Samson grinned. ‘I’ll get that pint.’ He waved at the barman. ‘What about Mobius?’ he went on.
‘You didn’t say which you were doing – stalking or spying.’
‘Neither. Really! Now tell me about Mobius.’
‘I don’t know anything about him – except Jonathan Mobius is worth a fortune. We never see him except once a year, when he brings in doughnuts and gets down, dirty and digital, but he hasn’t the first fucking clue. You can see him for yourself at the GreenState rally in a couple of weeks. It’s free. They need numbers. They’ll let anyone in – even a fucking stalker.’ Francis snorted into his beer.
‘Good speaking to you, Francis,’ Samson said, sliding off the stool. ‘I gave you my number before – yes? So, if anything occurs to you, dial it.’
‘What’s that mean?’
Samson placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke to his ear. ‘I think you know I’m a good guy. That’s why you’ve talked to me. If you have anything you think a good guy might want to hear, call me, okay?’
Francis gave him a knowing smirk. ‘Okay, Mr Spy.’
Chapter 10
The Pit
The word ‘Düppel’ played in his mind as he circled two blocks then went through St James’s Park Tube station and exited on the western side to lose any watchers he might have picked up. If GreenState had taken so much trouble to obscure its ownership structure, it had much else to hide, and that was surely what Zoe Freemantle was there to find out. He wondered where the Edgar Building fitted into the picture.
He spent an hour going through his dry-cleaning routines. Certain that he wasn’t being followed, he made his way to a backstreet on the Fulham side of Putney Bridge, which was conveniently close to the Tube line, bus station and the river-boat service Zoe often used to travel in to GreenState.
She lived there as Ingrid Cole in a recently converted two-storey building called Sail Maker’s Yard, in which there were eight apartments of various sizes used for short-term rentals. She had one of the smaller ones – Number Eight, also called ‘Jib’. He’d been there twice before and on one occasion had managed, through the letting agency, to gain access to the building and have a look round Jib. It was coming free at the end of June and Samson said he was looking for somewhere for the Wimbledon fortnight in July. He had no desire to poke around Zoe’s things, but he did want to see if she was living there full-time and whether she had a partner, in which case his job of keeping an eye on her security would perhaps be a little easier. A sponge bag and toothbrush, on charge, were in the bathroom, and a little basic make-up sat by the mirror in the bedroom. There were very few personal items other than three small framed photographs on the windowsill, which he guessed were part of Ingrid Cole’s backstory and meant nothing to Zoe Freemantle. He was unable to look in the wardrobe, because the letting agent was with him, yet he reckoned that everything in the flat belonging to Ingrid Cole would probably fit into the medium-sized suitcase standing in the corner of the bedroom. Ingrid Cole’s residence was only lightly touched by habitation and there was, of course, no sign that this sparse, unbelievable existence was shared with anyone.
He knew she spent some nights at the flat that overlooked the street because he had followed her there, but it appeared she was elsewhere that evening. The curtains weren’t drawn and no light came from inside. He moved to the doorway of the bookshop directly opposite the flat, climbed the three steps to the door and stood on tiptoe. It was hard to see, but he was sure that the three photograph frames had vanished from the bedroom windowsill.
His phone went. ‘Macy!’
‘Where are you?’
‘Looking for Zoe. Any news?’
‘Tulliver was in touch. Denis is still in a coma. Looks like he won’t recover any time soon – it’s a long process. A couple of years ago, when Anastasia went home after the kidnap and he was released from detention by the Department of Homeland Security, they put a lot of measures in place. She’s got power of attorney and is taking over everything, so I expect to be hearing from her directly . . .’
‘Hold on, Macy! There was a sound of the electronic buzzer that opened the double gates that accessed a tiny enclosed garden and all the flats. He saw no one but heard footsteps and some wheels bumping over the paving flags beyond the gates. ‘I think this might be her. I’m going.’
Someone had unlocked the iron gates but was waiting to move into the street. A car came round the right-angle bend near the Tube station at the bottom of the street and moved slowly towards him. The driver was looking for an address. He stopped outside Sail Maker’s Yard. The gate swung open and Zoe appeared, towing the suitcase he’d seen in the flat; a red bobble was tied to the side handle to make identification at an airport carousel easier.
She shoved the suitcase on to the back seat and followed. As she was exchanging words with the driver, a motorbike rounded the corner. This, too, was moving slowly. Just as Samson saw the blue livery of the bike and a pillion passenger holding the phone in his palm, Zoe’s car moved off. The bike roared up the street, drew level with the car and slowed so the pillion passenger could lean down and look inside. The driver sounded his horn, made as if to steer into the bike then accelerated away. The bike shot
