by Mark Sennen
‘We’re not talking Huntingdon again, are we?’
‘No, this is something different. It’s right on your patch so I figured you’d be willing to get your hands a little dirty in order to help us.’
‘Dirty?’ Cornish sounded wary, unconvinced. She’d emphasised the word in such a way as to imply a degree of scepticism. ‘What do you mean by that, Stephen?’
Holm sighed to himself. Cornish had always been keen on professional integrity, dead straight, and part of him was grateful her integrity hadn’t been compromised on the scrabble up the ladder to the top. On the other hand a little bending of the rules would come in handy right now.
‘Nothing dodgy.’ Holm glanced across to Javed. The young man had raised his head and was listening intently. Holm turned and faced away. ‘We just need to keep a lid on things and ensure nobody at your end gets too carried away.’ Holm coughed. ‘National security and all that.’
‘Right.’ Cornish still sounded hesitant. ‘What do you want, then?’
‘I’ll tell you when we get there. If you could clear your diary from, say, elevenish on Monday morning?’
‘Clear my diary? Stephen, that’s going to be—’
‘Lives are at stake, Billie.’ If Taher was involved then there was no deception here, Holm thought. ‘Many lives.’
There was silence for a moment before Cornish spoke again.
‘See you at eleven Monday, then.’
Holm hung up.
‘We’re off up the Yellow Brick Road, then?’ Javed said.
‘Yes,’ Holm said. ‘But if we want to get to Ipswich the A12 would probably be a better bet.’
* * *
In the evening Silva and Sean met up with Itchy and his girlfriend, Caz. Caz’s stomach bulged beneath her flimsy dress, a piece of news Itchy had been keeping from Silva. After a round of congratulations, Itchy began to open up on the joys of fatherhood.
‘Man, in four months I’m going to be a dad,’ Itchy said. ‘How does that sound?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Silva said. ‘Should I call Social Services to prewarn them?’
‘You’ll do fine,’ Sean said. ‘But kids are expensive – how’s the money?’
‘Tight.’ Itchy grimaced and reached for his pint. He glanced at Silva. ‘We were shafted, weren’t we? Cast off. No demob money, no pension to look forward to. I’ve got bits and pieces here and there, but nothing permanent. Still, I couldn’t be happier if I’d won the lottery.’
As Itchy turned to Caz and kissed her, Silva felt Sean’s hand under the table, reaching for her own hand. Squeezing.
Later, back on Silva’s boat and somewhat worse for drink, they kissed. For a few seconds Silva let herself go with the passion of the moment, but then she pulled away.
‘You don’t want this?’ Sean said.
‘I do and I don’t.’ Silva moved across to the galley area and filled the kettle. ‘I don’t want to go back to the way we were. A few days together and then weeks and months apart. It’s not good for either of us.’
‘Becca, you know how it is…’
‘Yes, I do know how it is. That kind of life ruined my parents’ marriage. Right now, considering all that’s happened, I need stability or nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘You’ll be gone tomorrow and I won’t know where you are or what you’re doing. I’ll have no idea of when I might see you again.’
Sean came over and stood next to Silva as she scraped some instant coffee from the bottom of a jar. ‘I wish things could be different.’
Silva leaned across and rested her head on Sean’s shoulder.
‘Me too,’ she said.
* * *
She took him to the train station the next morning, weaving through the traffic on her motorbike with Sean clinging on for grim death.
‘Jesus, woman,’ he said when Silva pulled up. ‘Dodging bullets in Afghanistan was preferable to that.’ Sean dismounted and took his helmet off. He handed it to Silva who put it in the rear pannier. He stood for a moment. ‘So is this goodbye or au revoir?’
‘Neither.’ Silva sighed. ‘Where’s the future in it, Sean? Being together wouldn’t be being with you. Most of the time you’d be away and that’s not what I want. Not at this point in my life at least.’
‘There’s hope, then.’ Sean said. ‘Years in the future. Decades. About the time when I’m in adult diapers and drooling.’
‘Stop it.’ Silva leaned across and hugged him. She hit the starter on the bike. ‘You’ll email this time? Phone, text, message. You know, like friends do?’
‘I might,’ Sean said. He looked as if he was about to make another quip. Then he reached out and touched Silva on the shoulder, all of a sudden serious. ‘No, I will. Promise.’
‘Good.’
She clicked the bike into gear and Sean stepped back. He turned towards the station and raised a hand as Silva rode away.
Chapter Twelve
Sean kept his promise to call much sooner than she expected when her mobile trilled out late the next afternoon.
‘It was so good to see you yesterday, Becca,’ he said. ‘Better than good.’
‘Hmmm.’ Silva felt her defences slip but she tried to play it cool. It had been good to see him, but she didn’t want to get his hopes up. ‘I guess.’
‘Do you want to do it again sometime?’
‘Sure, Sean. Next time you’re back in the UK give me a call.’
‘So you wouldn’t be on for tomorrow, then?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Something’s come up. I’ve got tickets for a special event here in London on Monday evening. Once in a lifetime. History in the making.’
‘Give me a hint. Theatre? Music? Sport?’
‘Sort of all three. I need a partner on my arm and you’re my first choice.’
‘There are others?’
‘Of course. They’re falling over themselves but you’ve got the first refusal.’
She felt herself wavering. Seeing him again had made her realise how much she missed him, how much she craved the simple human interaction between two people who were more than friends. She’d shut herself away after her spell in prison. Sure, there was Itchy and a couple of others, but she wasn’t close to them in the way she was close to Sean.
What the hell. ‘OK, I’ll—’
Sean hollered out something she didn’t hear, and then he was filling her head with timings and where to meet and what to wear.
‘What to wear?’ It wasn’t something Sean usually worried about. They’d spent the first three months they’d known each other in military fatigues.
‘It’s suited and booted. For me, at least. Just dress formal, I’m sure you’ll look great whatever it is.’
Silva thought about the handful of fancy clothes she had. ‘If you say so.’
* * *
They drove to Ipswich early Monday morning. On the way up Javed was a buzz of questions. One after the other. The incessant chatter began to annoy Holm. He was used to having space to think and had hoped the two-hour journey would allow his mind to drift round the subject of Taher and Tunisia and the mysterious informant who’d given them the tip-off.
No such luck.
Javed appeared to regard Holm as a fountain of all intelligence and policing knowledge he was determined to sup from. True, Holm did have several decades of experience while Javed looked as if he’d not even made the first repayment on his student loan. Still, the lad had to gain some respect before he earned the right to Holm’s wisdom. In the end Holm slipped a Miles Davis CD into the player and turned the volume up. Javed at first winced, then sulked, and then dozed.
Like a baby, Holm thought as he pulled into the car park at Suffolk police HQ and somewhat cruelly applied the brakes a little too harshly.
‘We’re here,’ Javed said, the sudden jerk waking him. He blinked and looked round. A large brick building encircled by a canal of green water stood in front of them. ‘Looks like they’re ready for any
thing. Perhaps we should dig up Millbank so we can have a moat too. MI6 have one, don’t they?’
‘I don’t think this moat has got anything to do with terrorism,’ Holm said. ‘Probably just an architect’s wet dream.’
‘Wet dream, good.’ Javed nodded in appreciation. ‘What do we do now?’
‘What we do is nothing. What I do is go in. Cornish is an old friend. I’d like to play on that a bit and you’ll be a gooseberry.’
‘Gooseberry?’ Javed tilted his head. He made an obscene thrusting movement with his hips. ‘So you’re hoping to slide back into your old parking space are you?’
‘No, of course not, I just meant…’ Holm stopped. What did he mean? It had been a decade or more since he’d seen Billie. Fifteen since they’d rolled around in her bed. Cornish wasn’t going to let their brief relationship from back then have any influence on her. Holm turned to Javed. Young, Asian, part-time Muslim, the lad’s sexuality worn on his sleeve. He bit his lip. ‘On second thoughts, you can come too. Billie Cornish always was one for ticking the boxes. You’ll be right up her street.’
‘Nice to know I’m wanted for something, even if it isn’t my abilities.’
At the front desk, Holm was annoyed to learn Cornish wasn’t on-site.
‘She’s out on a job,’ the desk sergeant said. ‘Dunwich Heath. She’ll be gone a while so she left instructions you were to head up there.’
Back in the car, Javed plotted the destination into his phone. ‘It’s on the coast,’ he said. ‘Looks like a nice beach. Pity I didn’t bring my Speedos.’
Half an hour later they were driving through heathland towards the sea. Yellow-tipped gorse and brown heather, a hint of the purple to come once that too was fully in flower. The road ended at a terrace of white cottages stuck out on their own. A grey sea churned in over a narrow strip of beach behind the cottages, and to the right stood several police vehicles. Two uniformed officers were preventing people in the nearby car park from venturing onto the heath and one of the officers waved down Holm as he drove up. Holm lowered the window and slipped out his identification.
‘I’m looking for Detective Chief Superintendent Cornish,’ Holm said. ‘Is she here?’
‘MI5?’ The officer peered down at Holm’s ID and raised his eyebrows at his colleague. He pointed across the heath to where several figures in white suits ghosted back and forth in a clump of stunted pines. ‘She’s over there.’
Holm thanked the officers and parked up.
They got out of the car, walked towards the trees and were met by an officer with a tablet which, when Holm flashed his ID once more, was thrust out for a signature.
‘I don’t think so,’ Holm said. He tapped his nose. ‘Not for Five, huh?’
For a moment the officer looked as if he was about to make a scene, but then he shrugged and let them pass.
‘Sir?’ Javed said.
‘A trace,’ Holm said. ‘As in we don’t want to leave one.’
Cornish stood over by the clump of pines conversing with a couple of white-suited CSIs. She had her back to them as Holm and Javed approached but was instantly recognisable from the long blonde hair which lay tightly plaited down to the small of her back. She had an inch or two on both the CSIs and a stature that suggested she could hold her own against anyone in a fight, male or female.
‘Stephen,’ Cornish said as she turned, offering her hand and smiling. ‘Great to see you again.’
Holm reached forward and took her hand. It seemed ridiculously formal considering he’d made love with this woman, lain in a post-coital embrace, their sweat mingling as their heartbeats slowed.
‘You too, Billie.’ Holm smiled back. Cornish looked as good as ever. Better. He had trouble believing she was forty. ‘It’s been a long time.’
‘Yes. The last case we worked on together was the girl we found in the Thames upstream of Teddington Lock. Three bin liners containing the body parts, the bags weighed down with bricks. If you remember, she was the wife of a right-wing nutcase who was planning to blow up a synagogue. She tried to do the right thing, but he killed her before she could report him. Of course in a strange way she still managed to put him behind bars. All’s well that ends well, hey?’
‘I wish you hadn’t reminded me. The memory’s cheered me up no end.’
‘Sorry for dragging you out here, but needs must.’ Cornish turned and gestured at the white terrace of cottages. ‘We can grab a coffee over at the National Trust cafe in a bit and have a chat about what you want from me.’
‘Sure, but one of your officers can help us. All we want to do is get the details for a crime that happened on your patch.’
‘Sorry?’ Cornish shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. You could have done that from London using the PNC. Why did you need to come all the way out here? Have MI5 not being paying their broadband bills or something?’
‘Or something.’ Holm stood with his hands in his pockets. Said nothing else.
‘Is this what you meant by getting my hands dirty?’
‘Look, if the case turns out to be of interest we’ll want more information. A lot more information. This is the easiest way to investigate without arousing suspicion.’
‘You could simply have phoned or emailed.’
Holm once more kept silent. Shrugged his shoulders.
‘National security, right?’ Cornish laughed and began to walk away. She gestured at the officer with the tablet. ‘See Mike over there. He’ll do it. If you need a printout or more info go back to HQ. I’ll let them know you’re coming. If you’re still around in an hour or so we can have that coffee, otherwise it’s been nice seeing you again, Stephen.’
‘I thought she was an old buddy of yours?’ Javed said once Cornish was out of earshot. ‘Doesn’t seem very friendly to me. Brushed you off like a speck of dandruff.’
‘It’s because we’re spooks,’ Holm said. ‘Not much love for us in the police force. Sometimes I wonder whose side they think we’re on.’
Was that it? Holm wondered, or was there something else. He thought they’d split amicably – after all she was the one who’d wanted to make the break – but perhaps there was a hint of regret layered in her brusqueness. Perhaps, unbelievably, there was still a spark of something between them, something that could be rekindled. On the other hand, perhaps he was just kidding himself.
They walked across to the officer Cornish had pointed out and made the request for the crime look-up.
‘Some guy called Ben Western,’ Holm said, trying to appear casual. ‘A missing person case I think.’
‘Did you say Ben Western?’ The officer coughed out the name with a sneer. He glanced back in the direction of Cornish. ‘Are you winding me up?’
‘Sorry?’ Holm tried to be polite. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘You might say so.’ For a moment it looked as if the officer would snap at Holm again, but then he sighed. ‘I think you’d better go and have another word with Detective Chief Superintendent Cornish. Tell her your crime is the Western misper case.’
‘That’s it?’ Holm waited for some clarification but the officer managed barely a nod before he turned away.
‘Helpful, this lot,’ Javed said as the officer walked off.
* * *
Silva headed for London on Monday and, thanks to light traffic on the motorway, made the journey in a little under three and a half hours. Sean was staying in a large house bordering Wimbledon Common; with the security gates and cameras the place could have been the residence of a Russian oligarch. However, the man who let her in and showed her where to park in the subterranean garage spoke English with an American accent.
‘Got a flat of my own here,’ Sean said when he met her in the reception area and took her upstairs. He gave Silva a smile. ‘Saves on expensive hotel rooms.’
Sean pushed open the door to his flat and showed her through to a luxuriously furnished living room. A balcony with French windows offered a fine view over Wimbledon Common, but the
place felt like the serviced apartment it was: anodyne pictures of sandy beaches and sunsets, a few knick-knacks, plain linen. Nice enough, but impersonal.
‘Don’t you get tired of this?’ Silva said. ‘Not having anywhere to call home?’
‘I’ve got a place back in Maine.’
‘It’s rented out.’
‘And you live on an old boat.’
‘The difference is it’s my boat with my things.’
‘Goes with the territory. I’ll settle down eventually. Couple of kids. Little League. Barbecues. Wash the car on the weekend. Not ready for that just yet though.’
‘Tonight,’ Silva said. ‘Why the secrecy?’
‘I’m a secret agent, remember? Besides, don’t you like surprises?’
Silva didn’t respond. Surprises were nice when they came packaged in paper and wrapped in ribbons. Handed over with love. Not when they were buried in a muddy track and ripped someone’s legs from their body. Not when they took away a loved one.
She dumped her panniers by the door and strolled over to where the French windows stood open. She looked out across the common, aware that just a few miles to the north east, Neil Milligan was probably sitting behind his desk at Third Eye News, while to the south of London, Matthew Fairchild was likely working in his office. She thought about Milligan’s slippery evasiveness and contrasted that with Fairchild’s steely resolve. Wondered what her next move should be.
‘Tea?’ Sean was across one side of the room by a small open-plan kitchen area. He’d made an effort, Silva could see. There was a plate of pastries, some fresh bread and a selection of cheeses. ‘There’s a buffet tonight, but I thought you might be hungry after the journey.’
‘Great,’ she said.
She moved from the window, determined to put Milligan, Fairchild, and Hope to the back of her mind for the rest of the day.
Chapter Thirteen
Cornish was standing near a white forensic shelter a good way across the heath, so Holm and Javed had to plough through the heather. As they approached, she looked up, her face quizzical.
