‘You were a Gimball fan?’
‘I’m a fan of not worrying that we’re all about to be arrested.’
‘I’m starting to sense a guilty conscience.’ Lamb looked at River, then Coe, on whom his gaze lingered. ‘Wonder whose it could be?’
Welles said, ‘If she’s got a line to the crew that shot up Abbotsfield, we should be asking her questions. Not watching her bleed out.’
‘I might have misjudged you, Dorset,’ Lamb told him. ‘Though as spectator sports go, I’ve heard worse ideas.’ He dropped to his knees. ‘Let’s be clear about this,’ he said to Kim, and though he spoke softly, nobody had any trouble hearing every word. ‘We know what you’ve done, and we know what happened as a result. You’ll tell us everything we want to know, or your life as a free woman is over as of tonight. That clear enough?’
‘Fuck you,’ she told him through gritted teeth.
‘That was gonna be your second option.’
‘Jackson …’ Catherine warned.
‘Yeah, all right. Jesus. When did making a joke get to be a criminal offence?’ He got back on his feet and turned to Emma Flyte. ‘There you go. I’ve warmed her up for you.’
‘You’re going to let me do this?’
‘You’re supposed to be the expert.’
She knew better than to congratulate him on his attack of common sense. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘the rest of you can clear out.’
Which, once they’d looked to Lamb for confirmation, they all did.
As she approached the Gimball woman’s car, Di Taverner’s mobile rang and she paused on the edge of the layby to take it. Traffic was light, but moving fast, and she had to speak, to listen, against a background of engine noise.
‘We’ve confirmation of a known face at Slough.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Picked up on CCTV in the town centre, minutes after the news of the death came in.’
‘Quick work.’
‘He rang bells on the face recognition software, on account of being highly decorated.’
For a moment, Taverner’s mind swam with images of valour. ‘He’s a soldier?’
‘An ex-con. With facial tattoos.’
The speed limit, and possibly a local record, was just then broken by a passing hothead.
Taverner waited until it had echoed into the distance before saying, ‘Let’s leave the imagery aside, shall we, and stick to the facts?’
The Queens of the Database, as the Park’s comms and surveillance tribe were known, were prone to sporting verbal fascinators; one of the consolations, they claimed, for not getting out much.
‘Sorry, ma’am.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Name of Tyson Bowman. He’s an aide to Zafar Jaffrey, who’s—’
‘I know who Jaffrey is. Any idea why he was in Slough tonight?’
‘Not yet. The police have barely started trawling their captures. We got this sooner because Jaffrey’s flagged, and any associates light up the circuits.’
The CCTV feeds had been supplied to the Park, the theory being that any hits would be shared immediately. Everyone knew this rarely happened, though the reason wasn’t usually policy driven; was more often due to information snagging on the red tape that dangled on jurisdictional borders like flypaper.
She said, ‘Okay. Was Jaffrey in Slough too?’
‘No. He was addressing a meeting in Birmingham.’
‘Okay,’ she said again. ‘Let’s see if we can organise a pick-up without the locals getting into a tizzy. It’s probably a coincidence. But.’
‘I’ll see who’s within range. Shame he didn’t flag earlier. We had a pair on the ground.’
Taverner, who’d been about to disconnect, held her thumb. ‘… What?’
‘A pair of agents in Slough. They flagged too.’
‘I see,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, that is a shame. Remind me who they were?’
Up close, the girl didn’t resemble the younger Claire as much as he’d thought; was narrower of feature, with skin ever so slightly pitted where adolescence had left its cruel marks. But even if you stripped away all other reference points, the facts remained that she was young, she was female, and that was enough to provoke certain memories. And there was this, too: he’d summoned her and she’d come. Sometimes, that was all it took.
‘Sir?’
‘Josie.’
She waited. ‘… Was there something you needed?’
Whelan blinked and recovered himself. ‘A man called Blaine, goes by Dancer. He runs a stationer’s somewhere near St Paul’s, but it’s a cover for various … activities, I’m told. Is he on our books?’
‘I can find out.’
‘Good girl. I mean, thank you.’
He watched through the wall as she returned to her desk at a trot and began harvesting information: a digital rake, a digital scythe. He noticed how her blouse protested when she stretched; how she bit her bottom lip in concentration, and his throat clicked.
There was someone in his doorway.
‘… Yes?’
‘This for you, sir.’
Whelan frowned when he saw the name at the top: Emma Flyte? Wasn’t she supposed to be at Slough House? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but he was alone again, the transcript’s bearer having slipped back into anonymity.
