He increased the pace as he turned into Oakley Street and sprinted the last hundred yards, then stood stretching as he held on to the black railings at the top of the stairs that led down to his flat. A blonde in a smart pale green suit carrying a Louis Vuitton briefcase flashed him a dazzlingly white smile and he grinned back.
"Looking good," she said, then she was gone, heading for South Kensington Tube station.
Fullerton had seen her three times during the past week and had the feeling that she was deliberately timing her journey to coincide with his return from his run. He'd noticed the wedding ring on her finger the first time he'd seen her, but her smiles were getting wider and there was a definite swing to her hips as she walked away. She was pretty enough, but she was in her early thirties, probably a decade his senior, and Fullerton had long since passed through the stage of being attracted to older women.
He went down the metal steps to his front door and let himself in. The flat had a minimum of furniture: two simple grey sofas facing each other either side of a coal-effect gas fire, a low coffee table made from some dark veneer that hadn't been within a mile of a genuine tree, and a sideboard which was bare except for an inoffensive African wood carving that he would have thrown out if it hadn't been high up on the list of the landlord's inventory that he'd had to sign when he'd taken on the lease.
Fullerton stripped off his tracksuit top and tossed it on to the sofa by the window before dropping on to the beige carpet and doing his daily one hundred and twenty sit-ups. He was sweating by the time he finished, but his breathing was still regular and though his abdominal muscles ached he knew that he was nowhere near his limit.
He walked through to the bathroom, which was as utilitarian as the sitting room, and showered before going into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. On the back of the bedroom door a dark blue uniform with silver buttons hung on a wooden hanger. He picked up the hanger and grinned at the uniform.
"A fucking cop," he chuckled to himself.
"Who'd've believed it?"
He tossed the uniform on to the bed. The helmet with its gleaming silver emblem of the Metropolitan Police was on the dressing table and Fullerton picked it up. He placed it on his head and adjusted the chin strip. It was heavy but it sat firmly on his head. He turned to look at his reflection in the mirrored door of the wardrobe. He stopped grinning and snapped to attention, then slowly saluted.
"Evening all," he said. He flexed his biceps, then stepped into a bodybuilder's pose. His towel slid to the floor and he grinned at his naked reflection.
He jumped as his doorbell rang, and his face flushed involuntarily as he realised how ridiculous he looked, naked except for a policeman's helmet.
He put the helmet on the bed next to the uniform, wrapped the towel around his waist and rushed down the hallway to the front door. He opened it, expecting to see the postman, but instead was faced with a man in his thirties wearing a dark blue blazer and grey slacks, like a holiday rep preparing to greet a planeload of holiday makers.
"James Fullerton?" asked the man, his face a blank mask as if he didn't care either way whether or not he was.
"Yes?" said Fullerton hesitantly.
"There's been a change of venue," said the man.
"And you are?"
"The man who's been sent to take you to the new venue," he said without a trace of humour. He was holding a set of car keys in his right hand. His shoes were as highly polished as the pair that Fullerton kept in the bottom of his wardrobe. Policeman's shoes.
"Look, I'm supposed to be at Hendon at eight thirty," said Fullerton.
"The police college."
"I know what Hendon is, sir," said the man in the blazer.
"You're to come with me instead."
"Do you have a letter or something?"
"No," said the man coldly.
"No letter."
Fullerton looked at the man. The man returned his look with total impassivity as he clasped his hands together over his groin and waited patiently. It was clear that he wasn't going to divulge any further information.
"Right," said Fullerton.
"Let me get dressed." He started to close the door.
"The uniform won't be necessary, sir." Fullerton stopped closing the door.
"Excuse me?"
"The uniform. It won't be necessary." Fullerton frowned.
"What do I wear, then?" The man in the blazer leaned forward as if about to whisper conspiratorially.
"Frankly, sir," he said, "I couldn't give a fuck." Fullerton closed the door and stood in the hallway with his head in the hands wondering what the hell was going on. His application to join the Metropolitan Police had been accepted three months earlier, and the letter telling him when to report to Hendon had arrived shortly afterwards. The sudden change of plan could only be bad news.
Cliff "Bunny' Warren poured a slug of milk over his Shredded Wheat, dumped on two heaped spoonfuls of brown sugar and carried the bowl over to the Formica table in the corner of his kitchen. He wrapped his dressing gown around himself, propped up a textbook against the wall and read as he ate. Reforming Social Services. The content of the book was as dry as the cereal straight from the packet, but Warren knew that it was required reading. He was already behind in his Open University reading and had a stack of videos next to the television that he still had to watch.
The doorbell rang, three sharp blasts as if whoever was ringing was in a hurry. Warren put down his spoon and walked slowly down the hallway. He put the chain on the door before opening it. The part of Harlesden he lived in was home to an assortment of drug addicts and petty thieves who wouldn't think twice about kicking down a door, beating him senseless and taking what few possessions he had. His upstairs neighbour, a widower in his seventies, had been broken into six times in the past two years.
A white man in a dark blue blazer smiled through the gap.
"Clifford Warren?"
"Who wants to know?"
"I've a car waiting for you, sir."
Warren's brow furrowed as he opened the door further. Parked in the street a few doors away was a brand new Vauxhall Vectra that was already attracting the attention of two West Indian teenagers.
"You don't want to leave it there," warned Warren.
"Not if you want to see your radio again."
The man took a quick look over his shoulder.
"Thanks for the tip, sir," he said.
"I'll wait with the vehicle."
"Does every new recruit get this treatment?" asked Warren.
"You're a bit of a special case, I'm told, sir," said the man, adjusting his red and blue tie.
"I've been told to tell you that the uniform won't be necessary."
"Am I in some sort of trouble?" asked Warren, suddenly concerned.
The man shrugged.
"Not that I'm aware of, sir, but then they don't tell me much, me being a driver and all." He looked at his watch.
"Best not to be late, sir."
Warren nodded.
"Okay, okay," he said and closed the door as the man went back to guard his car.
He walked slowly into his bedroom and took off his dressing gown. His police uniform was hanging from the key that locked the wardrobe door. He reached out and stroked the blue serge. Warren had thought long and hard before applying to join the Metropolitan Police. He'd had a few minor convictions when he was a teenager, mainly joy riding and stealing from cars, and he'd been up front about his past during the many interviews they'd put him through. However, in the wake of a slump in recruitment, the Met had been forced to drop its requirement that applicants had a completely trouble-free past. They were especially keen on Warren as he was West Indian, and were currently bending over backwards to increase their intake of ethnic minorities. It was racism, albeit acting in reverse, and Warren figured that he might as well take advantage of it. However, the presence of the man in the blazer waiting in the car outside suggested that his entry into the ranks of the
Metropolitan Police wasn't going to go as smoothly as he'd hoped.
Christina Leigh lit her first cigarette of the morning, inhaled deeply, then spent a good thirty seconds coughing as she walked slowly towards the kitchen, wrapping her robe around her.
"Tomorrow I'm giving up," she promised herself for the thousandth time.
She switched on the kettle and heaped two spoonfuls of Nescafe Gold Blend into a white mug. As she took a second pull on her Silk Cut she frowned at the clock above the ten-year-old refrigerator.
"Eight o'clock?" she muttered.
"How the hell can it be eight o'clock already?" She hurried back into the bedroom and took her blue uniform out of the wardrobe and laid it carefully on the bed. Her regulation shoes sat on her dressing table, gleaming under the fluorescent strip light above her mirror, and her hat hung on a hook on the back of the door. She picked up the hat and sat it carefully on her head, then adjusted the angle. Try as she might, it didn't look right and she wondered whether day one at Hendon would involve teaching recruits how to wear the bloody things. At least she didn't have to wear the same silly pointed helmets as the men. The doorbell rang and she jumped.
She rushed to the door of her flat and flung it open. A grey-haired man in his early fifties smiled down at her. He was wearing a dark blue blazer and grey trousers and must have been almost seven feet tall, because Tina had to crane her neck to look at his face.
"Whatever you're selling, I really don't have the time," she said. She took a quick pull on her cigarette.
"Or the money. And how did you get in? The front door's supposed to be locked."
"Didn't anyone tell you that smoking in uniform is grounds for dismissal?" said the man in a soft Northumbrian accent.
"What?" said Tina, but as soon as the word had left her mouth she realised that she was still wearing the police hat. She grabbed it and held it behind her back.
"I'm not a cop," she said.
"Not yet. A police officer, I mean. I'm not actually a police officer." She leaned over and stabbed the cigarette into an ashtray on the hall table.
"What do you want?"
The man smiled at her, the skin at the side of his eyes creasing into deep crow's feet.
"Christina Leigh?"
"Yes?" said Tina hesitantly.
"Your chariot awaits."
"My what?"
"Your car."
"I don't have a bleedin' car. I barely have enough for a bus ticket."
"I'm here to drive you, Miss Leigh."
"To Hendon?"
"To an alternative venue."
"I'm supposed to report to Hendon half past eight." She took a quick look at the watch on her wrist.
"And I'm running late."
"Your itinerary has been changed, Miss Leigh, and I'm here to drive you. You won't be needing the uniform, either. Plainclothes."
"Plainclothes?"
"The sort of thing you'd wear to the shops." He smiled.
"I wouldn't recommend anything outrageous."
Tina narrowed her eyes.
"Am I in trouble?" she asked, suddenly serious.
The man shrugged.
"They treat me like a mushroom, miss. Keep me in the dark and ' "I know, I know," Tina interrupted.
"It's just that I had the course work, I've read all the stuff, and I was up all night polishing those bloody shoes. Now you're telling me it's off."
"Just a change in your itinerary, miss. That's all. If you were in any sort of trouble, I doubt that they'd send me."
Tina pounced.
"They?"
"The powers that be, miss. The people who pay my wages."
"And they would be who?"
"I guess the taxpayer at the end of the day." He looked at his watch.
"We'd best be going, miss."
Tina stared at the man for a few seconds, then nodded slowly.
"Okay. Give me a minute." She smiled mischievously.
"Make-up?"
"A touch of mascara wouldn't hurt, miss," said the man, straight faced.
"Perhaps a hint of lipstick. Nothing too pink. I'll be waiting in the car."
Tina bit down on her lower lip, suppressing the urge to laugh out loud. She waited until she'd closed the door before chuckling to herself.
By the time she was opening the wardrobe door she'd stopped laughing. The arrival of the grey-haired stranger on her doorstep could only be bad news. The day she'd learned that the Metropolitan Police had accepted her as a probationary constable had been one of the happiest in her life. Now she had a horrible feeling that her dreams of a new life were all going to come crashing down around her.
The driver said not one word during the forty-minute drive from Chelsea to the Isle of Dogs. Jamie Fullerton knew that there was no point in asking any of the dozen or so questions that were buzzing around his brain like angry wasps. He'd find out soon enough, of that much he was sure. He stared out of the window of the Vectra and took long, slow breaths, trying to calm his thumping heart.
When he saw the towering edifice of Canary Wharf in the distance, Fullerton frowned. So far as he knew, none of the Metropolitan Police bureaucracy was based out in the city it was a financial centre, pure and simple. Big American banks and Japanese broking houses and what was left of the British financial services sector.
The Vectra slowed in front of a nondescript glass and steel block, then turned into an underground car park, bucking over a yellow and black striped hump in the tarmac. The driver showed a laminated ID card to a uniformed security guard and whistled softly through his teeth as the barrier was slowly raised. They parked close to a lift, and Fullerton waited for the driver to walk around and open the door for him. It was a silly, pointless victory, but the man's sullen insolence had annoyed Fullerton.
The driver slammed Fullerton's door shut and walked stiffly over to the lift. To the right of the grey metal door was a keypad and he tapped out a four-digit code. A digital read-out showed that the lift was coming down from the tenth floor.
The driver studiously ignored Fullerton until the lift reached the car park and the door rattled open.
"Tenth floor, sir," said the driver, almost spitting out the honorific.
"You'll be met." He turned and headed back to the car.
Fullerton walked into the lift and stabbed at the button for the tenth floor.
"You drive carefully, yeah?" Fullerton shouted as the door clattered shut. It was another pointless victory, but Fullerton had a feeling that he was going to have to take his victories where he could.
He watched as the floor indicator lights flicked slowly to ten. The lift whispered to a halt and the door opened. There was nobody waiting for him. Fullerton hesitated, then stepped out of the lift and stood in the grey-carpeted lobby, looking left and right. At one end of the corridor was a pair of frosted glass doors. Fullerton frowned. The lift door closed behind him. He adjusted the cuffs of his white shirt and shrugged the shoulders of his dark blue silk and wool Lanvin suit. Fullerton had decided that if his uniform had been declared surplus to requirements, he might as well go into battle dressed stylishly. Plus it had been another way of annoying the tight-lipped driver the suit probably cost as much as the man earned in a month.
Fullerton took a deep breath and headed towards the glass doors. He had just raised his right hand to push his way through when a blurry figure on the other side beat him to it and pulled the door open.
Fullerton flinched and almost took a step back, but he recovered quickly when he saw that the man holding the door open was wearing the uniform and peaked cap of a senior officer of the Metropolitan Police.
"Didn't mean to startle you, Fullerton," said the man.
"I wasn't startled, sir," said Fullerton, recognising the man from his frequent television appearances. Assistant Commissioner Peter Latham. The articulate face of British policing university educated, quick witted and about the only senior police officer able to hold his own against the aggressive interrogators of Newsnight
. Latham was the officer most likely to be wheeled out to defend the policies and actions of the Metropolitan Police, while the Commissioner stayed in his spacious wood-panelled office on the eighth floor of New Scotland Yard, drinking Earl Grey tea from a delicate porcelain cup and planning his retirement, only two years and a knighthood away.
"This way," said Latham, letting the door swing back. Fullerton caught it and followed the Assistant Commissioner through a lobby area and down a white-walled corridor bare of any decoration to a teak veneer door where four screw holes marked where a plaque had once been.
Latham pushed the door open. The office was about the size of a badminton court, with floor-to-ceiling windows at one end. Like the corridor outside, the walls were completely bare, except for a large clock with big roman numerals and a red second hand. There were brighter patches of clean paint where paintings or pictures had once hung, and screw holes where things had been removed. The only furnishings were a cheap pine desk and two plastic chairs. Latham sat down on one of the chairs so that his back was to the window. There were no blinds or curtains, and through the glass Fullerton could see hundreds of office workers slaving away like worker ants in the tower opposite.
Latham took off his peaked cap and placed it carefully on the table in front of him. His hair seemed unnaturally black, though the grey areas around his temples suggested he wasn't dyeing it. He motioned for Fullerton to sit down. Fullerton did so, adjusting the creases of his trousers.
"You know who I am, Fullerton?" said the Assistant Commissioner.
Fullerton nodded.
"Sir," he said.
"No need for introductions, then," said the senior police officer. He tapped the fingers of his right hand on the desktop.
The fingernails were immaculately groomed, Fullerton noticed, the nails neatly clipped, the cuticles trimmed back.
"Tell me why you wanted to join the force, Fullerton."
Fullerton's brow creased into a frown. His application to join the Metropolitan Police had been accepted after more than twenty hours of interviews, a battery of psychological and physical tests, and a thorough background check. He'd been asked his reasons for wanting to join more than a dozen times and he doubted that Latham expected to hear anything new or original. So why ask the question, unless he was being set up for something? Fullerton's initial reaction was to go on the offensive, to ask the Assistant Commissioner why he was being asked the question at such a late stage and by such a senior officer, but he knew that there'd be nothing to be gained. He forced himself to smile.
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