‘This man’s working with the terrorists,’ she answered, standing up and brushing herself down. ‘I discovered his identity and he tried to kill me. Get him into the incident room and we’ll organize a vehicle to take him down to Paddington Green for questioning.’
Matthews and the others hauled Cheney to his feet, and Cheney pointedly ignored Arley’s gaze as he was led back to the incident room. Only Janine lingered. She looked at Arley strangely, as if there were still a lot of unanswered questions, which there were. Then she too turned away.
Arley pulled out her phone, putting it to her ear as if about to make a call, then she started walking briskly across Hyde Park towards the outer cordon, before finally breaking into a run.
It was time to see her children.
Ninety-four
23.17
TINA STOOD ON the doorstep of Arley Dale’s mother’s attractive modern townhouse, looking out on to the empty wet street. Lights were on in all the houses, and Tina was pretty sure that behind every curtain people were watching the events continue to unfold at the Stanhope.
On the way over here in the car, she’d heard the news that all the gunmen were supposedly now dead and Special Forces were in the building, clearing it room by room, floor by floor, while bomb disposal teams had dealt with a number of suspect devices. Tina knew that her actions had almost certainly saved the lives of SAS operatives, but it had been a close-run thing, and, given everything else she’d done, including killing a man, it might not be enough to save her from prison.
For the past few months, at the back of her mind she’d toyed with the idea of appealing against her dismissal from the Met and trying to resurrect her career as a police officer. But this had scuppered any such ambitions completely. There was no way on earth they could let her back in now.
But Tina didn’t regret what she’d done. A man had once told her that you should judge your actions by how much good they do; if the good outweighed the bad, then those actions were worth it. The man who’d said it might have been a killer many times over, but even so Tina felt he had a valid point. And tonight, the good she’d done far outweighed the bad.
She stubbed her cigarette out on a waist-high stone flowerpot, and rubbed her hands against the cold. She could do with warming up but she had no desire to go back inside, where Arley’s mum would only keep bombarding her with questions. And to be fair, who could blame her? But right now she wasn’t interested in answering them.
A black cab turned into the street, stopping directly outside. It was Arley, still in her DAC finery, although it was looking somewhat dishevelled. Tina had always thought there was something pompous about the uniform of the senior officers in the Met, and she wondered what the taxi driver must have thought when Arley had hailed him.
After paying him, Arley walked up the steps to where Tina was standing, stopping in front of her. She took a deep breath, and threw her arms round Tina. ‘Thank you so much for what you’ve done. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.’
Tina pulled away gently. ‘Save the hugs for the children, Arley. You haven’t got much time.’
Arley took a step back. ‘Have you called the police?’
‘I have, but I haven’t told them where to find us. I’m going to need to call them again now and tell them to come here.’
‘Can’t you leave it for a little while?’
Tina shook her head. ‘I left a crime scene containing the body of the man I killed. I can’t afford to avoid them. Neither can you right now.’
Arley gave an understanding nod. ‘Then I guess I’d better hurry up.’
Tina stepped aside to let her past. She didn’t envy Arley, having to tell her children that they’d lost their father. It was going to be a hard conversation, especially after all they’d been through. But they were good, brave kids and they would have family around them. And at least, unlike many of the victims of that day, they still had their lives in front of them.
Lighting another cigarette, she put up her collar against the cold and walked slowly up the street, waiting until she finished it before making the call.
Then she walked back down to the house and sat down on the bottom of the steps to wait.
Sixteen Days Later
Ninety-five
IT WAS A mild afternoon for December, but raining steadily, as it had been for days, and already very dark, as the mourners filed slowly out of the ancient church. Beyond the wall stood a very wet-looking camera crew – the only sign that the funeral of Martin Geoffrey Dalston was any more than just a run-of-the-mill event. Dalston was by no means the first victim of the terrorist attack on the Stanhope to be buried, but there was a rumour that he was in line for a posthumous bravery award, which probably explained the presence of the camera crew.
Scope had stood at the back of the church, keeping well out of sight, and consequently he was one of the first people out. He wore a beanie hat with a scarf pulled up over half his face, so that no one would recognize him, but unfortunately the walking stick he was having to use, courtesy of the bullet in his arse, was a bit of a giveaway. During the week he’d spent in hospital the police and the staff had kept the media at bay, but since then everyone had been trying to get some sort of comment from him. Scope knew he was a big story – the guy who’d taken on the terrorists and saved the lives of dozens of hostages. They’d dug up and picked over his past. His eighteen-year military service, including two tours each in Iraq and Afghanistan; marriage to his childhood sweetheart, and fatherhood at nineteen; the affairs; the messy divorce; and, most poignant of all, the tragedy of his daughter.
That was the part Scope hated about it the most. Dredging up what had happened to Mary Ann for the entertainment of the masses. He didn’t want anyone knowing about her. It was none of their business, and never would be. He was surprised, though, that the media hadn’t delved further into what had happened after her death. If they had, they’d have discovered an explosive story that would have satisfied even the most jaded reader. Maybe one day they would, and he’d be found out. But there was no point in him worrying about that now. He’d done what he had to do.
It was a two-hundred-yard walk back to where he’d parked his car, and since he was still out of practice at walking with pins in his leg, his progress was slow. He kept his head down as other mourners overtook him, and was relieved that he wasn’t seen by the camera crew. He’d looked for Abby and Ethan in the church but didn’t think they’d been there, which was probably for the best, although he’d’ve liked to see Ethan again one more time. He’d received a card from them when he was in hospital, thanking him for all he’d done. It had had a Florida postmark, and Ethan had enclosed a picture he’d drawn of Scope as an action man with immense biceps, an ill-fitting suit, and a very big gun. Scope had put it on the table by his hospital bed, and he had it now, packed up among his belongings.
As he reached the car and felt in his pocket for the keys, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned round and saw that it was the blonde manager from the hotel whose name, he’d found out afterwards, was Elena Serenko. She was wearing a black dress underneath a long dark raincoat and black headscarf, and she reminded Scope of a young Bette Davis.
