by Simon Hall
It was ever the way in police stations. Drunks were the most common guests of the no-star hotel of law enforcement.
A woman rounded the corner ahead and walked towards them. The lights were behind her, casting a silhouette and disguising her features in a fluorescent haze. Dan stopped, felt his heartbeat pick up in a second.
Claire was out on enquiries. But she could have finished early. Something might have come up. Perhaps an urgent call. She might have been forced to return to the station. Be waiting around every turning, inside each room, or poised to skip down a flight of stairs, straight into him.
Dan felt his hands press together, his fingers interlace and tighten.
The woman walked on. Closer now. The colour of her hair, the shape of her face, her figure slowly resolved into clarity.
She was young, probably in her early twenties, perhaps only a probationer.
‘Hello, sir,’ she chirped at Adam as she passed.
Dan began walking again.
One of the carpet tiles was missing. A patch of lightness in the dark floor. A small yellow triangle warned of a trip hazard.
The grey ceiling was stained with patches of brown, the faded memory of a burst pipe.
A metal rubbish bin overflowed with sandwich wrappers.
A voice rose in an office. A woman’s.
Dan stopped again. He was right by the door.
Now the words had become a laugh. A story was being shared. About a fuss at a supermarket after a driver reversed over someone’s shopping trolley.
The chuckling was high-pitched. Far too shrill for Claire.
Dan swallowed hard and walked on once more. They were almost at the end of the corridor. A woman eased past, pushing a tea trolley. Mugs and plates rattled.
‘You’ve gone quiet. You OK back there?’ Adam said, over his shoulder.
‘Fine,’ Dan managed, in that traditional English way of meaning absolutely anything but.
To distract himself, Dan checked his watch and thought his way through the demands of the day job. Half past two it said, so the time was probably around a quarter to three. One day he must get a new watch, to replace the stylish but hopelessly inaccurate Rolex.
There shouldn’t be too much else to do this afternoon, provided there were no significant developments in the story. He could use the lunchtime news report, a similar live opening to set the scene, and then interview Reverend Parfitt.
From ahead, a woman called Adam’s name. The voice sounded familiar. Dan stopped dead. He was directly below a light. It felt as though it was illuminating him mercilessly, stripping his defences and exposing his emotions for all the world to see. Slowly, hesitantly he craned his neck to see around his friend.
Dan noticed a poster on the wall. It offered relationship support and guidance. Above a picture of a happily intertwined couple the headline was – It’s never too late to make up.
His eyes slipped to the woman standing in the corridor. She was wearing black boots and black trousers. Classical Claire. Her legs were slim, but strong. Elegant Claire. She was carrying a couple of thick files. Diligent Claire.
An odd thought struck him. Her hands were remarkably soft for a detective. He never knew why, but Dan always expected a woman who worked in CID to have roughened skin and gnarled fingers. Not Claire. She also kept her nails trimmed, with just the slightest of an edge, not sufficient to be an encumbrance if she had to grapple with a suspect, but enough to be subtly feminine. How many times he had felt those gentle hands in his.
Dan allowed his eyes to travel upwards, ready to find the face of the woman he had once loved. Who had sat with him as they enjoyed the tingle of anticipation in looking through the property pages of the local paper, searching for their first home together. Who had slept with him and woken with him on countless mornings and nights, and hiked with him across Dartmoor in the snow, and walked beside him along Devon beaches and over cliff tops.
Claire.
The woman whom he hadn’t seen for five months, since that last acidic night. Whom he was about to meet again in the narrow, half-lit corridor of a police station which smelt of artificial pine.
He was ready. He was calm.
Those together days were done. Over, gone, dead, buried, finished and through.
There were no feelings left for her. Just a void. An impassive indifference. An easy disregard.
Hardly even a shrug to her existence.
Dan steadied himself to say the words he had been rehearsing. How they had an important job to do. How this was such a big investigation that personal feelings could not be allowed to interfere. How he could work with her if she could with him.
The time for talking would come. But it would not be yet.
The words sounded jumbled in his head. In this tiny fragment of the world, this small stretch of dim corridor, time had begun moving remarkably slowly.
Dan steadied himself to meet Claire’s look. He stared, coughed, then began spluttering, blinked hard and screwed up his eyes to make sure.
It wasn’t Claire.
The woman was a little older, probably around forty, and she was talking to Adam about checking the background of some of Ahmed’s friends. Dan watched for a moment, then leaned back against the wall. A couple of uniformed cops walked past and cast a curious look.
Adam finished his discussion and beckoned Dan on. ‘You sure you’re OK?’ he asked.
‘I’m – fine.’
They pushed their way through a couple more pairs of swing doors. Now they were nearing the end of the police station. The air was noticeably colder. At the top of the corridor a door was open, a rumble of chatter spilling out. Inside Dan could see a group of people, some on phones, others working at desks.
‘The Bomb Room,’ Adam explained. ‘I’m not calling it the Major Incident Room, or the Incident Room, or any of that usual police talk. Who the hell would just call the attack an incident?
It was the size of a large classroom, a raft of desks set together in the centre, all with computers and phones. Around the outside was a series of whiteboards bearing a time-line of the inquiry, along with notes on witnesses. The windows looked out on to the main road, a stream of traffic waiting at the lights.
‘Remember what I said about playing it cool,’ Adam whispered.
‘Yeah, yeah. Look, stop worrying. I’ll be absolutely fine.’
The room quietened as they walked in, the detectives all looking around to see the new arrivals.
Adam paused in the doorway and folded his arms. And there he stood and waited. One by one, the faces which had turned to him and Dan now shifted expectantly to a man and woman standing in the corner.
For a few seconds, no one spoke. Finally, the woman said, ‘Would you all mind leaving us for a few minutes? We need to have a little chat with our guest.’
The detectives filed out of the door. When the last one had left, the man walked over and checked the corridor outside. A couple of uniformed cops were standing there talking. He gave them a look and they sauntered away. The door was closed, locked, checked twice, and he walked back over to the woman.
Both stared at Dan. Their expressions were impassive, but their looks were clinical and analytical, shorn of emotion, but intent with observation. It felt as if they were scrutinising everything from the size of the shoes Dan wore to his haircut, mentally noting down each detail. He shifted his weight a little, but held their stares.
Outside, a lorry rumbled past. Still the pair didn’t speak. A computer hummed. Footsteps echoed along the corridor. Eventually, Adam stepped forwards and said, ‘Well, I’ll do the introductions then. Dan, this is …’
The woman coughed pointedly and held up a hand. ‘I am … Sierra,’ she said. ‘And this is …’ She glanced at the man. ‘Oscar.’
The silence returned. Dan itched at his ear. ‘Sierra and Oscar?’
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘Sierra and Oscar?’
‘Yes.’
A fly buzzed agains
t the window, beat itself on the pane, then stilled.
Dan forced his face into an awkward smile and said lightly, ‘Forgive me for saying this, and don’t think me extraordinarily perceptive, but I reckon those aren’t your real names.’
He tried to keep his voice warm and friendly, but there was no response. The spooks just stood, looking. Adam let out a long breath.
‘Dan is here at my request because he’s been helpful to us in the past and I believe he could be useful again.’
The woman who called herself Sierra was still looking at him. Dan noticed she wore no make-up and no jewellery. Her hair was mousy, her figure average, her appearance ordinary. She was as nondescript as anyone he had met. Perhaps in the twilight world of spies it was an axiom that the less which distinguished you, so much the better.
Oscar stood slightly behind her, perhaps a mark of their respective ranks in the secret hierarchy. He had an athletic figure, neither full nor slight, but powerful. On the floor beside him was a black briefcase, at which he would occasionally glance. The man kept his foot against the case the whole while.
‘We welcome any help, Chief Inspector,’ she said finally. ‘Dan, please don’t think us hostile, but you’ll appreciate we exist in a world of suspicion. We are fighting a ruthless enemy who can often seem so elusive as to be near invisible. Many in our organisation believe we are in the midst of another war, the quietest and most insidious we have ever known, but no less lethal for that. As the attack on your Minster has shown us, that quiet can instantly be shattered with the sudden force of hatred.’
Another pause, and then she reached out and shook Dan’s hand. Oscar did so too. As the man leaned forwards, Dan heard a metallic clink from his jacket. The tight material was shaped with the unmistakable outline of a gun.
Sierra saw his look. ‘I would appreciate it if you would not mention our presence here, what you have seen and what we have discussed, even though it may go against your instincts as a journalist. I would ask you to remember this – there is a greater purpose to consider.’
Dan nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘We have only limited time,’ she continued, ‘so perhaps you could help by telling us about your visit to the mosque this morning. We’re particularly interested in your discussions inside – those details which you did not include in your television report this lunchtime.’
Dan couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘How did you know about that?’
‘The mosque is – of interest to us,’ she replied.
‘Because Tanton went there?’
‘It’s probably better if you just answer our questions.’
Dan related what had happened in the mosque, his discussions with the Imam and Abdul’s looming presence.
‘Did anything strike you as suspicious?’ Oscar asked. He had a sharp voice with a hint of a cockney accent.
‘That they wouldn’t answer my questions about Tanton, or anything else that I wanted to know in fact. And that …’
‘Yes?’
Dan found himself unable to resist telling them. ‘That Tahir and Abdul were both in Exeter at the time of the bombing. Which struck me as very interesting, if not just plain suspicious.’
No reaction from the spooks. Not even an exchange of looks.
Dan noticed he was still talking. ‘They could easily have had something to do with the attack, those two. The Imam talks about being a peaceful man, but you never know. And as for his minder – he just has an air about him, something ominous. Call it a hunch, but sometimes hunches can be important. Wouldn’t you agree?’
Oscar’s eyes were fixed on him. Sierra was nodding, just a little.
‘And I reckon that BPP man, Kindle, he’s worth looking at too,’ Dan heard himself adding. ‘He was in Exeter when the bomb exploded, as well. And he knew John Tanton. I’ve no idea why, but I just found him suspicious. Who knows what that BPP lot could do to advance their cause?’
More nodding from Sierra. ‘And what do you intend to do now?’
‘I’m going back to the Minster to do a live broadcast. You can even come over and watch, if you like. But I’m free later, if you need my help. I’ve worked on investigations before. I can find out things without the people I’m talking to realising the information’s going to get back to you. That could be useful.’
Dan thought he heard Adam draw in a breath.
‘I can use my position to help you in handling the media too. I’ve done it before on cases I’ve worked on. And I can broadcast stuff which might influence some of the people you’re interested in, get them to do things which could give themselves away. That’s worked before too. I really enjoy investigation work. I’d love to help you.’
Adam had closed his eyes and half turned away. But the two spies were still watching. Oscar’s face had shifted a little. His expression looked like the beginnings of a smirk. His foot tapped softly at the briefcase.
‘Well, whatever,’ Dan added lamely. ‘If there’s anything I can do … I’d be very happy to help. Really happy.’
Another silence settled on the room. The air felt warm and close. Flecks of dust drifted past the window. Dan noticed Oscar had a long scar on his neck, like a thin worm creeping over the soft flesh.
Now Sierra spoke, but her voice had changed. It was sharper, more businesslike. More final.
‘Thank you for your information. But I have to say – we are not sure what you could bring to this inquiry. Apart from being …’ she hesitated, then added, ‘a dangerous complication.’
Dan had a sudden sensation that he was standing at the bottom of a pit, looking up at the two spies. He’d rushed headlong towards them, seeing only their open arms, but not noticing the great hole they had dug and covered with only the flimsiest layer of sticks and leaves.
‘I … I can be relied on to be discreet, you know,’ he stammered. ‘Despite being a journalist. I can keep a secret. And that’s what you do, isn’t it? What we could do.’
He tried a smile, but it was as effective as casting a pebble onto permafrost.
‘Look, I appreciate how sensitive and important all this is. I was just a little nervous, meeting you. That’s all. That’s why I went on a bit. Well, it’s understandable, isn’t it? Surely?’
Even to Dan it sounded like he was babbling. But he didn’t seem to be able to stop.
‘I can help. Really I can. You can trust me. Honestly.’
Still no reaction.
‘I mean … I’m up to speed with investigation procedures. I have worked on lots of other cases, you know. I helped to crack …’
‘We know.’
Oscar interrupted, the words as effective as a gag. He glanced at Sierra, who gave another slight nod. He produced a file and started reading from it.
‘Daniel Groves, TV reporter, specialising in crime. Lives in Plymouth. Became involved with the police when shadowing the Edward Bray murder inquiry. Has been part of several more inquiries since, of which the outcome of the latest two were most unpleasant.’
Dan gaped. ‘Hey, now look,’ he stammered. ‘Look, that wasn’t my fault. I did my best. Do you realise …’
But Oscar interjected again, turned over a sheet of paper. ‘Lives on his own, apart from an Alsatian dog, named Rutherford. Has difficulty sustaining relationships – with people, at least. Reputation as a maverick. Does not respond well to discipline or authority. Has been drinking heavily in recent months – following the disintegration of yet another relationship – sufficient to prompt him to ring Alcoholics Anonymous. His call began with the classic words, ‘I’m not an alcoholic, but …’
Dan felt Adam’s eyes on him. ‘How the hell did you …’ he stuttered. ‘I mean, what gives you the right to …’
‘No criminal record, but has been arrested three times now for breaching a police cordon, and has six points on his driving licence, all for speeding. When approached by the security services at university to see if he might be interested in joining, he asked facetiously – Do I get to dre
ss up in a dinner jacket and act like James Bond? When told not, he said he would prefer a more glamorous career.’
Dan just stared.
‘Analysed as having above average intelligence, but those assessing him conclude he is by no means as clever as he thinks. Also believes himself to be something of an amateur detective, as he has in fact boasted to his few friends, usually when the worse for drink – a common occurrence. Psychological profile concludes him to be vain and arrogant, entirely unable to work as part of a team, and almost incapable of appreciating when he is wrong. In summary, a highly flawed man who is a danger both to himself and others.’
And now a silence, as thick and choking as any Dan had ever known.
Oscar’s smirk grew. He closed the file and slipped it back into the briefcase. Before he did so, Dan saw there were scores of sheets of paper in there, all covered in thick lines of black type. Attached to one was a series of pictures of him.
Getting out of his car. Walking down the street. Holding a mobile phone. Jogging with Rutherford. Drinking a pint in a bar. Standing on a beach, gazing out to sea. Checking a list while looking in a shop window. Talking to a camera.
Each was also marked with a date and time.
‘So,’ Sierra said levelly. ‘We thank you for your offer of assistance. But it is respectfully declined. We suggest you limit your involvement in this case to reporting on it – from the outside.’
The two spies turned away and began a hushed discussion. Neither looked back.
Dan felt a hand on his arm. It was Adam, leading him out of the Bomb Room.
The walk back to the Minster felt a long one. Dan hardly noticed the yellow autumn sun shining into his eyes or the people he passed, busy going about the daily trade of living. A car hooted. Dan started in surprise. He’d walked out into a road without seeing the traffic. He waved an apology to the driver and got a scowl in return.
There wasn’t sufficient a supply of spirit even to return the look.
He plodded on, through the shopping precinct, as busy as an ants’ nest. His mind kept wanting to go back over what had happened in the police station, but Dan didn’t dare let it.
