18
K athy was on her own in the office later that day when her mobile phone rang and the reporter, Clare Hancock, came on.
‘Hi, back on Brock’s team again are you, Kathy?’
It was a question that Kathy had postponed thinking about.
‘Only I was down at UCLE this morning, and I heard that you’re reinterviewing Haygill and his staff, is that right?’
‘Clare, I can’t discuss it with you, I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, come on, off the record. You’re talking to them, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does that mean you don’t buy the lone gunman theory any more?’
‘Sorry, Clare. Are you running out of ideas or have you got something for me?’
‘Oh, I’ve got lots of ideas, and trading with you didn’t do me much good last time. But let me run an idea past you, free of charge, and if you feel inclined you can give me a theoretical, off-the-record opinion. You remember how we were torn between the fatwa and Haygill for Springer’s murderer? Well, why not both?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, Haygill orders the fatwa. He’s got some pretty heavy friends overseas. Maybe he decided Springer had to be stopped, and they obliged.’
‘Why would Haygill be so desperate to stop Springer?’
‘Yes, that’s the puzzle, isn’t it? No suggestions?’
‘No suggestions.’
‘Well… suppose Springer had found out that Haygill was doing something scandalous.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, practising human sacrifice, or eugenics or something.’
Kathy hesitated, then said, ‘You’d need to have some solid evidence before you printed anything like that, wouldn’t you, Clare?’
‘Well, it’s only an idea. What do you think of it?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
The reporter laughed and said, ‘That’s better than saying it stinks.’
‘Look,’ Kathy was losing patience, ‘instead of inciting another race riot with wild guesses, why don’t you let us finish our investigations?’
‘Because there’s something else here that hasn’t come out yet. I can smell it, and so can you. Why did Khadra kill Springer? You tell me.’
‘We’re working on it. I’ll let you know as soon as we’re ready to say anything.’
‘Trouble is, Kathy, I’ve always been so impatient. I don’t like waiting for other people to tell me when to move.’
Afterwards Kathy wondered what the call had been all about. A bit of fishing no doubt, but perhaps a warning too. She rang the media office to see if they’d heard anything, but they weren’t aware of anything brewing in the pages of the Herald.
Leon emerged from Bond Street tube station and began walking south. It was a fresh night, the streetlights glistening on pavements wet from a recent shower. The crispness of the breeze blew away any lingering doubts and he marched forward confidently. Perhaps he was doing this for the wrong reasons, because O’Brien had called him a berk in front of everyone, because Brock had kidded him about joining Special Branch, and, most of all, because Kathy had got him into this in the first place and then changed her mind and got it stopped, as if he were some kind of obedient pet to be redirected at will.
No, that wasn’t exactly it. He shook his head angrily, and an oncoming pedestrian stepped warily out of his path. It would be puerile to act simply because he felt goaded. He tried to tell himself that he was doing it for his own sake, because it was unfinished and unresolved and he didn’t like leaving things that way. Soon he would move up to Liverpool, begin his masters degree, and forget about the lot of them. But first he wanted to tie this up. And if he did turn up anything juicy, the look on their faces would be a bonus.
He turned a corner and an easterly blast of icy wind sucked his breath away. Who was he kidding? He was doing it because she seemed to hate the sight of him now, and he couldn’t stand it.
He pushed that painful thought away and strode faster towards the next corner, from where he could see the front door of Thoroughbreds lying ahead.
Towards ten that night Kathy was doing some ironing in front of the TV, only half-listening to the current affairs programme, when she heard them mention Max Springer’s name. She looked up and saw images of troops on the streets of some city. It was night, their vehicles and helmets and riot shields silhouetted against bursts of flame, and she searched for some clue as to where it was, without success. It might have been Belfast or Seattle, Colombo or Jerusalem. Then she realised that the programme was about Springer, with the commentator illustrating his points with news clips. She still wasn’t very sure what Springer’s philosophy actually said, but it did seem to have acquired a sudden currency. You could hardly open a newspaper or turn on a newscast these days without hearing some reference to ‘Springer’s Syndrome’ or ‘Springer’s Nightmare’, whenever some example of extremist violence was being discussed.
Her phone rang, and she flicked off the TV and picked up the receiver. It was Brock.
‘Kathy? You haven’t heard from Leon in the past hour or so have you?’
The tone of his voice made her stomach tighten. ‘No. What’s wrong?’
‘Wayne’s had a call from Rupert, his contact at that club, Thoroughbreds. Apparently Wayne had phoned him earlier to say that Leon wouldn’t be keeping the appointment, and had asked him to give Darr a message that he’d been called back up north. Rupert did that when Darr arrived. Then a few minutes later Leon turned up.’
‘At the club? He kept the appointment?’
‘Yes. I don’t know what the hell he was thinking of. Rupert was serving other customers when he walked in, but he saw him quite clearly. Leon chatted with Darr for a couple of minutes, then they both left.’
‘He didn’t tell anyone?’
‘Not a soul. He didn’t say anything to you, then?’
Kathy thought, I’d be the last one. And then, but he’s doing this because of me.
‘Rupert has no idea where they were going?’
‘No. He gave Wayne the names of some other clubs that he knows Darr takes his guests to, and we’re just starting to check those. But
… Rupert said something else, Kathy. He said, before Leon arrived he was talking with Darr, and Darr asked him if he’d ever met his boss, Haygill. Rupert hadn’t, and Darr then asked him if he’d even heard the name Haygill before. Rupert said no.’
‘Oh God…’ Kathy whispered. The sense of foreboding that had been lurking in her mind throughout the previous night came lurching back with a vengeance, making her feel physically sick. She had to concentrate to hear what Brock was saying.
‘… always believed that lightning never strikes twice in the same place…’
She didn’t follow at first, then realised he was referring to an earlier case of theirs in which Leon had been held hostage for almost twenty-four hours by a gunman. She recalled the state he was in at the end of it. What the hell had been thinking of to do this?
‘… probably sitting in some bloody strip-club guzzling champagne, but we’ve put out an alert for Darr’s car just to be on the safe side. Unfortunately both Leon and Darr have got their mobiles switched off. Any ideas?’
‘Could they have gone back to the lab?’
‘From the West End? Unlikely, I should think, but I can get the UCLE security people to check for us.’
‘I think I’ll head down there myself,’ Kathy said. She couldn’t have offered a rational argument for her choice, but she had to move, to do something, and some obscure corner of her brain, a corner that specialised in ironic references at inappropriate moments, had flashed up a phrase- This is a Springer Nightmare.
