Twenty Twelve (34 page)

‘I’m saying I did it for you.’

‘For me?’ I can hardly squeeze the words out. ‘You sent him away for me?’

‘Yes,’ Dad says.

Misery sweeps over me and my eyes sting with tears. I think I’ve known this all along. I’ve blamed Dad, but deep down I knew.

‘I loved Davey, Dad. I missed him every day of my life,’ I say.

‘I know.’

‘When he died in that awful place, I thought my heart would burst in two.’

‘Mine too,’ he says. ‘It was the biggest mistake of my life.’

I can’t believe my ears. The mighty Paddy Connolly has just admitted he got something wrong.

‘Dad,’ I say.

‘Yeah?’

‘Sometimes you can be a real bastard.’

‘I know, kid. I know,’ he admits. ‘But I’m the only bastard you’ve got.’

I hang up and contemplate my next move. Staying right where I am doesn’t seem a shocking proposition. I’m just considering opening the huge bag of crisps when the pickup screeches to a halt.

‘Did you save any of those for me?’ Ronnie asks.

‘I’m not sharing.’

‘Don’t like that flavour anyway,’ she says. ‘Gives you bad breath.’

I haul myself up, my leg killing me, and get in. ‘Where to?’ I ask.

‘We’ve got a plane to catch.’

Clem paced up and down his office. ‘Can we get a trace?’

Carole-Ann shook her head. ‘She’s hung up again.’

What the hell was Jo doing? Surely she hadn’t fallen for Ronnie’s bullshit?

Sebastian had fallen asleep at his desk, Hawk’s picture thread still on the screen of his PC. Clem envied his ability to shut down and shut off.

‘The island’s not big. We’ll find her eventually,’ said Carole-Ann.

‘It’s the eventually I’m worried about,’ Clem replied.

‘At least we know she’s alive.’

Clem nodded, but he couldn’t help thinking that if Jo was still with Ronnie, it might not be for long.

The biplane judders across the skies with me wedged next to Ronnie, my leg at an awkward and painful angle. Ronnie is fiddling impatiently with a dial.

‘What made you change your mind?’ I ask.

She doesn’t look up from her task. ‘I think I might know how we can find the guy using Paul’s ID.’

‘Go on.’

The dial comes away in her hand. ‘Goddamn piece of crap.’ She throws it behind her.

I hold my breath, waiting for the plane to fall out of the sky without it. When it doesn’t, I decide to continue the conversation. ‘How can we find him?’ I ask.

‘When I gave my brother the fake ID, I also told him about a landlord I know who rents out houses for a few days, no questions asked,’ she says.

‘Isn’t that what hotels are for?’

‘Too many cleaners, bellboys, maintenance guys,’ she says. ‘Not ideal if what you’re doing is illegal.’

‘I thought you didn’t get involved in anything illegal.’

Ronnie smiles at me. ‘I said we didn’t hurt anyone if we could help it. I didn’t say any of it was legal.’

I lean my head against the window. I must be mad not to have just waited for Clem to pick me up. ‘How did you pass on information to Hawk?’ I ask.

‘Internet.’

I’m incredulous. ‘You emailed each other?’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ she says. ‘We’d log into the same websites and chat in the forums. Difficult to spot amongst all that endless crap people talk.’

‘Didn’t you worry that if someone did spot your conversations they could track you?’

‘Internet cafés,’ she says.

‘I didn’t see any of those near Hawk’s training camp.’

Ronnie shrugs. ‘He went back to the mainland regularly. All he had to do was piggyback someone else’s connection. Easy.’

It doesn’t sound easy to me. It sounds like a lot of hard work. ‘Don’t you ever get sick of all this, Ronnie?’ I ask. ‘Don’t you ever crave a normal life?’

She goes back to the controls and I know I won’t get an answer.

Rory pours himself a glass of water. An adult male is made up of 60 per cent water. An adult female is 55 per cent. 71 per cent of the world’s surface is covered by water. Rory sips his drink and re-reads Hawk’s message.

As soon as he clicked on the picture, he knew what to look for. It was obvious.

The last time Rory saw Imelda she sighed at him and said, ‘What’s obvious to you, Rory, isn’t always obvious to everyone else.’ He could have told her that what is obvious to everyone else is often mystifying to him.

But he didn’t say that because Imelda did not want to know what Rory thought.

Rory did not speak to Imelda.

Rory’s glass is empty so he puts it in the steriliser. It is designed for six baby bottles but can only fit four glasses in it.

Rory sits back at his desk and reads Hawk’s message for the twenty-sixth time.

R1234, I think by now we are friends.
I need your help.
Please meet me tomorrow outside Stratford underground station at 11.00 a.m.
Stay off Platformnow. It is no longer safe. Hawk

Rory checks again where Stratford underground station is. He has already checked six times. Rory has not left his flat for eleven months and seventeen days.

Ronnie lands the plane with a thud and I look out of the window. ‘Where are we?’ I ask.

‘Mainland,’ she says. ‘I’d have liked to get us closer to London, but it wasn’t possible.’

‘Too many police?’

She opens her door. ‘Not enough gas.’

My stomach rolls at the thought of running out of fuel over the ocean.

‘We’re gonna have to drive the rest of the way,’ she calls over her shoulder.

I get out my side and look around another deserted field doubling as an airfield. ‘I don’t see any cabs,’ I say.

She cups her hand over her eyes and looks into the distance. ‘I called one earlier.’

My sarcastic laughter soon disappears when a battered jeep, the exhaust making an almighty rattle, comes careering over the horizon. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Transport.’ Ronnie winks at me.

The jeep screeches to a halt only feet from where we’re standing and two men get out. They both lean against the bonnet, arms crossed over thick chests, eyeing me suspiciously. Ronnie moves towards them, leaving me next to the plane. They speak in low voices, the men periodically shrugging their shoulders. I check my watch, aware that miles away ‘Paul’ is planning a terrorist attack.

At last Ronnie holds out her hand. Thank God they’ve reached an agreement. One of the men spits on his palm and Ronnie takes it in hers. ‘Get over here, Jo,’ she shouts to me.

I make my way to them, sweating under the glare of the men’s stares. One of them nods at my face.

‘What happen?’ His accent is thickly Eastern European.

Ronnie smiles. ‘You know these famous types. They get work done.’

He raises a bushy eyebrow. ‘Nip and tuck?’

‘Yup.’

He says something to his friend, who gives something between a laugh and a cough, then tosses a key to Ronnie who catches it in her outstretched hand. We jump in the jeep and she starts the engine. It’s been left in gear and we shoot forward, stalling with a groan. The men laugh.

‘Very funny,’ Ronnie says and flips them the finger.

She gives it another go and guns the engine hard, then we barrel away, spraying dirt at the men.

‘Nip and tuck?’ I shout above the din of the exhaust.

‘I had to say something.’

‘And you couldn’t come up with anything better than a face-lift?’

‘I’m a bit knackered,’ she says. ‘Anyway, tell me you haven’t had anything done.’

‘I have not.’

She circles her eyes. ‘Not even a little around here?’

‘No.’

‘A bit of Botox, then?’

I’m furiously indignant. ‘No I have not!’

Hooting with laughter, she rams the gear-stick into fourth and heads for the nearest road.

The PM didn’t smile or get up when Clem entered his study. ‘Clem?’

‘Prime Minister.’

‘What can I do for you?’

Clem noticed that there was a piece of food stuck in his top teeth. ‘I’ve come to ask you to cancel today’s events,’ he said.

The PM sighed and Benning finally looked up from his BlackBerry. ‘Again?’

‘I believe there is likely to be an attack today,’ Clem told them.

‘Haven’t we been here before, Clem?’ asked Benning.

Clem shrugged. ‘I’m afraid the evidence is all pointing to another attack today.’

‘And what evidence do you have to support this?’ Benning sounded unconvinced.

What was wrong with these fucking people? How many had to die before they took this thing seriously? Clem had met KGB agents with more humanity. ‘We’ve intercepted a message from someone who we believe to be one of the main instigators of the Plaza bombing.’

‘And what did this message say?’ Benning asked.

‘There weren’t any words; it was an image posted on a website called Platformnow,’ Clem explained.

‘An image of what?’

‘A valley,’ said Clem. ‘We believe it to be the location of a terrorist training camp.’

The PM cast a glance at Benning, who raised his eyebrows.

‘How long is it since you slept, Clem?’ asked the PM.

‘I’m fine, sir.’

‘One, two, three days?’

Clem sighed. He was tired but this was just part of their usual bullshit. ‘With all due respect, Prime Minister, that has nothing to do with the issue at hand.’

The PM leaned forward. ‘Actually, Clem, I think it does.’

Clem narrowed his eyes.

‘You look exhausted and your judgement seems off the mark.’ The PM smoothed his wrinkle-free shirt. ‘It’s perfectly understandable, of course, given the incident with Thomas Frasier.’

Clem knew exactly what was happening. The PM was using distraction tactics for the fact that he was going to sweep Clem’s advice under the carpet. ‘We believe the message sender was also involved in the attack at the Opening Ceremony.’

Benning cleared his throat and dropped his voice. ‘There was no attempted attack at the Opening Ceremony,’ he said. ‘The death of Thomas Frasier was a tragic, but sadly avoidable mistake.’

‘We believe the message sender was directly involved in passing the bomb on to Tommy,’ said Clem.

‘You told us, in this very room, that there was no bomb.’ Benning tapped the PM’s desk. ‘You were very specific, Clem.’

Clem shook his head. This was a complete stitch-up. Everyone in this room had known the score.

‘Did you or did you not say that there was no bomb?’ asked Benning.

Clem bit his lip.

‘I’m afraid I’ve let you down,’ said the PM, his voice dripping with concern.

‘What makes you think that, Prime Minister?’

‘I should have seen how badly you were affected by the death of that young man. The very fact that you began to call him Tommy should have set alarm bells ringing.’

‘I’m fine,’ Clem repeated.

The prime minister shook his head. ‘No, Clem, you’re not. You need rest and you may need counselling. Isn’t that standard after any officer is involved in a fatal shooting?’

It was in the book that after certain operations that were considered highly stressful, an officer should take four weeks off work and avail themselves of the assistance of the agency shrink. Since all Clem’s cases fell within the remit of ‘highly stressful’, it was hardly practical for him to follow the guidelines.

‘I don’t need any time off, sir.’

‘This isn’t a request,’ said Benning. ‘It’s an order.’

‘You don’t give me orders,’ spat Clem.

‘I’m afraid you’ll find that I do,’ Benning replied.

‘Listen to me.’ Clem leaned across the desk and was gratified to see Benning flinch. ‘You are a suit. A pen-pusher. You have no jurisdiction over me or anyone else at MI5.’

‘That’s true, of course,’ the PM interrupted.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Clem.

‘But I do have jurisdiction and, as of today, I’m suspending you from active service.’ The PM’s face was firm. ‘Do you understand?’

Clem felt as if he’d received a low blow to the kidneys.

‘Do you understand, Clem?’ the PM repeated.

Clem understood all right. ‘Perfectly, sir.’

Nine a.m. on Roman Road and the market is already busy. Ronnie and I criss-cross through the stalls, ignoring the delicious smell of fresh oranges, until we’re outside a tatty travel agents. Ronnie presses her nose to the window, peers inside and nods.

The shop is empty, a desk in the corner clear except for a plant in a pot emblazoned with the words ‘World’s Best Dad’. The leaves are brown and drooping.

An Asian man in a white cotton kurta appears from the back, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. When he sees me, he smiles, but his face falls when he sees Ronnie. He drops his mug and flees out the back. Like a tiger, Ronnie vaults over the desk after him and I follow.

The man has his hand on the back door but Ronnie pulls him towards her and slams him against the wall. ‘Problem, Ahmed?’ she asks.

‘I couldn’t help your friend,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t give him anywhere to stay. Not now.’

‘Which friend?’ Ronnie demands.

‘I didn’t ask his name.’

Ronnie slams him again. Harder.

‘I didn’t ask!’ the man screams. ‘Why would I?’

Ronnie pulls back her fist. ‘Don’t lie to me.’

The man closes his eyes, waiting for the crunch, but I intervene.

‘Describe him,’ I tell the man.

‘What?’

‘You didn’t ask his name but you met him, right?’

The man nods.

‘Then tell us what he looked like,’ I say.

‘I don’t know,’ the man stammers. ‘I don’t pay attention to such things.’

Ronnie growls and balls her fist in anger but I cover it with my hand. What use will this guy be to us unable to speak through broken teeth?

‘Was he white?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

‘Tall or short?’ I ask.

‘Tall,’ the man says.

‘Accent?’

The man shakes his head. ‘I’m not sure. Not English.’

‘Scottish?’

‘I think maybe, yes.’

‘What about this?’ I prod my chin. ‘Did this man have a beard?’

‘Yes, yes. Neatly trimmed.’

Ronnie looks at me. He must be talking about Sean.

‘Did he say where he was going?’ I ask.

‘No.’ The man begins shaking violently.