‘I did not.’
It seemed to be the only positive thing he’d said during the preceding fifty minutes of his testimony.
‘I remind you, you are under oath, Detective Sergeant Furey.’
‘You don’t need to remind me of that.’ It was the closest he’d allowed himself to sarcasm or resentment of Jensen. He didn’t like the man — the way he fawned on the press, or the way he treated the SAS major, Fraser, like a little tin god to be bowed and scraped to — but Jensen was simply doing his job. His mission was to find a scapegoat and it had been all but done before the inquiry had opened.
Jensen had let the words slide. The media had already been leaked reports of the cocaine found in Tom’s room, and official statements from Pretoria and Scotland Yard had confirmed that no charges had been laid against him. Other evidence, including some of Sannie’s, had already established that Carla was crooked, and the media had come around to the idea that the drugs were part of a set-up. Not that it helped Tom, of course, who was being painted as at best gullible; at worst negligent in his duty to the point of criminality.
The truth, Tom thought, as he moved his bags to the doorstep and locked the front door, was where it usually sat — somewhere in between the best and worst of what people believed. He’d done a good job tracking and almost catching the terrorists — and Shuttleworth assured him this would come out in the findings, as the government needed something remotely positive to highlight — but he had been seduced, morally if not physically, by Carla. Whether or not she had drugged him, he had to admit he’d drunk alcohol, and this was against regulations — no matter what the quantity. And, although he had made it plain in his evidence that he did not have sex with her — the inference being he was too sedated to fuck her — he had let her into his room, with some intent to bed her.
Two men died as a result of his actions. He would have to live with the guilt he felt over Bernard’s death for the rest of his life; Bernard had made sure of that.
This was a good time for him to be leaving — late in the evening. The newspapers had passed their deadlines for the next morning, so there was little point in staking out his home at this time of day. There would be no fresh angles until the release of the inquiry’s final report and recommendations. This morning’s papers had summed up the highlights of the last day. DRUGGED, DRUNK BODYGUARD SLEPT THROUGH AIDE’S CRIES FOR HELP, read the headline above the fold on the newspaper that Tom tossed into the bin outside his house. He’d forwarded the mail to his cousin’s place in Kent and cancelled the papers. He didn’t know when he’d be back in England. Technically, he supposed he shouldn’t be leaving the country without telling Shuttleworth. His absence would be noted when the inquiry reconvened to hand down its judgement.
‘Fuck ’em,’ Tom said to himself. He saw the little red Ford Focus come round the corner and slow to a crawl as Sannie checked the house numbers. She’d never seen his home, but that didn’t matter now.
Sannie saw him, flashed her lights and waved through the arc of the slashing wiper blade. Tom ignored the drizzle and waved back. When she stopped he looked up and down the darkened street again, making sure there were no photographers lurking. Sannie said that her bags were in the boot, so he slung his on the back seat and got into the passenger’s seat. She leaned across and kissed him. She tasted like a promise of sunshine.
‘I was wondering if you’d be here. Did you get my message?’
He nodded. ‘I was still packing. Did you really think I wouldn’t want to leave?’
‘I don’t know. I think it’s the best thing for you.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
‘It’s because I’m not. It’s okay if you want some time out, to wait until the media storm blows over, but if you’re running away you might never be able to run far enough.’
‘I’m not running away.’ He buckled his seatbelt and stared straight out the windscreen.
‘I know.’ She changed gear and pulled away from the kerb, then let her hand rest on his knee. ‘And that worries me too. I think you might be chasing something.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘I think you might be chasing a phantom.’
Tom’s airline seat was in economy, while Sannie’s return ticket was business class. She tried to get him upgraded at the check-in at Heathrow, but her section was full. ‘We can swap halfway through, if you like,’ she’d offered.
‘I’d better get used to economy from now on. No more business and first on the job for me.’ He’d paid for the ticket out of his savings and while he wasn’t short of money — he had enough to travel for six months if he wanted — there would be no more where that came from unless he eventually found a job of some sort. The pension he’d worked more than twenty years for was just a dream now.
While he couldn’t get an upgrade, Sannie was able to get him into the BA lounge, and Tom downed three beers to Sannie’s single gin and tonic. ‘It’ll get me through cattle class,’ he explained.
They sat together on a two-seater lounge and held hands in between sipping their drinks. ‘Tom, we haven’t even discussed where you’ll be staying.’
She’d offered to lend him a vehicle for his travels — the Land Rover Defender had sat virtually unused in her garage since Christo’s death — but they hadn’t had time to discuss any further details of his visit.
‘I was planning on getting a hotel room near the airport and coming out to see you the day after we arrive — to check out this vehicle of yours, if it’s still on offer,’ he said.
‘Of course you can still have the bloody truck, Tom. But I want you to come stay with me. For as long as you want. I’ve been thinking about it over the last twenty-four hours.’
‘What about your kids?’
‘That’s mostly what I’ve been thinking about. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt them, but they liked you the last time and at least they’ve met you once. I’ve got a small guest flat at the back of the garage. It’s yours if you want it.’
He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Of course I want it. I don’t know where I’ll end up, Sannie, but it’s nice to know I’ve got somewhere to start.’
‘Have you got any idea where you’ll go?’
He shrugged and picked up his beer, taking a long swig. He was, she thought, either avoiding answering the question or really had no idea where he was going. She thought the first of these was correct. He was still holding something important back from her. This whole running away to Africa idea didn’t ring true; it didn’t make sense that he would find solace or escape in a continent where his career had come to a shuddering, bloody halt. He was after something — someone. If he was going after the terrorists alone, he was mad. Dangerously mad. While she’d broken the rules on his account several times, she was not going to drive off into the wilds of Africa with Tom, toting her nine-millimetre in her handbag to back him up. Of that she was certain. The combined resources of the South African, British and American governments were looking for those men. Tom Furey couldn’t achieve what police, spies and satellites had failed to. Could he?
Their flight was called and they parted in the queue to board. He kissed her and told her he would see her at the other end.
Yes, she thought, but for how long?
26
‘ Wat doen jy? ’ Tom, lying on his back under the Land Rover, turned his head at the sound of the voice and saw a pair of small bare feet and skinny golden-brown legs.
Tom’s hand was drenched with hot black oil as he unscrewed the plug in the engine sump and let it flow into the tin bowl. His own legs, in shorts, were already starting to turn pink, he noticed as he used his elbows and feet to slide himself fully into the open. He recognised the young voice and the boy standing there, but had no idea what he was saying.
He held up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s bright glare. ‘Hello, Christo. Remember me? I’m Tom.’ The boy’s face was haloed by the afternoon sun. Tom wiped his brow with the back of his clean arm. The heat was a shock all over again after London.
The boy nodded. ‘What you doing?’ he asked again, in English.
Tom sat up, grabbed a rag he’d found in the garage, and wiped his hand as best as he could. The sump
