‘Not much left of our computer wizard,’ Chief Inspector David Shuttleworth said, his breath clouding as he strode over. ‘Looks like the bomb was planted somewhere in the centre of the front room — perhaps even under the computer desk itself.’
‘I don’t know what was on that machine, guv, other than some porn, but he died for it.’
‘Aye, well, there’s no way we’ll know now,’ Shuttle-worth said. He fished a packet of Dunhill from his Barbour jacket and offered Tom a cigarette.
Tom shook his head. ‘Given up. Again.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Shuttleworth paused to light up. ‘Cock-up hardly begins to describe this one, Tom. What do you make of the presence of the shooter, as well as the Pakistanis?’
Tom shrugged. ‘My guess is that he was watching the house, as were we, and he was sneaking in to take up an ambush position, though I have no idea why.’
‘Well, we know the two dead chaps were people smugglers, who were supposedly doing their bit for world Jihad by helping out the odd terrorist with papers and money and the like, but why would our man in black shoot them?’
‘Because they knew too much and he couldn’t risk them being caught?’ Tom sipped his tea.
Shuttleworth nodded and took a long drag on his cigarette. The smoke and frozen breath wreathed his head and shoulders in a shimmering aura, backlit by red and blue flashing lights. ‘They’re getting better at covering their tracks all the time.’
‘The IT guy was just about wetting himself over whatever was on that machine.’
‘Why did you not just take the computer or the hard drive?’
Tom looked across at his superior and frowned. They both knew the answer to that question. The United Kingdom might be at war with Islamic fundamentalist terror groups, but they still had to fight by the rule of law.
Shuttleworth checked his notebook again. ‘You say he gave no indication about what he’d found on the hard drive other than…’
‘Porn. Like I told you. “Some sick shit” was all he said, though I’m betting he didn’t stay on just to check out some fuck pictures.’
‘Well, we’ve got two dead suspects, three injured civilians from next door, no computer, no computer expert and a masked assassin on the loose. Not to mention a missing protection officer.’
Tom drained his tea and crushed the cup as the rest of Shuttleworth’s comment penetrated the ringing that lingered in his ears from the bomb blast. ‘Who’s missing?’
‘Nick.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was supposed to be at a political fundraising dinner in the city with Robert Greeves this evening, but he didn’t show. Caused a hell of a stink. He dropped Greeves at his home at five, but didn’t return to collect him at seven. We’ve tried his home and mobile phone, but there’s no answer. Deidre hasn’t heard from him either.’
Tom frowned. Nick Roberts had been a friend once — they had joined the Met at about the same age and had matching careers. Nick’s ex-wife, Deidre, had worked as a nurse in the same hospital as Tom’s wife Alexandra, and it was really the two women who had been close friends. After Nick and Deidre’s divorce, and Alex’s death, he and Nick had seen little of each other outside of work. As protection officers, both spent long periods away from home. Those absences had cost Nick his marriage but provided blessed relief for Tom, as the job had helped him a little by taking him away on a regular basis from his lonely home full of memories.
‘That’s odd. I’ve never heard of him missing a job.’
‘Any problems that you know of?’ Chief Inspector Shuttleworth, a Scot, was new to their team, having transferred in on promotion, so he still didn’t know all of his officers’ idiosyncrasies.
‘With Nick? Not that I know of. Likes a drink — who doesn’t in our job — but he’s never called in sick because of a hangover, if that’s what you mean. Seems to have a different bird every few weeks.’
Tom felt uncomfortable singing Nick’s praises any more than that. Once, when they were both on the same team protecting a visiting African head of state, a group of a dozen expatriate dissidents had staged a protest outside the London restaurant where the president was dining. Nick had warned one of the demonstrators to back off when he approached the principal too closely. The man, who appeared drunk, had told Nick to fuck off. Nick had punched the man, hard and fast in the stomach, with enough force to drop him. Someone on the team — not Tom — had reported the incident. Tom had expected the protestor to lay a formal complaint, and took the view that if he was called to make a statement he would do so, truthfully. Nick had used unnecessary force. Word got back to the squad’s former chief superintendent and Nick had been called into his office to explain his version of events. Fortunately for Nick, the complainant never came forward. There had been speculation around the office that a couple of the president’s personal staff had leaned on the witness. Tom had noticed a marked cooling in his relationship with Nick and while he never said anything to Tom’s face, Tom suspected that Nick thought it was he who had gone to their governor behind his back.
‘Deidre didn’t seem too worried when I spoke to her. I know divorce is never pretty, but it was like he could have died and she couldn’t have cared less.’
Tom shrugged. ‘I can call round his place if you like. We — I mean, I — still have a key. Alex and Deidre used to check in on each other’s places when we were on holidays. Water the plants and all. Nick stayed in the family home and Deidre bought a new place.’
Shuttleworth nodded. ‘Aye, okay. If you find him in bed with a tart or a hangover, shoot him, please, before the Minister for Defence Procurement catches up with him. It’ll be the kindest thing all round.’
Shuttleworth had suggested he see the Met’s psychiatrist in the morning for stress counselling, but Tom reckoned a lie-in might be a more therapeutic option. It was going to be a late night.
He waved his thanks to the constable who had driven him to his home in Highgate and walked up the steps to his terrace house. Southwood Lane was pretty posh these days — the habitat of bankers, lawyers, doctors and the like. Though he didn’t wear a uniform he was pretty sure most of the people up and down the street knew he was a copper. It was probably why they kept their distance. He’d grown up in the house and lived there most of his life, apart from six years in his early twenties after he’d joined the Met. Tom was an only child whose parents had him late in life and they had passed away, within a year of each other, when he was twenty-eight. He’d been seeing Alex for four years by then and it had seemed logical, in a strange way, that the passing of his folks had been the catalyst for him to ask her to marry him.
Tom fingered the faint scar above his right eyebrow. It was barely noticeable these days, but he saw it, and touched it, every morning when he shaved. His white summer uniform shirt had been drenched in blood from the cut inflicted by a drunk armed with a broken beer bottle the night he’d met Alex, nineteen years ago. She was still an intern and she was so beautiful he couldn’t help but ask her out on a date as she stitched him back together. She’d laughed and told him that as far as she knew there were rules against that sort of thing. He persisted. She relented. She was an Essex girl made good and he’d been sure they would grow old together. Her shifts and his unusual hours at home and abroad meant they had never really lived like a normal couple. They joked to friends that they only ever saw each other on birthdays — and never Christmas because they were both working. They’d both planned on retiring early, to make up for all the lost nights.
And here he was. Alone for more than a year now. Cheated of his life and his wife. He tried not to dwell on it, but everything in the house reminded him of her. How could it not? He left the hall light off as he walked through to the kitchen. Maybe by staying in the dark the memories would dim. He found the key on the hook by the little blackboard where she used to write her shopping lists. It was right where she had left it. Alex was the last person to have touched the key to Nick’s home. He stood there in the darkened kitchen and closed his eyes. He held the key in his fist and squeezed it until he felt the pain of the serrated metal edges digging into his palm. He opened his eyes and walked out again, ignoring the four or five letters sitting on the hallway floor.
Tom’s old hard top E-type Jag started first time and the V12 purred deeply, like a giant cat welcoming its owner home with a leg rub. Alex had wanted to get a new car, but Tom liked old things — old British things — and with overtime he could even afford to fill the tank once in a while. He could never see himself driving a Renault or something Japanese.
As he drove, settling into a slow lane of traffic, a vision of Alex’s wasted body, her eyes so deep in their sockets they looked bruised, popped into his head. He screwed his eyes shut for a second. A horn blasted beside him and he realised he had momentarily drifted out of his lane. He forced himself to concentrate and ignored the
