time we’d seen each other for a drink.
I talked about it with Simon and his colleagues for a few minutes, and it was clear they were all pretty elated that they’d nicked such a high-profile suspect, and that there seemed to be enough evidence to secure a conviction, which is always the hard part. I was pleased for them, but I also couldn’t avoid the feeling that I was an impostor. This was their result, not mine. Their celebration. Simon might have been making an effort to make me feel welcome, but it wasn’t really working, and I found myself quickly growing bored. And with the boredom came the reminder that I was a man potentially in a lot of trouble.
It was then that I saw her, standing on the edge of another group of people I didn’t know, looking a little like me — someone who didn’t belong. I recognized her instantly, of course. Tina Boyd was one of the most high-profile police officers around, having had the kind of career that made mine look uneventful. Kidnapped. Shot on two separate occasions. And last year, she’d run down and killed a fleeing suspect who later turned out to be responsible for a string of killings and a major terrorist plot. I’d heard that she’d joined Dougie MacLeod’s team, and I remember Simon admitting grudgingly that she was a good detective, although she was also a bit up herself.
I watched her as she walked towards the pub’s exit, reaching into the pocket of her suit for a pack of cigarettes. She was an attractive woman with classic Celtic features of dark hair and pale skin, but there was also something serious about her, as if she neither smiled that much nor suffered fools gladly. She was frowning as she left the pub, walking purposefully, and people instinctively moved out of her way.
I’ve never been the kind of guy to go for the right woman, so I moved effortlessly away from the conversation, pulling out my own cigarettes. I could no longer see Dougie, and Simon didn’t notice me go. He was too busy talking to a young Spanish-looking woman at the bar, and getting in way too close to her.
When I got outside, Tina Boyd was leaning against a wall, smoking and looking deep in thought.
‘Hi,’ I said, lighting a cigarette and walking over. ‘I don’t think we’ve met. My name’s Sean Egan,’ I told her, using my real name for the first time in what felt like weeks. ‘I used to work with Dougie MacLeod in CID.’
She turned to me and I noticed she had eyes the colour of mahogany. ‘I know,’ she said with the hint of a smile, putting out a hand. ‘I’m Tina.’
‘How do you know I used to work with Dougie?’ I asked as we shook.
‘He told me.’
I was pleased. It meant she’d been asking about me. ‘Is that right?’
‘He said I should keep away from you. He said you were trouble.’ Her expression had turned serious, but I got the feeling that she didn’t care whether I was or not.
I thought about that one for a moment. ‘I wouldn’t say I’m trouble,’ I concluded, ‘but I have to admit I quite enjoy looking for it.’
‘What do you do now?’
‘I’m with CO10. Undercover work.’
‘Must be pretty stressful.’
‘It has its moments,’ I said, recalling my brush with death earlier that day. ‘But no more stressful than some of the things that have happened to you.’
She shrugged, and I got the feeling that she didn’t want to talk about it, which was fair enough. Usually, I’d have left things at that. Had my smoke and gone back inside. But there was something about her that made me want to persist with the conversation. I had the impression she was an outsider like me; someone I could relate to if only I could get past the hard shell.
I took a long pull on the cigarette, looking out towards the steady stream of passing traffic. ‘It’s a thankless life we lead sometimes, don’t you think? Chasing all these arseholes, just for more of them to pop up. You know, occasionally I feel like chucking it all in and doing something completely different. Running an organic farm, or a surf school.’ As I spoke the words, I realized with something of a shock that I genuinely believed what I was saying.
‘You’d be bored out of your mind within a week.’
‘You reckon?’
She smiled, wider this time. ‘I’m sure of it. Perhaps you just need a holiday.’
I thought about that one. I hadn’t had a holiday for years. The last time was a two-week trip to Antigua with a girl called Britt, who wasn’t even Scandinavian. It had rained a lot and we’d fallen out by about day three.
I was about to tell Tina about this last trip, throwing in a couple of amusing anecdotes before asking her if she fancied a drink, because I had a feeling I was getting through to her, when the mobile I’d been using for the past few weeks to talk to Tommy jolted me from my thoughts. The ringtone was a bone-rattling, old-fashioned car horn I’d put on there so that I would never forget which phone it was. I thought about not answering, just forgetting about Wolfe, Haddock, Tommy, all of them for one night, but the world doesn’t work like that. When you’re undercover, there’s no such thing as time off.
‘That’s a horrible ringtone,’ said Tina.
‘It’s designed to make me answer,’ I told her ruefully as I pulled it from my pocket. Once again it was a number I didn’t recognize. ‘Excuse me for a moment. I need to take this.’
I walked rapidly up the street, putting a good twenty yards between us before answering.
‘Where are you?’ demanded Tyrone Wolfe, and I knew immediately it was serious.
‘Out for a drink with an old mate.’
‘Where?’
‘Holborn. Just down the road from where I live. Why?’
‘Because the job’s on, Seany boy.’
I froze. ‘What do you mean it’s on? When?’
‘Now,’ he growled. ‘Right now.’
Sixteen
I kept walking, the phone pressed to my ear and my mind racing. ‘But I told you I wanted thirty K up front.’
‘And I’ve got it for you here. Things have moved on quicker than we thought they would. How much have you had to drink?’
‘Only a pint. I’m fine.’
‘And what’s your exact location?’
‘I’ll be at the junction of High Holborn and Grays Inn Road in two minutes. Where are you?’
‘Not far away,’ said Wolfe ominously, and I suddenly had this horrible idea that he’d been following me. In which case he’d know I’d been drinking in a coppers’ pub full of coppers.
I told myself to stop being paranoid and to get details of the job so I could feed the information to Captain Bob, who’d blow a gasket when he found out what I was up to, but was also professional enough to act on the information. ‘You’re going to have to tell me more first.’
‘All in good time, Seany boy. You just get yourself to that junction and wait for us. Then you get your advance and we can talk.’
‘And you’ve got the guns?’
‘Watch what you’re saying over the phone,’ he hissed, and cut the connection without another word.
I wondered then if I’d overstepped the mark, but I had to find out if we’d be armed so that I could feed this to Captain Bob as well. He could then use the signal from my mobile phone to track my movements, while at the same time organizing an arrest team of armed officers who could intercept us before we carried out the kidnap. If Wolfe had the guns with him, he could be nicked on a host of charges, and it would be job done. I’d be in all kinds of shit, of course, but that was something to worry about later.
The problem was, until I knew for certain they had guns, there was no point trying to get them nicked, because I didn’t have a shred of concrete evidence against them.
I was still trying to figure out my best move as I walked along the quiet, tree-lined thoroughfare of Doughty Street, once home to Charles Dickens, when a dark vehicle with tinted windows, and bearing more than a passing resemblance to the old A Team van, pulled up beside me, the power-sliding side door opening automatically. There
