Kember regarded his plate as if it carried the plague.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Bowman asked between mouthfuls of bread and cold meat. ‘Not hungry?’
‘I ain’t touching that shite. Full of carbs and fats.’
‘You should eat something. Better than sitting here on an empty stomach.’
‘And put that crap in my system?’ Kember screwed up his face. ‘No chance, fella. I’m sticking to water.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Bowman said, helping himself to another sandwich.
The reception was more relaxed than the stuffy formality of the ceremony. The VIPs were letting their hair down, now that they were no longer on public display. More champagne was poured. Speeches were made. Then dinner was served. The waiters brought out plates of smoked salmon, followed by lobster for the main course. Seguma hunched over his plate, hacking messily at his food. He talked as he chewed, pausing only to slurp champagne. Some of it dribbled down his chin, staining his tuxedo.
As the waiters brought out dessert, Seguma reached for the finger bowl. He popped the flower into his mouth and chased it down with the warm water. Clearly mistaking the bowl for some sort of soup. He drained the water and let out a loud belch, patting his stomach in satisfaction. The other guests watched him with a mixture of fascination and horror.
‘Can you believe this bloke?’ Kember muttered.
‘Maybe they do things differently in Karatandu,’ said Bowman. ‘Different culture. Different customs and all that.’
‘Even so, you’d think he would have been invited to enough state functions to know the score by now.’
Bowman sighed. ‘We’ve got more important things to worry about, Geordie.’
‘You’re still worried about someone else having a crack at him?’
‘Aren’t you?’
Kember swept an arm across the room. ‘There must be fifty bodyguards here. No one’s going to have a crack at him tonight. Not here.’
‘You said that earlier. Look what happened.’
He grunted. ‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t decide to party too hard. If he starts breaking moves on the dance floor, we’ll be here until the sun comes up.’
The meal finished, and the staff rolled out a wedding cake with more tiers than a pandemic. The guests cheered the traditional cake cutting before they gathered around the dance floor. A freckled red-headed singer in a silk gown took to the stage and sang a slow folksy ballad for the couple’s first dance.
Bowman paid her no attention. He was observing the guests, the staff, the security details. Watching them closely. The next attack on the principal could come from anywhere. At first he had been convinced that the biggest risk came from the agency: the caterers, the cleaners, the extra help brought in for the party. Someone attempting to penetrate the inner security cordon. But they had been thoroughly vetted weeks before, and after the near-miss at the Abbey the security services had gone through their records again to see if they had missed anything. They had come back clean.
The guests began migrating to the dance floor. The booze was flowing freely now, the band blasting out seventies and eighties covers. Whitney Houston, Stevie Wonder, George Michael. Seguma remained in his seat beside Lungu, eyeing up some of the talent. Bowman tried to focus on his mission but the cravings were getting worse.
At nine thirty, he slid out from behind the table.
‘Where are you off to?’ Kember asked.
‘Toilets.’
Kember arched an eyebrow. ‘Fuck me, mate. You should see a doctor. That must be your twentieth piss of the day.’
Bowman moved away without replying. He circled around the tables, pushed through the doors on the eastern side of the room and paced down the corridor leading to the foyer. Three women staggered past him, giggling and rubbing their noses. He slipped into the men’s toilets, locked himself in an empty cubicle, crushed his last pill. Snorted it. Then almost immediately started obsessing about where he was going to get his next supply from.
He knew he couldn’t wait until they were back in Hereford. They had at least another day on the job, guarding Seguma until his return to Karatandu. Which meant he would have to text his regular dealer later on. Arrange to meet. Tonight, preferably. He’d have to think of an excuse to get away from Kember after the party, too.
He left the Gents, started down the corridor.
Then stopped dead in his tracks.
Freddie Lang came bounding towards him from the direction of the ballroom. With a sudden panic, Bowman realised there was no way of avoiding the gangster. Before he could make a decision, Lang fronted up to him, jabbing a finger in his face.
‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ he joked. His fat lips spread into a grin. ‘All right, Bowman. How’s it going, son?’
There was nothing friendly in his voice, or the look in his eyes.
‘Hello, Mr Lang,’ Bowman muttered.
Lang stared closely at him from behind his thick-rimmed glasses.
‘Bit of a surprise, seeing you here. The brother-in-law of one of my top lieutenants, bodyguarding my old mate Ken Seguma. Then again, maybe not.’ He pushed up his glasses and sniffed. ‘This place is crawling with fucking filth.’
He spat out the last word. Bowman said nothing. He glanced past the huge rock of the mobster’s shoulder, praying that Kember or one of the other guys from the team didn’t catch sight of them.
‘A little birdie told me you’re in the army these days,’ said Lang. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes, Mr Lang.’
His throat constricted. Sweat beaded his forehead. He had to get away from Lang, but he couldn’t risk pissing the guy off.
Lang tutted and wagged a finger at Bowman, like a schoolteacher lecturing a misbehaving student.
‘You see, you’ve made two bad choices in your life. Joining the pigs, that was number one. Then this business of enlisting in the army. Bunch of
