‘What I was wondering is whether he appointed him because of it. Does that mean there’s something going on in UCSO that we don’t know about? And do you think Geoffrey Fane knows?’
Liz sighed deeply. ‘He didn’t mention it. Which, with Fane, doesn’t mean he doesn’t know.’
‘Do you want me to do anything?’
Liz put her head in her hands. ‘No. I’ll have to go and talk to Geoffrey. And I was hoping not to have to see him for a while… fat chance of that now!’
It was eleven o’clock and Technical Ted and his colleague, Sammy de Silva, were strolling down the street where Boatman’s uncle had his hardware shop. Ted, the Service’s electronic wizard, had abandoned his favourite working clothes (biker boots and leather jacket), had removed his gold earring, and had tied back his long black dyed hair in a pony tail. He was dressed now, as was Sammy, in unremarkable shirt and jeans. Carrying their leather bags in their hands, they might have been tradesmen of any kind.
They stopped outside a café and seemed to be discussing whether they should go in. It was a café run by a Muslim family, which during the day was frequented by all and sundry from the flats, shops and offices along the street. In the evening, though, when the offices were closed, rather like Tahira’s shop its customers were mainly Asian youths.
Ted and Sammy went in and sat down at a table by the window, putting their bags on the floor beside them. They ordered coffee, which they drank slowly. By the time they paid the bill and left the café, any conversation that took place at that particular table could have been heard in the Odeon cinema some distance away, which now served as MI5’s Birmingham office. But until it got to 6 p.m. no one was listening.
The familiar voice shattered the silence like an explosion. In the back of the van, freshly resprayed and with new number plates, Dave Armstrong almost jumped out of his plastic chair.
‘So how are you, brother?’ Boatman’s words boomed over the speaker in the van. Dave watched Sammy turn down the volume on the amplifier control. Next to Dave, perched on the edge of another plastic chair, sat Kanaan Shah, looking excited.
‘I’m well,’ said another voice. This must be Malik, Boatman’s friend from the mosque. Boatman had arranged to meet him at the café after work. Under direction from Shah, Boatman had arrived at the café early, when it was still quiet, and had sat down at the table in the window. He probably thought it had been chosen because it was visible from the street. He didn’t know that their conversation was being overheard.
The van was parked in a cul-de-sac less than five hundred yards from the café. In addition, one pair of A4 officers sat in a parked car a short distance from the café; another pair, an Asian couple, were in the café itself, sitting at a table near Boatman and Malik. Dave had an uneasy feeling about Malik, particularly since he’d heard that it was he and a pal who’d attacked Liz. He didn’t think it was likely that there would be any trouble that evening, but he had laid plans to create a diversion, just in case.
‘And how is my married friend?’
It took Dave a moment to realise that Malik was referring to Boatman himself.
Boatman said, ‘It’s going very well.’ He hesitated. ‘She is being very devout.’
‘Ha,’ said Malik with a throaty laugh. His voice was deep, with a Birmingham accent. ‘That’s not how a new wife’s meant to behave – with her mind always on Allah and never on you. She’s a very pretty girl, Salim. I hope you are making the most of it.’
Boatman didn’t respond. Knowing him, Dave thought he was probably uncomfortable with the sexual overtones of Malik’s banter. But Malik didn’t seem to notice as he shifted the conversation on to football. He was a keen Aston Villa fan and spent several minutes discussing their manager and whether he would survive another season, and bemoaning the unwillingness of the owner to invest on the same scale as the moguls of the Premier League. There was an Asian boy in the youth team, but Malik didn’t rate his chances of graduating to the first eleven. ‘Too slow,’ he said dismissively.
‘You’ll miss the football, won’t you?’ said Boatman.
‘Yeah,’ said Malik casually, and Dave could visualise his shrug.
Then Boatman asked, ‘Are you ready for your trip?’
Beside him, Dave saw Kanaan nod intently, happy the conversation was getting down to business. Too soon, thought Dave, worried that the sudden shift of subject was too clumsy. Boatman had no subtlety and that put him at risk.
A waiter must have arrived at the table, for Malik said, ‘Orange squash,’ and Boatman asked for apple juice. There was a pause, then Boatman asked, ‘How soon will it be then?’
Dave waited tensely for the reply; a date would help Pakistani liaison keep tabs on the group from the mosque when it arrived. But Malik only said vaguely, ‘It won’t be long now.’
Next to Dave, Kanaan sighed with disappointment. Then Boatman pressed on. ‘Will you go before the football starts?’
