He was contemplating the fact there were two desks, two chairs and two computers when there was a rap on the door. Without waiting for an answer, Farakh Javed breezed in.
‘Morning, boss.’ Javed held a sheet of A4 paper in his right hand, in his left a cardboard tray with two coffees in disposable cups. He put the tray down on one of the desks and passed the piece of paper to Holm. ‘A privilege to be involved.’
‘You’re not…?’ Holm’s mouth dropped open as Javed slipped into the spare chair and gave it an experimental swing back and forth. Any thought Holm had entertained about being able to sit in his office doing nothing except listen to a jazz CD or read a book had gone out the window. The non-existent window.
‘This isn’t funny though,’ Javed said, gesturing at the piece of paper. ‘It was stuck to the door. If I was the sensitive type I’d be taking it to my line manager and calling it harassment.’
Holm glanced down at the text written in felt tip: The Top Top Top Secret Department. Somebody’s idea of a joke at his expense. Holm looked back at Javed. Another joke. This time, though, it could only have been played by Huxtable. He suppressed a groan.
‘I know what you’re thinking.’ Javed lifted the lid of his coffee and slurped. He turned his head as if he was only just noticing the spartan conditions. ‘What the heck did poor Farakh do to deserve this?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I guess I was guilty by association. Still, I seem to be the only one, huh?’
‘There’s isn’t room for anyone else.’
‘Right.’ Javed took another slurp and then put the cup down, pulled out a pair of nail clippers and began to trim his nails. Holm could see he was going to have to set some ground rules. Javed smiled across at him. It was a smile that would have made the fairest maiden swoon into his arms. A trick played by Mother Nature because those fair maidens didn’t stand a chance with the boy. ‘So, what’s the story? The only thing Spiderwoman told me was this was a special unit and we’d be operating with a wide brief. Sounds like a whole lot of fun, yes?’
‘Fun?’ Holm spat out the word. Farakh wasn’t to blame, but Holm had the beginnings of a headache brought on by the lack of natural light and decent ventilation. ‘Are you fucking joking?’
Chapter Six
‘I’ve known your father a long time, Ms da Silva,’ Fairchild said as they walked down towards the lake. ‘We go back.’
‘The army?’
‘The army. He was a fine soldier. We were in some scrapes together in the first Gulf War.’
‘You were special forces too?’
‘I was. I understand the difficulties you’ve both faced.’
‘My father has two problems with me. First, as you may have noticed, I’m a girl. Second, when I do what he would have wanted a son to do, I fuck up. Not only that, but the whole thing becomes public. I’m court-martialled and he’s so embarrassed that in the end he takes early retirement from the Ministry.’
‘I’m sure he’s proud of your achievements. You’ve got an Olympic medal for shooting and were a world-class sniper, after all.’
‘Class is easily lost. I should know.’
They reached the boat and Fairchild gestured for Silva to climb in. ‘You might not fish, but do you row?’ he said.
‘Sure.’ Silva clambered into the boat and sat. Fairchild took the aft seat. He pushed off from the jetty and Silva used one oar to turn them around. Once they were facing out into the lake, she dipped both oars and pulled.
The boat glided across the water and Silva pulled again. She was facing to the rear so she could see her father sitting at the table. Mrs Collins had come from the house with a newspaper and a pen. Her father was intent on doing The Times crossword.
‘He loves you, of course,’ Fairchild said. ‘You do know that?’
‘It’s every parent’s duty to love their offspring and my father would never fail to carry out his duty.’
‘I’m sure it’s more than duty.’
‘I’m not. He loves me because it’s in the rule book. Page one hundred and fifty, subsection six, paragraph two.’
Silva took several more strokes and then shipped the oars. The lake was only small and they were already nearing the centre.
‘Forget about the mud weight, we’ll just drift,’ Fairchild said. ‘See where we end up.’
‘You like metaphors, don’t you, Mr Fairchild?’
‘I like intelligence. And, yes, wordplay. What about you?’
‘I don’t like waffle, so if you don’t mind, could you please get to the point?’
‘The point. Yes.’ Fairchild looked across the lake to where a coot busied itself with a strand of green pondweed. ‘She’s after the snails.’
‘Hello?’ Silva waved an arm at Fairchild. ‘I didn’t think I was out here to learn about waterfowl.’
‘No, of course not.’ Fairchild turned back to Silva. The chit-chat was over and his face wore a serious expression. ‘I was shocked when I heard about your mother’s death. Very shocked. It was an appalling crime.’
‘I’m done with condolences, Mr Fairchild. Sincere or not they don’t help. I’m trying to forget what happened and concentrate on remembering my mother as she was.’
‘Of course, that’s understandable, even commendable. However, what if I told you the circumstances surrounding the attack in Tunisia aren’t quite as simple as they first appeared?’
‘I don’t care. I can’t change anything, I can’t bring my mother back. Speculation is a waste of emotional energy and I don’t have much of it to spare.’
‘What do you know about what happened?’
‘I told you, I don’t want to go there.’ Silva reached for the oars. She’d spent several weeks trying to banish the images she’d seen on TV and now here was Fairchild dredging it
