Dead in the Water (38 page)

“
Do you want me to take the card now? We could get it enhanced.”

Rachel has no reason to mistrust her; but she doesn’t want to let it out of her hands until it’s been copied.

“
We usually make a final decision on programme content 12 hours in advance – about half ten tomorrow morning. But there’s no way they’re not going to run with this. What I suggest is you come in tomorrow morning. Say half nine. Bring the video with you. That’ll give us a chance to look at the material, make decisions about scheduling, record an interview; and hopefully get the stuff on air tomorrow night.”

That leaves twenty two hours for Rachel and Jeremy; twenty two hours to get the card copied, kick their heels and stay out of harm’s way.

66
Westminster

Barbara brings Mark coffee in a plain white mug. This is not time for frivolity. This morning, he is the plain white guy, the anonymous boss. Barbara is appalled by his story about Mrs Williams; but she’s withdrawn. And Mark makes little effort to get to the bottom of her unhappiness. He spends the morning getting himself up to speed on statistics and scientific reports, when he would like to be talking to people, trying out ideas – until around midday, when Barbara rings to say that a Jamie Parsons is in reception. “I told him you were far too busy to ––”

“
It’s OK. I’ll go down.”

Parsons’ smart casual jeans and designer T shirt are as confounding to Mark’s sense of the intelligence services as Robyn Westacott’s prim elegance. As they go into a hastily arranged private meeting room, Mark feels distinctly tense; and Parsons’ brusquely charmless announcement that his car is clean does nothing to ease his anxiety.

“
I thought your people said it was bugged.”

“
It is.”

“
Have they ‘cleaned’ it then? I don’t know the terminology.”

“
We don’t want to arouse suspicion. The bugs are still there.”

The guy’s playing with him. He has a straight face, but he’s laughing. “So what does that mean? ‘Clean’?”

“
Were you not told?” No mention of Robyn Westacott. Probably isn’t her fucking name any more than Jamie Parsons is his. It’s a joke. They make up these androgynous names in the bloody pub.

“
I was told about the bugs. I was told to bring the car in to the underground car park. I was told to act normal.” He’s not succeeding in containing his welling anger.

“
Some electronic surveillance devices have been placed in it; but there is no risk to you in driving the car.”

“
You know that for certain, do you?”

“
Yes. We know that for certain. That’s why we wanted to check it out. But we needed to put it where their surveillance gear would be jammed without alerting them.”

“
You needed to put it! You mean you needed me to drive it. And last night you didn’t know it was ‘clean’. You didn’t know that the fucking car was ‘clean’, you thought I might be driving a fucking time bomb.”

Parsons is expressionless, ignoring Mark’s anger. “We would not have asked you to park under the House of Commons if we thought there was any danger that you’d be driving a time bomb. And as you well know, that area is sealed off from mobile phone signals.”

“
Does ‘clean’ mean the same as safe? The car is ‘safe’ now is it?”

“
Yes.”

“
So want do I do now? Carry on as normal? Yes? I have a choice, do I?”

“
Of course.”

“
I could go on holiday, I know. I could leave it in the car park. I could walk back. Your colleague said to act normal. That’s what I do. That’s what I normally do. I walk.”

“
That’s your choice.”

“
You say ‘no risk’. But you thought there might have been?”

“
There was a possibility. We wanted to be sure ––”

“
You’ve been using me?”

“
We wanted to protect you. And you’ve been very helpful. Thank you.” This fucking masquerade of graciousness… “And if you continue to use the car occasionally it would help greatly. We need to catch these people, Mr Boyd. They are very sophisticated. And you could lead us to them. If they think you know about the car, then the trail goes cold.”

“
And what’s to stop them putting a bomb in the car tonight? They can obviously get access to the bloody thing more or less whenever they fucking like.”

“
We are not unsophisticated ourselves.”

“
Watching them watching me?”

“
In a manner of speaking.”

“
So it would suit you quite well if they did try to get at it again?”

“
What would suit us, Mr Boyd is breaking the cell and the network behind it.”

“
I have a choice, do I?”

“
We’d like you to drive the car home.”

“
I have a choice?”

“
Of course.”

“
And what else should I know? Is my flat bugged? My clothes? Who the fuck is doing what?”

“
Pretty much the same question we’re asking.”

“
That’s very reassuring.” Smug little git.

“
We don’t think you’re in danger. And your personal interests are being looked after very carefully.”

“
My ‘personal interests’?”

“
Your safety. Your family.”

“
Stephen. You know where Stephen is do you? Are you using him as well?”

“
We’re looking for your son. We don’t know precisely where he is. But your daughter is back in the country. She and your friend Jeremy Peters arrived at Heathrow this morning.”

“
Thank God for that.” He leans back in the chair. Silence. “You’re tailing them?”

“
They are both safe. I understand your anxieties about your son; but we need your co-operation.”

“
If you’re going to find him.”

“
Yes.”

“
And that’s not a threat?”

“
No.”

In the circumstances, the concept of choice seems meaningless.

An early Beatles album is playing over the bar’s speaker system. Yet another sixties revival’s under way; and the music is too loud for comfort; but it means they’re not likely to be overheard. Rachel and Jeremy have decided to stay on and have another coffee and a Danish after Sara left. For Rachel there’s something about this that appeals to her. They may be killing time, but the very business of being here with Jeremy makes Islington a strange place. In Caracas he seemed so assured; here he’s tense, out of place; as if this is where he’s the wary foreigner, uncertain of local customs. When she’s had dates with nervous young men her own age, it’s made her ill at ease; with Jeremy she feels more confident. Everything is upside down.

“
So, what’s to do?” she asks.

“
Copy the card.”

“
And then?”

“
Where are you going to stay tonight?” asks Jeremy.

“
I’ll go to my dad’s. You want to come with me?”

“
You’ll want time with him, won’t you.”

“
Will I?” she says, with a wry smile. He’s right. It would probably make sense; but there’s something quite sweet about the way he skirts around things. “And you?”

“
I’ll find a hotel.”

“
You will? On your own? So how will I contact you, Jem, if we can’t talk on the phone?”

He shrugs.

“
Lighten up Jem. Best way of keeping your head above water.”

His attempt at a smile is less than convincing. She reaches across the table, takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. “I need to go to the loo,” she says.

“
Do I need to know that?”

“
Well, you need to know I’m not walking out on you. And we do have to get the digi-card copied, don’t we.”

There’s a photo shop no more than a hundred metres from the café. They buy three cards and, using a pay-as-you-go printer-copier, transfer the video material onto each of them, so now there are four copies including the original. They do no more than glance at the video itself; but it’s there. They put one copy in the post, Special Delivery, to Mark Boyd at Cowley Street, so they have a copy each and one to give to Sara Davis at the BBC. And then they head for the Angel tube station.

Jeremy checks in at a large international hotel near Saint Pancras station. He hates these chains, but in present circumstances, the more anonymous the place the better.

“
Do you want to wait down here, while I drop my bag in the room?” asks Jeremy.

Rachel gives him a mock reprimanding look, a ‘Why would I want to do that?’ look. She’s still amused by his manners, his wanting to do the correct thing.

The room could be a clone of the one where they stayed in Brasilia.

“
What do you want to do?” he asks – again.

She resists the temptation to turn it back on him and ask what he wants to do. “I’d like a bath,” she says. “Is that alright?”

The water’s hot and deep; the first proper bath she’s had in nearly a month. She toys with the idea of emerging from the bathroom wrapped in a large white bath towel – just to watch his reactions. But that would be unfair. She knows he’s interested in her. The problem is she doesn’t understand her own feelings for him. But she could do with the comfort, the cuddles, the warmth, his body holding her close. Luxuriating in a hotel bath, scented with a sachet of something purporting to be Lavender and Rosewood Bath Oil, makes her feel suddenly terribly lonely. Here she is in a London which has become the strangest place she’s been on all her travels with a man she likes, a man who makes her feel relaxed, a man who demands nothing from her; and all she can do is gently tease him. So lonely, so isolated. There are so many people she wants to talk to, to text, to e-mail, to tell she’s back. But Jeremy’s right. Of course he’s right. They have to stay incommunicado. She can’t even use the guest computer in the lounge to log onto
Facebook
or
Bebo
.

It’s not her way to tidy the bathroom, but that’s what she does – everything neatly in its place.

“
Does that feel better?” asks Jeremy, turning the sound down on the TV from where he’s sitting on the bed. He’s been watching the Test Match while Rachel was in the bath. The afternoon session has just started. The England openers are still there, having dominated the first morning.

“
It would feel a load better if I had my own clothes, I hate this outfit.”

“
You look good in it.”

“
It was a game, Jem. I’m bored of it.”

“
Do you want to go and buy something more comfortable?”

“
I can wait. I’m going to dad’s later. He’s got some of my things there.” She walks round and sits beside him on the bed. “Jem…” She stops herself.

“
What?”

“
Can I ask you something?” she says, very quietly.

“
Of course.”

“
I don’t want to offend you.”

“
Go ahead,” he says, looking worried.

“
Can we go to bed? I need you to hold me.” He takes her hand. “I don’t want to have sex though. I couldn’t deal with that. So please ––”

“
It’s alright ––”

“
I just ––”

“
Rachel… I’d like that. And I couldn’t … anyway, I’m far too ––” She doesn’t hear what he might have said next because she has started to cry. Once started, it takes a hold of her. The terror and the rage she has been suppressing for more than a week now wells up from deep inside. In seconds, she is gasping for breath between choking spasms of distress.

They are lying together on the bed. Her sobbing has calmed. Jeremy has one arm cradling her head against his chest, with the other he’s wiping her cheeks with hotel tissues.

“
I’m frightened,” she says. “I’m really frightened.”

“
We’re going to be alright,” he murmurs gently. “You know why you’ve been crying. It’s because we’re OK. It’s because we’re safe. You’re allowed now.” He kisses her forehead. “We’re going to be alright.”

68 Westminster

Mark calls in at the canteen on his way back to his desk – more to sound out opinion and eavesdrop on the gossip than for refreshment. It seems people want to believe what they’ve heard on the news: there have been arrests and these are providing the police with significant leads. And that seems to satisfy them. Maybe the alternative is too disturbing to contemplate.

He wonders whether those ethnic groups which the police think of as having no interest in environmental issues are now going to be declared ‘outside the net of interest’; and he’s put in mind of a police commissioner once justifying stop and search for young black guys with the argument that there’s ‘no point wasting time arresting elderly white ladies’. There was a time not long ago when Mrs Williams might have worn ‘significant lead’ as a badge of honour. Perhaps not now.

Back at his desk, he sets the news headlines to pop up on his screen every ten minutes. The five o’clock deadline passes. At seven he clicks to
CNN UK
. The overall sense is of London getting back to normal as the weather cools slightly. At the end of the bulletin the cheerful trivia slot is devoted to a skilfully edited short piece about London’s thriving fox population set to music: eager domestic dogs following vulpine footprints in drying mud, to the accompaniment of a foxtrot. Exhausted, Mark shuts down his computer and, leaving the box of files on the floor exactly where he put it this morning, walks across to the Houses of Parliament. He’d hoped to have heard from Rachel by now. Her flight must have been delayed.