Heaven's Light (20 page)

Kate looked at him over the tiny vase of wild mint. She was tackling the last of the chicken leg with her hands, shredding the meat from the bone.

‘I get the feeling you liked it,’ she said drily.

‘I loved it.’

‘No reservations? None at all?’

Barnaby thought of his visit to the prison. Corporal punishment, in the flesh, was abhorrent. No question. But a bare ten minutes’ conversation with the rehab unit’s director had prompted him to look at the issue anew. There was a tariff for caning. Any inmate who physically attacked another got three strokes. Someone drug-testing positive could expect six. It was brutal justice but all the surveys suggested that, once again, it worked. The only benchmark that mattered in Singapore was success, and given the enormous challenge of trying to wrestle someone away from drug addiction, who could say that caning should be banned?

Barnaby wiped his mouth with his napkin and recharged his glass. His visit to Changi had touched another nerve, altogether more personal.

‘Jessie’s apparently bailed out of the rehab place,’ he said. ‘I tried to phone her last night.’

‘Does that worry you?’

‘Of course it does.’ He grimaced. ‘Liz says she’s in Guildford with some friend or other.’

‘You’ve talked to Liz, then?’

‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘She’s my wife.’

‘And she knows you’re here, in London?’

‘No, she thinks I’m still in Zurich. With Zhu.’

Kate reached for her glass. The second bottle of wine was nearly empty.

‘Maybe we should go public,’ she said softly. ‘Would you drink to that?’

Barnaby returned her smile. Exhaustion was catching up with him again. The last thing he needed was another lap or two around this particular track. ‘I’d drink to anything,’ he said lightly. ‘As long as it was just you and me.’

‘But it isn’t, is it? It’s you and me and Liz and poor Jessie and your home and that wonderful view you keep telling me about and…’ She frowned, six fingers raised. ‘Shall I go on?’

‘I’d prefer you didn’t.’

‘I bet you would.’ She leaned forward, the candlelight spilling shadows over her cleavage. ‘I’ve missed you, Hayden, and this is just another way of saying it. I’m a quarrelsome old bat. Take no notice.’

‘I won’t.’

‘No?’

She was waiting for an answer, and he captured her fingers, giving them a little squeeze, a private signal that it might be time for bed. Kate withdrew her hand. The dessert menu was beside the wine and she opened it. Barnaby watched her eyes go filmy as she tried to concentrate.

‘Tell me about Zhu,’ she said absently. ‘Get to know him, did you? Pals now?’

‘Not really, he’s not that kind of guy. We spent time together, of course, but the whole thing was tightly organized. Lots to see, lots to find out. No.’ He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t call him a friend.’

‘What then? A patron? A benefactor? The tooth fairy?’

‘No, he’s a client, that’s all.’

‘Pretty mega client.’

‘Of course, but a client nevertheless.’ Barnaby began to fold his napkin. ‘He’s been talking about more buys in
Portsmouth. I don’t think capital’s a problem and he seems fond of the place. The Imperial’s been a doddle, a real delight. If there are any more in the pipeline like that…’ He left the sentence unfinished. Kate’s foot had found his leg under the table. He could feel the soft leather of her boot running up and down the inside of his calf.

‘You really think there’ll be more?’

‘God knows. We all have our fantasies and Zhu just might be mine.’

‘I think he is.’

‘Why?’

‘You should have heard your voice on the phone from Singapore. You were like a kid in a toy shop. It’s been a while since I heard you like that.’

‘Yeah,’ Barnaby conceded, wryly. ‘It’s been a while since anyone made that kind of fuss of me.’

He held up both hands at once, stemming the flood of mock sympathy. Sober or drunk, Kate knew him inside out and what made it worse was the knowledge that he loved it that way. It spoke of the deepest intimacy, a delicious violation that occasionally overwhelmed him. Kate could be rough, abrasive, demanding, illogical, and selfish, but none of that had ever altered the fact that he loved her in ways he’d never thought remotely possible.

‘Tell me about your meeting,’ he said.

‘Meeting?’

‘The constituency thing. Your big chance.’

‘Ah …’ She leaned back in the chair, nursing her glass of wine, rehearsing the line she’d take before the constituency membership. The nomination was there for the taking, she said. Frank Perry, her main rival, had been at it far too long for his own good and she knew there was a real appetite amongst the membership for change. Everyone in the local
party would have a vote and a simple majority would see her adopted as constituency parliamentary candidate. Given the rightward shift in Labour’s leadership, and the residue of doubts about what had been left behind, she’d decided to pitch it dead centre. The market should deliver but the people should profit. Health and education should be top priorities, but taxation shouldn’t strangle enterprise. People should have obligations as well as rights. Looking out for your neighbour was as important as looking out for yourself.

‘Sounds like Singapore,’ Barnaby said softly, listening to her ticking off the phrases one by one, aware of her eagerness and her hunger, wondering how much of this pretty speech she’d been rehearsing for her earlier date.

She was talking about Europe now. She was pro the Social Chapter but against a big Brussels bureaucracy. One of the things she’d wanted to check with her New Labour friend was the leadership’s line on QMV.

‘QMV?’

‘Qualified Majority Voting.’

‘Ah.’ Barnaby had reached for the dessert menu. The waiter was hovering again. Barnaby looked up, wondering aloud about the warm figs in Madeira, but Kate was already fumbling under the table for her bag. She produced a credit card from her wallet and gave it to the waiter. When Barnaby protested, she got up, shaking the creases out of her coat.

‘I thought you were still hungry?’

‘I am. I thought we might go to bed.’ She grinned down at him, waiting for the Visa slip. ‘I don’t want to sound political,’ she said, ‘but here’s a promise.’

‘What’s that?’

Kate bent to his ear. Her breath was warm on his cheek.
‘When it comes to me getting screwed,’ she squeezed his hand, ‘you can do it any way you like.’

Owens had nearly finished sucking his second Strepsil of the morning when he saw the taxi turning into the top of Elphinstone Road. He watched it squeal to a halt outside Haagen’s basement flat, the driver leaning on the horn.

‘We’re on,’ he muttered throatily.

The duty CID driver beside him was deep in a copy of the
Daily Mail.
She looked up to see Haagen appear on the pavement. He was wearing jeans and a thick green anorak, and he was carrying a black holdall. Seconds later, the taxi was on the move and the CID girl followed at a discreet distance. When they got to the harbour station, Owens checked his watch. The fast Waterloo train left in seven minutes’ time. So far he’d got it exactly right.

He reached behind him, hauling out his own bag. His wife had washed it twice since the last competition but she still hadn’t got rid of the fishy smell. Haagen was out of the taxi now, twenty yards ahead, paying the driver. Any minute now he’d look up.

‘Sorry about the cold.’ Owens was genuinely apologetic. ‘But you’d better kiss me.’

An hour and a half later, he was tracking Haagen across the concourse at Waterloo. The new international station was on a lower level and Owens let him get to the foot of the escalator before riding down. In the departure lounge, Haagen treated himself to a cappuccino and what looked like a Danish pastry. When the Brussels departure was ready for boarding, Owens took a chance and stationed himself at the head of the queue. His Eurostar seat allocation put him four rows in front of Haagen and he knew that the
best cover of all lay in being first on the train. If Haagen saw him already seated, he’d hardly suspect surveillance.

First class on the brand-new train was quietly comfortable and Owens settled himself beside the window. He’d bought a copy of
Angling Times
in the departure lounge and he was half-way through an article on ground bait when the train plunged into the Channel Tunnel. Twenty minutes later they were out again, picking up speed for the dash to Lille, and he sat back, watching the flat expanse of Picardy unrolling beyond the occasional blur of a trackside building. The CID girl who’d driven him to the station had given him a mobile phone that would hook into the European digital network, and when the train stopped for signals in the suburbs of Tournai, he tried it out. Back in Portsmouth Bairstow had appointed himself Owen’s primary contact, and Owens got through to him without difficulty. As usual, they’d agreed the simplest of codes and Owens signed off after less than a minute’s conversation. ‘Tell Derek I think it’ll probably be OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll get back to you again when there’s more news.’

In Brussels, Haagen and Owens changed trains. Like Haagen, Owens’s ticket took him through to Amsterdam but this time he rode in a different carriage. The train was Dutch, a long yellow thing, and it wound slowly up through Belgium and into Holland, stopping at station after station. Each stop found Owens in his seat beside the pneumatic door, his bag at his feet, his eyes never leaving the platform. Haagen was riding in a carriage at the end of the train. If he chose to get off, he’d have to pass Owens. And if that happened, Owens would be out too.

By four o’clock the train was easing into Amsterdam’s central station. In the busy forecourt, amongst the crush of bicycles, Haagen paused beside the taxi rank, consulting his
watch. Owens was still inside the station entrance, half hidden by an advertising display, and when Haagen abandoned the taxi rank for a nearby tram stop, he stepped out, pushing his way through the crowds of commuters hurrying into the station. Across the cobbled forecourt, he could see Haagen at the back of a long queue. There were trams everywhere. One stopped, hiding Haagen from view. Owens began to sprint. To lose him now would look foolish indeed. A vision of Bairstow swam into his mind. Running errands for the Met was far from uncommon but there was something about this operation that had got under the superintendent’s skin. Owens had caught it in his voice when he’d used the mobile phone. He was paranoid by nature but he’d sounded even more suspicious than usual. Phoning in again to report a blank would really make his day.

The tram was beginning to move. The kerbside queue was down to three women. Of Haagen there was no sign. Owens headed for the nearest taxi, cursing. Then he stopped. He’d kept track of the passengers as they’d filed onto the tram. He was certain that Haagen hadn’t been amongst them.

On the other side of a canal a big main road ran left to right, thick with traffic. At right angles to the main road, spearing into the heart of the city, was a wide boulevard. The traffic lights at red, Owens joined the flood of pedestrians crossing. On the other side, he knew he had to make a decision.

He stopped again, trying to visualize the map he’d committed to memory on the train. Left, right or straight on, three options, a 33 per cent chance of not fucking up. He was about to settle on the second option, the boulevard into the city, when he spotted the cluster of phone kiosks.
Haagen was in the nearest one, his back turned, his hand chopping up and down on the thin metal shelf as he made a series of emphatic points. Owens backed away slowly, the adrenaline washing through his system. Haagen had a notebook out. He was scribbling something down, the phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear. Any minute now the conversation would be over.

Owens felt a nudge in the small of his back and turned to find himself beside a florist’s stall. The woman was holding out a bunch of early daffodils. Owens took them without a word, fumbling for a twenty-guilder note. By the time the woman had tallied the change, he was thirty metres away, hurrying along beside the canal, trying to make the corner before Haagen disappeared again.

It was nearly dark by the time Ellis found the entrance to the drive. On the phone to the ministry, Zhu had been surprisingly vague in his directions, telling Ellis that the house was half-way between Wentworth and Bagshot. Only on his third pass had Ellis found the sign indicating Bentwaters.

He followed the drive between thick hedges of dripping laurel. At the end, beyond a turning circle of newly laid black tarmac, stood a substantial, brick-built house flanked on both sides by double garages. Ellis parked behind a white delivery van and got out. Beside the front door was a big iron bell-pull. He yanked on it twice but heard nothing. He was about to try again when the door opened. Zhu was dressed exactly the way he’d first seen him at Heathrow, the baggy cotton shirt hanging on his thin frame. Ellis shook the outstretched hand and stepped inside. The hall was enormous, panelled in oak. At the foot of the
stairs that led to the first-floor gallery were a number of heavy-duty cardboard boxes. Some were open and inside, cradled in white polystyrene, Ellis could see computer terminals and keyboards.

Zhu led the way into a lounge. At the far end of the room, a Labrador lay in front of a roaring log fire. Through big french windows, in the garnering dusk, Ellis glimpsed a stone-flagged terrace and beyond it, still crusted with snow, an expanse of lawn.

At Zhu’s invitation, Ellis sank into one of the plump armchairs beside the fire. A tray of tea had already appeared and Zhu was bent over the pot, peering down at the thin yellow liquid. As ever, he had no interest in small-talk.

‘Thank you for coming,’ he said. ‘I have a proposition.’

Ellis put his attaché case on his knees and opened it. The case was on loan from MI5 and Louise Carlton hadn’t let him leave Thames House without proving to the F branch technicians that he could operate it. The microphone was built into the bottom of the case and Ellis moved his chair a little, ensuring that the case was angled directly at Zhu.

Zhu was pouring the tea. ‘You’ll know we’ve placed an order for the equipment.’