by Tim Stevens
Purkiss had boarded a flight at an airstrip east of Riyadh which looked like it was used by visiting nouveau riche. It had taken Vale an hour to procure it, and by the time the plane touched down at Heathrow it was after eight in the evening. Monday evening, Purkiss had to remind himself. The back-and-forth across time zones and the erratic sleep were confusing him slightly. He’d gone straight to the flat.
‘It’s the best lead we’ve got,’ said Purkiss.
Kasabian blew air out slowly, closed her eyes.
‘Let me get it straight. Hannah Holley is working with Strang.’
‘Yes.’
‘Your evidence being…’
Patiently, Purkiss ticked off the points on his fingers. ‘She conveniently had Morrow’s notebook, with Al-Bayati’s and Arkwright’s names in it. She was conveniently on the scene when the car bomb that killed Al-Bayati went off. She was there with me when Arkwright revealed Strang’s involvement in organising the torture of prisoners, and a few moments later we came under attack. I’m assuming she signalled the attacker somehow. She conveniently missed the flight to Riyadh, because she’d tipped off Scipio Rand that I was coming, and she knew I’d be walking into a death trap.’
Kasabian stared intently at a point Purkiss couldn’t see, as if she was trying the statements out for size. Then she shook her head.
‘Doesn’t fit. Why would she lead you to Arkwright if she knew he might implicate Strang?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Purkiss. ‘Perhaps she didn’t know he’d do that. Perhaps she was supposed to monitor the information he was giving me, and when he went too far, she signalled the gunman.’
‘But if she knows you’re on the trail of her boss, Strang, then why was she enacting this charade of helping you? Why did she appear just at the right time and save you from the bomb blast? Why not just let you die, or kill you herself, and have done with it?’
‘Again, I don’t know,’ Purkiss said. ‘She might have been trying to mislead me in some way, divert me down the wrong path. Or she might have been assigned to find out just how much I, and by association you, knew about Strang’s activities. When it became apparent that I was getting too close, she threw me to the wolves. Hence the ambush by the Scipio Rand people.’
Vale said, ‘Is there any record of this Holley being linked to Strang?’
‘No,’ said Kasabian distractedly. ‘Nothing direct. I don’t know her, personally, but naturally I’ve looked into her records since you called. She’s good. Top-notch work. Too young to have made a huge impact in the Service yet, but she’d have gone far. If it wasn’t for this.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I’ve tried a GPS trace on her phone, but of course she’s destroyed it. She’s a professional. Finding her is going to be difficult.’
‘I have to do it,’ said Purkiss.
Kasabian, who’d been sprawled in an armchair, stood up abruptly. She held up both hands in a theatrical gesture of despair.
‘Jesus Christ, Purkiss. Why the hell did you fall in with her? And why didn’t you tell me? I could have vetted her. We might have found something.’
‘Hey.’ Purkiss was standing now, too, his anger a tone lower than hers. ‘You told me to find Morrow’s killer. You didn’t tell me how to do it, or whom I could or couldn’t work with. If you had, I wouldn’t have taken the job on. So a little less of the high-and-mighty attitude.’
She stared up into his face, her eyes wide. The moment hung between them, razor-keen, until Kasabian blinked and tipped her head.
‘So what do you propose?’
‘I was going to start by visiting her flat,’ Purkiss said. ‘I don’t know the address, but you’ll have it. There might be a clue there.’
‘Doubtful,’ said Kasabian. ‘She’s hardly likely to have left anything lying around that’ll tell you her whereabouts.’
‘But she might have left a trap there for me,’ said Purkiss. ‘She’ll assume I’ll search her place. And springing traps when you know they’re there can sometimes reveal things about the people who set them.’
He waited a moment, then: ‘Unless you can think of something else.’
Kasabian sighed. ‘Worth a try, I suppose.’
From his corner of the room, Vale said, ‘Is there any news on the official investigation into Morrow’s death?’
Kasabian shook her head. ‘No. They’re looking into cases he was currently involved with, but so far nothing’s come up. It’s creating a bit of a panic within the Service, to be honest. But Strang will be sitting pretty. All this flap just keeps the focus away from him.’
She and Vale left together, Purkiss remaining behind in the flat. As soon as they were out the door, Purkiss went over to the armchair Vale had been sitting in. Beneath a cushion, he found the memory stick left there.
Vale could have emailed the information, but emails might be intercepted.
Purkiss opened a laptop computer he’d bought on the way to the flat. He booted it up and inserted the memory stick into the port. A single file popped up.
Purkiss opened it. It was a Ministry of Defence document, which Vale had obtained with relatively ease, or so he’d said, through his SIS links. It listed all the personnel of the Parachute Regiment who’d served in Iraq during Operation Telic, the British campaign in the country which had lasted from the beginning of the invasion in March 2003 until the last troops had left in May 2011.
The Parachute Regiment was divided into three battalions, or four if you counted the Territorial Army one, which served as a reserve force for the other three. Most of the personnel had been there in the first six months, forming part of 16 Air Assault Brigade during the invasion itself and remaining in the immediate aftermath before being withdrawn back to Britain. As the occupation became ever more American-dominated, there was little record of repeated deployments of the three Para battalions in the country. Purkiss knew they’d mostly been diverted to that other arena, Afghanistan.
Which made it all the easier to spot the personnel who had returned.
There were around thirty in all. Glancing through the names, Purkiss noticed that every one of them had been involved in the initial invasion. It suggested that people with local knowledge of the country were being chosen to come back, for some purpose that wasn’t clear, as the document gave no indication of the type of operations the personnel were involved in.
Kendrick’s name was on the list. He’d returned to Iraq, to Baghdad this time instead of Basra where Purkiss had first met him, in late 2005, and remained there until 2007. That was when he’d left the armed forces, as Purkiss remembered.
Kendrick had told him he’d gone back to Iraq, but he hadn’t spoken much about his work there, and Purkiss had assumed it was routine peacekeeping duties.
Out in the desert in Saudi, Ericson had told Purkiss that Scipio Rand had received and processed Iraqi prisoners during 2006. He might have been wrong about the year – dehydration and heat stroke could do that – but the fact that he’d been so specific suggested to Purkiss that the year was the correct one.
Ericson had been less sure about which parachute battalion the prisoners’ escorts had come from – I think it was Two Para, he’d said – so Purkiss decided to stay on the safe side and include members of the other two battalions as well. He created a new document, and included the names of all Paras stationed in Iraq during 2006. There were fifteen of them in total.
A pool of ten or so, Ericson had said. It was about right.
Purkiss sent Vale a text message: Can you talk?
The reply came less than a minute later.
Yes.
Purkiss dialled. ‘Where are you?’ he said, when Vale answered.
‘On Millbank, heading for the tube,’ said Vale. ‘I’ve just left Kasabian.’
‘I need another favour,’ said Purkiss. ‘Can you track down contact details for some of the personnel on that list? Personal mobile numbers, home addresses, workplaces, whatever.’
‘Should be able to.’
‘Got a pen?’ said Purkiss. He listed fourteen of the names, spelling them where necessary, omitting Kendrick’s.
Half an hour later Vale rang back. ‘I’ve got them.’
He began to read them out. After Purkiss had transcribed half of them, he said: ‘Could you check out the other seven? Save a bit of time. I just want to know where they are now, what they’re doing. And if any of them would be available for interview.’
‘Can do,’ said Vale, ‘though it’s half past ten at night. The workplace numbers won’t be much use now.’
‘Let’s just see how far we get,’ said Purkiss.
He rang the first number on the list, which again had come courtesy of the Ministry of Defence via Vale’s SIS link. It was a home phone number for a Para named Hollingworth. The area code was outer London.
After six rings, just as Purkiss assumed the voicemail function was going to kick in, the receiver was snatched up and a woman’s voice said, ‘Hello?’
‘Good evening,’ said Purkiss. ‘Sorry to call so late. It’s nothing to worry about. I wonder if I might speak to Mr Terence Hollingsworth?’
The silence on the other end went on for so long that Purkiss wondered if he’d been cut off. Then he heard the choking sob.
‘Madam?’ he said.
He heard another voice, also a woman’s, and the rustling of the receiver being taken by someone else. ‘Who is this, please?’
‘I’m an associate of Terence Hollingsworth. I need to speak to him urgently.’
The silence was briefer this time. The new woman’s voice said, ‘I’m assuming you don’t know.’
‘Know what?’
‘Terry Hollingsworth was in a climbing accident last week Thursday. He’s… he’s dead. His wife isn’t really up to speaking to anyone right now, especially this time of night.’ The woman’s voice grew firmer. ‘Who did you say you were again?’
Purkiss ended the call.
He dialled the next number. It was a military barracks in Colchester, Essex.
The woman who answered was clipped, professional. Purkiss introduced himself as a solicitor.
‘I’m trying to locate a Darren Wallace as a matter of urgency.’
The woman asked him to hold. She returned a minute later.
‘Sir? I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news. Sergeant Wallace is no longer with us.’
‘Could you perhaps tell me his new address? It’s –’
‘No, I’m afraid you misunderstand me.’ She kept up the professionally detached tone well, Purkiss noticed distantly. ‘Sergeant Wallace is dead. He and four other military personnel were involved in a fatal motorway collision last month. If you’d like to speak to –’
Again, Purkiss ended the call.
He rang Vale.
‘Quentin, there’s a problem.’
‘I know,’ said Vale.
Forty-six
They decided together that ringing around and having to find out from grieving relatives that their spouses or sons were dead, was neither the most humane nor the most efficient way of doing it.
Instead, Vale suggested trying his SIS contact once more. The person, whoever it was, had some kind of liaison role with the Ministry of Defence, and the MoD was under instructions to cooperate fully. Purkiss imagined that rankled.
‘I’ll ask for up-to-date records of all military personnel recently deceased,’ said Vale. ‘It won’t capture everyone on the list, because many of these men will have already left the Forces. But it’ll whittle it down.’
While Purkiss waited, his skin crawling in frustration, he thought about what he and Vale had discovered. Six former Paras so far, all of whom had been in Iraq in 2006, turned out to have died within the last two weeks. They’d succumbed to an assortment of fates: car accidents, drive-by shootings, falling in front of a tube train while drunk. And then there was Kendrick, not quite dead, having been shot in the head. Some of the deaths were made to look like accidents, but in others there’d been no attempt to pretend that anything but a deliberate killing had occurred. It was as if the priority was to get these men dead by whatever means were available, and if that meant murder in broad daylight, then so be it.
Purkiss used the waiting time to limber up. His left arm was sore and stiff from the bite he’d sustained, and he had a mild sunburn from the desert. He rode out the pain, doing press ups, sit ups and squats, adrenaline and the caffeine he’d drunk making him feel wired and edgy.
At a little before midnight, the city outside calmed if not slumbering, Purkiss’s phone rang.
Vale said: ‘Of the remaining eight men, we have confirmation that four are dead. Two were with your man, Wallace, in that collision on the motorway. Two were gunned down outside a nightclub in Dartford. That last pair were no longer in the military, but I got someone in the Work and Pensions Department out of bed to check on them.’
Purkiss whistled silently. ‘Great work, Quentin. The others?’
‘No record that they’re dead, or alive. But…’
Purkiss waited.
‘One of the names. Tullivant. He’s got an interesting connection,’ said Vale.
‘Connection.’
‘With none other than Sir Guy Strang.’
Purkiss listened as Vale explained. At the end, he realised he was gripping the phone hard enough to make the plastic squeak.
‘My God,’ murmured Purkiss.
‘Quite.’
And there it was. The way in, at last.
Forty-seven
It should have been perfect, an occasion for Emma to savour.
She and James had previously arranged to meet that Monday evening at nine, in a pub across the river from the headquarters at Thames House. As usual, Emma contrived a call-out to attend to Sir Guy – it was becoming increasingly easy; now that he’d apparently had a run of heart problems, she could just say he’d had a relapse and needed her attention – and greeted Brian at the door to say she was going out. Furthermore, Brian tentatively asked if she minded if he went out for a drink himself with some of his sporting friends that evening, and of course she said yes. It meant she could enjoy her time with James without the constant, niggling guilt tugging at her, the knowledge that Brian was alone at home with the children. Ulyana had said she could stay overnight if necessary to be with the kids, so all the arrangements were in place.
Except that Emma set off for central London with dread bearing down on her like a physical presence.
She considered, as she walked to the tube station, putting off confronting James with the second bug she’d found, at least until after they’d made love. But she wouldn’t be able to relax, to let herself go, and he’d know something was wrong. Better to clear the air at the outset, she thought. If clearing the air was what she was going to achieve, and she had her doubts.
The tube train was crowded on a Monday evening, the air stuffy with hot bodies and poor ventilation, and Emma found herself standing, gripping one of the poles for support and sandwiched in between two other commuters.
It was at Fulham Broadway, as the doors were sliding open, that she felt the arm round her waist, the hand on her arm tugging her towards the doors. Before she could gasp, she heard James’s voice in her ear.
‘It’s me. Come on, we’re getting off.’
Too startled to reply, she allowed herself to be steered down onto the platform. She turned to look at James but he nodded towards the exit, his face grim.
‘Let’s go.’
They marched through the press of passengers towards the stairs, then the escalators. Emma felt panic rising in her.
‘James, what –’
‘Don’t say anything. Keep moving.’
He hustled her through the exit barriers and out onto the street. A few yards down the road, they stopped at a car, a black BMW. James pushed her into the passenger seat, then started the engine.
She stared at him wordlessly.
Once he was out on the road, he glanced across at her.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said.
‘You followed me?’
James ignored that. ‘I need to talk to you,’ he said.
‘I found another bug,’ Emma blurted angrily. ‘One of those things you’ve been hiding in my handbag, in my lipstick. Why, James? Is it just what you do? Spies, spooks, whatever you call yourself? Do you just tag and eavesdrop on people because it’s second nature to you?’
Again he didn’t reply.
‘James.’ Fury was smothering her fear. ‘I need answers. Now.’
He sighed, his eyes on the road ahead. ‘Yes. I planted those devices.’
Emma felt an immediate, immense rush of feeling, though its exact nature wasn’t clear. It wasn’t relief, that was for sure.
‘Why?’
‘Because I needed to find something out.’
‘For God’s sake.’ She felt her voice rising, nudging the lower reaches of hysteria. ‘Enough of the cryptic comments. Just – tell me.’
He was turning down streets unfamiliar to Emma. Darkened, silent residential streets with rows of terraced houses.
‘James, where are you taking me?’ Her voice was suddenly thinner, less bold.
In his temple, a taut ridge of muscle bulged.
‘James…’
This time it was a whisper.
Forty-eight
Dr Emma Goddard.
Purkiss looked at her picture on his phone. She was registered on the General Medical Council’s website as a family doctor of seven years’ standing. There was no photo, but she’d published a couple of research papers through Imperial College London and her mugshot was on the university webpage.
The picture was that of a pretty, coolly confident blonde woman in her mid-thirties. Below it was a brief blurb: she was married with two children, and worked as a general practitioner in south-west London.
That last part was out of date. But the university website could hardly mention that Dr Goddard was the personal physician to the director of MI5, Sir Guy Strang.
Her home address was, surprisingly, still listed on the GMC site. It was in Wimbledon. Purkiss memorised it, then looked at his watch.
