‘You must be proud of her work?’
‘I’d prefer she was still alive.’ Silva pushed free from Sean and they began to walk across the grass. ‘I never thought this could happen.’
‘There were risks in what she did.’ Sean shook his head. ‘But to be honest, these days there are risks for all of us.’
‘And you?’ Silva reached out and touched Sean’s hand. ‘Are you still in the field?’
‘I try not to be.’ That grin. A mirror of the one Silva had first seen in Afghanistan. ‘You know me, I’m no hero, but on occasion, yes.’
‘You mentioned Sudan?’
‘Yup. North Africa is the new front. Three and a half thousand miles from Mauritania to the Red Sea, two thousand miles from the Med to Somalia. Makes what we were up to in Afghanistan look like a game of hide and seek in the park. Things are pretty bad out there right now.’ Sean slumped his shoulders and looked apologetic. ‘Well, you know all about that.’
Silva nodded. ‘ISIS?’
‘ISIS, ISIL, IS, Daesh, AQIM, al-Shabaab, whatever you want to call them. These groups are something akin to a hydra. Cut off one head somewhere and another one emerges. There’s no stopping them. There seems to be an infinite number of young men deluded enough to believe the propaganda. We take out half a dozen and another six come forward. The hydra.’
‘I wish you were desk-based.’ Silva linked arms with Sean as they walked. ‘I’d feel a lot happier.’
‘What’s this, a change of plan?’
‘I still care about you, even if…’ Silva made a funny face and wrinkled her nose. ‘You know.’
‘Look, if I was desk-based, my desk would be on the other side of the Atlantic and I’d be sitting behind it and staring at a computer monitor instead of staring at you.’ Sean turned his head and looked her up and down. ‘No comparison. On the other hand, I guess I could get a screensaver with a picture of you. That might do. Something nice to look at anyway. Something to remind me of the good times we once had.’
‘Stop it, Sean. We’ve been through this before.’
‘We have, Becca. I’m like a recorded message playing on an endless loop.’
‘You said it.’
‘I worry about you.’
‘No need. I can take care of myself, remember?’
‘I’m not talking about physical danger. I mean your well-being.’
‘You sound like my dad. He’s scared I might be going mental.’ Silva turned and faced him. ‘But I’m not. You can see that.’
‘He said you’re delivering letters. You’re a mailman or something.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘I didn’t have your latest mobile number. He was very chatty. Wanted to know what I’d been doing in Africa. He seemed to be quite up on world events.’
‘Not quite so up on events concerning his own daughter.’
‘You’re still at loggerheads, then?’ Sean shook his head. ‘I thought you’d have made your peace.’
‘This is one conflict that will never end.’
‘You’re bitter at him for not backing you. I can understand, but you can’t go on hating him for that. Not now.’
‘He hasn’t been around since I was ten years old. Years later he tries to make amends and we come to some sort of amicable understanding. Then, when I really need him, he abandons me again.’
‘He was in a difficult position, Becca. He couldn’t back you over the incident in Afghanistan, at least not professionally.’
‘Well he didn’t do so personally either. In fact with my father I’m not sure there’s any difference. Strategy and tactics cover his whole life from his morning crap to his evening cocoa. Everything has to be planned out in advance or timed to the second.’
Sean shook his head once more. ‘You’re as bad as him, you know? Stubborn, obstinate, and you think your way is the only way.’
‘If I’m so awful, then why are you here?’ As she asked the question the answer came to her. Silva stopped and let go of Sean’s arm. ‘Hang on, you didn’t phone my father, did you? He phoned you.’
Sean shrugged. Didn’t say anything. They resumed walking, heading down to the Barbican area of the waterfront. When they reached the quayside they sat down at a table outside a bar and ordered drinks.
‘Look,’ Sean said once the waiter had brought the drinks over. ‘You’re right, your dad called me a couple of days ago. I just happened to have a month here in London on embassy duties, but I’d have come from anywhere if I’d thought there was a chance we might get back together.’
‘But not otherwise?’
‘No.’ Sean hung his head. He reached for his beer and took a sip. ‘Why continue to beat myself up?’
‘You’re not my friend, then?’
‘Not just your friend. I could never cope with that.’
As Sean put his beer down, Silva gave a resigned look and half smiled.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
Javed spent an hour conducting an extensive search for crimes associated with animal rights that had been committed in East Anglia. He printed out the results.
‘Here you go,’ he said, waving a dozen sheets of paper in the air, his voice tinged with triumph as if what he’d done was a major achievement. ‘The animal libbers love it up there in Suffolk. Pig units, chicken units, Huntingdon Life Sciences just over the border in Cambridgeshire. By the number of incidents it seems to be a regular hotbed.’
‘Great,’ Holm said. ‘But we’re not really looking for animal rights activists, are we?’
‘No, I guess not.’ Javed lowered the crime reports and dumped them on the table. He swivelled his chair to face Holm. ‘Pity.’
Holm reached across his desk for his old address book. The scrappy A5 booklet was full of contacts he’d made over the years, many from way back when he’d been a copper. Pre-smartphones, almost pre-mobiles, the pages were a mess of hurriedly jotted addresses and telephone numbers. Most, he realised, would be out of date, but he only needed a name or two. He flicked through the book, pausing every
