‘Er, that’s right, sir. I was held up in London.’
‘Party?’ the man asked with a grin.
Kite wondered why he was being so familiar. Was he one of his mother’s lovers?
‘A party, yes. A friend of mine’s eighteenth.’
‘Not to be missed, then, huh?’
The American set his tumbler of whisky down on a low table and, to Kite’s surprise, reached out to shake his hand.
‘My first time staying at Killantringan,’ he said. ‘Love what your mother has created here.’ His grip was dry and enveloping, the lines on his face partially hidden beneath a scattering of salt-and-pepper stubble. ‘Very good to meet the son and heir to all this. My name’s Strawson. Michael Strawson. You can call me Mike.’
17
‘You just stay on his tail, son. You don’t let that bastard out of your sight.’
Vosse’s words rang in Matt Tomkins’s AirPods as he followed Zoltan Pavkov through the back streets of Bethnal Green. He was convinced Vosse would never have spoken to Cara or Tess like that; he wouldn’t want to risk accusations of misogyny or – worse – a ticking off from Personnel for using aggressive language around female colleagues. Yet apparently it was OK to patronise Matt Tomkins and call him ‘son’, just as it was fine to stick him on the night watch while everyone else on the team got a prized night’s sleep. The rules were different for white men. Tomkins was in the minority now.
He had been driving without lights for more than half a mile, keeping at least fifty metres back from the Punto to reduce the risk of Pavkov spotting him in his mirrors. At last, turning east onto Whitechapel Road, Tomkins switched on the headlights as he joined a group of four vehicles bunched behind the target.
‘How are you doing?’ Vosse asked. His voice was like a kettledrum in Tomkins’s ears. He wished he could cut him off and just get on with the follow. It was hard enough trying to anticipate where Pavkov was going without the boss bugging him every thirty seconds.
‘Heading east on Whitechapel Road, sir. I’m concealed behind a black cab. I don’t think he’s spotted me yet. I think I’m cool.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said Vosse. It didn’t sound like one of his jokes. ‘I can see your position. The Iranians have obviously given him a meeting point. Hence the satnav. You’ve got to stay on his tail, Cagney. Don’t do anything stupid.’
At that precise moment, Tomkins stalled. He couldn’t believe it. His foot came off the clutch too quickly and the Mondeo’s engine just seemed to give out from beneath him. There was nobody on the street to witness his humiliation, yet Tomkins felt that all of London was looking in and laughing at him. As he turned the key in the ignition, Vosse said: ‘What was that?’ and Tomkins lied, saying that the car alongside had stalled in traffic. He pulled away moments later, thankfully with no distance lost, still three cars back from Pavkov.
‘He could be heading for Limehouse,’ Vosse suggested. Tomkins remembered that ‘Kidson Electrical Services’ had last been sighted on East India Dock Road, which was a mile to the south-east.
‘It’s a maze down there,’ he replied, trying to build in an excuse if he lost Pavkov in the high-rise labyrinth of Canary Wharf. ‘Nowhere to hide if he’s going into one of the car parks.’
‘Just concentrate and do your job. The whole city is a fucking maze, Cagney.’
Again Tomkins told himself that Vosse wouldn’t have spoken to Cara that way: wouldn’t have sworn, wouldn’t have lost his temper. That was because Cara was special. Cara was a woman. Vosse tiptoed around her, just like he tiptoed around Tess.
‘Shit.’
‘What’s happened?’ Vosse asked.
The Serb had made a right-hand turn up ahead, through a set of lights which had moved swiftly from green to amber. Tomkins accelerated to the junction and ran the red light, keeping Pavkov in his line of sight as he explained what had happened.
‘OK, good,’ said Vosse. ‘You’re passing Stepney Green. That means Limehouse is still on. That means Canary Wharf could be his ultimate destination.’ There was a gasp of pleasure in Tomkins’s AirPods. ‘He’s taking us to the nerve centre, Cagney. He’s leading us all the way to BIRD. These people are fucking idiots. Don’t lose sight of him and we’ll have all of them in custody by the time the sun comes up.’
The Punto suddenly lurched into a lay-by fifty metres ahead, hazard lights morsing. Pavkov had not indicated. There had been no warning at all that he was going to pull over.
‘Fuck!’ said Tomkins.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Target stopped. I had to drive past him. If I’d braked, he’d have seen me.’
‘OK, OK,’ Vosse replied. Tomkins was simultaneously trying to negotiate the traffic in front of him and looking back in his mirrors at Zoltan’s position. ‘I’m searching routes for you. Don’t do anything stupid.’
Being told that for what must have been the fourth time riled Tomkins so much that he decided to take matters into his own hands. Rather than wait at the next set of lights, in the hope that Pavkov would follow, he turned left onto a quiet residential street perpendicular to Stepney Green. He intended to circle back in an anti-clockwise loop which would surely bring him up behind the Punto in less than ninety seconds.
‘Where are you going?’ Vosse asked. There was a distinct note of worry in his voice.
Tomkins looked at the map on the dashboard of the Ford Mondeo and realised that he had done something very foolish. There was no way of getting onto Stepney Green without going all the way back
