Louisa felt bad. Twelve dead in Abbotsfield, and now this. She looked at Shirley, whose expression had set into one of sorrowful disgust. It was spooky really, inasmuch as the Shirley she was used to would have been punching holes in the wall by now. Not that she was especially fond of penguins, as far as Louisa was aware, but any opportunity to kick off was usually seized upon.
Before she could stop herself, she said, ‘Shirley reckons we should keep an eye on Ho.’
‘What, watch his back?’
‘That kind of thing.’
‘After hours?’
‘The only harm he’ll come to here is from us.’
‘You know he goes clubbing, don’t you?’
‘I figured.’
‘With, I can only assume, like-minded people. People like Ho.’ He paused. ‘We’ll want hazmat suits.’
Shirley said, ‘That means you’re game?’
‘Nothing better to do,’ River said. He looked at Louisa. ‘You too, yeah?’
Louisa shrugged. ‘Okay, why not? Count me in.’
WHEN THE QUESTION AROSE, which it often did in interviews, Dodie Gimball had her answer down pat: ‘Oh, make no mistake. It’s Dennis wears the trousers in our house.’ And this was mostly true, but what she never added was that he also, on occasion, wore a rather over-engineered red cocktail dress he’d bought her for her fortieth, along with various items of her lingerie that he was scrupulous about replacing when accidents happened. It was a harmless peccadillo – in her dating years Dodie had exclusively enjoyed beaux from public school, so hadn’t batted an eye when Dennis’s little foible came to light. At least he had no interest in putting on a wetsuit and having her walk on him in stilettos, which not one but two old Harrovians had suggested as an after-hours treat. (They’d been in the same year.) And say what you like about the system, it did grace its pupils with a smattering of the classics, a bulging address book and a knowledge of which fork to use. State education was for chemists and the grubbier sort of poet. Though she was still a trifle miffed that Dennis had chosen her fortieth birthday gift with his own pleasure in mind.
Anyway, that little item had been ticked off the Gimball agenda last week, so wouldn’t arise again for a while. What they were discussing now, in the sitting room of their Chelsea apartment, fell into the realm of their joint professional interests rather than their more-or-less shared leisure pursuits.
‘And you’re sure the information is accurate. That this man …’
‘Barrett.’
‘That this man Barrett knows what he’s talking about.’
These weren’t questions, and even if they had been, Dodie had answered them twice already. But that was Dennis’s way: when he was processing information, he liked to have it run past him a number of times. And when he got on his hind legs and spouted it for the benefit of the public, there’d be no glancing at notes or scrambling for the right word. There’d be confidence and the ring of truth. Even – especially – when the material was fabricated.
She said, ‘He’s done work for the paper in the past, and we’ve never had to retract anything. He used to be a policeman, I think. Or gives that impression. Either way, he’s our go-to chap for the back-door stuff. You know, following people around.
‘Of course.’
‘And he’s been keeping an eye on Zafar Jaffrey’s bagman.’
Zafar Jaffrey: the PM’s favourite Muslim, in the running for mayor of the West Midlands, and exactly the spokesman his community needed, being decent, reasonable, moderate and humane; the first to condemn extremism, and the first to defend his fellow Muslims from Islamophobic abuse. That was the official line, and even Dodie admitted he looked good on TV, but surely there was a point beyond which you needn’t go when opening doors to those of other faiths – was it so wrong to add ‘races’ there? – and that point had been reached when you were handing over the keys to the house. Besides, there was the issue of his brother. Not one he’d ever tried to conceal, true – that would have been a non-starter – but even public acknowledgement didn’t lance the boil: the fact was, Jaffrey’s younger brother had gone marching off to Syria, where he’d died waging jihad. A terrorist, in fact. On a par with those who’d gunned down innocents right here in moderate Britain.
Dennis closed his eyes and recited: ‘The bagman. A thirty-something ex-con called Tyson Bowman, whose CV includes two stretches for assault. Nasty piece of work. Claims to have found Allah inside and now adheres to the straight and narrow, but has one of those face tattoos, like a tribal marking?’
‘Best not say “tribal”, darling.’
‘Suppose not. Anyway, most of Jaffrey’s staff have records. That’s his thing. Rehabilitation.’ He sniffed: lefty nonsense. ‘Jaffrey’s not going to deny he has criminal connections.’
