“Morning Paul.”
Paul made a show of looking at his watch. “Do we have a problem?”
“How do you mean?”
“I’ve heard some disturbing rumours concerning your girlfriend. Terrorist rumours.”
“It was bullshit. The terrorist guy used to work for her and he tried it on. Alice sent him packing, and he implicated her in an act of revenge.”
At that, Paul stood straighter, put his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows. “So it’s true. The non-national woman we saw arrested in connection with the attack was your girlfriend.”
“They released her yesterday.” His eyes flitted to the photograph of Alice on his desk. “She’s innocent.”
“Not according to social media.”
“I told you. There are no charges. They let her go yesterday.”
Paul came over. “Bloody hell, Ian.”
Ian shrugged. “I know. It’s been very difficult for her.”
“For everyone I should say.” Paul folded his arms and stared at Ian over the rim of his glasses. “I mean, I can see the headline in the Lloyd’s Gazette already. Senior MFC partner’s girlfriend arrested in terrorist enquiry. Wouldn't look too good, would it?”
“But she’s not involved.”
“There was nothing about her release last night on TV. The morning papers said the police released a non-national woman without charge. That doesn’t mean she’s not involved. It could be insufficient evidence.”
“If they were still investigating her, they wouldn’t have let her go. They could have held her for 14 days. They can also withhold a lawyer for 48 hours under the terrorism act, yet they let Alice have one sooner. The police established the facts concerning Alice’s involvement and acted accordingly.”
Paul scoffed. “Come on, man. Facts are irrelevant these days. It’s all about perception. Your average Trevors and Sharons put more trust in the latest tweets than they do in headlines on the BBC or columns in the Financial Times.”
Ian considered a quip about the Trevors and Sharons of this world not forming the core of MFC’s client base but thought better of it. “Alice and I avoided the news since her release yesterday. We expect it will all blow over in a day or two.”
“I hope so.” Paul removed his glasses and polished them with a cloth he took from his pocket. “You’re still going to Frankfurt?”
“Wednesday. Fly back Monday morning.”
“Good. I understand the Japanese will be there. Keep them sweet. Piss on the competition if you must. I don't have to remind you how important this is, do I?”
“You’ve made that clear.”
“Good. Remember your bonus. And given the current state of the housing market, you’re going to need it.” Paul put his glasses back on and inspected his fingernails. Then he looked up at Ian. “Assuming you wish to invest in a decent property?”
Ian pursed his lips. “I am aware of the larger picture.”
“How is my son helping you with that? You getting viewings?”
“It’s slow and we had to pause things over the weekend while Alice was, you know…” Ian spread his arms. “Anyway, I’ll be talking to Mark before I go. Hopefully he’ll have some interested parties lined up.”
Paul turned and made for the door. “Good. He’s a fine lad. Tell him I said hello.”
“Sure. Um…” But before Ian could say anything else, Paul left and didn't bother to close the door behind him.
Ian got to his feet and shut the door. He called Jo Page from his desk phone. “Jo? Sorry about the weekend.”
“Really? It’s becoming a habit.”
“Alice was arrested in connection with the South Ken attack.”
“Huh? I spent the weekend watching it on TV.” She took a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. “Seeing as I had nothing else to do. Anyway, was it her on CCTV outside the Provence?”
“Misunderstanding. It’s sorted now.”
“I see.”
“She’s going back to Copenhagen tomorrow...”
Jo’s voice rose. “For good?”
“No. A few days.”
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“No. Not at all.”
“I could make it up to you?”
She sighed again and said nothing for a moment. Then she laughed. “God. I'm such a push over. My place. Tomorrow, 8pm. But bring plenty of energy. You’re gonna need it.”
31
It was well past noon on Monday when Cole woke with a thumping hangover and no recollection of coming home the night before. He groaned several times on his way to the kitchen where he filled the kettle. While he waited for it to boil, he lit a cigarette. On the first drag, he broke down in a fit of coughing and stubbed the cigarette out on a plate. “Fuck this,” he said aloud.
He rummaged in cupboards until he found pills that looked like pain killers, and he washed down three with a glass of water. The kettle flipped off and he brought a mug of sugary tea into the lounge. Still dressed only in his shorts, he slumped onto the sofa. He picked up the remote for the TV and powered it on.
He rolled his eyes at the live coverage of Parliament and he flicked between programs. “Boring. Boring.” He knocked back the last of his tea and stumbled into the shower. As he dressed, the pain killers seemed to kick in and he felt a little better.
Armed with his phone, he returned to the sofa and the TV. Perhaps after the commercial break they’d give an update on the South Kensington attack. In the meantime, he tapped open Twitter on his phone and scrolled through the posts.
He sat further forward as he read. The police had released the champagne terrorist without charge. His grip on the phone tightened. The police hadn’t named her, but several tweets referred to @TVGirlAlice. He put the phone down as the commercial break finished on the TV.
They showed a police press conference from earlier where they announced the release without charge of an
