had come in or out – that much he knew – so he assumed his friend was asleep. The danger would begin again in the morning.

*

“Good God, what happened to your face?” Orlanda York’s expression was full of shock and concern.

“Didn’t Barry tell you what happened?”

She shook her head.

“They beat me up,” he said, “and…” he had a momentary spasm of a flashback, “… left me battered and bruised.”

This time they were alone in the same bustling atrium at Portcullis House. “Is this my fault?” she asked.

“No, no, not at all,” he said. “There are plenty of people to blame. Quite a few of your fellow MPs could be held accountable. Their rhetoric is getting worse and inflames the sort of people who attacked me. But not you.”

She still looked embarrassed. Ashton tried to move the conversation on.

“How has it been for you? I’ve missed much of what’s happening. I’ve been in hospital and in Ireland. It seems like you’ve had a hell of a week, too.”

“Yes,” she laughed. “I spent Valentine’s Night with an amendable motion.”

“Well, all the newspaper profiles say you’re married to politics, so it’s appropriate. I stayed in with a nurse.” She did a double take and then realised he had countered her clumsy joke with one of his own. She blushed. “I’m sorry. You’ve been through far worse,” she said.

“I’m not so sure,” he softened, realising there was little point in being spiky. “We’ve both endured a lot. Are you still getting abused?”

“Only online,” Orlanda said. “Frank Joseph is awaiting trial and the police have been more effective. I’ve had what is believed to be a serious death threat but others who have taken a similar stance have also been threatened. We’ve been given close protection.” She nodded to a nearby table where a hawkish man in his 30s was sipping at a coffee and checking his phone.

“Good,” Ashton said. “I’m sure these people are dangerous. At first I thought Joseph and his acolytes were just football thugs seeking publicity but the former soldiers they’re involved with are worrying.”

He explained in vague terms what happened in Ireland. “I thought Sir John Armstrong was involved but the information I was given suggested he’s unlikely to be part of anything like this.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” the MP said. “He’s a very intelligent and charming man. I’ve met him on many occasions.”

“He’s responsible for the deaths of more than a hundred innocent people.” Ashton snapped. “If we had proper investigations and accountability he’d be in jail – with dozens of other charming killers.”

“I may be married to politics but you’re wedded to anger.” She stared at him provocatively – in every sense of the word. This time he backed down.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve seen and heard things, experienced stuff, in the past few weeks that I couldn’t imagine before. And it’s made me even more angry.”

“I am, too,” she said. “I want to make this country a better place.”

“That we can both agree on,” he said, wearily.

“Look,” she said. “I do appreciate everything you’ve done to help me. Could I buy you dinner as a way of saying thank you?”

Christ, he thought, Pierce might have been right, at least in a small way. Despite himself, he was interested, too.

“On expenses?” he said and immediately regretted it. “That’s a joke,” he followed up hastily. He had checked and York emerged from the expenses scandal largely unscathed.

She smiled. “No,” she said definitively, “not on expenses.”

“I don’t think we should,” he said, with an identifiable edge of regret in his voice. “You are in the line of fire when you’re in public and we don’t know whether ExSat are still looking for me. It would not be wise.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m not suggesting we do anything stupid. I keep a flat in Dolphin Square. Do you know where it is?”

“I live about 250 yards away,” he said.

“Good. The Square has a restaurant, security and we’ll have a chaperone, too,” she nodded at the plainclothes policeman. “In those circumstances I’ll take your refusal as an act of political vindictiveness and assume you have the same attitude to free speech as your Football Lads Action Group friends.” This was said with impressive lightness but it put Ashton on the spot.

“I would love to have dinner with you,” he said, rather gallantly for him, even if he regretted his choice of words immediately.

“Good,” she said briskly. “Now I have to attend a pointless debate about future trade deals that will never happen. Shall we say 8pm at the bar and grill?” He nodded.

“Goodbye Mr Ashton.”

“Goodbye Ms York.”

He felt quite excited as he left the building but on the cold pavement 40 yards from the Thames he had to remind himself: “No, no. She’s a Tory.”

He took out his phone and called Titch. “I’m back,” he said. “I’ll come and see you now. About 20 minutes, OK?”

“OK.” He walked up and got the 24 bus back, not looking forward to the conversation.

*

They sat across the dining table on stiff backed chairs. “There’s a fair bit you’re holding back from me,” Titch said.

“Can you blame me?”

“You’re in a situation you never anticipated. Things are happening that you couldn’t imagine. The only way you’ll get to the bottom of it is with my help. You have to be honest with me.”

Ashton did an exaggerated act of being startled. “Me? Honest with you? You insist you’re a civil servant and yet have all kinds of dubious contacts. You send me to Ireland to meet men who – frankly – terrify me. I got attacked in your home. While you were upstairs. I don’t know which side you’re on.”

Titch got up and opened one of the living room cabinets. Ashton held his breath, wondering what new surprise was coming his way. He need not have worried. It was a small bar fridge full of Orval. “Four years old and kept at fourteen degrees,” Titch said, going to another cupboard for two Trappist chalices.

“I don’t want any beer,” Ashton said tetchily. “I’ve got a da… appointment tonight.”

“It’s best to talk over a drink. I haven’t lied to you. I just haven’t told you the entire truth.”

So he told his story. Sherwood Titchfield was born in 1958 and was educated – “on a scholarship,” he was keen to point out – at Nottingham High School. He was drawn towards athletics rather than academics during his adolescent years and by the time he was 13 had developed a plan to join the army. Three years later he enlisted in the Worcestershire and Sherwood Foresters Regiment. “I’d been in the cadets at school,” he explained. “It seemed in the 1970s that the army was as much a route to social mobility as university. Maybe more so.”

Young Sherwood discovered something else in his teens. He was attracted to men. Ashton nearly choked on his ale. “No, no,” Titch laughed. “My interest in you was restricted to your taste in beer. Straight men always think every homosexual fancies them. Nothing could be further from the truth. You, I’m afraid, are not my type.”

“It’s not that,” Ashton said. “I just thought you were, well, not gay.”

It took a long time for the new recruit to come to terms with his sexuality. At first, the training and macho environment made it easy to hide his preferences. Before long he realised that he was not the only gay man in the forces. Quite a few career soldiers had similar predilections. The army was one of those institutions where a man could remain single and not draw frequent questions about girlfriends or potential marriages. There were too many postings and it would be unfair to women, Titch would tell friends, to put them into a relationship where there was a strong possibility that they could be widowed at any time.

The danger of death was real when he was deployed to Northern Ireland in 1977. Based in South Armagh, the regiment were at the heart of bandit country but Private Titchfield enjoyed that tour of duty much more than stints in Belize and West Germany.

A two-year posting in Hemer near Dortmund did have one longlasting effect, though. It unearthed an undetected ability with languages. During this period he applied to join the 14 Field Security and Intelligence Company, an undercover reconnaissance unit operating in the six counties.

Selection was testing. Potential recruits underwent an eight-week Special Air Service training course. It was competitive. Those who passed would be working alongside the SAS on the ground in Ulster so only a small percentage of those who applied made it through.

“We were known as The Det,” Titch said. “Our brief was to watch the terrorists on both sides. Mostly it was surveillance. Mostly…

“By the time I got there it had become clear that the relationship between some of the Det operatives and Loyalist paramilitaries had become too close. There had been deep levels of collusion. You might know about some of the incidents. The man you met in Loughgall was involved in many of them. Have you heard of the Glenanne gang?”

Ashton was flabbergasted. He had read about the group, many of whom were serving soldiers and policemen, and their murderous reign of terror. “The Dublin and Monaghan bombings that killed 33 people? The Miami Showband Massacre? The attacks on the Reavey and O’Dowd families that provoked the Kingsmill massacre? I was talking to a man involved in all that?” Retrospective dread swept over Ashton.

“Yes. Every one of those incidents. One of the leaders.”

“He said you put him in jail.”

“I did, for something else. After that I turned him. He supplied me with information.”

“And what did you give him back?”

Titch drained his glass. “By that time we were trying to stop Loyalists killing innocent people, not helping them. But a lot of things happened that no one can be proud about.”

They had both finished their drink. “Later,” Titch said, “they expanded the deployments to outside Northern Ireland. We were involved in isolating war criminals for NATO in the former Yugoslavia. More satisfying in many ways.” He shook his head. “Since then, since leaving the army, I’ve worked alongside quite a few other agencies and have, er, helped out on occasion. On an ad-hoc basis, of course. Freelancing, I think you’d call it.

“So now you’ve had the truth.”

“Not quite,” Ashton said. “You know everything that the Farmer said to me in Loughgall.”

Titch laughed out loud. “The Farmer. He’d like that. No, I don’t know exactly what he told you. I decided that turning your phone into a listening device would be going too far.”

“He told me to turn it off anyway.”

“Dear boy,” the big man laughed, “as if that would have mattered.”

Ashton now described the conversation at the Diamond in detail, going through a similar interrogation process to the one the pair conducted after the waterboarding. They agreed that the most likely scenario was that Armstrong had rebuffed attempts to supply Loyalist weapons and had given similar advice to Killer as Ashton had received in Loughgall: Try the continent and Serbian guns.

“I’ll ask a few questions to see if we’ve picked up any chatter,” Titch said. “Why don’t you come back here after your da… appointment tonight? I’d rather you stay here. It’s safer. Did you see Orlanda York earlier?”

“How do you know I did?” Ashton was concerned that Titch was monitoring his movements.

“You’re better dressed than usual. That didn’t take much deduction. But you also spent a lot of time fussing with your hair in the mirror by your door this morning.”

“What?” Ashton was astonished.

“I put a camera in your flat when I went round to get your computer,” Titch said grinning. “It’s trained on the door and has a motion sensor. I get an alert any time anyone goes in or out. If you would have come and seen me after your return from Ireland instead of claiming to be in Dublin, I would have told you about it. It’s for your own safety.”

It was almost too much for Ashton to comprehend. “Ash,” Titch said kindly, “we can’t take any chances here. I’ve seen people murdered for less. By characters like Killer and his friends. My guess is they’ll know you are back home sometime today or at the latest tomorrow. We’ll see their next move. Let me know how you get on with the lovely Orlanda. Don’t be averse to a sleepover with her if you get the chance. It would be a lot safer.”

“Piss off,” Ashton replied, not sure whether he should storm out or be grateful that Titch was on his side. Surely he was on his side?

*

Ashton’s mind was racing as he walked home. He had not imagined that his bulky, beer-swilling friend was homosexual. If anything, he seemed overly masculine in that 1970s manner. It did explain, he thought, the policemen’s conviction that his assault was a gay encounter gone wrong. Although surely Titch was too careful to have drawn the attention of the local constabulary to any personal activities?

The situation was getting more complex by the minute but he realised it was time to refocus. Approaching home, he scanned the area for anything unusual. Everything seemed normal but he stood on the doorstep of the flat and took another good look around. It was just another dank February day in Pimlico.

Part of him was angry that Titch had installed a camera inside his house. He knew as soon as he entered that an alert would go off on his friend’s phone. On the other hand, it was reassuring. At least someone would be in a position to call the police if anyone broke in. This was quite a lively estate for late-night noises. Loud shouting did not necessarily cause an immediate response from neighbours. It might take a while for the occupants to inform the authorities about any commotion. The Met were not exactly trusted on the Churchill Estate, which was full of good people but too many of them were living on the margins of society. The proximity to wealth made the social conditions even more uncomfortable.

Austerity had bitten hard. It created the environment where locals were alienated from traditional politics. Some of the longstanding residents had St George’s Crosses displayed in their windows and a couple of individuals had expressed admiration for Nigel Farage and other English nationalists in conversations with Ashton. This, despite appearing to get on well with their ethnic minority and foreign neighbours. One man who he regularly chatted with was from Bucharest. To Ashton’s shock, he one day spoke in support of Brexit on the basis that “too many foreigners are coming into this country.” A collective madness had taken over. People were voting and acting against their own interests and dehumanising those from different backgrounds.

Demons had been unleashed by the global credit crunch and instability in the Middle East. They had visited Ashton and pushed him to the edge. He felt weak and panicked at the thought of it. Suddenly he was claustrophobic in this tiny flat but he was also terrified of going outdoors in case anyone was waiting for him. He was trapped in a world that was hurtling out of control. A gripping pain seized his chest. Groping at the back of the couch, he half collapsed onto the settee. Immediately his phone rang. It was Titch.

“Are you having a panic attack?” he asked. Ashton could only pant into the receiver. “This is not unusual,” Titch said. “Try and relax and compose yourself. You are not alone. Close your eyes, breathe deeply and think of something or somewhere nice.”

“My chest,” Ashton gasped.

“You are not having a heart attack. It is anxiety. It is common after what you have experienced.”

It took three or four minutes for Ashton to slow down his inhalation and heartbeat. “OK,” Titch said. “Go into your bedroom. Lie down and put me on speaker phone.” Ashton followed instructions.

“Shut your eyes.” Titch was speaking in a soothing voice. “This room is safe. You are protected here. Leave everything else on the outside.”

He spoke for more than 20 minutes, placing Ashton in a psychologically sheltered state. Finally, he pulled him slowly back to reality.

“You have the power,” he said. “ExSat and FLAG are scared of you. You have control of the situation. They don’t. Channel your anger and fear to destroy these people. You have information that can stop them, and friends to help you and provide protection.

“You will never again suffer an ordeal like the one they put you through. You survived that and even though you do not feel it now, you are stronger for the experience.”

The one-sided dialogue continued in this vein until Ashton felt well enough to respond.

“I’m OK,” he said, at least grateful that there were no cameras in this room so that Titch could not see the tears rolling down his face. “I never thought I was so mentally weak.

“I dream I’m drowning and wake in terror. I can’t use a wet flannel and even the shower makes me frantic.”

At last, he composed himself. “And can you come round at some point and take the bloody Westvleteren 12 away? I can’t imagine ever drinking it again or anything similar. You can have it.”

“Some good comes of every evil act, dear boy,” Titch said with sad irony.

“I need to sort myself out now. I’ve got someone to see in two hours. It might take me that long to calm down after washing.” Now Ashton had recovered enough to laugh sardonically. “When will this be over?”

“Soon,” Titch said. “Very soon.”

“Good.”

Then someone hammered on the front door and panic set in again at both ends of the phone. “Don’t let anyone in. I’ll be there in four minutes at the latest.”

• Chapter 6: Bolt from the blue

• My other novel, Good Guys Lost, a story of gangsterism, the music industry and working-class Liverpool, is available here