loved in her.
He knew she had made an effort to come out with him.
He realised she couldn't last long that evening. He saw the pleading in her eyes, he started to make their excuses and shake hands. As soon as was decently possible. He thought of the tittle-tattle that would follow their backs out of the room. There'd be a few of them who'd get a laugh out of speculating on the problems of Sam and Hilda Perry.
It was still too early to pick up Will from Scouts.
They'd go home first… He heard the strong sigh of relief from Hilda when they were in the car park and clear of the raucous celebration of the bar.
A mile to their home.
Sam Perry drove slowly. He let his left hand rest on her arm, moved it only to change gear.
He turned into Churchill Close. He could hear her crying, very faintly.
'Don't hurt yourself, love,' he said. 'You couldn't have stopped Jack going.'
He looked at her. He was going to kiss her cheek. He saw her startled, staring eyes. She was peering through the windscreen and at their home at the end of the cul de sac.
He saw what she had seen. They always drew shut their front bedroom curtains when they went out in the evening, nice curtains but not heavy curtains.
He saw the traverse of the torch beam.
Sam Perry braked. He backed away to the end of the road. He drove fast to the police station.
To the two constables the Ford Fiesta was an obvious target of interest. It was far from commonplace for an old car to be parked in the shadows between the extremities of the street lights in this sedate suburb. Via their radio link the constables had heard that two men had been arrested following a forcible entry to a property in Churchill Close.
They had heard that four officers had used truncheons to subdue the intruders. They had heard that no getaway vehicle had been found in Churchill Close. They had heard that the arrested men's accents were thought to be South African. Two streets away the Fiesta and the man sleeping behind the wheel were worth a check. It was smoothly done.
Door opened, keys out of the ignition before the man had tumbled awake. Major Swart was escorted to the police station.
* * *
'Twice in one day, Major Swart. Extraordinary.'
Detective Inspector Cooper thought the sullen silence of the South African amply repaid the hassle of being called out from home, of having to drive from north London into Surrey.
'There's ways for foreigners to behave in our country, Major Swart, and there are ways that are outside the tram-lines. Sitting in the getaway while your muckers are managing a spot of larceny is right outside the lines.'
Three South Africans held while in pursuance of a crime was sufficient reason for a call to be made from Surrey Constabulary H.Q. to the Scotland Yard duty desk. The detective inspector was a member of Special Branch.
'I'm here, Major Swart, because when we searched your two muckers we found their embassy ID cards. Now, Major Swart, I'm sure you'll agree with me that the Libyans wouldn't stop short of a spot of larceny, or the Nigerians, perhaps, or the Eastern bloc chappies, but the representatives of the South African government, that's going to raise an eyebrow or two. Is it because they don't pay you much, Major Swart? Is it a bit of burglary to supplement the overseas allowance?'
He sat on the plastic-topped table in the interview room, swinging his feet casually. Swart was on a chair, rigidly straight-backed, as though he was at attention. It amused the detective inspector to think of the turmoil in the mind of the South African. Exposure. Disgrace. Expulsion.
'I have to wonder why half the diplomatic mission from Pretoria should have travelled out of London to burgle a home in this nothing town. Very puzzling, Major Swart, because next door I have laid out on a table the items that your muckers were intending to take away with them. All pretty peculiar, but not so peculiar that I can't hold you and charge you… '
He saw the South African stiffen.
'Oh yes, there'll be charges. Conspiracy to rob, in your case. Your friends are in deeper trouble, of course. Theft, assaulting police officers in the execution of their duty. You might get away with eighteen months, three or four years they'll get. You'd thought of that, I expect. You knew you'd be gaoled if you were caught, surely you did? Not nice gaols like yours. You'll probably all get Pentonville, that's where they send the short termers. Pentonville isn't segregated like those nice gaols of yours, Major Swart. You'll have a bunch of kaffirs on your landing for company.'
He thought the young constable by the door would be having a field day listening to this heap of crap. He would tell the constable that if a word of this interview got out then the boy could kiss his promotion up his arse.
'I claim diplomatic immunity.'
'Bollocks.'
'I am Major Hannes Swart. I am an accredited diplomat.'
'You're a burglar, and what's more you dress up in funny clothes and make a spectacle of yourself at funerals.'
'I am Second Secretary in the Consular Section of the Embassy of the Republic of South Africa.'
'You are a security police agent who has engaged in criminal activities.'
'I demand the right to telephone my embassy… '
'Refused.' The chief inspector grinned.
'… in order that my embassy can verify my creden-tials.'
'No chance.'
He turned, and he walked out. He left the constable with Major Swart. He went into the adjoining interview room and collected off the table the plastic bags inside which were the items collected by the men arrested in Churchill Close.
He carried them back for the Major to see. He laid them on the table in front of him. There was a letter in an opened envelope. There was a booklet offering South African holidays. There was a pamphlet entitled Blasting Practice -
Nobel's Explosive Co. Ltd, and another Blasting Explosives and Accessories – Nobel's Explosive Co. Ltd. There was a sales brochure issued by Explosives and Chemical Products Ltd of Alfreton in Derbyshire.
He saw the South African's eyes hovering over the display.
He played a hunch. He thought he had kept the best until the last. From behind his back he produced a see- through plastic bag in which was a framed photograph. It was the photograph of a young man. He held it under the South African's nose.
'Shit…'
Major Hannes Swart made the two links. He linked the photograph with the photo-fit picture sent from Johannesburg. He linked the photograph with the young man who had met Jacob Thiroko.
'Shit…'
Jack Curwen was the bomber in Johannesburg, and Jack Curwen was the one whom he'd seen talking to Jacob Thiroko. Explanations hammering into place.
The detective inspector watched him keenly.
'I demand the right to contact my embassy.'
'Crash job, is it, time of the essence?'
'I have the right to telephone my embassy.'
'To tell them what your muckers found?'
