(Part 1 of a 5 part short story)
Now that I had my assignment, I set about doing some serious preparation. My first stop was the British Airways travel clinic in Regent Street. I was aware that I needed vaccinations against various diseases before I would be allowed to travel. What I didn’t realize was just how many. Not only was Colombia one of the most dangerous countries from the political violence aspect, it seemed that the very environment was inimical to human life.
Next I considered what I should wear. No doubt professional journos in the field wore safari suits and other tropical kit. However, I didn’t want to advertise my assignment to the Colombian Government, because there might be restrictions on foreign journalists traveling to guerilla-held territory. Jeans and t-shirts should be sufficient to allow me to blend in with the natives.
Finally, I read up on the current political situation to try to determine who the main players were. FARC were thoroughly Marxist-inspired. Their political agenda called for agrarian reform, protection of natural resources from multi-national corporations and democratisation. With up to 20,000 men and women under arms they were the biggest force in the field, apart from the Colombian army. So successful had their military campaign been that the previous year the Government had granted them a demilitarized zone the size of Switzerland in southern Colombia. This was where I was headed. FARC responded with an attack that reached the outskirts of the capital, Bogota.
The National Liberation Army or ELN were inspired by the Cuban revolution and had up to 5,000 men and women under arms. Although mostly fighting against the Government, at different times and in different provinces, they had been known to fight with FARC.
No South American revolution would be complete without it’s right wing death squads, and this function was enthusiastically performed by the Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia or AUC. An illegal paramilitary army, they numbered up to 5,000 men and were the sworn enemies of FARC and ELN. Although supposedly independent, informed sources said that they were merely an extension of the Colombian military and had close links with the drugs cartels. Guilty of many human rights abuses, they were widely known as the ‘head-cutters’ for their habit of decapitating victims after torturing them to death.
The Colombian Army was largely comprised of under-trained and unmotivated young men on national service. Regularly outfought and outgunned by FARC, they too had been accused of human rights abuses by, amongst others, Washington’s ‘Human Rights Watch’.
If every South American revolution is incomplete without its death squads, then it is similarly incomplete without the US. Sure enough there was ongoing, heavy US financial and military involvement. Under ‘Plan Colombia’ they were in the process of giving 1.6 billion dollars in aid, 75% of it in military assistance. They were currently training and equipping two elite Colombian anti-narcotics battalions.
All this added up to a very dangerous country indeed. The previous year 5,000 people were killed in political violence, out of a total annual toll of 30,000 violent deaths. Journalists were not immune to this violence either. Forty-six had been killed in the last ten years and all sides regularly took journalists hostage. I assumed that I wouldn’t be bumping into too many other foreign journalists in the field.
The air ticket provided by ‘Loaded’ allowed me 12 days for the trip. However, it would take a day to get to Colombia and another day to get back. Once in Bogota, it would take a further day to get down to FARC’s jungle capital and another day to get back. Then there was the fact that Trent would be arriving from another assignment a day after I arrived. So if everything went absolutely like clockwork I would have a maximum of five, maybe six, days with the guerillas, not a lot of time to do a detailed piece.
Other than the above, I had two other tight schedules to meet. I was still on life licence which, amongst other things, entailed my reporting to Henry, my probation officer, every two weeks. I could just fit the trip in and be back two days before my next appointment. Needless to say, I hadn’t told Henry about the trip. He would have had to tell the Home Office which, in effect, would mean my asking for permission to go. Henry had once given me permission to go on a short holiday to Spain not long after my release and been given a terrible rollocking by the Home Office. They would have undoubtedly said no to Colombia.
An extra problem was that Henry lived in the same tower block where I lived with my mother, only two floors above us. We often met in the lift. Just another of those little quirks of fate that seemed to plague my existence. So I would have to hope that Henry didn’t miss all my normal comings and goings and ask about it on our next appointed meeting.
The other tight schedule was entirely more threatening of dire consequences. Marsha was a tall, stunningly-beautiful, 28-year-old blonde with a figure to die for. Ferociously intelligent, she had two Honours degrees, two Masters degrees and was currently studying for her doctorate, all in psychology. She was a strong personality and very demanding. She was also my girlfriend.
There were several ironies to the situation, not the least of them being that a prison Governor had once remarked that he would liked to have put a whole team of psychologists just to study me. Well I didn’t have a whole team, but I did have my very own, personal, full time shrink now.
Marsha was also quite jealous. I had pointed out on several occasions that there weren’t too many attractive women who were into short, balding 50-year-old ex-cons, but it had little or no effect. Now, on our last evening, I was reassuring her that everything would be all right. I would be safe, and back before she knew it.
Marsha looked at me with one of her studied, cool looks, the ones that always unnerved me. I had stared down dangerous psychopaths in the jailhouse, but I always blinked with Marsha. “And no looking at the women”, she said in a throaty growl. It surprised me. I would be looking at the potential robbers, kidnappers, murderers and carriers of all the various Colombian diseases, but it hadn’t occurred to me to look at the women. I was just about to say, “trust you to get your priorities right”, but thought better of it. “Of course I won’t, darling”, was the best I could manage.
Marsha was also very strict about the observance of birthdays, especially her own. It just so happened that her birthday fell in about two weeks time. I deliberately hadn’t checked, but I knew it would be a close-run thing. “And don’t be late back for my birthday”, she purred.
The following day, a Friday and the day before my flight, was a frenzy of preparation. I must have checked, packed and unpacked my traveling bag six times. I was carrying Trent’s camera and 40 rolls of film to give to him in Bogota. For the umpteenth time I wrapped the camera in tissue to protect it from in-flight damage.
Just as I was as sure as I could be that I had everything, my phone rang. An official-sounding voice informed me that they would like to speak to me concerning a matter at Kensington Police Station. The voice wouldn’t be drawn on the nature of the matter, but I was told to ask for D.C. Keith Brown on arrival.
Now my mind really was racing. What could it be that they wanted to see me about? I racked my brains about anything I might have done, but couldn’t come up with anything. I reassured myself that, if it was really serious, they wouldn’t have bothered to phone, they’d just have come and arrested me, It wasn’t a lot of consolation. Resignedly, I considered the possibility that it must be about the Colombia trip. I knew that everyone who traveled to Colombia, a drug-trafficking hot-spot, was ‘flagged’ by a note being made of it. No doubt the combination of Colombia and my being on life licence had provoked them. At best I could expect a stern warning: at worst I might not walk out of the police station and be on my way back to a prison.
With considerable trepidation I approached the front counter of Kensington Police Station and asked for D.C. Brown. There was no pressing of alarm bells or frantic phone calls, in fact the desk officer hardly looked up at me. “D.C. Brown works out of the office directly across the street”, he said, before returning to what he was doing.
‘Across the street’ was entirely more hospitable, in that there were large glass windows and a modern-looking reception area. On asking for D.C. Brown I was politely asked to take a seat and promised that he would be with me very shortly.
Keith Brown was surprisingly young, hardly out of his twenties. He was also polite and very laid back. Apologising for keeping me waiting, he led me into a small office. I refused the offer of a cup of tea and settled back in a manner that I hoped would indicate that, whilst not being unduly worried, I would like to know what was going on.
“Your name’s come up in connection with the Jill Dando murder”, said the D.C. My immediate reaction was one of relief. It was nothing to do with me. I very nearly said, “Oh I thought it was something serious”, but realised that would sound flippant and insensitive. Perhaps reading my expression the D.C. added, “we’re not taking it too seriously, the computer’s just thrown up your name.” I mused on the fact that, whatever my journalistic pretensions, I would always be ‘Norman the Murderer’ to the police and their computers.
He then asked me where I was on the 26th of April last year. I confessed that I hadn’t a clue. I didn’t keep a diary and, unless something significant had happened in my life on that day, I wouldn’t ever be able to remember. The D.C. admitted that he couldn’t remember where he had been on that day either, a further indication that he wasn’t taking this enquiry too seriously. And with that the interview was over.
The final surprise came as I was leaving. He asked me what my personal theory was about the Jill Dando murder. I remembered reading that she had been killed by a single pistol shot to the head. I opined that the killer was either an amateur or didn’t really intend to kill. Many victims had survived one shot to the head. A professional would have administered the second shot to make sure.
Part two will follow shortly....