uncomfortable, it was her striking beauty. ‘Your father. Does he drink?’
‘He likes wine. But never more than two glasses.’
‘And he doesn’t ask you to cover your head when you go out?’
Jamila laughed, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. ‘Of course not.’ She laughed again. ‘Just the thought of it.’ She shook her head. ‘My dad’s not like that. He’s been in the UK since he was ten. And my mum was born here. I’ve never seen her wear so much as a headscarf.’
‘What about when she goes back to Pakistan?’
‘She’s never been,’ said Jamila. Glasgow’s her home. If you think I’ve got an accent, you should hear Mum. You couldn’t get her to Pakistan if you paid her.’
The waiter returned with Jamila’s wine. Chaudhry caught him smiling at Jamila in a way that made him want to grab him by the throat and slam him against the wall. He shook his head, wondering how she’d managed to provoke such strong feelings in such a short space of time. He’d been in her company for barely ten minutes and he was already jealous when another man even looked at her.
‘You’ve been to Pakistan, my dad says.’
‘Over the Christmas holiday,’ he said, nodding.
‘On a health programme, right? That must have been really interesting.’
Chaudhry’s mouth had gone dry and he swallowed awkwardly. This was the first time he’d met her and he didn’t want to start their relationship with a lie but he didn’t have a choice. ‘It was hard work,’ he said. ‘My dad said you worked in an orphanage.’ He hoped that the change of subject wasn’t too obvious but he was very uncomfortable lying to her and much preferred to be talking about her.
She nodded enthusiastically. ‘I did a gap year before I went to uni,’ she said. ‘I spent most of it in a city called Murree, in the Punjab. They’d had over twelve inches of rainfall and it was a real mess. A lot of people were killed, thousands of homes were destroyed and a lot of kids were abandoned so the number of orphans had gone through the roof. And food was in short supply; there were no medicines. It was horrible, Raj. It really made me appreciate what we have in this country. We moan about the NHS but at the end of the day at least you get to see a GP and if necessary you go to hospital for treatment.’ She smiled. ‘Why am I telling you that? You’ll be a doctor soon.’
‘No, I know what you mean. I hate the poverty out there. My dad’s always telling me how well Pakistan has done, how at independence in 1974 it inherited one jute factory, one textile mill and one university. But when I was there all I saw was the poverty.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Karachi,’ said Chaudhry. At least that much was true. He and Malik had flown there from London before being transported to an al-Qaeda training camp close to the border with Afghanistan. ‘It was a small clinic in a deprived area. I was giving them vaccinations and offering basic healthcare advice.’ He felt his heart race as he lied, and his hands were damp with sweat. He wiped them on his trousers. He liked Jamila, really liked her, and he hated the fact that any relationship he had with her would be based on untruths. He felt a wave of shame and he looked round for their waiter. ‘I could do with a Coke,’ he said. ‘Where’s our waiter gone?’
Jamila lifted her head and the Australian waiter rushed over, eager to please. She rewarded him with a beaming smile and nodded at Chaudhry. The waiter took Chaudhry’s order and then they both chose their pizzas. Chaudhry was a little annoyed that Jamila asked the waiter for his opinion on what was good and even more annoyed when she took his advice and had the Padana with its goat’s cheese, spinach, red and caramelised onions and garlic oil. It did sound good but Chaudhry couldn’t force himself to follow the waiter’s suggestion. His favourite was the Diavolo, but he figured that if there was any chance of a goodnight kiss then he’d be better avoiding the Tabasco, jalapeno peppers and hot spiced beef that gave it its kick, and so he went for a classic Margherita.
‘Good choice, sir,’ said the waiter, with what Chaudhry took to be a sarcastic tone, and then he flashed Jamila another beaming smile before heading off to the kitchen.
‘I didn’t see any pictures of your volunteer work,’ said Jamila.
‘Sorry?’ said Chaudhry, confused.
‘On your Facebook page. There weren’t any photographs of you in Karachi. At the medical centre.’
‘I’m not a great one for taking pictures,’ said Chaudhry, hating himself for yet another lie. ‘And I was worked off my feet.’
‘Will you go back, do you think?’ she asked.
‘Probably not,’ said Chaudhry, and at least that was the truth.
‘I’m definitely going back,’ said Jamila. She sipped her wine. ‘I thought of taking another year off and spending it at the orphanage but my dad says I should graduate first.’
‘Definitely,’ said Chaudhry quickly. Too quickly, he realised. ‘I mean, you’d find it much harder to get back into studying. Better to get your degree first and then take another year off before you start work.’
‘That’s what my dad says.’
The meal flew by. They ate their pizzas, Jamila ordered a second glass of wine, they shared a dessert, they had coffee, and all the time they talked and laughed as if they had known each other for years. She was the prettiest girl Chaudhry had ever seen, and he was all too well aware of how men’s heads turned as they walked past their table. When the bill came she offered to split it with him but Chaudhry insisted that she allow him to pay. She agreed but made him promise that on their next date he would let her pay. His heart raced when she said that, and he couldn’t stop grinning as they stood on the pavement looking for a taxi.
It turned out that he could have eaten the Diavolo pizza after all because he didn’t get a kiss. But he did get a peck on the cheek and she squeezed his arm before she got into the back of a black cab. He stood rubbing his cheek as the taxi drove off. He’d had an amazing evening, and he knew that his father was right: she was the perfect girl for him. But he also knew that no matter how the relationship progressed it had started with him lying to her, not once but several times. He’d looked into her beautiful, sexy, wonderful eyes and he’d lied. His stomach lurched and before he could stop himself he was vomiting in the gutter.
Hargrove arrived at Thames House immaculately dressed as always. He was wearing a black pinstriped suit, a crisp white shirt and a blue and yellow striped tie, and was carrying a black leather briefcase, looking more like a stockbroker or merchant banker than a chief superintendent with the Metropolitan Police. Shepherd met him outside. He was also wearing a suit, but a black one that had probably cost less than Hargrove’s trousers alone.
‘Any idea what this is about, Spider?’ asked Hargrove as they headed for the entrance.
‘I know as much as you do,’ said Shepherd. Button had phoned him the previous evening and asked him to come in for a 10 a.m. meeting with Hargrove and to walk him into the building.
‘Is that because it’s need-to-know or because she hasn’t told you either?’
‘The latter,’ said Shepherd.
Hargrove smiled thinly. ‘Of course you’d say that anyway, wouldn’t you?’
‘Charlie tends to play her cards close to her chest,’ said Shepherd. They walked into the reception area where Hargrove showed his warrant card and Shepherd signed him in. They walked through a metal detector and took a lift up to the third floor. Button was waiting for them in a windowless meeting room. She was sitting halfway down a large oak table with a pale-blue file in front of her.
She stood up, shook hands with Hargrove and waved him to a seat on the opposite side of the table. Shepherd hesitated as he wondered on which side of the table he should sit. His instincts were to sit next to Hargrove as they were working together on the arms case and Button had called the meeting, but he was still employed by MI5 and Button was his boss.
Button saw his indecision and nodded at the seat to Hargrove’s left. ‘Why don’t you sit yourself there? It’ll be easier for me to show you what I’ve got.’
Shepherd sat down next to Hargrove.
‘Coffee?’ asked Button.
Both men shook their heads.
‘Okay, so I’ll dive straight in. Basically there are some interesting developments in the Kettering and Thompson case that I need to run by you.’
‘That’s a West Midlands case,’ said Hargrove quietly. ‘I didn’t realise there was any MI5 involvement.’
‘Any case where terrorism is involved falls within our brief,’ said Button.
‘Terrorism? We’re talking about a group of Brummie villains purchasing weapons,’ said Hargrove.
