It wasn’t there.
When Bannister had confronted him the next day, Alastair had claimed he’d felt guilty and had ripped the photo up and thrown it in a bin. He’d even offered to let Bannister search his backpack. ‘I’m sorry about taking it, mate,’ he’d said with a rueful smile. ‘I shouldn’t have done.’
Bannister had known he was lying, but there was nothing he could do about it and no more was said. Even so, the atmosphere on the trip had changed, and Bannister was relieved to arrive back in England a few days later. He and Alastair made plans to stay in touch but there was something half-hearted about it, and neither man spoke to the other for several years afterwards.
Eventually, Bannister forgot about what had happened and moved on with his life. He met a girl, got married, and moved steadily up the political ladder, becoming an MP in 2001 and a junior Treasury minister in 2010.
During this time his and Alastair’s paths occasionally crossed, and Alastair was always there to congratulate him whenever he moved up a notch, but their relationship had faded to that of mere acquaintances. So when he got a call from Alastair late in 2010 asking for a meeting to discuss a proposed tax change on some new-fangled financial instrument contracts, he was reluctant to say yes. Alastair was now a successful and very wealthy hedge fund manager, and Bannister knew he wanted to use him to lobby the government for tax breaks, so he put him off, saying his diary was very busy.
‘I think it would be wise to clear a space in it, George,’ Alastair had said coldly. ‘You’ve got an excellent career ahead of you in politics. It would be a real pity if something came up from your past to wreck it.’
Bannister had felt himself go hot all over. ‘What do you mean?’ he’d asked weakly, even though he’d known exactly what Alastair meant.
‘I never got rid of it,’ Alastair had told him. ‘But you knew that, didn’t you? Do you want to see a copy? I had it touched up. You’re very clear in it. So’s your friend.’
Bannister hadn’t known what to say.
‘So anyway, mate. How are you fixed over the next two days? I really need to move this along.’
And that had been that. Bannister had had no choice, and he’d belonged to Alastair Sheridan ever since. Alastair was like Don Corleone in The Godfather. He called in his favours very sparingly. But when he did, you had to comply. He’d even shown Bannister a copy of the photo he’d taken. It was faded with time, but there was no question that it was a much younger Bannister in the photo. The girl looked even younger than he remembered too. Fifteen at most, possibly as young as thirteen. And the terrified expression on her face as he raped her was something that would consign him to oblivion if it ever got out.
So when Alastair decided he too wanted to go into politics and become an MP, it was Bannister he’d turned to, to sponsor him. By that time Bannister had become Minister of State at the Home Office and already knew about Alastair’s shady contacts with Cem Kalaman, but once again he’d done as he was told, and now the man he despised most in the world, who’d been blackmailing him all this time, was possibly going to become Prime Minister within weeks.
Bannister stared out of the window into the street below. It was another glorious sunny late afternoon but his mood was grim because Alastair Sheridan was now dragging him deeper and deeper into the abyss, and it was for this reason that he hesitated before making the call. God knows he wasn’t a good man. He’d made mistakes. Huge ones. But he wasn’t evil.
Still, in the end, he picked up the phone, dialled the number, and when Alastair Sheridan answered with a cheery greeting, Bannister told him what he wanted to know.
‘There’s no surveillance on Tina Boyd.’
23
A shortish man in his early thirties who fitted the description Ray had given her of Zafir Rasaq was standing outside a fried chicken shop on the corner of Hounslow High Street, looking around nervously. Tina walked past him twice, checking the area for any surveillance, before she deemed it safe to approach. Ray trusted this guy but, even so, he was an informant by trade so in Tina’s eyes someone to be treated with the utmost caution.
‘OK, let’s get this over with, Zafir,’ she said, getting within feet of him before he noticed her.
He visibly recoiled, then frowned as he looked her up and down, clearly caught out by her disguise. ‘Hey, don’t sneak up on me like that,’ he said, making a face. ‘Are you—’
‘I’m Ray’s friend, that’s right,’ she said, not wanting to give him any more than that.
‘Why couldn’t Ray come?’ he asked.
‘It’s too dangerous for him.’
‘I really don’t like this,’ said Zafir, shaking his head.
‘That makes two of us. Come on, let’s go.’
He led the way down the street and she asked him if he trusted the people they were buying from.
He looked at her. ‘They’re serious criminals. That means you’ve got to be really careful around them. But they’re also reliable. They don’t know who Ray is, so all they’re interested in is the money. You’ve got the rest of it, right?’
Tina patted the inside of her jacket. ‘I’ve got it.’
They turned onto a back street dotted with food shops, money exchanges and Poundland-style outlets, and stopped outside a dilapidated curry house that looked like it might have gone out of business.
‘This is the place,’ said Zafir, taking a phone from his pocket.
Tina eyed him carefully. ‘You look worried.’
‘They’re not going to be pleased when they see it’s you and not Ray,’ he said.
‘Why? My money’s
