by Roger Pearce
‘A licence for deceit,’ she said, inching away from Steroids. ‘How dreadfully cynical.’
‘The macho side of intelligence work,’ said Steroids with a sneer.
‘Both wrong.’ Kerr took another deep breath, mentally erasing the ‘with respect’ preface. ‘But grasping undercover work is difficult territory for senior officers who have never been there.’
Kerr had ignored the warning about switching off mobiles and, in his breast pocket, the BlackBerry started vibrating. He felt them all staring, as if challenging him to answer it.
‘Sorry,’ he murmured, lifting his palm to cover the noise.
Steroids was about to say something but Weatherall checked him, then paused to look at Kerr over her glasses. ‘And you have, haven’t you?’ she said. ‘Been there?’
Each panel member had a copy of Kerr’s service record and application, but Weatherall suddenly produced an original pair of pale yellow A4 sheets with the Home Office logo, a rabbit out of the hat. Kerr immediately recognised the summary of his annual security interview, known as the DVR, the ‘developed vetting refresher.’ DV status gave access to classified material; for an intelligence officer, its withdrawal was game over.
‘You were an undercover operative, weren’t you?’
‘I don’t think that’s relevant…’
‘…and you had a…you duped an activist into having an intimate relationship with you…’
‘This is a personal thing,’ said Kerr, sitting forward in his chair, Ritchie’s tip-off ringing in his ears.
‘…and she gave birth to a daughter.’
‘Not for discussion here.’
‘Really?’ said Weatherall, covering the papers with her hand. ‘And what does that tell us about transparency? Your personal integrity? You deceived this woman, yet now you invite us to promote you.’
Kerr looked to the others, but they were fiddling with their notes, avoiding him. ‘Actually, I don’t think Robyn has ever regarded herself as a victim.’
Weatherall was giving him the look again. ‘But I take it you regret what you did to her?’
Kerr shook his head. ‘We’re very proud of our daughter. Her name is Gabrielle, by the way, and the three of us speak all the time. Robyn is a highly respected human rights campaigner, just back from a tough assignment in Belfast. For what it’s worth, we think the Hammersmith car bomb may have been targeted against her.’
‘That’s awful,’ said Bizcon, making Robyn’s brush with death sound like a compliance failure. ‘But in terms of personal morality, professional ethics, probity, whatever, you accept that you are compromised, right?’
Through the window an airliner crossed Kerr’s line of vision, descending on its final approach into Heathrow. He sat back, crossed his legs and looked between them. ‘I think you should move on from this line of questioning. We all know it’s completely inappropriate,’ he said, just as the mobile came back to life.
Steroids was glaring again. ‘You want to turn that thing off?’
‘It’s alright,’ said Weatherall, clearing her throat. ‘Mr Kerr, this is a competitive process, with a number of highly experienced candidates. You’ve served many years in the Special Branch arena. Useful work, some of it, but we’ve moved on. Intelligence is MI5’s remit now.’
‘And you’re saying that’s an improvement?’
She closed the file, sending Kerr another pulse of alarm. ‘I think we should pause to take stock. A moment while I consult.’ The hairclip skewered him again as she looked to each side, drawing them into a University Challenge huddle. Kerr used the time to check his BlackBerry. There was a repeat text from Alan Fargo: ‘prot msg hs missing call in urgent.’
‘I’m going to propose an interim measure we can review in, say, twelve months,’ said Weatherall, sounding almost apologetic. ‘You seem to us a classic candidate for SkillShare.’
Kerr heard the whoosh of the torpedo. Bomb gone. Derided in the Twittersphere as #ShoeHorn, Weatherall’s signature programme was a rehashed system for uprooting specialists for dispersal around the Met. Already discredited, its most recent high profile victim was Detective Inspector Kirsty Jakes, mother of three and one of the Met’s finest homicide investigators. A friend of Melanie, she had been transferred overnight to co-ordinate Neighbourhood Watch, then sacked because of a mildly satirical post on her Facebook page.
Kerr could tell that Weatherall had just been confirming, not taking counsel, and his future had been stitched up even before the introductions. She managed a smile. ‘That alright with you?’
‘Why would a mathematician want to teach geography? Check the blogs. Everyone knows it’s counter-productive.’ The mobile was tickling Kerr’s palm. ‘I need to check this.’
‘We’re not done here,’ snapped Steroids, looking angry enough to leap over the table. ‘Show the chair some respect.’
Kerr ignored him. This time Fargo had sent an email, backed by a text to call in immediately. Kerr scanned the gist, then studied the detail. He faced them again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, expressionless. ‘What more is there to say?’
‘You’ll know we’ve been advertising for professionals from other walks of life to join us,’ said Steroids.
‘Direct entry superintendents, yes. Fast food retail to crack house bust in a week. I thought that fantasy had been quietly dropped?’
‘I’m looking for leaders who can bring freshness to the Service, a business-oriented perspective. Why should we select you over one of them?’
‘Why not?’ said Kerr.
‘The Home Secretary wants an entirely new approach,’ said Weatherall.
‘Not any more,’ said Kerr flatly, holding up his BlackBerry. ‘Someone just executed Avril Knight with a single shot to the head. The protection team found her body in a garden shed in west London. We believe it’s linked to the bombing campaign, so I have to leave right now.’ He stood and buttoned his jacket. ‘Unless you want to send one of your takeaway stars?’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Monday, 17 October, 11.17, Holyhead Ferry Terminal, Isle of Anglesey
Gina Costello suspected they were being followed within minutes of clanking off the ferry at Holyhead on the Isle of Anglesey, just after her boyfriend had mock saluted the freshly painted Croeso y Gymru sign, ‘Welcome to Wales.’
To hide beneath the security radar, Costello had taken her usual circuitous route from Amsterdam to London: a cheap Aer Lingus flight from Schiphol into Dublin, a drop by her mother’s seaside home in Killiney to collect the British registered car, and then by sea to Holyhead. Because of an engine fault, the ferry had been over two hours late leaving Dublin. Traipsing below deck as they bumped against the dock, Costello had felt a weary frustration as the articulated lorries disembarked in a noisy procession of late deliveries, missed pick-ups and bad-tempered calls to depots on the English mainland. Though tired, she was absolutely certain that the ship’s assortment of cars, towed caravans and motorcycles had not included the brown Volvo estate and silver Honda Accord that drifted into her vision as she crossed the railway bridge and joined the A55 Expressway.
Costello rarely tested her ageing maroon Fiat Uno above sixty-five these days, and the traffic soon dispersed ahead of her like mist. But these two cars stayed with her, the Honda in front, the estate holding back behind a Dutch container lorry. There seemed to be a third player, too, a motorcyclist who joined from the old Holyhead Road, both rider and Suzuki featureless in black, speeding away only to reappear on the slip road from Llangefni.
‘What do you think, Jay?’ she said, stroking her boyfriend’s thigh.
They had reached a raised stretch of road and Jay was looking across the Menai Strait towards Snowdonia. It was a beautiful autumn day, with rain not expected until late evening, and the distant mountain range was a rich texture of deep shadowed valleys beneath snow-capped peaks.
‘Absolutely bloody beautiful.’
Costello flipped his visor for the vanity mirror. ‘Shit colou
red Volvo behind the truck with the foreign plates.’
Jay peered into the tiny glass for a second, then swung round to check through the rear window. ‘And?’
Her finger flicked up from the steering wheel. ‘Silver Accord up ahead. Two on board and I’m pretty sure they weren’t on the ferry.’
‘Isn’t it a bit old hat now, following that close?’ he said, returning to the mountains. ‘I thought Plod uses trackers these days.’
‘That’s his third pass,’ she said as the motorcycle flashed by, doing seventy plus. ‘Fucking police state.’
He tugged at her shirt. ‘Or Gina being paranoid.’
‘Fuck off, you,’ she said, pinching his leg.
Jay pointed at the next exit sign. ‘So let’s find out.’
Costello pulled off at the village of Llanfair PG, a truncation of Europe’s longest place name. Abbreviated out of pity to signwriters and the English, its full fifty-eight characters stretched the length of the platform at the train station. Checking her mirrors, she turned off the high street and bumped over the railway crossing beside the signal box, enhanced by neat flower beds and window boxes. She continued down the single track lane away from the village and stopped at the first passing place while they wound down the windows and listened. Silence, except for cows and birdsong.
Deeply pitted and bordered by tall hedgerows, the lane was evidently intended for local drivers who conceded nothing to oncoming strangers, and Costello had to give way twice before reaching the Farmers Arms, a pub so old and sunken it seemed to have emerged from the undergrowth. The lane continued across a stone bridge before swinging left to rejoin the main road but Costello pulled into the muddy car park packed with spattered flatbeds, pick-ups and quad bikes.
The clock above the door showed ten minutes before noon but farmers were already crowding the bar with pints and crisps, everyone speaking Welsh. The men stooped beneath the blackened oak beams, taller and bulkier than their nineteenth century ancestors, and fell silent to register the two foreigners. Costello ordered pints of lager and led Jay through a low arch into the stone flagged snug.
They sat beside a trestle table loaded with coffee mugs over a scattering of leaflets (Gas From Shale? No Sale!) and Costello realised they must have arrived at the end of a protest meeting. The snug was empty except for an elderly woman in comfortable trainers and a yellow sweater with an embroidered red dragon breathing the words ‘Frack Off!’ The campaign organiser, guessed Costello, waiting for her lift home. Sipping cider, she peered through lopsided glasses at The Times, marked in newsagent’s pencil with the name ‘Rhiannon.’ The completed crossword lay abandoned on the floor with a Sudoku book. ‘Are you press?’ she enquired in English, stooping to toss a couple of logs into the grate.
Jay finished his drink in four or five gulps, just as the Volvo appeared from the other end of the lane. It crossed the bridge, visor down, and continued slowly past the pub. A couple of minutes later they saw the Honda lurch into the car park from the narrow lane they had just driven, squeezing into the only remaining space beside the stream.
Then the pub fell quiet again apart from the crackling of the logs as a skinny Asian man in his late twenties eased a path to the bar. A stocky white woman in jeans and T-shirt followed him, an ex-military type with the smudge of a tattoo on her forearm. She leaned in to order two Diet Cokes, slice, no ice, then hovered with her partner outside the snug as the hubbub revived around them. They stood sideways to each other and drank without relish, looking nowhere while the locals stared at them, the world’s most unlikely lovers a long way from home.
‘No way are those two legit,’ said Costello, drinking up. ‘Let’s go.’
The Expressway took them across the Britannia Bridge, then raced towards Chester. To flush out her followers Costello chose the old A5, the original historic route through the mountains, with sharp bends, fierce climbs and plenty of stopping places. Traffic here was light and they pulled in to goof around with selfies, Jay pretending to support the mountain with one hand, Costello working through her ironic sex worker routine. The Honda cruised past as they loitered by a lake, and they found the motorcycle at a lay-by three miles further down the road. To their right, a ribbon of water traced the bottom of a glacial valley dotted with farmhouses, then they were driving beneath a slope of scree and rocks, an avalanche waiting to happen. Nearing the high point, Costello suddenly swerved onto a stony track that disappeared behind a screen of bushes. She switched off the engine, ramped back her seat and smiled at him.
Jay peered up at a towering mass of smooth grey slate, slickened by mountain springwater. ‘Here?’
‘Why not?’ she said, untucking his T-shirt and sliding her hand down his belly. ‘You frightened of the sheep?’
Up ahead, a farm gate had been hooked open. ‘What if he comes back?’
‘He’ll wait.’ Through a gap in the bushes she registered a flash of brown as the Volvo cruised past on the main drag. Jay was already hard as she unzipped his fly and released him. Wriggling out of her jeans and pants, she slithered into his space. ‘Let’s give them something to talk about.’
There was no hesitation. In the middle of the night, tipsy and bored by the ferry’s delay, they had managed to sneak below deck for sex in the car, and knew the logistics of penetration in a Fiat Uno. Jay reclined his seat, shuffled down and arched his hips as Costello unbuttoned her shirt and lowered herself onto him. From the main road came the throb of a passing motor cycle, then Costello caught the glint of a distant camera lens through the offside window, and the Englishwoman from the pub, perched on a drystone wall thirty paces below them.
Towards the end Costello’s head kept banging against the swaying roof. ‘Alright?’ mumbled Jay as she squirmed to wedge her left knee against the gear stick. ‘No, it’s beautiful,’ she said, accelerating the rhythm again. ‘Awesome, absolutely fucking awesome,’ she laughed as his mouth found her breast, and even managed a smile for the camera.
•••
Monday, 17 October, 12.48, The Fishbowl
Despite the heavy maintenance payments and high rent, Karl Sergeyev appeared to be wearing another new suit, a light grey two piece with faint red stripe. Elegant and coolly handsome in a crisp white shirt and powder blue tie, Nancy’s former husband paused by the open door waiting for Kerr to wave him in, respectful as ever. For years the two Special Branch men had counted each other as friends, and Kerr greeted him warmly as he cleared a pile of books and a DVD from the visitor’s chair. Tieless after the morning’s eighth floor fiasco, his own jacket hanging from the back of the door, Kerr waited for Sergeyev to adjust his holster before picking an imaginary speck from his trouser leg, like a talk show host playing for time. Or the Foreign Secretary’s close protection officer, slumming it in the Fishbowl.
‘So how are the kids?’ said Karl.
‘Fine,’ said Kerr. Both were still coming to terms with the reversal in roles. The court had granted Sergeyev regular access to his children but it was Kerr, the substitute dad, who read them Horrid Henry most evenings.
Sergeyev shook his head as Kerr held up the coffee pot. ‘And Nancy?’
‘Everything going well. I’d call you otherwise.’
‘Very good, John. Thank you.’ Sergeyev looked genuinely relieved. Kerr had hooked up with Nancy several months before her divorce, yet Sergeyev had never openly resented Kerr for taking his place in her bed. In fact, their domestic triangle rarely featured when they bumped into each other, except to ask about the children. Since August Sergeyev had been seeing a Russian model and actress with money and a wine bar in Chelsea, so Kerr guessed he was too distracted for jealousy. For Nancy, victim of his countless extra-marital affairs, it was a bad conscience that kept her ex silent. ‘Guilt hangs around Karl like aftershave,’ she had insisted to Kerr in the early days of their romance. ‘Believe me, John, I can still smell the cologne.’
‘Thanks for dropping by,’ said Kerr, easing behind his desk. Since the transfer of min
isterial protection from Bill Ritchie’s intelligence unit, Sergeyev had become his primary source for the secrets, tricks and frailties of the people they safeguarded. With Kerr detained on his promotion board, Alan Fargo had tracked Sergeyev down to the VIP lounge at Heathrow Terminal Five, just arrived from Tehran.
‘No problem. I made a few calls, dropped the man at King Charles Street and came straight here.’
‘Anything? Such as, you know, how the fuck could they have allowed this to happen?’
Sergeyev gave a shrug. ‘Sorry, boss, can’t get anywhere near Avril Knight’s team.’ His stamina was always a source of amazement to Kerr: despite the overnight flight, Karl looked as if he had spent a lazy weekend at the beach. ‘Finch has them practically under lock and key, like they’re the ones who killed her. Everyone strictly incommunicado. Long story short, we have protection command in meltdown and Number Ten scapegoating like crazy. Losing a principal never looks good, does it? Careless.’ He shot Kerr a look of injured professional pride. ‘Especially like this. Very stupid.’
‘How about Ted?’ Kerr often found civilian ministerial drivers to be the most productive sources of all.
The shake of the head again. ‘In the frame, with the others.’
‘Alright, Karl. Well, thanks for trying,’ said Kerr, raising his hand in a telephone mime. ‘And, you know, if you manage to pick up anything…’
‘Actually, I used to know someone in the private office. Sara, one of the diary secretaries? She remembers you?’ he said, waiting for Kerr’s nod. ‘Anyway, Knight sacked her last month for something totally rubbish…time-keeping, I think. Tell me, John, should someone lose her job for wanting a personal life?’
‘And you stayed in touch?’
‘She’s the person I called from the airport, actually.’ Sergeyev smoothed his trouser leg, flashing double cuffs and a Breitling watch with multiple time zones. ‘Listen, Avril Knight was absent from her HA because she was seriously over the side.’
