“Nor will I apologise. We got the shitty end of the stick, handling Pitchfork. We kept him in check best we could, but afterwards we were treated like dirt. We didn’t deserve that. We were his handlers, not his accomplices. Even if it’s true what they’ve said since, that he ended more lives than he saved.”
“There are always those who’ll pick holes after the event,” Taverner said. “And it’s easy to show the Service in a bad light. But we’re not monsters. No, let me rephrase. We’re sometimes monsters, but we have to be. To kill the bigger monsters. And we make mistakes, but who doesn’t? The royal family? The Post Office?” Her words were clipped, precise, delivered without passion. Just another debate in the office. “And we don’t own up to those mistakes for the same reason nobody else does. That once we did, we’d lose all credibility.”
“And that’s your main concern.”
“Yes. Besides, those whose deaths he caused were enemies of the state, remember? We’re not talking about the slaughter of the innocents. And in case you need reminding, you didn’t come to me demanding a light be shone on the truth. You came for money.” She picked up the disk and examined it briefly. “This belongs in a museum. The tech, I mean, not the contents.” She dropped it into her bag.
CC said, “You could say the same about me.”
“The thought had occurred. Where are your friends?”
“They had nothing to do with this.”
“Of course not. Where are they?”
“On various trains. Heading home. Forgetting this happened.”
“It was all you, wasn’t it? Your hat, your rabbit.” She shook her head. “Supposing I’d told you to screw yourself and publish? Where’d that have got you?”
“I knew you wouldn’t.”
“Because you’d have wound up in court. Or been tried by the press. Public enemies numbers one through four. And yes, the Park would have had headlines too, but we’ve weathered worse.”
“If we were going to be part of the cover-up, we deserved to be compensated. And since we weren’t, why help cover it up?”
“And what about the murder charge?”
“We never committed murder.”
“A good lawyer might agree that Pitchfork’s crimes were his alone. That you were bound by the rules of the Service not to warn his victims, that doing so might have been treason. But it’s Malone I’m talking about.”
In the street a horn sounded, then another. Two cars having a row. CC said, “Malone was found by his old comrades. The identity you gave him fell apart, and the Provos found him. Executed him.”
“That’s certainly the official rumour. I mean, the coroner delivered an open verdict, but we all knew what she meant. But it doesn’t really fly. Because if his old colleagues had come for him, we’d have been aware of it. It’s not like we weren’t keeping an eye on them.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Well, I was hoping you’d join the dots and save me the bother. But if you need it spelling out, what I’m trying to say is that your friends Avril, Al and Daisy murdered Dougie Malone. Are you sure you won’t sit down? You look fit to drop.”
“I was thinking,” Daisy said, “there’s probably a party shop round here. There’s always one somewhere, have you noticed?”
Al and Avril shared a look.
“Only then we could buy some big red noses, and maybe clown shoes or something. In case we’re not conspicuous enough.”
Though in fact they were just three people, none of them youngsters, who’d emerged from a taxi, which had made a significant dent in the bounty CC had dispensed. CC’s car was nearby, on a meter. Avril’s watch, meanwhile, was still tucked down its back seat cushion. And CC himself was presumably close at hand, answering a summons from Diana Taverner . . .
Not for the first time, Avril wondered what CC had thought he was doing, trying to put one over the Wicked Witch of the Park. Except the answer was obvious; he had thought, like any hero, that his guile was a match for anyone’s. Same old story. But in the real world Hansel and Gretel were eaten, and hungry bears watched Goldilocks dance herself to death. “Cover the area,” Avril said, and they separated. If Taverner had a place round here for covert meetings, it might be possible to recognise it from the exterior. Service properties came in different varieties. Intelligence factories were notable for a lack of windows, while upstairs rooms commandeered for surveillance purposes would have theirs propped open, to allow unimpeded lines of sight and sound. A safe apartment would have thicker windows than its neighbours, light hitting them in a different way. It was all about glass; reflective surfaces.
Her phone pinged, and a moment later did so again. Al and Daisy, checking in. She pinged back, the single letter
