‘Yes, I’ve passed on the information to the bomb squad. I’ve got all that. Yes, they know to look in the walls and ceilings, around the windows, all the weakest spots in the structure. They’ve already uncovered and spotted detonation wires and dismantled them. Picked up a bloke in the vicinity, Justin Stathers…What…? Right, one of Kennedy’s men. You’ve done a terrific job, Paul. We’ll talk later and I’ll explain more fully.’
Tallis closed his phone. He was standing outside Shakenbrook. Sun was pouring through silvery-tipped cloud. The sky looked like a sea of mercury. He took a deep breath, knowing that to try to stop the shaking of his limbs, the sickness he felt was a waste of time. You could only go with it, let it run its course. He smiled to himself. Nobody mentioned the nausea that followed the taking of a life in movies or books. Wasn’t cool.
Exhaling and gulping down another lungful of wet air, he realised how sheer luck had prevented disaster that morning. Luck, that Kennedy by his stout denial of bombers had pointed him in a different, less obvious direction. Luck, that Napier’s association with the First Gulf War had led Tallis off on a random yet no less calculated train of thought. He’d heard of insurgents who, by bribing construction workers, planted artillery shells and explosives into the fabric of newly constructed schools and hospitals in an attempt to inflict massive casualties. Kennedy was not only perfectly placed as a supplier to access the Rotunda, but Tallis wagered he’d also illicitly supplied men—ten men exactly and probably under assumed names—to build the explosives into the ceilings, the walls, the windows. For all his charm and charisma, he was a cold-blooded murderer at heart. Any blurred feelings he’d had for the man disappeared.
Napier, however, was a tough one. Came down to heroes and crooks, Tallis decided. Napier reminded him of a football player who, ducking and weaving down the pitch, twisting his way through a whole tranche of defenders, avoiding every single tackle, finally passed the ball heroically to a striker, only to watch his teammate cock it up and pass to the opposite side. His illness probably contributed to his mental state, Tallis thought sadly, watching as a familiar figure walked towards him.
‘What did Asim say?’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘I meant about you.’ Lavender flicked an engaging smile.
‘That the Americans were playing outside the box. He claimed the service had sent caveats with all communications to them insisting that I was working undercover with Kennedy and that no action should be taken against me.’
‘Which they ignored.’
‘So it seems.’
‘You don’t believe him?’
Tallis flashed a weary smile. ‘I’m not sure who to believe.’
‘Well, as long as we’re not in the dock for murder, I guess all’s well that ends well. You look as if you need a drink.’
Tallis smiled, remembering Kennedy saying the same, his words and voice a haunting refrain in his ear. ‘You’re probably right.’
‘I’ll treat you,’ she said, brightening. ‘Bar Estilo?’ A Spanish-themed tapas bar near the Mailbox, Tallis remembered. He used to visit it with Belle, whose flat had been nearby.
‘I’d prefer somewhere more central.’
‘Somewhere chic and minimalist?’
‘Anywhere where they serve a decent pint.’ Tallis laughed, taking her hand.
40
* * *
TALLIS looked out of the window and watched the world slow as the train pulled into Euston station. He felt glad that the sun was shining, glad it was uncommonly warm for the time of year. It meant the plan should work like clockwork.
It was two weeks later, ten days since he’d received the strangest of phone calls, a week since he’d hooked up with Gayle Morello and agreed to meet, the destination a newly opened café opposite Kentish Town Tube station. Alighting from the train early, he went in search of a double-shot espresso. He needed the caffeine fix. He wanted to be alert.
Twenty minutes later and suitably hot-wired, he was boarding a tube on the Northern line, the compartment filled with the babble of foreign voices. Tallis tuned in, tuned out. He had other, more pressing, matters on his mind.
As anticipated, Gayle was already there. She’d taken a seat outside on the pavement below a green-and-white striped awning, the café behind her full of light, modern, with prints on the walls, wholesome looking. A fair number of people were inside, eating and drinking.
On his approach, she rose, kissed him on both cheeks and asked what she could get him. He ordered a coffee he knew he’d never drink, watched as she moved smoothly inside, a roll in her hips. He took out his sunglasses and put them on, looked the busy street up and down, picked up the menu, clocked his fellow diners, exchanged a glance with a fat woman sitting at the next-door table. For a second he flashed back to the café in Turkey.
After a few moments Gayle reappeared, a smile on her face.
‘You look good,’ he said. He meant it. She glowed. A strange state for a new widow, he thought, until he remembered his mum. That was different, he told himself sharply. His mother had said goodbye to his father a long time ago. There was a big contrast between sudden, violent death, or death before time, and someone old fading painfully away. Made a big difference to those left behind. He should know.
‘Thanks,’ she said, gracefully crossing her legs. ‘Sorry I didn’t inform you about the funeral. Kathleen was supposed to be in charge of contacting everyone. She obviously slipped up.’
‘Kathleen’s your sister, right?’
She agreed with her eyes and raised the cup to her lips.
‘What about Stephen?’
She took a slow sip. ‘What about him?’
‘Wasn’t he involved in the funeral arrangements? I’d have thought he remembered talking to me.’
Her expression was apologetic. ‘Sorry, Paul. Like I said, there was a lot to organise. There was quite a turnout, as you’d imagine. I left Stephen in charge of catering.’
‘Makes sense. What with his experience,’ Tallis said, stretching out his legs.
‘Experience?’ She frowned.
‘I guess he must have done it before—when Bryn was killed.’
‘Oh, yes, I see,’ she said, flicking him a quick smile.
‘Garry mentioned it last time I saw him.’
‘Mentioned what?’ Her grey-blue eyes flicked from him to the street and back again. It took less than a second.
‘That Bryn died in suspicious circumstances. You know, with there being a mystery car involved.’
‘I don’t know where you got that idea.’ She stiffened.
‘It wasn’t true?’
‘It was never proved.’
‘No,’ he said mildly, picking up his cup. ‘It’s nice here, isn’t it?’ He smiled.
‘It is,’ she said, her mouth a short frozen line. He watched as she picked up the cup again. At this rate she was going to run out of coffee.
‘I’m surprised Garry mentioned the car,’ she said, trying to sound as if it was a matter of curiosity rather than suspicion.
‘Why?’
‘We never really talked about it.’
Tallis shrugged. ‘Garry was an investigative journalist. He had an enquiring mind.’
‘You’re right there,’ she said with a sudden smile.
‘That’s why we hit it off. Both got the same nose for intrigue. Both of us sticklers for the truth,’ he said, sweeping his sunglasses off, giving her the full force of his glaring expression.
Again, the lift of the cup to the mouth. Unhurried. Very cool. Her eyes did that funny thing again. Flick. Flick.
‘When I came to your flat after Garry was killed,’ Tallis said, ‘a couple of things jarred—like the toilet seat.’
‘The what?’ She half smiled, half frowned.
‘I wondered why a woman living alone would leave it up, but then I thought you’d probably had a male visitor, maybe one of the coppers.’
‘And you’d be right,’ she said.
/> ‘But when I searched Garry’s room, I noticed something odd.’
‘Oh?’
‘A passbook in your old married name. It was dated several months after Bryn died. Lot of money in it.’
‘Like most husbands, Bryn had life insurance,’ she said harshly.
Tallis nodded. His tone was even. ‘Like I said, only got me thinking. I’m guessing, because of the nature of his job, Garry’s insurance was particularly high.’
‘So what? And you had no business going through my stuff,’ she added, indignant.
‘Quite right. But you see I’m starting to find patterns here. Like Bryn, Garry was an only son.’
‘Your point?’ she said, a haughty note in her voice.
‘Both inherited from their surviving parent a year before they were killed.’ He knew that Crow had done her research well.
‘Coincidence.’ Flick. Flick.
‘Making you a very wealthy woman.’
‘You think money matters a damn to me?’ she snarled. ‘I’ve lost two of the most important men in my life.’
‘That’s right, but you never really loved either of them. That role was reserved for Stephen.’
‘My brother?’ She burst out laughing.
‘Your lover. You don’t have a brother.’
A white van sped past. Tallis turned his head. Where Highgate Road filtered into Kentish Town Road, he saw a bike weaving through the traffic, hacking towards them. Good.
‘Dead easy, wasn’t it? You were the only person who could exploit Garry’s contacts, who could delve into Garry’s murky little world, a world where anyone might bear him a grudge. You knew of his trips to Turkey. Was it Stephen who mugged him and took his wallet, or did you pay someone else to do your dirty work? And what about Reid and Brass, the men who killed him? Nice choice, going to Kennedy’s old employees. Did Stephen approach them, or did you? And then you paid to have them killed, didn’t you?’
The sound of the bike was deafening.
‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ she said, angrily standing up to leave, as he’d known she would. Kicking the chair back, he made a grab for her. Twisting and turning, she yelled a stream of obscenities, appealing to the fat woman sitting at the next-door table, who sat as implacable as statuary. At the sight of the two masked figures speeding towards them Gayle’s screams grew louder and more desperate. People were looking. People were rising from their chairs.
‘What is it, Gayle?’ Tallis shouted in her ear. ‘Afraid of being caught in the crossfire?’
On seeing the bike speed to a halt, people instinctively screamed and dived for cover. Only Tallis and the fat woman remained mute. The pillion passenger got off the bike, strode towards them, reaching into his jacket with menacing ease. Gayle was shouting and struggling, doing everything in her power to twist away from Tallis, to let him take the bullet. Tallis stood, stubborn and resolute, grip on the straining woman vice-like. He wasn’t afraid. He’d been in worse situations than this. Far worse.
‘Not me, you fool,’ Gayle Morello cried out. ‘Him!’
The figure hesitated, withdrew his hand from his jacket empty, and removed the helmet. Tallis took the strain as Gayle’s knees buckled.
‘Remember me, Mrs Morello? I’m the bloke you tried to recruit to kill Mr Tallis here? All right, Paul?’ The man winked.
‘Good to see you, Stu. Nice bit of undercover work. Glad you’re back in the fold. Lovely to see you again, too,’ Tallis said, glancing appreciatively across at Charlie Lavender, who was sitting smiling broadly.
The fat woman at the neighbouring table stood up and trundled towards them. ‘Gayle Morello,’ Crow said, ‘I’m arresting you for conspiracy to murder.’
‘I guess this is it,’ Lavender said. They were standing outside the police station. ‘Playtime over. You go your way. I go mine.’
‘Charlie…’
‘It’s cool, Tallis.’ She smiled, pressing a finger lightly to his lips. ‘I’ll come to the rescue again some day.’
‘Promise?’ He grinned.
‘You bet,’ she said, turning and walking away with a laugh.
‘Charlie?’ he called after her.
‘Yeah?’ She turned.
‘Thanks.’
‘The pleasure was all mine.’ She winked.
He watched as she swung onto the bike, started the engine and drove away. She didn’t look back.
‘Enough, Romeo,’ Crow said, emerging from the entrance to the nick. She was looking particularly florid, Tallis thought. ‘Once I’ve sorted Mrs Morello out, you can take me for a large drink.’
‘Can’t. Got a previous engagement.’
‘I thought the previous engagement just disappeared down the road.’
‘Well, you were wrong.’ Tallis laughed, walking away.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ she called after him, a little desperately, he thought.
‘Can’t wait,’ he called back. He caught a tube to South Kensington, went to the usual hotel, asked for the usual reservation and went to his room. There he showered, shaved and exchanged his jeans, T-shirt and trainers for a pale blue tailored shirt, dark trousers and jacket and Oxford loafers. After brief deliberation, he chose a navy tie with a gold stripe. Leaving the hotel, he walked over the road to where several taxis were waiting. Jumping inside, he asked the driver to take him to the Ritz Hotel in Piccadilly. The journey was spectacularly uneventful. The cabbie was one of those rare, silent types. Tallis felt glad.
Nodding to the doorman, Tallis made his way to the Palm Court dining room where afternoon tea was being served. What a very civilised venue, he thought, glancing across the sumptuously decorated room, for such uncivilised business.
‘May I help you, sir?’ a waiter enquired.
‘It’s fine, thank you,’ he said, gesturing to a corner table where Asim was waiting for him.
‘Very good, sir. This way.’
Tallis slowly crossed the room, standing back as a chair was pulled out for him. He sat down, looked at Asim, who was smiling.
‘Glad you could join me,’ Asim said. ‘Tea?’
Tallis nodded. As soon as the waiter disappeared, he leant forward. ‘Has that Yank—Koroglu, or whatever the hell he’s called—been put back in his box?’
‘Most definitely. Probably on a literacy course even as we speak.’
‘Ah, the mysterious caveats,’ Tallis said.
‘Nothing mysterious about them, Paul. They were plain as day.’
‘So no suggestion of you selling me out?’ Tallis watched Asim’s face very carefully, listened closely to the answer.
‘You’re too valuable to us. We wouldn’t want to lose you.’
Ten steps ahead, Asim, Tallis thought, studying the man’s normally unreadable face. If he was a betting man, he’d say, this time, Asim was telling the truth. However, Tallis didn’t allow himself to get too carried away. Quite simply, Asim was protecting his asset, his decision based on sound commercial sense. ‘So he won’t be pressing charges?’
‘For what?’ Asim said, offering him a teeny thinly sliced sandwich.
‘The three American soldiers who died,’ Tallis said, declining.
‘Unfortunate accident. Happens all the time.’
‘So the next time I visit the States, I won’t be arrested, deported or clapped in irons—that right?’
Asim’s smile was broad. ‘Funny you should say that.’
‘Why?’ Tallis said, suspicious. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, spotting the mischief in Asim’s eyes. ‘I didn’t mean I planned to go there.’
‘No?’ Asim laughed playfully.
‘No,’ Tallis insisted, reaching grumpily for a scone.
‘Tell you what,’ Asim said, taking a pound coin from his pocket. ‘Let’s toss for it.’
‘Fuck’s sake, is this how you normally select an operative for a job?’
‘You’re not an operative, remember.’ Asim’s eyes gleamed.
Hired hand, more like. ‘What happens if it goes the
other way?’
‘You get to travel somewhere else.’
Tallis glanced away, watched his fellow diners and listened to the chink of china, thinking what protected lives these people had because of people like him. ‘Go on, then, flip the coin,’ he dared Asim. He never could resist a challenge.
Asim did. The coin went high, spinning and spinning, somersaulting through the air until gravity took over and it started its final descent. Asim’s smooth hand shot out ready, his other hand poised to capture the coin, which it did with a resounding slap. ‘What’s it to be?’ he asked. Tallis closed his eyes tight, made a wish like he used to do as a kid and, opening them, cried, ‘Heads!’
Then, like the showman he was, Asim slid his hand away and smiled.
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
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