by Mari Hannah
Newman clocked a digital stick in the empty sandwich box his ex-colleague would leave behind. ‘What’s your take on Trevathan’s trial?’
‘Never went ahead. His murder is unconnected. It was no assassination.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘What about the special ops unit?’
‘Classified.’
‘That much I know.’
Tomkinson was succinct, as always. He’d done his homework. While he spoke, Newman listened intently and without interruption, making notes on his fresh crossword puzzle. What Tomkinson had to say provided Frank with a challenge he didn’t expect, one he knew would blow up in his face when he returned to base. As debts go, this one had been repaid in full.
O’Neil was back. She drank like Kalinda off The Good Wife although, in her case, the shots were tequila. There were other similarities. The in-house private investigator at Stern, Lockhart, Gardner kept people at a distance. So did O’Neil. How far did the similarity to Kalinda extend? Had O’Neil come out of an abusive relationship too? Ryan chanced his arm. He daren’t enquire directly. He tried another route, hoping she’d open up and tell him the truth.
‘Is that making you feel better?’
‘As it happens, yes.’
‘No one said this job would be easy, guv.’
The comment threw her. ‘It’s not the job.’
Good start. ‘Then why are you so down in the mouth? Having second thoughts?’
‘About this?’ She waved the hand holding the whisky, her forefinger pointing at their swish surroundings. ‘Hell, no!’
Ryan almost choked on his words. ‘Is it me?’
‘No. I needed a colleague I could trust. You fit the bill perfectly. It’s definitely not you, Ryan. Please don’t think that—’
‘What then? These eggshells are killing my feet.’
She wasn’t smiling.
Ryan sighed. ‘When you offered me this job, you said we’d have a lot of fun. I’ve had more fun sparring with that tosser Maguire.’ His jovial reference to his predecessor, her second-in-command, drew no reaction. She was frustrating the hell out of him. He retreated to work once more. ‘It’s unlike you to be so negative. It’s early days, guv. We’ll get there if we push on.’
‘I’m fine, Ryan. Just knackered.’
‘You want to get out of here for a bit?’
‘You trying to cheer me up?’
‘Do you need cheering up?’
A shrug. ‘Maybe.’
‘Why don’t we take a walk, get a bit of air. Always works for me. Where would you like to go?’ he said. ‘My shout.’
‘Aren’t you meeting Caroline?’
‘She’s at the Sage with Hilary.’
‘Yes, I forgot. Sorry I spoiled your evening.’
‘You didn’t.’ Ryan lied. She had, but not in the way she suggested. ‘Caroline is staying over in town tonight. She always does if she’s out late. Alnwick is a hike for her at the best of times. At night, it’s impossible. I’m meeting them for a nightcap. I’ll see Hilary into a taxi, walk Caroline to her hotel.’
‘You’re very considerate.’
‘Cautious.’
‘I meant where women are concerned. That’s nice.’
‘Careful, guv, that’s twice you called me nice.’
‘And twice you called me “guv” in the last few minutes.’ She took a long, deep breath. ‘Look, I was out of order before. Ignore me when I’m like that. It’s not you, it’s me.’ She paused, cleared her throat. ‘There’s no need for formality, not when we’re alone.’
Ryan’s pulse quickened. ‘Alone’ suggested intimacy, attachment, something more than they had right now. He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got time for one or two, if you have.’
Uncrossing her legs, O’Neil slipped her shoes back on and stood up, glancing at her own watch as she lifted her bag from the floor. In the blink of an eye, her expression changing from someone willing to make nice to someone in a state of sheer panic.
‘Shit!’ Her eyes met his. ‘I don’t believe this. I’m sorry, Ryan. I didn’t realize it was so late. I have to go. Now.’ She made for the door, then glanced back at him, a pang of conscience perhaps. ‘Some other time?’
‘Sure. No problem.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
With that, she was gone.
More curious than miffed, he walked to the window and looked out. A moment later, she emerged on the pavement below, her flaming red hair whipping around in the breeze as she crossed the street to where a silver car sat waiting. She opened the door and jumped in. Really? A Porsche Carrera? Who knew she was so well connected? From this angle, it was impossible for him to see who was driving as the car moved off. The vehicle screamed affluence. Whoever owned it certainly wasn’t afraid to show it off. Unable to compete, Ryan grabbed his leather jacket from the back of his chair, switched off the lights and left the apartment alone.
28
O’Neil got out of the car when the door was held open and heard the expensive clunk of a high-end vehicle as it closed behind her. She felt his arm slip round her shoulder, a slight pressure of his fingers as he gave her arm a squeeze and led her from his designated parking spot in the underground car park of his apartment block. It was a chilly evening.
They travelled up in silence.
The lift too was inaudible. Everything about the place was hushed, calming. It was somewhere she’d love to live if she could afford it. There had been a time when it might have been possible. That was history now, so far gone, she wondered if it had ever existed.
He stood back as she entered his apartment, displaying perfect manners, as always, helping her off with her coat, placing it on a hanger he took from the hallway closet. He seemed unaware of how it made her feel to be there. Eloise played along, giving the impression she was over it.
She wasn’t.
Still raw from the separation, her heart felt fragile, as if it might shatter at any moment. No matter how much effort she put into hating him – and she did – it didn’t cancel out the love or lessen her loss. It served only to increase her rage. At times the pain was unbearable. She felt hollow, as if someone had scooped out her guts and discarded them, leaving an empty shell behind. Anyone who could make another human being feel so utterly worthless didn’t deserve success – much less happiness – and yet he had both. Eloise had tried hard to ignore articles about him in the newspapers. It was difficult when his face was staring out from the front page on a regular basis. He was headline news, a hotshot lawyer going places.
‘Same again, Eloise?’ Her host was holding a crystal decanter in his right hand. He’d smelled whisky on her breath when they kissed in the car. He was too polite to mention it directly.
She nodded. ‘Thank you.’
Her eyes misted ever so slightly. It was hard being around him, and yet it was strangely comforting. Eloise wanted to sever contact; he’d insisted on keeping in touch, a sentiment driven by guilt, she imagined. His conscience simply wouldn’t allow him to let her go completely, even though he knew it hurt her to see him, to remember what they once had: a close bond and plans for the future. In the end, she acquiesced, agonizing as it was, too spent to argue any longer. More than that: she’d accepted his help.
She dropped her gaze, self-hatred permeating her skin. She was no better than Gloria, a prostitute taking what was offered from a man more powerful than her, the only difference being that he didn’t knock her around. On the contrary, he saw himself as her protector.
‘Two fingers or three?’ He invited her to sit.
She held up two fingers by way of an answer and sat down, watching as he poured the drinks. He handed her one, brushing the back of his free hand across her left cheek. A sympathetic gesture, a demonstration of the level of affection he still felt for her.
He sat down opposite, eyeing her with interest.
‘How are you?’
She knew his concern for her welfare was genuine, but that
didn’t make it any easier to take.
Swallowing her grief, she replied: ‘As well as can be expected – I believe that’s the accepted phrase.’ She looked away. ‘Lovely tree.’ She didn’t intend to hang around. She’d stay long enough to hear what he had to say and then she’d leave. She’d run as fast as her legs would carry her to the sanctuary of her new office. She’d rather be with Ryan. She could tell he’d been gutted when she fled ‘their place’ earlier. He deserved better. She’d never tell him that he’d restored her faith in men, but she had every intention of taking him into her confidence.
When the time was right . . .
29
Saturday, 14 December, 7 a.m. Ryan had the news playing low on the radio. The world was mourning a symbol of peace. Following a memorial ceremony in Johannesburg earlier in the week, world leaders were making themselves ready for the state funeral of Nelson Mandela in his ancestral home of Qunu in South Africa’s Eastern Cape province.
The entry alarm bleeped.
Ryan switched off the radio, expecting O’Neil to emerge. Instead he looked up to see Grace. Newman had made it home in the early hours of the morning, but she hadn’t slept well. Stuff on her mind, she said. Ryan knew the feeling. Despite a couple of beers with Hilary and Caroline, he’d tossed and turned all night, wondering what was eating O’Neil, where she’d disappeared to in such a hurry and who with.
‘You know what was keeping me awake?’ Grace didn’t wait for an answer as she dumped her bag and sat down. ‘In every case, the DVDs arrived on a Tuesday and, in every case, the footage was filmed on a Sunday. I reckon she’s a weekday worker with a sideline in knocking people off at weekends and enough cash to move around at will. Not that it takes us anywhere. Flights are ten a penny these days. We still have integration in this country. The EU is a free-for-all. Mind you, the result of the upcoming referendum might put paid to that.’ She shuddered at the thought. ‘Sorry, I promised not to talk politics, so let’s not go there. The point I’m trying and failing to make is that thousands of Brits fly into Copenhagen unchecked every week.’ Her eyes strayed from her desk to O’Neil’s bedroom door. ‘Is Eloise still in her PJs?’
Ryan ignored the question. ‘Where’s Frank?’
‘Expecting a call.’ She was logging on. ‘He’ll be here.’
‘He has news?’ Ryan asked.
‘Yes, but he never told me everything. You know what he’s like. He hates to repeat himself. He’ll feed back when we’re all here and not before. I was hardly awake when he climbed into bed. He was spent, I know that much. I wanted to get an early start this morning. He wanted to eat. A first-class ticket and still no catering on the train last night. To say that he was unhappy would be a gross understatement.’
‘That’s poor service.’
‘Piss-poor. The air was blue. I couldn’t be arsed to cheer him up. I told him to get over it and left before breakfast. He’ll be here, hopefully in a better mood and with something of value to contribute concerning Trevathan’s trial. I’ve been thinking about that too. It must be a security issue. Why else would Ford impose such secrecy?’
‘We’ll know soon enough.’
‘Did you know MI5 has doubled in size in the last fifteen years?’ She made a show of looking over her shoulder checking for eavesdroppers. ‘That’s probably confidential. Keep it to yourself or I’ll have to kill you. I’m under strict orders not to repeat anything Frank tells me – not that he tells me much.’ She hardly stopped for breath. ‘Can you believe it? There are over two and a half thousand staff engaged in counter-terrorism alone. If anyone is in any doubt that the UK is under threat from ISIS, they can think again.’ For the first time since she’d come in and began spouting off, she looked at him, properly looked at him. ‘You’re such a cheerful soul this morning. What’s up, Grumpy? You get out of bed the wrong side too?’
‘I can’t get a word in edgeways—’
‘Conversational intercourse is good for the soul. You should try it sometime. While you’re at it, try the other kind, you’d be far less bloody miserable.’
Ryan didn’t laugh.
He was still thinking about what she’d said about ISIS. The country was under attack. It depressed him, more than he cared to admit, to her or anyone. Earlier in the year, the slaying of Fusilier Lee Rigby on a London street in broad daylight had shocked the nation. Because of his former role in Special Branch, Ryan knew jihadists were plotting many more acts of terrorism. Such threats were taken very seriously and he was under no illusion that worse was to come. MI5 worked closely with GCHQ, the National Crime Intelligence Service, the Serious and Organized Crime Agency and other law enforcement agencies. He could only conclude that their decision to work against his new unit on this occasion meant that there was a plot being hatched somewhere that was an even greater threat to national security than the murder of an ambassador and a high-ranking judge.
‘Coffee’s hot,’ he said.
Grace was staring at O’Neil’s bedroom door. ‘If she has company, she’s not making near enough noise.’
Ryan didn’t laugh. ‘She’s not in. Went out last night. Never came back.’
‘Party girl! Good for her.’ Grace poured herself a brew and got to work.
So their guv’nor had a private life. It was none of Ryan’s business. The fact that he wasn’t Porsche man was probably for the best. It hadn’t done him any good getting involved with a colleague – not that he was comparing Eloise to Roz Cornell. They were very different women.
He tried not to sulk.
He was pleased for O’Neil.
The hell he was.
Frank had given Grace the digital stick his London informant had left behind. By nine thirty, she’d uploaded the image of Judith Hill and sent it to Mrs Forbes. The housekeeper was on the phone in seconds. She’d taken one look at the photograph and confirmed that Hill was indeed the woman who’d collected the briefcase from Trevathan’s home. This was unequivocal corroboration of the best kind.
‘Great,’ Ryan said. ‘Though I doubt it’s going to get the enquiry moving.’
‘You said that with a lot less conviction than the news deserved. This is progress, another piece of the puzzle in place. Stop stressing. O’Neil will be here.’
Ryan looked away, unable to hide his disappointment that she still hadn’t surfaced, an emotion that was eating away at his gut like a parasite. He couldn’t make up his mind whether he was worried about Eloise or cross with her. She hadn’t made contact to explain her delay.
It wasn’t like her.
Pulling his mobile from his pocket, he was about to give her a call when Grace’s phone began to vibrate on her desk. He breathed a sigh of relief as she answered, assuming that it might be O’Neil.
It wasn’t.
‘That must be some breakfast,’ Grace said. There was a short pause as she listened. ‘Apparently not . . . we’re expecting her soon . . . um hmm . . . he is . . .’ Ryan saw the look of intrigue before she could hide it. She smiled at him, eyes narrowing slightly. ‘Yeah . . . OK, I’ll ask him . . . I’m sure he can slip away. Yeah, yeah, see you later.’
She hung up.
‘What’s going on?’ Ryan asked.
‘Frank wants to see you.’
‘Well, I’m sitting right here.’
‘Out of the office,’ she said.
‘Did he say why?’
‘No, but I’m sure he has a reason,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Can you make the Centurion at eleven o’clock?’
‘If I must.’
‘Great! That’s what I told him.’
‘I’ll square it with the guv’nor,’ he said.
Grace shook her head ever so slightly as they heard the entry alarm. Ryan understood it to mean that Newman had something to say he wasn’t yet ready to share with O’Neil.
30
The Centurion used to be a first-class passenger lounge at the city’s central railway station. It was now a busy public house. Newman was leaning against
the bar, a pint in his hand and one on the counter lined up for Ryan. It wasn’t the first time they had shared a drink here. Then and now, Ryan was nervous of going behind O’Neil’s back.
The spook showed no emotion as Ryan joined him at the bar. He kept his voice low, his sole focus on what he’d come to say.
He never wasted words.
‘Trevathan’s trial was linked to terrorism. Three Muslim brothers: a conspiracy to blow up the Royal Naval Armaments Depot at Coulport.’
‘There are easier targets,’ Ryan said. RNAD Coulport was the storage and loading facility for UK nuclear warheads, part of the Trident programme. ‘That place is locked down so tight they’d never get in without a private army. The intent alone will get them life.’ He paused, gathering his thoughts. Civilians were at greater risk from radicalized Europeans now than ever before, including women and young boys prepared to die in order to destroy a way of life they disagreed with. Many were British. ‘Aren’t they a bit behind the times?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘I thought they were getting ready to switch focus, attacking soft targets, rather than the police or military.’
‘Correct,’ Newman said. ‘The mob due to stand trial in Scotland have been planning this for years.’
‘MI5 had someone undercover?’
Newman nodded. ‘A real pro. He’s been monitoring subversives his whole career, surveilling this particular crew for almost three years, tapping their comms, infiltrating their cell, building a dossier so damning I’m told there’s now a price on his head.’
‘Jesus.’
‘They won’t kill him. They won’t need to. Word is, they’re well connected, with your lot in their pocket – not foot soldiers, either, but senior ranks. Suffice to say, they’re ruthless bastards, capable of doing a job on him.’
‘Any link to Ambassador Dean?’
‘None. For that reason alone, I think we’re coming at this from the wrong direction. The nature of the trial is skewing our thoughts. I’d bet my pension that our case is unrelated.’
