‘Everyone did, boss. We were a tight-knit community.’
‘Any criminals in the family, Josh?’
Bowman knew better than to lie. ‘My uncle had friends in the underworld,’ he said. ‘My granddad too. Every family knew someone linked to the Langs or one of their gang associates. It was just a way of life for us back then.’
He left out the part about his brother-in-law and oldest friend, Carter Grant, working as a lieutenant for the Lang twins. His drug dependency. The opioids he bought from Lang’s dealer.
Mallet stared at him thoughtfully. ‘I understand you used to be a police officer.’
‘That’s right, boss. Three years in the Met.’
‘Undercover work, I hear. Gang stuff.’
Bowman nodded.
‘Rather unusual, isn’t it? Someone from your background, joining the force. Like siding with the enemy.’
‘Not really,’ said Bowman. ‘I spent years growing up around gangsters. I saw how they really operated. How they bullied people and ruined lives. I figured I should do something about it. And I knew how to behave around them. How to talk like them, how they thought. That gave me an edge, working undercover. Helped me to blend in.’
‘You’re something of an expert on mobsters, then.’
‘I know a fair bit. More than most, I guess.’
Mallet was silent as he sized the younger man up. He looked at Bowman the way a butcher assesses cattle at a market. Bowman couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Reading Mallet’s face was like picking up a book and finding it was written in a foreign language. You knew there were words on the page, but that didn’t make it any easier to read.
Then Mallet’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen without answering, nodded at Bowman.
‘Forget about Davey Boy,’ he said. ‘He’s not your concern. But there is one thing I must ask you to do.’
‘Yes, boss?’
‘Do not repeat anything Lang told you to the police.’
If anyone else had told him to withhold information from the cops, Bowman would have questioned it. Or at least demanded to know why. But for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, he didn’t want to disappoint Mallet.
‘No worries, boss,’ he said.
Mallet looked him in the eye and said, ‘If they press you for information, just say Freddie was out of it and babbling like an idiot. You couldn’t understand a word he was saying.’
‘I was a copper once,’ Bowman replied coolly. ‘I know the procedure, what questions they’ll ask. I know what to do.’
Mallet placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Good man.’
‘What about the two BGs? Any word on them?’
Mallet exchanged a quick look with Studley. ‘The security services are looking into it,’ he said. ‘But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Whoever did this will be out of the country before we can identify them.’
‘Someone needs to get hold of that CCTV footage. Find that, and you’ll find the blokes responsible.’
‘We’re looking into it,’ Mallet repeated coolly.
His phone rang again. He took the phone call and beelined towards the emergency exits. Studley watched him walk away and made a grunting noise deep in his throat. ‘Looks like you made a good impression,’ he said.
Bowman rubbed his jaw. ‘It didn’t seem that way to me.’
‘John only takes an interest in people he likes,’ Studley replied. ‘People who interest him. Everyone else is invisible. Take it from me, pal. You caught his eye.’
‘He’s got a funny way of showing it.’
He watched Mallet disappear through the exit and thought: The guy is a crafty operator. I’ve spent the last few minutes telling him my life story, and he didn’t reveal a thing about himself.
Studley said, ‘Those officers from the Met will be here shortly. They’ll give you a quick interview. Stick to the plan and you’ll be fine.’
‘What then?’
‘Get yourself checked out by one of the medics. Make sure you’re not at risk from whatever crap they gave Freddie Lang. The last thing we want is your scruffy arse wandering around town, smearing deadly chemicals all over the place.’
‘What about the other guys?’
‘They’re staying with the bodyguards and Seguma’s assistant. Officers from Five are on the way over there to question them.’
‘They won’t know anything,’ Bowman said. ‘They’re just flunkies.’
‘You’re probably right. But it’s worth a shot. They might have seen or heard something about this top-secret meeting.’ Studley sighed as he looked round the ballroom. ‘What a fucking mess.’
The floor was littered with broken glass, hastily abandoned stilettos, jackets and jewellery. Amid the clutter Bowman saw Freddie Lang’s trampled thick-rimmed glasses.
‘I’ll be in touch later,’ Studley added. ‘Once I’ve finished briefing the head shed on this clusterfuck.’
*
Studley left to make some calls. Bowman sat and waited. At around ten thirty, a pair of plain-clothed figures swept through the fire doors. A man and a woman. The man looked like the deputy manager of a suburban bank branch. He wore a jacket the size of a circus tent, a pair of badly scuffed shoes. His face was soft and doughy, his body a shapeless mass of flesh. The woman was perhaps ten years younger, thirty-five or thereabouts, dressed in a dark pencil skirt, white blouse and a black jacket. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. She looked unfussy, businesslike, and a lot healthier than her partner.
They showed Bowman their identification and introduced themselves. The guy with the doughy face was DI Rob Hardcastle. The woman was the more senior officer. Detective Chief Inspector Joanna Tatum. Which put her in the senior ranks of Counter Terrorism Command. She looked like she had earned it the hard way, through graft and commitment, rather than anyone doing her favours. She had an honest face, a refreshing lack of front. Bowman liked her immediately.
Tatum asked most of the questions. Hardcastle stood there, sweating and looking uncomfortable. Bowman told them he was ex-job, that he knew the score in terms of the debriefing and what was required of him. Establishing a rapport with the officers. Letting them know that he
