by Cain, Tom
‘You have got to be friggin’ kidding me . . . Your boyfriend is the Second Man?’
Alix nodded in admission as Peck gave a long, soft whistle. ‘Jeez . . . Well, I can see why you’re confused about the rights and wrongs. But as an officer of the Senior Foreign Service, then I have to point out to you that both you and I are obliged to respect the laws of this country and . . . excuse me a minute . . .’
They were just going round Marble Arch. Peck was still driving with a controlled, expert aggression, forcing his way through the traffic as he turned down Oxford Street, before cutting across the inside lane of traffic, provoking a furious barrage of horns, and turning left, back on to his previous northbound course. He looked in the mirror, clearly concerned that he was still being followed. Then he turned his attention back to Alix and carried on as if nothing had happened, ‘I have to advise you that the best course of action for both you and me would be for me to accompany you to the nearest police station and stay with you to ensure that your legal rights are upheld while you give a formal statement to the Metropolitan Police.’
‘No,’ Alix said. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘And suppose I say that for the sake of my career, and because it’s my actual duty, I am going to be obliged to inform the police of our conversation over the past half hour?’
‘Then I will say that, as you know, I have many good friends in very high places who could cause even more damage to your career if you did not help me. And I will add something that you might not know. Sam is on President Lincoln Roberts’s Christmas card list . . .’
‘Him and about a hundred thousand other people.’
‘No, he gets a personal card, signed by the President – the same one who invited us to Lusterleaf at the weekend.’
‘You’re kidding . . . how come?’
‘Because he saved the President’s life and Roberts has never forgotten it.’
‘OK . . . I can see that this is going to require a little thought. Let me just ask you this, just to ease my nerves a little . . . Where were you last night, at the time of the riot?’
‘At the O2 Arena. I had an appointment to meet Mark Adams. It was a business meeting. Mr Adams, his wife and many other people could testify that I was there, and that I went to dinner with the Adamses afterwards.’
‘So, you had no knowledge of the riot as it was happening?’
‘No.’
‘And you first found out about it . . . when?’
‘When Sam told me some time after midnight.’
‘And why didn’t you report that information?’
‘Because I love him.’
‘Maybe, but that’s not what you tell the cops, when they ask. What you say is, you were frightened of him, scared shitless of what a man like that might do to you if you ever betrayed him.’
‘That’s a lie, and I’d be betraying him by telling it.’
‘It’s a lie that keeps you safe. Trust me, that’s what he would want.’
Peck kept driving the same way, making apparently random turns, racing forward whenever possible, running red lights.
‘OK,’ he said eventually. ‘As you can see, we’re taking the scenic route. The irony is, if you’re not trying to shake off a tail, it’s pretty much straight up Park Lane and Edgware Road all the way to my place. I live on Abbey Road, by the way.’
‘Like the Beatles record?’ Alix asked, happy to keep the conversation light.
‘Exactly. I can actually see the zebra crossing – the one on the cover – from the terrace of my apartment. It’s ridiculous, I know, but that’s pretty much the reason I rented the place.’
Alix smiled. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Sure.’
‘Have you had your picture taken walking across it?’
Peck laughed. ‘Guilty as charged!’
‘And can I ask another question?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Where did you learn to drive like that?’
Peck looked at her with a knowing half-smile. ‘Oh, I don’t know . . . pretty much the same kind of place, I guess, where you learned how to escape from that hotel.’
78
THE UNITED PEOPLE’S Party headquarters was packed to bursting with the world’s media. The conference room made the Black Hole of Calcutta look spacious and underpopulated. Every other office, corridor and stairwell in the place was rammed with reporters. Screens and speakers had been set up so that they could all get a view of what was going on – the same view they would have got in much more comfort had they just stayed at home. Outside there were more news-crews sending reports back to their studios and interviewing passers-by. All the outside broadcast vans that had been in Netherton Street a few hours ago were here in the Shepherd’s Bush Road now, creating a logjam that was backing up the rush-hour traffic across a great swathe of West London.
What none of the media knew, however, was that Robbie Bell had fought like a man possessed to prevent the whole damn thing being cancelled. He’d been involved in a series of heated conversations with the police in the form of Commander Mary Stamford.
‘I must ask you not to go ahead with this event, Mr Bell,’ Stamford had told him when civilized appeals to his better nature had failed.
‘Ask, or order?’ Bell had asked.
‘You know I cannot order you not to communicate with the media.’
‘Precisely. So that’s what we’re going to do.’
‘But I can arrest you and Mr Adams for obstructing or even perverting the course of justice if anything you or he says in this press conference hinders our investigations or makes it harder to bring legal proceedings at a later date. I would also remind you that the man you have identified to us has not yet been apprehended, interviewed, arrested or charged, still less found guilty in a court of law. If you say anything that might damage his reputation, you will leave yourself open to civil proceedings at a later date.’
‘I’m well aware of the laws of libel, Commander,’ Bell hit back. ‘But let me tell you a few laws of politics. I went public with this story because it would have leaked from your force if I hadn’t.’
‘Not if I’d had anything to do with it . . .’
‘You might not have done it, but somebody would. Then it would have looked like we had something to hide, and there would have been even more blood on the carpet – Mark Adams’s. Our campaign cannot afford to be anything less than totally transparent.’
‘It can’t afford to have you two carted off to Kennington nick to explain yourselves to our detective, either. Bear that in mind, Mr Bell.’
Bell put his phone away, thinking, Bollocks to that. A few hours ago, his campaign had been going down the crapper. Now he could put his man right back at the top of the news agenda and screw every other party up the arse while he did it. And if some copper thought she was going to stop him, she had another think coming.
Moments later he was striding into the conference with a confident spring in his step and taking his place behind the lectern to address the expectant crowd. ‘Before we begin, I’ll just explain what will happen. Mr Adams will read a brief statement. He will then answer questions. He will not, and cannot, however, give you any names, either of the suspect he has brought to the attention of the police or of anyone associated with that suspect. I’m sure you’ll understand . . .’ Bell gave a wry grin, pointed at a notoriously feisty TV newsman and got a laugh as he added, ‘. . . even you, Gerry, that this is a matter of police operational security. At this time of crisis, it is the duty of all of us to assist the police in any way we can, and we are doing everything in our power to help, rather than hinder, their inquiries. And now, without further ado, let me introduce the leader of the United People’s Party, the Right Honourable Mark Adams, MP!’
Mary Stamford did not appreciate being messed around by a jumped-up PR man. First Bell had made a nuisance of himself outside the event last night: now this. She called DI Keane, who was now back at Kennington. ‘Mara,’ she as
ked, ‘how far have we got with all that Berwick Street evidence?’
She listened thoughtfully to what Keane had to say, then asked, ‘Anything useful come out of the hotel room yet?
‘I see,’ she replied after Keane had given a somewhat shorter reply. ‘Well, I think it’s time we brought the public up to date with our investigation.’
‘Does that have anything to do with wanting to get your own back for this Adams press conference?’
Stamford laughed. ‘Well, just a little bit, maybe.’
‘Then I’ll get on to it right away, ma’am. Do you want me to run this through Public Affairs first?’
‘No, I’ll take care of all that. Just stick to the facts . . . and don’t be too obvious.’
‘Of course not,’ said Keane. ‘I quite understand.’
79
CARVER HAD GONE shopping. In a Boots Opticians he bought a pair of spectacles with clear glass, choosing the frames specifically to complement his existing appearance, by making him even more pathetic-looking than he was already. When the chatty salesgirl asked him why he wanted clear glasses he explained that he had an important job interview coming up, ‘And I want to look more intelligent.’ He’d almost got to the door of the shop before she could no longer contain herself and burst out in helpless giggles.
Now he just needed to purchase the following:
A powerful, cordless nail gun. In a country that bans the sale of firearms, this was the next best thing.
A short-handled axe with a high carbon steel head, that would chop through flesh and bones with its razor-sharp edge, or, when reversed, act as an effective sledgehammer.
A Genghis ‘Ultimate Fear’ 10cm ground mine – the loudest firework available in the UK, and as close as commercially available products come to the ‘flash-bangs’ used by special forces to stun and disorientate opponents. The Genghis website had a video clip showing the Ultimate Fear going off, and Carver had checked it out. The firework sent up a spectacular show of sparks before its main detonation. He timed the length of that show: twenty-three seconds.
The final entries on his shopping list were:
A length of strong nylon rope.
A pair of scissors.
A plastic bottle of mineral water.
A backpack – as bland and unappealing as possible, to match his new persona.
A packet of windproof camping matches.
Once he’d got them all he would have a scaled-down civilian equivalent to the gear he’d once taken into battle as an officer in the SBS. The only thing missing would be the opportunity to use it. But Carver had little doubt that he would not have long to wait before that arose.
80
MARK ADAMS WALKED up to the lectern holding a piece of paper which he carefully smoothed out in front of him as he looked around the room. He cleared his throat and began to read. ‘Last night, following a very successful political meeting, I went out to dinner with my wife, Nicki, my campaign manager, Robbie Bell, and a political consultant of impeccable personal and professional reputation, with whom I was discussing various aspects of my campaign strategy. The consultant, who is female, had mentioned to me that her partner had served in the British armed forces. As a former military man myself, I said that he was welcome to join us for dinner. She called him and he met us at the restaurant.
‘The gentleman arrived wearing a long brown suede jacket, a black quilted waistcoat and dark-blue jeans.’
Those words sent a palpable surge of energy through the room. Everyone knew immediately that this wasn’t just a publicity stunt by an unscrupulous politician. It could be a genuine, major story.
Adams felt the change in the air as he went on, ‘My guest was about six feet tall, slim build, with short dark hair. As you will gather, this precisely matches the police description of the so-called Second Man. During the meal, he and I had a conversation, in the course of which he mentioned that he had been having a drink earlier that evening with a former comrade who had been in the Royal Marines. I must stress that I had no knowledge at that time of the events now known as the Lion Market Massacre. As I am sure you will understand, my attention had been entirely devoted to the speech I was giving. So I did not then understand the significance of what I am now telling you.
‘As the meal wore on Mr Bell noticed small dark marks or stains on my guest’s jacket. Again, he had no reason to think that there was any significance to them. But early this morning, Mr Bell and I both saw the pictures released by the police of the man they were looking for. We immediately realized that the safety of the public and the obligation on all of us as citizens to assist the ongoing investigation both demanded that we should inform the police of our suspicions, which we then did.’
Adams folded his script up again and said, ‘I will take a few questions now.’ A forest of hands went up and he pointed at one reporter: ‘Mary . . .’ he said.
‘Can you give us some idea of what kind of a man your dinner guest was?’ asked Mary Wainright, a political commentator on the Telegraph. ‘Did he act in any way like a man capable of cold-bloodedly killing around forty of his fellow human beings?’
‘Not in any obvious way,’ Adam replied. ‘To be honest, he seemed like a perfectly decent bloke . . .’
There was another flurry of action as the phrase, ‘he seemed like a perfectly decent bloke’ was tweeted, texted and emailed around the world.
‘He was intelligent, articulate and had a decent sense of humour. He certainly knew about military matters. I remember we discussed the assassination attempt on me last night, and how he had known – as I had done – that the gun was firing blanks. Now I come to think of it, he actually raised the subject of the riot and its aftermath, but there was nothing at all in his manner to suggest that he was connected to it or to arouse our suspicions. Next question . . . the gentleman at the back there.’
‘Frank Preston, CNN . . . I’m finding it hard to believe that a man can kill forty people and then just go out to dinner. Was your guest some kind of psychopath, do you think? Or are we talking about a case of mistaken identity?’
‘I’m not a psychiatrist, Mr Preston, so I can’t give you a diagnosis. But I have been to war as a soldier. So let’s suppose, for the sake of argument, that this really was the Second Man. Within the previous hour or so, he had been involved in an extremely stressful combat situation. A close friend had been killed, and he had used extreme methods to save his own life and those of the other people with him. Well, I’m sure you’ve all seen old war films about pilots coming back to base after a mission. They’ve seen their mates getting shot down, but they don’t sit around moping. That’s not what fighting men do. They go to the pub, have a drink, dance with a pretty girl, sing rowdy songs. They live, Mr Preston. They try to be as alive as possible because they have been surrounded by death . . . John.’
John Murphy, an ITN reporter, asked, ‘The Prime Minister’s office today issued a statement saying that there was no place for vigilante behaviour in British society. They have described the bombing of the Lion Market as, quote, “a cowardly act that is no better than terrorism”. How do you respond to that?’
‘I say that if there was an act of terrorism, it was carried out by the rioters. They were the ones who planned to take people’s lives, wreck their businesses and disrupt an entire community. From everything that I have heard, what happened in the Lion Market was a spontaneous, unplanned reaction to the threat the people there were facing—’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Adams,’ Murphy interrupted, ‘but how could anyone make a “spontaneous” or “unplanned” bomb?’
‘Well, I could have done it,’ said Adams, provoking an audible gasp from the audience. ‘Any soldier who has served in the special forces or another elite unit could do it, though I’m not going into details in public.
‘As for the Prime Minister, he has a nerve accusing men who’ve fought for this country of cowardice. He may go off to country estates with all his posh pals and blast away at defen
celess pheasants. But he’s never had to stand up to anyone who’s shot back. He’s a spoiled, pampered toff, and he’s using these accusations in a blatant attempt to cover up the truth, which is that a terrible event like this would never have happened if the government had given the police the means to crack down hard on the very first riots. But they didn’t. Just like they didn’t deal with the underlying causes of these riots: the broken communities, the racial tension, the deadly effects of alien cultures being introduced into this county . . . all the things that ordinary people can see all around them every day. And the result is more than fifty people dead in a street in South London.’
Adams had managed to turn the press conference into a miniature version of his rally, getting across the arguments that the riot had silenced last night. Now he just had to drop a final quotable bombshell and go. He gave one of his slow, meaningful scans of the audience and said, ‘I have a message for the Prime Minister, and it is this: the blood of those dead people is not on the hands of the so-called Second Man. It is on your hands. And I will hold you to account.’
Then he leaned a little closer to the microphone, said, ‘Thank you very much,’ and strode briskly from the stage.
81
CARVER WAS STANDING in front of a display of nail guns. He’d concluded that the best use of the cash he’d drawn out earlier that morning was a Paslode IM90i Framing Gas Nailer. It was capable of firing thirty-seven 90mm nails deep into the timber frame, joists, roofing and floorboards of a house at the rate of three a second. It wouldn’t have any problem blasting into human flesh and bone.
The phone rang: Kevin Cripps.
‘Victoria’s a bloody bastard for parking,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I went on one of them websites where you can park at someone’s gaff, and got a garage in this mews by the Vauxhall Bridge Road. I’ll send you the address by text, yeah?’