Luke touched his arm. ‘Listen: it’s me they want, not you or Rachel. If you two keep your heads down for a day or so, I’m sure they’ll-’
‘Fuck that,’ said Pelham. ‘You’re my friend. But you’ll owe me big for this. So next time I need you vouching that I kipped the night at your place, no more of that ethics bullshit you gave me last time. Okay?’
‘Fair enough.’ He turned to Rachel. ‘How about you?’
‘Those bastards tasered me in the back,’ she said. ‘But I want you to promise me something. I want you
‘What?’
A touch of shame pinked her cheeks as she gathered the printouts together. ‘If we ever get the originals back, they’re mine. Aunt Penny wanted me to have them, and I need them. My brother needs them.’
‘What for?’
She shook her head. ‘He just needs them, okay?’
A siren in the distance. They turned towards it, bracing themselves for disaster. But almost at once it began to fade. ‘Fine,’ said Pelham. ‘The originals are yours. Now let’s get the hell out of here.’
III
It was a dismal drive in from City Airport through East London, dual carriageways punched through shabby housing estates and brutalist tower blocks. But at least it was quick. Then, however, they entered some long tunnel and the traffic started to congeal. By the time they finally emerged, it was pretty much locked solid. Their driver put a siren on their roof, used it to bully his way through. They passed St Paul’s Cathedral, reached the bottom of Ludgate Hill. The police had shut off Fleet Street with metal barriers, forcing traffic to turn right or left, but another squirt of siren saw them through.
They nudged through thin crowds of Sunday afternoon sightseers. Digital cameras and phones pressed against their windows; flashes popped. Croke fought the urge to shield his face; it was too late anyway, and would only draw attention. They passed through more barriers into a cordoned-off area, drove beneath a canvas awning that allowed them to exit the Range Rover without being photographed. They walked through a short, arched brick passageway and emerged into Crane Court itself, a flagstoned alley with old, low and wide redbrick buildings to their right, taller, modern ones to their left, the ugly backsides of offices and other businesses.
A senior policeman, to judge from his age and uniform, was in heated discussion with a youngish man in a dark suit. ‘Wait here,’ said Morgenstern. He went to join the conversation, came back after a minute, brow furrowed. ‘Problem,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘That prick in the uniform. He’s media liaison. I’ve dealt with him before. All he cares about is how good he looks on the TV news.’
‘So?’
‘So he’s due to give a briefing. Says he won’t do it until he knows why we’re searching
Croke nodded. It was a sensible question. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘That the threat may not be very specific, but it
‘That didn’t work?’
He shook his head. ‘I know this guy. He’s going to background brief that this is all kabuki, designed to make Londoners scared. And if people start asking those kind of questions …’
Croke nodded. ‘Can we escalate?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Have your search teams put on HazMat uniforms, wave some Geiger counters around.’
Morgenstern squinted at him like he was crazy. ‘You want people thinking we’ve got a dirty bomb on our hands?’
‘It would explain why we couldn’t risk waiting, wouldn’t it?’
Morgenstern laughed. ‘I’m going to enjoy working with you,’ he said.
FOURTEEN
I
Even as Walters turned into the Maltings, he spotted the red BMW parked up against a grassy bank at the foot of the main building. ‘Got them!’ he exulted. But the building’s main doors opened at that moment, and Luke, Rachel and Pelham hurried out and made straight for their car.
Walters maintained a steady pace, not wanting to attract attention. But Luke spotted him anyway. He yelled to the others and they sprinted for the BMW, climbed inside. Walters spurted the SUV forwards then braked sharply so that his front bumper was flush against their rear, blocking their escape. He jumped out, tried the BMW’s back door. Too late. Already locked. He glared in through the back window. The girl, Rachel, was holding a sheaf of sepia-and-black pages, printouts of the Newton papers. Rage coursed through him. He punched the glass, but only hurt his hand.
Kieran tried the doors on the other side, but they were locked too. It was Pete who found the more practical approach. He clambered on to the soft top and tried to tear the fabric free from its moorings. But Redfern started up the BMW and shot it forwards up the grass bank until his bumper hit the Maltings’ front wall. Then he swung the wheel hard around and reversed back down, clipping the SUV before racing away. He turned sharply, accelerating across the car park with Pete still on his roof before screeching to an abrupt halt and sending him tumbling down the BMW’s bonnet and across the tarmac. Then they were off and away.
Walters climbed back into the SUV to give chase, but by the time he’d picked up Kieran and Pete, the BMW was nowhere in sight. They drove around for a little while in hopes of seeing it, but without reward. ‘Now what?’ asked Pete.
‘We need to find them,’ said Walters.
‘How?’
‘Maybe they left something back at Redfern’s place.’
‘What if one of his neighbours has called in the filth?’
‘Have you got a better idea?’
They went back, watched the entrance for fifteen minutes. No sign of the police. No sign of anyone. They parked in a guest slot and Pete soon had them inside. Redfern’s apartment was a mess, and they found little of any use. The smartphone on the desk made Walters curse, for they’d evidently got serious about covering their tracks. He pocketed it anyway; it would make it easy to identify Redfern’s contacts. He checked the drawers next, found paperwork for the rented BMW. It gave him an idea, though making it happen was way above his own pay grade. He took a deep breath then called his boss.
‘I don’t believe this,’ snapped Croke, when Walters had brought him up to speed. ‘I thought you were supposed to be good at this kind of thing.’
‘With respect, sir, we’ve been unlucky.’
‘Unlucky!’ scoffed Croke. ‘These people can do me
‘That’s why I called, sir. The thing is, Redfern’s BMW has SatNav. We should be able to track them through it.’
‘SatNavs are receive only,’ said Croke.
‘Most are, yes,’ persevered Walters. ‘But this is a rental. Rental companies often fit receive
