by Cain, Tom
Chrystal gave a helpless shrug of her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Like I said, I was in the cellar.’
‘Did you at any time see him shoot at anyone?’
‘Ajay?’ Chrystal asked her voice rising in surprise. ‘No! He never!’
‘But he joined you in the cellar – Ajay, I mean . . .’
‘Yeah, he did, right at the end. Just before the explosion.’
‘Tell me about the explosion. Do you know what it was that exploded?’
‘No, it just, like, happened – know what I mean?’
‘Then what did you do?’
‘We just waited, you know, down in the cellar. We were too scared to go upstairs, to be honest.’
‘I understand,’ said DI Keane. ‘So let’s leave it there, shall we? It’s getting late and you’ve had a very shocking, traumatic experience. So what I want you to do, Chrystal, is to think about all the things that you and I have discussed. And when you’re feeling better we can talk again. We’ll start with Snoopy’s friend . . . the one who was drinking with him at the pub . . . the one you’ve been trying so hard not to talk about just now.’
50
CARVER KEPT THINKING about the girl. The sound of her calling out, ‘Ricky!’ clung to him like a song he couldn’t get out of his head. He’d spent most of his professional life bringing death to other people and risking it himself. He’d become adept at distancing himself from uncomfortable, unnecessary emotions. But tonight, when all he’d wanted was a quiet drink with an old mate, he’d ended up doing things which had taken him to a dark and bitter place. And now he was having a hard time getting out of that place. He was stuck in a bad dream, and he couldn’t seem to wake up.
‘Get a fucking grip,’ he muttered to himself as he made his way to the restaurant entrance. There were armed guards outside it, just as there had been at the hotel. Carver had to wait before his name was confirmed as one of Mr Adams’s guests, and even then he didn’t get in without passing through a scanner. These days, everywhere was an airport. He got in the lift that would take him up to the dining room and felt an unexpected sense of confinement, of claustrophobia.
At the top there was a reception desk where he gave his name and a waiter was summoned to direct him to Mark Adams’s table. The room was laid out beneath the soaring roof of the old market hall, with glazed walls and a huge fan window – whose panes of glass were held within an intricate iron tracery. It was a typically Victorian cathedral of commerce, and the men and women who were tucking into the menu of hearty British foods – from Dorset crabs and Skye scallops to Hereford beef and Hampshire pheasant – had a Dickensian air about them, too: the rich filling their faces and calling for more claret and ale while the poor descended into squalor all around them.
The sight of Alix raised his spirits. He kissed her on the cheek as he was taking his place, then managed polite, confident smiles as she said, ‘This is my partner, Sam,’ and introduced him in turn to Adams, his wife, whose name went in one ear and out the other, and some guy who worked for Adams: black suit, shaven head – looked like the creepy butler in The Rocky Horror Show. Carver didn’t even hear his name, still less remember it. Not a good sign.
‘I ordered for you,’ Alix said. ‘Baked crab to start with, and then the steak. I hope that’s all right.’
‘Thanks, that sounds fine.’
‘So, did you see the speech?’ Alix asked, knowing that was what Adams would most want to know.
‘Not all of it. But I did catch the assassination attempt. Very impressive . . .’ Carver laughed. To his surprise something genuinely funny had occurred to him.
‘What’s the joke?’ Adams asked.
‘I was just thinking of a mate of mine. We were having a pint while the speech was on and he, ah . . .’ Carver stopped himself before he said ‘was’. ‘He’s a big fan of yours but the exact words he used were, “Typical fucking glory boy.”’
The women looked startled by Carver’s rudeness. The shaven-headed guy gave a sly, private smile. Adams just laughed.
‘Was this mate of yours another bootneck, by any chance?’
‘We were proud to serve together in the Royal Marines, if that’s what you mean,’ said Carver, with exaggerated formality. He was beginning to feel a bit more like himself again. Schultz would’ve had a good laugh if he’d known that Adams had been told exactly what he’d thought of his military record.
‘And he somehow failed to hold the Paratroop Regiment in the respect which it certainly deserves . . . how odd,’ Adams replied, knowing full well that the Marines and Paras despised one another, and enjoying the old soldiers’ banter. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, catching sight of Carver’s glass. ‘You’ve not been given a drink. Here, have a drop of this: not a bad claret, if you like that sort of thing.’
It was a Château Daugay 2000, a Grand Cru St Émilion, and it hit Carver’s palate with an earthy, almost excremental funkiness that gave way to warm, rich, dark fruits that belonged to a different, better world than the one he’d been dragged into that night. ‘God, that’s good.’ He sighed. ‘Thanks. I really needed that.’
‘Bad day?’ Adams asked.
‘Something like that. Not as bad as yours might have been, though . . . if that shooter at the O2 had been armed with an actual gun.’
‘Ah . . .’ Adams took a drink of his own, keeping his eyes on Carver all the while, sizing him up. ‘All right then, how did I know?’
‘Well, my first guess was that you didn’t hear the bullet in the air . . .’
‘That could have been a possibility.’ Adams turned towards Alix, the polite host, not wanting the women to be excluded from the conversation. ‘You see, the thing is, Alix, that a bullet travels faster than sound, so you actually hear the bullet going by before you hear the shot itself . . .’
‘Really? How fascinating,’ she said sweetly, thinking that it was probably best not to mention the two men she had shot dead on the night she first met Carver, or the third she’d killed less than a week after that.
The men, meanwhile, were continuing with their conversational game, each enjoying the attempt to get one up on the other.
‘But you were standing too close to the gun to be able to notice that,’ Carver continued. ‘The time difference would have been milliseconds.’
Adams smiled. He swirled his wine round the bottom of his glass. ‘So what was it?’
‘Well, I’m guessing that the gun looked, felt and sounded exactly like a normal one, except for one thing.’
Another, broader smile. ‘Which was . . . ?’
‘The colour . . . orange, perhaps. That’s bright enough that you couldn’t miss it . . .’
‘And it’s also the colour that current gun regulations specify for replica weapons that are capable of firing blanks. Well done.’ Adams raised his glass in salute, then continued, ‘The gun was a replica Glock and it was, as you say, perfect in every respect except for resembling a tangerine. But that’s actually not the main reason I was certain I was safe. You see, I knew the man holding it.’
‘What?’ asked Alix. ‘You mean this was all a set-up?
‘Good lord, no . . . His name’s Kieron Sproles. He’s a constituent of mine, and I knew he wasn’t trying to kill me. This was the proverbial cry for help – my help, to be precise. See, the daft bugger thinks I’m somehow responsible for the fact that the council aren’t giving his mum proper care. She’s got Alzheimer’s, poor old dear. I keep telling him, if the council aren’t looking after her, then he should leave me alone and go and complain to them . . .’
Adams was a politician with a taste for speechmaking, a natural raconteur and a middle-aged man with a lot of red wine inside him. The combination made him loquacious. ‘I’ve written to the council and the local paper highlighting the issue. I’ve done the whole number about why are they cutting back on care for vulnerable old folk when they’re still advertising in the bloody Guardian for strategy implementation officers, tasked with coordinating effect
ive monitoring of equal-opportunity policy delivery, or some such politically correct bollocks . . . Excuse my language, love, but this kind of nonsense really gets on my tits.’
Carver wasn’t in a mood to listen to a politician doing his man-of-the-people routine, this one in particular. Luckily the first course arrived and the conversation switched to inconsequential chit-chat as the five diners concentrated on their food. More wine was ordered, the main courses were consumed, and still nothing at all was said about the riot. Surely they must have heard about it? The cabbie who’d brought Carver to the restaurant had had his radio tuned to a phone-in. The original subject of the show had been Mark Adams, but Netherton Street was the only thing on any of the callers’ minds. So why had no one even mentioned it here?
Carver waited until everyone had ordered their coffees and desserts and then asked, ‘So what do you think about this riot in South London tonight?’
Adams looked blank. ‘What riot?’ he asked.
Either the guy was an Oscar-worthy actor, or he genuinely didn’t know.
‘Haven’t you heard? They were talking about it on the radio on the cab-ride over here. Apparently it was total mayhem. Shops and restaurants looted. Buildings set on fire.’
‘Isn’t that typical?’ Nicki Adams snapped. ‘Don’t tell me – the police did nothing to stop it.’
‘Of course not, darling,’ said Adams.
Carver went on: ‘They couldn’t get there in time. And I haven’t come to the worst bit. Several people were shot dead . . .’
‘That’s terrible!’ Alix exclaimed.
‘And there was some kind of explosion. Thirty, maybe even forty people were killed in it. It’s the only thing anybody’s talking about.’
With every word that Carver said the shaven-headed guy’s face had grown more tense, his jaw more clenched, his complexion paler. He was obviously furious, and it was clear to Carver that he had known all about the riot but had chosen not to inform his boss. Why? Was he trying to avoid, or at least postpone, the bollocking he’d get when Adams realized that the whole thing had spiralled out of control and made an irrelevance of the O2 event? Or was the riot his baby, something he’d planned behind Adams’s back?
‘This is appalling, simply appalling,’ Adams said, and once again his reaction seemed entirely genuine. He turned to the shaven-headed guy. ‘So, Robbie, how do you think we should respond?’
‘The first priority has to be to put your speech back on the news-lists,’ Robbie said. ‘Then—’
‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous,’ Adams interrupted him. ‘If this is true, if all these people have lost their lives, then they are the first priority. And that means catching the people who did this.’
‘Well, let’s not rush to any hasty judgements. We need to be in possession of the full facts before we decide on our strategy.’
‘Well, we’d better get in possession bloody fast then, hadn’t we?’ Adams gave an apologetic look at his guests. ‘I’m sorry, Alexandra, Sam . . . I’m sure you’ll understand that we have to cut dinner short. Another time, perhaps . . .’
As Carver escorted Alix out of the restaurant he couldn’t help thinking that he’d met his fair share of megalomaniacs, murderers, fanatics and psychopaths in his time. And whatever else he might be, Mark Adams did not seem anything at all like any of them.
51
ROBBIE BELL MADE his living by watching, assessing and calculating. He’d long ago perfected the art of feigning interest; faking the smile that seems like a response, watching and waiting while other people dug themselves into deeper and deeper holes. And while one part of his mind was occupied with the problem of how to keep Adams from doing anything too stupid before Crewson and his people had come up with a containment plan for the Netherton Street disaster, the other was thinking about Alix Vermulen’s boyfriend, Sam. Something about him wasn’t right.
No, make that lots of things.
For a start, the Vermulen woman had only introduced him as ‘Sam’, no surname. Bell hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, assuming she was just being informal. But on reflection it seemed bizarre for a grown man to sit down to dinner with a senior politician and not give his full name. Most people would want to be remembered by a powerful man who might be the next prime minister. But Sam did not, and that was odd.
Then there was the whole way he’d raised the subject of the riot. He’d had that ridiculous macho-bullshit conversation with Adams about fake guns and waited until two entire courses had been cleared away – long after it was obvious no one on the table knew about the riot – to mention the minor fact that there were dead bodies littering the streets of South London. By Sam’s own account, he’d heard about it in the cab on the way over. So why wasn’t that the first thing he had mentioned? Why hadn’t his first words been, ‘Have you heard about the riot?’
Next, there was the whole business about his friend – the one who’d called Adams a typical fucking glory boy. (A perfect description, Bell thought. He’d use it too, one day.) Sam had said that he was another Marine, and there’d been the strong hint that they’d both been more than that, which meant special forces. But there was just something about the way Sam had spoken about this man, something, well . . . elegiac, like he was remembering a lost friend. But how could that be? Sam had said that they’d been having a drink together earlier in the evening, watching the beginning of the speech.
And then the penny began to drop and something else struck Robbie Bell. Sam had been wearing a suede jacket – a good one. A man as well-off as he seemed to be would take the trouble to have a jacket like that cleaned on a regular basis. But there had been marks on it, like brown sprinkles . . . or spatters . . .
Bell realized that Nicki Adams was saying something to him. She was asking him when the taxi would arrive to take her home. He looked her, nodded and said, ‘I’ll go and check right away.’ But all he could think was: Crewson needs to know about this.
52
CAMERON YOUNG WAS a very modern Chief of Staff. He didn’t just have flat-screen TVs tuned to the BBC, Sky News, CNN and Al Jazeera, he followed Twitter and a slew of blogs and news-feeds, too. Social media, after all, were frequently faster and more accurate than any other source of information. And they had already begun speculating on who had caused the explosion at the Lion Market, and asking whether one of the people responsible had got away from the scene of the crime. In fact, #whowasthesecondman was the top trending topic among London Twitter users. Young’s latest piece of information, however, had come to him the official old-fashioned way: from the Metropolitan Police Gold Command that had been set up to deal with the disaster under Commander Mary Stamford, a Scotland Yard high-flyer tipped as a future commissioner of the Met.
‘Intriguing information from Netherton Street . . .’ he said to Jack Grantham, whose mouth was full of bacon sandwich. ‘The police found a body they think belongs to one of the men who were helping the occupants of the Lion Market defend themselves against the mob. There was no wallet on his body and no other form of identification except for a Royal Marines crest tattooed on to his left shoulder. Apparently he began the night in a local pub. The barmaid says he called himself “Snoopy” when he was chatting her up.’
Grantham’s full mouth made it hard for him to say anything in reply, and he was extremely grateful for that, because that name was one with which he was very familiar. His tongue played around his teeth, extracting bits of sandwich, while he waited to see whether Young would make the connection.
Evidently he hadn’t, because he continued, ‘It’s good news in the short-term, of course. Kills that Adams speech stone-dead. But he’s bound to want to use this going forward. I mean, it’s perfect for his whole law-and-order agenda. We need to have answers when people start asking why the police weren’t able to prevent it. Should we be alarmed, do you think, that an ex-Marine was involved?’
‘Why?’ Grantham replied. ‘From what you say, it sounds as though he died a hero’s dea
th.’
‘I suppose so, though it also makes it sound, somehow, as though military personnel were involved. You know . . . deliberately.’
‘I don’t see that,’ Grantham reassured him. ‘And Adams is hardly likely to pursue that line of attack. He’s ex-military himself. He’s never going to say anything that criticizes our brave boys and girls in uniform.’
‘I suppose not. But I think we’ll have to get a COBRA committee together, first thing in the morning. We need to be seen to be taking this very seriously. Do you want to sit on it?’
‘No, I don’t think so . . . It’s a purely domestic affair. If I turn up, people are going to ask why. And I don’t think either of us wants too many questions at the moment.’
‘Mmm . . . good point. The less said the better, you’re quite right,’ Young agreed. ‘So . . . would you like a drop more coffee? I’ll be mother.’
Grantham nodded and stuck out his mug for Young to pour into. As he did so he thought about Carver telling him he was planning to have a drink with Schultz while Alix was at the O2. There was no reason for him not to have kept the appointment, in which case it was all but certain that Carver was the Second Man. So now things were about to become a lot more complicated. No one wanted Carver ending up in a police interrogation room. And that meant that Grantham would have to deal with the situation – fast.
53
THEY SAT IN near-silence on the way back in the cab, with just a few fitful bursts of meaningless conversation. When they got to their room Alix rounded on Carver and said, ‘What haven’t you been telling me?’
He put a finger to his lips and made a silent, ‘Shh . . .’ Then he turned on the TV, switched to a music channel, and turned it up loud. Finally he stood close to Alix and, with the absolute minimum volume required to make himself heard to her said, ‘Can’t be too careful.’
‘So . . .?’ she asked.
Carver grimaced. On the ride from the restaurant he’d been thinking about two things in particular: how to tell Alix, and what to do next. He’d made a lot more progress on the second than the first. But now that it couldn’t be avoided he gave it to her straight. ‘I was at the riot. Snoopy was tied up in it somehow – not sure exactly how. But I think he was there as some kind of spotter for whoever organized the whole thing.’