The previous head of that department had been pre-emptive, and although that approach had not always succeeded, there had been fewer attacks under his watch, but now he was sitting out his time in public relations, drawing his salary, and keeping his mouth shut. One politician in Westminster, well respected, had stood up at Question Time and put it to the prime minister that it was time for Davies to be removed and for the previous head of Counter Terrorism Command to take his place. The question had been met with a rousing response of ‘hear, hear’ from the Opposition’s side of the chamber, which meant that the prime minister was forced to support the current commissioner. However, behind closed doors the prime minister had hauled his Minister of State for Policing, Fire and Criminal Justice into his office, and told him to make sure that the Opposition politician’s idea was implemented.
‘Just make it look as though it was our idea, not his,’ the prime minister said. ‘I don’t want the opposite side of the House claiming credit. You’ve got three months, and make sure you put some tough bastard in charge of terrorism.’
Isaac knew this through Goddard, who was well aware of the situation, playing his cards close to his chest, angling to ensure that Counter Terrorism Command had a new name on its commander’s door, namely Richard Goddard. Isaac knew the man would succeed.
***
As he had walked away from Katrina Ireland, Big Greg felt a great sorrow. It was not often that he showed any emotion, other than the impression of affability and contentment with being on the street for so many years. But he knew the truth: it was a veneer, necessary in its entirety.
He reflected on what had been, when he had been an upright citizen with a loving wife, and a daughter the apple of his eye, but he could only blame himself for his current predicament. He could have just given them the formulas and the drawings, the completed solution; sometimes he wished he had, but what then? An accident, insufficient research into stabilising the weapon, whether it was used for peaceful purposes or not?
Liz Hardcastle had been a decent person, but he had pushed her in front of a speeding train. Bob Robertson had been a good man, but he had died at his hands. There would be more, he knew that, as certain as he was aware that those who had tortured him in the past would return. Didn’t they have Robertson’s computer? Proof that their monitoring equipment had picked up the formula that had been entered into the search bar.
There was one thing Big Greg knew, even if it cost him his life: he had to protect his family, even reveal himself to them if it was necessary, and inevitably kill for them.
It had been a long walk, twelve hours slogging down back streets, attempting to avoid the main roads, but finally he reached his destination, a charitable institution that he had used once before. He entered, spoke briefly to the man in charge, and walked up the stairs.
***
It had been three weeks, an eternity according to Isaac’s boss, not so much time according to Isaac and his team. Since Bob Robertson’s death, and Big Greg’s admission to Katrina Ireland, nothing more had happened. Further searching by Larry and Wendy had found that the man was known in other areas of London, although for the last five or six years he had always been close to Challis Street.
Some others, especially those who lived on the street, spoke of him when asked, although they had not been able to shed any light on the man except that he kept to himself, recited poetry, and was forever writing. Big Greg’s notebook had been looked over by experts, yet they had gained little from it, other than the formulas and the drawings were complicated, the meaning of them obscure, and what he had written was disjointed and fragmentary, almost as if they were in code.
Others, in a location some distance from London, were not in the same situation. They had the stolen computer, old and worthy of scrapping, but very little else apart from a formula in the search bar.
Katrina Ireland, the happiest she had ever been, had made significant improvements to the hostel, now named in honour of the man who had set it up. She’d even been interviewed by a local radio station, and although she had been nervous, she had done well.
She would have preferred it if they hadn’t mentioned her past history, but they had. On reflection, she had to admit that it wasn’t such a big deal: a woman redeemed and brought back from the brink. A local newspaper wanted to run a similar story, but she had managed to talk them out of it. Her past was behind her, and whereas it could not be blocked from her memory, she did not want to be reminded of it too often. One of the homeless men, after becoming aware of her background, had propositioned her, only to be evicted from the hostel.
She knew she ran a tough ship, but she also ran it with kindness; be nice to her, and she’d be nice in return. The local vicar had expressed concern about her past as apparently some of the old biddies in his congregation did not like the idea of a former prostitute running a hostel or of her taking church funds if they were available, but Katrina had met with them and they had relented, even embraced her like a lost daughter. Katrina had been moved by the women’s change of heart towards her, as her relationship with her mother were non-existent and not likely to change. She had even started going to church every Sunday, the hostel demands permitting. The vicar quoting Luke 15:10 – ‘In the same
