‘Dealing drugs,’ Reeve said, not hiding his disapproval.
‘I was desperate,’ Brownlow protested miserably. ‘He said he’d help with the rent in return for using the flat. It was only meant to be an occasional thing. Once a week, maybe – he’d come in, meet someone, do the deal, then go. I just got out of the way. He could do it in private, and the police couldn’t come in without a warrant.’
Reeve’s expression was cold. ‘I know how they work.’
‘But then,’ Brownlow continued, agitated, ‘he started coming around more and more. Sometimes two or three times a day. And the people meeting him . . . They weren’t just users any more. They were other dealers, scary people.’
‘Sounds like Jammer was going up the ranks,’ said Connie.
‘I know. The deals were getting bigger. And they were being done in my home!’ he cried. ‘I – I wanted to stop it, I really did. But Jammer wouldn’t let me. I tried to stand up to him today, but . . .’ A tear rolled down his cheek.
‘I don’t think he’ll be coming back,’ Connie offered in sympathy.
‘I hope not. God, I hope not.’
‘Does he keep any of the drugs here?’ Reeve asked.
‘Not usually. There’s nothing here now.’
He thought back to the contents of Jammer’s pockets. Two sets of car keys. Maybe the second car was parked nearby and used as a drop-off. Jammer would collect the drugs from it before coming to Brownlow’s flat for the sale. He would only have the merchandise on him for a brief time. ‘Then there’s nothing for him to come back for,’ he said. ‘Hopefully he’ll leave you alone.’
‘We’ll watch out for you,’ Connie assured Brownlow. ‘If you need any help, just ask.’
He managed a feeble smile. ‘Thank you.’
The flat tidied, the visitors left. Reeve and Connie returned to her flat. ‘Okay,’ she said, after closing the door, ‘I saw you fighting Jammer.’
‘I didn’t want to,’ Reeve replied defensively, expecting criticism. ‘I gave him every chance to walk away.’
‘I know. You got rid of him without hurting him. What I meant was . . . I’ve never seen anything like that before. You were . . .’ She was briefly lost for words. ‘Fast. Are you in the SAS, or something?’ There was a cat-like intrigue in her eyes.
‘Something,’ he admitted, sitting. ‘I used to be, anyway.’
Connie sat beside him. ‘You left?’
‘Yeah.’ He knew he shouldn’t tell her anything more. But he felt obliged to give her some details. ‘I was in the Special Reconnaissance Regiment. It’s the army’s undercover special forces unit,’ he added, seeing she’d never heard of it.
‘Undercover? What, like the police?’
‘Kind of. It’s a cross between being a soldier, a detective and a spy.’
‘Was it dangerous?’
‘You’re gathering intel on Britain’s enemies. People who’d kill you in a second if they knew who you really were.’
‘I thought that was the job of whoever James Bond works for?’
‘SIS? MI6, I mean – that’s what most people call them. They do, but the army doesn’t want to depend on someone else’s intel. Sometimes, you want your own men – or women – on the ground. That was what I did.’
Connie nodded. ‘How did you get into it?’
‘I joined the army straight out of school,’ he said. ‘To get away from where I was, more than anything. My childhood wasn’t great.’ A brief, unwelcome memory: cold, grey moorland, a dark ditch before him . . . ‘Turned out I was good at being a soldier. And I wanted to be the best at it. So I worked, and worked, until one day my CO called me in. He told me the SRR was looking for volunteers.’
‘So that’s how you joined,’ she said. ‘And you liked it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then why did you leave?’
He should have expected the question. ‘There was, ah, another opportunity.’
Connie immediately recognised that he was prevaricating. ‘Something to do with the people who shot you?’
Reeve realised he had made a mistake. Now, Connie wouldn’t be satisfied until he told her more . . .
She would have to stay unsatisfied. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t say anything else.’
Surprise on her face, then almost offended disbelief. ‘What? Oh, come on! Don’t you trust me?’
‘It’s not about trusting you,’ he protested. ‘It’s about protecting you. And the country. What I was doing is classified. I already said more than I should have.’
‘Whoever they are, they tried to kill you.’ She pointed at his bandaged arm. ‘I don’t think you owe them your loyalty any more.’
‘That’s for me to decide.’ He said it more sharply than he’d intended. Connie drew back, hurt. ‘Look,’ he went on, trying to mollify her. ‘I can tell you this much. I came here to find out why they tried to kill me. The only person who can tell me is my main instructor. He lives in London.’
A small, teasing smile. ‘That doesn’t really narrow it down.’
‘I wasn’t planning to go door-to-door. I don’t know whereabouts he lives. But the one thing I do know is . . . that he’s an absolutely insane Fulham fan.’
‘The football team?’
‘He never misses a game if he can help it. So the next time Fulham play at home, I’ll be looking for him.’
Connie was sceptical. ‘And what if you can’t find him?’
‘I have to find him. If I can’t, then . . . all I can do is run. Until they find me. And they’re trained to find me.’
‘And kill you,’ she said quietly.
A grim nod. ‘Yeah.’
They sat in silence. Connie broke it. ‘So . . . what can I do to help?’
‘You’ve already helped me more than I would ever have asked,’ Reeve replied.
She blushed. ‘Helping people is what I do. But I think you need more than bandages and painkillers now.’
‘Afraid so.’ He sat upright. ‘The main thing I need is information. I have to reconnoitre the area around the football ground. All the ways in, all the ways out.’
‘For him, or you?’
‘Both. And,’ he added with faint humour, ‘the next home match’s date would probably help.’
‘Easy enough to find out.’ She got her laptop and ran a search. ‘You’re in luck – it’s this Saturday. Kick-off’s at three o’clock.’
He pursed his lips. ‘That might not be so lucky. It only gives me tomorrow and Saturday morning to check the place out.’
Connie started to speak, hesitated, then continued. ‘I can help you. I’ve got Friday off.’
‘Thanks, but it’d be better if you didn’t.’
‘Why?’
‘They might expect me to go there to look for Tony.’
‘Tony?’
‘My instructor.’
‘Oh, it’s good that you’re on first-name terms with the man trying to kill you.’
That brought a genuine laugh from him. ‘But if they’re there,’ he went on, ‘it won’t be safe for you. I’ve got to do this on my own.’
She was not convinced. ‘Can I just say two things?’
Reeve smiled again. ‘It’s your flat. I can’t stop you.’
‘Okay, first thing is: I’ve lived in London all my life. I know pretty much everywhere. You don’t. You’ve got a little bit of a northern accent, so . . . Liverpool?’
‘Manchester,’ he corrected.
‘But not London.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve spent maybe two weeks total here in my whole life.’
‘So I can help you find your way around. Second thing: they’re looking for you, yes? Just you?’
‘That’s right,’ Reeve said, unsure where she was leading.
‘But not a couple.’
‘No, they—’ Now he realised. ‘No, it’s too dangerous. If they recognise me—’
‘Then,’ Connie cut in, ‘we’ll have to make sure they don’t recognise you.’
CHAPTER 22
‘So,’ Connie asked, ‘do you like the new outfit?’
‘It’s not what I would have picked,’ Reeve replied.
That morning, Connie had made another shopping trip. Reeve now wore a baseball hat, an oversized coat and ripped jeans. If he’d been ten years younger, he might have considered his outfit trendy. Now, it felt faintly ridiculous.
She smiled from under her umbrella. ‘I bet. But to be honest, you almost didn’t need my help. I can’t believe how different you look.’
Even without new clothing, Reeve’s appearance had changed. He had exaggerated his three-day stubble using items from her makeup. At a casual glance, it now looked like two weeks’ growth. More makeup had added fake light and shade to his nose. The effect was to reshape it, appearing thinner and shorter. Again, at close range the trick was obvious. But he hoped nobody would get that close.
‘Disguise techniques,’ he said. ‘Something they taught us. A bit more kit, and I could probably pass myself off as Mr Brownlow. Or Jammer.’
‘But not Jaz?’ Connie asked with a grin.
‘That’d be a stretch, yeah.’
They made their way towards the Thames through streets of red-brick terraced houses. Floodlights rose ahead. ‘That’s it,’ said Connie. ‘Craven Cottage.’
‘You’ve been here before?’
‘I went to a match with an ex-boyfriend once. Not my cup of tea. But I know the area.’
Reeve slowed as they neared the street’s end. The football ground stood beyond it. More red-brick buildings, The Fulham Football Club painted on one. He lowered his head, shoulders slumping. The shift effectively shaved two inches from his height. ‘What’re you doing?’ Connie asked.
‘Blocking facial recognition on the CCTV cameras,’ he said, adjusting the hat. ‘They might be running gait recognition as well.’
‘Gait recognition? What, they know how you walk?’
‘London has the highest concentration of CCTV in the West. The intelligence services have real-time access to most public cameras. They can run facial and gait recognition on them.’
‘You sound like you know what you’re talking about.’
‘I do.’ A quick smile of reassurance. ‘Okay, this is it.’
They turned on to Stevenage Road. Craven Cottage was across the street. It backed on to the Thames, Reeve knew from his online research. There were no rear entrances; all visitors had to come along the same road. ‘Away supporters go in at this end,’ he said, indicating the nearby turnstile gates. ‘Problem is, home fans can use either end. I don’t know where Tony will be. I’ll need to cover them both.’
‘How will you do that?’
‘I don’t know, yet. But running back and forth between each end might be a bit conspicuous.’ He had already spotted a tall pole supporting several CCTV cameras. There would be others.
There was also the human element to consider. He paused, pretending to adjust a sock as he surveyed the street. Several people were walking along it. Some would be tourists. Anyone following the Thames Path had to come inland to go around Craven Cottage. But that would also be good cover for his former colleagues . . .
Unless they had really gone to town with their disguises, though, none were here. He turned his attention to the road. The parking bays required either a resident’s permit or payment. Only a few vehicles were in them. Surveillance teams would use common, inconspicuous cars and vans.
No vans. That made spotting any observers a little easier. ‘Stay close to me,’ he said, setting off again. To Connie’s surprise, he put his arm around her. ‘Pretend we’re talking about something really fun.’
‘What could be more fun than seeing if anyone’s waiting to kill you?’ she said. He grinned.
Connie joined in with the ruse, holding him. She began an enthusiastic, if one-sided, discussion of some reality TV show. Reeve pretended to respond, checking each vehicle they approached. All were empty – so far.
They neared the ground’s north end. A path beyond it led to the Thames. A car was parked opposite, facing away from them. A Ford Focus, silver, less than two years old. The kind of vehicle filling the car pools of the intelligence services. Its weight distribution was off, the driver’s side canted downwards. Someone was inside.
They drew closer. Reeve saw a figure in the driver’s seat. But the wing mirrors had now drawn his attention. They were out of alignment. Not by much, but enough to raise his suspicions. The driver had given himself a wide view of both sides of the street behind.
Exactly as Reeve would have done on a surveillance mission.
‘So, yeah,’ he suddenly said, again surprising Connie. ‘I couldn’t believe he did that!’ His accent had completely changed, becoming pure Estuary. ‘I mean, fackin’ ’ell. What was he doin’?’
She played along, responding as they reached the car. Reeve kept his head moving to deny the man inside a clear view. He got a good look at the face in the mirror, though.
John Blake.
A sudden chill. Fear. His hunters had found him—
Reason overcame instinct. If they knew he was here, there would be more than one Operative. And Blake wouldn’t have an expression of utter boredom. SC9 only suspected, not expected, that he might come.
They passed the door. Reeve gesticulated as he spoke – his hand just happening to obscure his face from Blake. ‘Carry on like that in public, you’ll get fackin’ nicked, woncha? He can’t take his booze, never could. Fackin’ idiot.’
Then they were past. Still blathering, Reeve tensed, listening. If the door opened, or the window came down—
Neither happened. Blake hadn’t recognised him.
He felt Connie shift. ‘Don’t look back,’ he whispered, London accent vanishing. ‘Keep going.’
She resisted the urge to turn her head. ‘Was he one of them?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you think he saw you?’ Worry in her voice. The danger of the situation had hit home.
‘If he had, I’d be dead. He would have shot me in the back.’
‘What, in broad daylight?’
‘Yes.’
‘But there are cameras everywhere.’
‘Any footage of him would be scrubbed within the hour. The car would be crushed. Any witnesses would have their statements taken, then “accidentally” lost. News coverage would either be suppressed or claim the shooting was drug-related.’
Connie looked at him, eyes wide. ‘Only the government could do all that.’ He didn’t reply, letting her draw her own conclusions. ‘You’re a spy or something?’
‘Something,’ was all he would give her. None of the other cars ahead were occupied. His tension eased, slightly, but he was anything but relaxed. As long as Blake was behind him, he was still in danger. ‘Okay, when we get to the next junction, go right.’
They soon reached it. Reeve risked a brief glance back as he rounded the corner. Blake had not left the car. An involuntary exhalation. Connie caught it. ‘Are we clear?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Her own relieved breath was much louder. ‘Well, now what are you going to do? You can’t come to the match tomorrow – they’ll be watching for you.’
‘They didn’t see me today. I can do it again.’
‘What if there are twenty of them looking?’
‘There won’t be. I know who they all are.’ Reeve knew that was not strictly true. He knew everyone he had trained with. If Maxwell called in other Operatives he had never met . . .
He pushed the thought aside. He had to get to Maxwell. It was the only way to discover the truth.
&
nbsp; ‘I’ve recce’d the football ground,’ he continued. ‘Next thing I need to do is check all the nearby Tube stations. Do you want to come with me?’
‘There’s nothing more exciting than looking at Tube stations.’ The sarcasm was cover for Connie’s concern. ‘But . . . yes. I’ll come with you.’
He nodded, appreciative. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll have to,’ she went on with a smile. ‘You don’t have a card, or any money. You need me to buy your ticket.’
‘Something else I’ll have to owe you,’ he said ruefully. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to pay you back.’
‘I’ll think of something.’ She grinned, then took his hand, resuming their cover. Reeve was surprised, but said nothing.
‘He’s not coming,’ Blake told Maxwell. His boredom and exasperation were clear even over the phone. ‘This is a waste of time.’
‘Humour me,’ Maxwell replied. His own tone made it plainly an order. ‘Craig will take over at three.’
Parker looked up from his laptop. ‘I really need to keep working on this research.’
Maxwell frowned. ‘Okay, Harrison will take over instead.’ He ended the call.
It was Locke’s turn to object. ‘I shouldn’t need to remind you, but I can’t drive.’ He indicated his left arm, still in a sling.
‘Craig will drive you there.’
‘Ah, so I stand in the rain for six hours. Marvellous.’
‘Craig takes you, then John drives him back in his car. Jesus Christ.’ The testy exclamation was not loud, but may as well have been shouted. Silence followed, Locke staring unreadably at him. ‘Sorry,’ Maxwell said at last. ‘Cabin fever.’ The apology didn’t change Locke’s expression.
‘Maybe he isn’t looking for you after all,’ Flynn suggested.
‘Like I told John, humour me,’ Maxwell replied. ‘I just have a feeling he’ll show tomorrow. If he doesn’t, then I’m wrong and we need another plan. I’m open to suggestions.’ He indicated the map. No new markers had been added. No proposals came either.
Stone came into the room. ‘Just got off the phone with my mate,’ he announced. ‘He’s asked around on the scumbag grapevine. Nobody’s seen Reeve or treated him for a gunshot wound.’
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