The Walking Dead

  The group trailed after him. The town's self-appointed historian, Steve Vickers, had one inalienable rule: he never cancelled for inclement weather. He was in good voice as he led the Townswomen's Guild party through High Town; a little forest of dripping umbrellas followed him.

  'More than anywhere else in Britain, indeed in the empire, Luton was the greatest centre of hat- and bonnet-making. In the 1851 census, eighty-eight per cent of High Town's females were involved in making headwear to be worn by women in Great Britain and exported–even girls as young as six were described in the returns as "sewers". Any woman in London's Mayfair or Edinburgh's Princes Street or in Dublin, Sydney, New Delhi or Toronto, when dressed at her best would most likely be wearing a hat or bonnet made in these humble streets.'

  On a better day, he might have held the attention of the ladies from the Townswomen's Guild.

  'Obviously, the annual boom in the trade was-from December to May. The customers wanted new models for the summer, and then thousands more women came to High Town from the surrounding villages to boost the numbers of sewers and stitchers, and most popular of all were the straw hats–not that they would have been in great demand on a day such as this.'

  He laughed, smiled, and was rewarded with a sullen response. He knew that a coach where they would be warm was parked by the station and would take them on to Woburn Abbey, the next leg of their outing. The ladies were drenched and only ingrained politeness kept them from abandoning him. He had done the prehistory bit, and the Roman bit. It irked him that his tour of what he called 'The Hat Trail' could be so poorly received.

  'The manufacturing lasted through the thirties up to the outbreak of the Second World War. Then habits changed. Women no longer regarded it as essential to wear headgear when they were out and–'

  A voice piped up, 'Fascinating, Mr Vickers, and we're very grateful to you. But, as the Guild secretary and speaking for all of us, I really think we've had enough. Please would you be so kind as to lead us back to our coach before we drown?'

  He did. If he had ignored the plea and continued with the Trail, his audience would have gone. But Steve Vickers was seldom deflated. His next booking was for Saturday morning, again an early start, and the tour of the town centre–the clock that chimed like Parliament's, the story of the Peace Riot, and he'd heard on the radio that the forecast for the weekend was good. He would not show disappointment at the curtailment: to have done so would reduce the volume of tips as they scrambled on to the coach.

  'Yes, I think we have to acknowledge defeat, but you have been wonderful and it has been my privilege to share a little of the town's rich heritage with you. Thank you so much for your interest.'

  There was a desultory clapping from under the umbrellas. He led them away. He took some comfort from Saturday's forecast, when he would be in St George's Square, under the town hall's clock, across the open space from the shopping centre; he hoped then for a good attendance and a better purse of tips.

  He realized he hated the man.

  David Banks sat in the public gallery. His Glock was on his hip and gouged awkwardly into it; it was with Wally's agreement that he had been allowed to wear it into court eighteen–too much palaver to check it into the police booth at the main door, then get it back when he followed the jurors to their sealed room and stood outside at an adjournment, and he'd sensed that the chief inspector had a distaste for firearms but he'd promised–and smiled drily–that the safety catch would be firmly on. He wore the loaded pistol at his belt and had given his guarantee that the weapon could not accidentally discharge a bullet. If the holster, and the Glock's handle, had not pushed into him, Banks might have dozed: nothing to hold his attention as the prosecution's barrister droned through the minutiae of the evidence that the court had heard, that would convict the lowlife brothers. Banks did not close his eyes, let his head sag.

  The public gallery was divided into two sections by an aisle. The case detectives, men and women from the Crime Directorate, were in the other section, and among them were uniformed constables of the beefed-up security detail. On the row in front of Banks, two women had gold at their throats, real fur on the collars of their coats and highlights in their hair; he thought them cousins of the lowlife or mistresses. Beyond the court door were more uniforms and some of them had Heckler & Kochs slung from black webbing straps, but Banks's was the only firearms officer inside–and the damn thing hurt him.

  Nothing of the Victorian history of the building seeped into court eighteen. It was, he thought bitterly, 'customer friendly', designed to put men and women at their ease, to make them lose sight–with the soft pastel paint on the walls, and the beechwood furnishings–of the real world of crude violence, that of the Curtis brothers. The judge, didn't seem a bad sort, was on a shallow raised dais to his right, and the brothers were at the far end to his left; there were only low panels hiding their legs, no armoured glass screen or a cage's bars to keep them in place. Between the judge and the prisoners there were layers of lawyers, then the court staff, and the prosecution's man ploughed his way through his prepared notes. About the only damn action was from the stenographer who rattled away at her keyboard. Opposite Banks was the jury.

  His Principal was in the second row. The guy lounged easily in his seat and was one of the few who took no notes of the barrister's address. Didn't have on a clean shirt, as the other men did. Hadn't combed his hair, and the other men's was tidily brushed. Banks knew the first names of the jury, and his Principal was close, too close, to the woman on his right, Vicky. She wore a cheesecloth-type blouse• and a loose-fitting cotton skirt of bright print colours, both of which showed off her body's contours, and his Principal was too bloody close to her. The chests, shoulders and heads of the front rank of jurors cut off his view of the hips and knees of the one called Vicky and his Principal, but he fancied they would be touching, which was too damn close.

  The hatred gnawed in him. He could have stood up then, pushed himself to his feet, interrupted the calm and quiet of the barrister's words–could have yelled, full volume, from the depths of his throat, a torrent of obscenities.

  David Banks loathed Cecil Darke, the man whose notebook was in his jacket pocket with the pebbles and coins, resting on the Glock's holster.

  He had no photograph of Cecil Darke, his great-uncle, only imagined images. Probably small, probably slight, probably anonymous in a crowd, probably had a squeaky voice, probably had no distinguishing marks…His ignorance consumed Banks Probably had courage, determination…The man overwhelmed him, had destroyed already the delicate equilibrium of his life. Cecil Darke had pitchforked his way, uninvited, into the life of his great-nephew. Each hour of the day, and most of those at night when he slept and dreamed, Banks now walked alongside the volunteer in the British battalion–and had been with him when the vitality of hope was lost on the sodden, frozen or parched fields of battle. Had learned to love and admire Cecil Darke. Had learned of his own life's destruction by association. Had learned to curse. Had learned to hate, loathe, detest. The words from a canteen lark played in his mind, and a senior man's, and the caution of an armourer: his defence of Cecil Darke had imploded on him. David Banks was, and could recognize it–as a price for that defence–rejected by his team and cast out, alone…He was with a bloody jury, was reckoned unreliable by the Delta crowd, unable to hack the big-time. They wanted, in Delta, 'steady' men, 'team' men, and they thought his defence of his great-uncle left him short of the qualities they demanded. He had no one to confide in–felt naked, vulnerable, a failure.

  He would read, in the lunch adjournment, another, page and another entry of lost hope and growing misery. He could not help himself…The hatred surged in him for what the diary had made him.

  His teeth scraped together. Then he bit savagely at his tongue–because that was what loathing did to him…And his bloody Principal–a hero of the hour–sat too damned close to the woman in the blouse and the full skirt.

  He was gone again, had returned as a w
itness to the wire and the foxholes, and he seemed to hear the thunder of exploding shells and to lie on the dusty earth as aircraft circled above him, searching for targets. He could not free himself from it.

  They were like those twins, joined at the hip…and unlike those twins featured on TV, joined also at the knee.

  If she didn't like it, she was free to have shifted in her seat.

  Perhaps she had not wriggled clear of him because she hadn't noticed that his hip and his knee were against hers, perhaps she didn't give a toss whether his hip and knee were pressured against her, perhaps.. God, the prosecution's wind-up speech was crushingly dull. Why bother? Guilty on all counts and chuck away the bloody key.

  What mattered now to Jools Wright was the afterwards, and the afterwards was getting damnably complicated. They'd all been given the lecture on Duty of Care…but not given an answer to the question of how long Duty of Care ran for. A week, a month, a year after the finish of the trial? Didn't know. How long would he have a sour-faced policeman travelling with him, sitting with him, not speaking to him? Didn't know. Where were they going to be living, him, Babs and Kathy? Didn't know. When was he going to be able to go back to work once the jury-service cash finished? Didn't know…What was lovely was the soft, giving feel of the pelvic bone against his hip, and her knee against his. Nice lady, Vicky, and to be respected because there weren't many who could make their own shoes–and there was a quite lovely beddable scent to her, as if she hadn't washed well that morning in the stampede to get breakfast down, be on the charabanc and out of that dismal camp–and there weren't many who would have tolerated his hip and knee against hers. Had he ever spoken to her? Anything more than 'Excuse me, could you please pass the salt?'

  'Excuse me, the brown sauce, please.'

  'Excuse me, do you have it verbatim what that Forensics woman said?' No, he didn't think so. It was almost cheeky of Vicky, but half the buttons on her blouse were undone, and the ones that were fastened bulged fit to bust. A very nice lady was Vicky…No, the afterwards concerned him.

  He looked up. God, the man looked miserable. Furrows on the forehead that came together in a knotted mess. He stared across the court and felt the slight motion of Vicky's body as she wrote busily on one of the sheets of paper pulled from her chaotic tapestry bag. He had heard not a word the barrister said. What had that bloody detective on his mind that pulled a face so damn abject? What was his 'afterwards'? Mr Banks, because he only responded if given a title, had allowed–with bloody awful grace–one phone call to Babs, from the breakfast room. He'd said quietly, 'Just thought you'd like to know, my love, where your spirit of Trafalgar Day bravery–and your ethical certainties–have left us. We had a Molotov cocktail through the front window this morning. Not to worry, minimal damage to furniture and fittings, and the Criminal Compensation crowd will meet the cost. Hope you're both well, and my regards to your parents…Oh, I've stolen your glad rags. To the police, I'm an alpha-grade hero for doing my duty, a shining example to a law-abiding society…Lots of love, have to dash, off for a spot more heroism. 'Bye.' None of the others knew it was him who'd coughed the load, under duress. His little secret. Tools could have said, 'I am not what I am'–Othello, good old Shakespeare–but would not: the deception gave him pleasure. He stared across the well of the court. His glance was met coldly…bloody miserable sod. The detective–fools reckoned–looked like the burden of life crushed him…Finally, the prosecution had sat-down, and that smug look played at the lawyer's mouth, must have given a peroration at the end, and he couldn't recall a word of it. Three cheers, caps in the air, and the defence was on his feet. They were getting there, nearer to the afterwards.

  His imagination? Was the pressure of Vicky's hip harder against his? Just so damn lovely to dream.

  Jools thought he sleep-walked–trouble was, he didn't know the destination.

  A convoy had come, with no regard for the legal speed limit, south down the M1.

  A motorcycle, lights flashing, had cleared the fast lane in front of the two performance cars that rushed towards the capital.

  A prisoner, huddled in the back of the lead car, sat sandwiched between two Branch men and wore white-paper overalls.

  A uniformed officer held-the traffic on the Edgware Road and the cars slewed right and into the basement yard of Paddington Green police station.

  A blanket was draped over the prisoner's head as he was hustled inside the cell block.

  A news blackout lay over the arrest.

  A spaniel sniffer dog, far to the north, wolfed biscuits happily and was the celebrity of the hour.

  Chapter13

  Wednesday, Day 14

  He heard Naylor give his name, then say, 'And with me is Mr Josiah Hegner, of the Bureau and out of Riyadh, who has made a study of these matters and, in an advisory capacity, is fully welcomed by my superiors. .

  His world was darkness, but his senses were acute.

  '…and this is Mary Reakes, from the Service. Where are we?'

  Where? Well, Hegner had been told–on the walk between the car and the building–that Paddington Green was the high-security place where all high-flier terrorists arrested in the United Kingdom were brought for questioning; and had been told it was bombproof, stormproof, and escape-proof. Seemed simple enough to know where they were. A place like this was available to the Bureau in a' score of American cities, and there was the cordoned-off holding area at the Baghdad airport military wing, the Mabatha interrogation centre out south from the Saudi capital…Should have been 'Where are we getting?'

  Mary had his arm, and he kind of liked that, but she didn't do leading him as well as' his Cindy did.

  A voice said, laconic and like his presence–and Naylor's and Mary's–was an intrusion, 'Early days as yet. Because he was picked up at dawn, then brought down here, we've let him stew in his cell–as we're obliged to–and he's been offered a meal, declined it, and a chance to pray, used it. It's been done by the book, and we've had him in here for a couple of hours…Like I say, early days.'

  His nostrils picked up the recycled, regurgitated airflow of the block. The same air, damp and stale, circulated in these buildings everywhere Hegner had been. And there was always a television screen cabled through to a ceiling camera in the room where the jerk was. He heard the low voice, the question, but there was silence for an answer. He swung his stick in front of him, hit a table leg and moved forward skirting it, swung the stick again and heard a yelp of pain, then, 'Hey, steady with that thing, if you don't mind.' Hegner went to a speaker, stood under it. He reached out with his hand, touched the covering material, then eased his ear against it.

  A second voice, irritated, 'Excuse me, but you're half in my lap.'

  He heard again the question, then the silence. He said, 'Mary, get me a chair here.'

  There was a snort of annoyance. He didn't care. The chair was brought and he settled on it, but his ear stayed against the speaker. He heard the crackle of the connection, the rustle of papers, the clink of a bottle's neck on a glass and the silence…and he knew what he would say but was not ready to say it. He heard Mary's breathing near to him, and Naylor's cough.

  'Do you want a coffee, Joe?' Mary asked.

  He gazed into the blackness, and strained to hear better from the speaker. Hegner said, 'A coffee'll make me need a leak. What I want is you to describe him to me. I want to know him.'

  He sensed around him the resentment his presence created, and it did not concern him. Little sounds, not from the speaker, told him of the three men and one woman in the room, and they would have thought themselves the experts, and he was the intruder. As an intruder, he was familiar with resentment. Sometimes he used folksy charm to dismantle it and sometimes he didn't bother, as now. If it had been his territory that was invaded he would have bawled them out, slammed the goddamn door on them.

  She said briskly, 'It's a monochrome screen and the lighting's poor. He's in a paper jumpsuit. He's Asian, maybe middle twenties…

 
He's a big man, powerful, heavily muscled, but his shoulders are down. The tongue's out, flicks his lips. He's frightened.'

  Not frightened bad enough, like he would have been–Hegner thought–in the Mabatha interrogation centre or at Baghdad's airport, or if the cold, bad guys of the Bureau had him in a 'black site' military camp.

  The question came over the speaker, conversational: 'It's confirmed, Ramzi, that there are traces of explosives on your hands, and I'm giving you the opportunity to explain them. How did they get there?' No reply.

  'What's his eyeline?'

  'Seems, Joe, that he's looking at the ceiling, not at the officer across the table. On the ceiling and staying there.'

  The patient rephrasing of the question: 'Look, Ramzi, there may be a perfectly innocent explanation for these traces on your hands; and I'm giving you the chance to tell me how they came to be there.' He listened to the silence.

  Mary said, 'The eyeline has changed. It's gone to the wall, the bottom of it, to his left. He's sweating, hands clenched and fingers locked. I'd say frightened but fighting.'

  No exasperation, no bluster and hurry: 'It would, of course, be best for you, Ramzi, to be utterly truthful with us. You've been in a cell with comrades, but you're now alone. Help us, and you help yourself. You realize,- don't you, the advantages of cooperation?' The silence echoed in his ear.

  Mary said, 'I wouldn't swear to it, but I think he is, if anything, more comfortable now than when we came in. Still frightened, but it's like he believes he can survive…The eyeline is still on the wall by the floor. He doesn't risk contact.'

  Nor would he. Didn't have to. Hegner asked if anything had been said by the prisoner. 'Nothing,' was the laconic voice's response, 'not a single word.' What had he said in the car coming south to London? Hadn't opened his mouth. They had a name–had they now an address? Officers were still at the house, with his mother and his two sisters; his room was clean, bare, and his lap-top computer had the hard drive removed. There were no posters of Islamic jihadists and no books and no pamphlets in his room that were relevant, and all that had been learned was that the man had been absent from home–on an IT course, his mother said, but had not known where–for thirteen days.