Repton was wearing a three-button charcoal grey suit with a faint red stripe, narrow lapels and a single vent at the back; seven years old now and just beginning to take on a little surface shine around the elbows and the behind. His black Oxfords he'd buffed for fully five minutes while listening to yet another foolish politician digging the ground from under himself about Iraq. Why hadn't Blair and his cronies realised all they had to do was say we want to go in with the Yanks, kick the shit out of Saddam, secure the oil, and give our boys a good workout into the bargain. Sixty per cent of the population would have said fine; a few thousand others would have marched up and down waving banners, but no more than did anyway, and once the initial push was over and we were in without too many casualties, that sixty per cent would be up around seventy.
Of course, he thought now, lighting a Benson's for his trudge across the car park, go in alone next time, instead of waiting for the bloody Americans, and the number of our casualties would be cut by more than half.
Friendly fucking fire!
At the door, he nipped the half-smoked cigarette, blew on the end carefully, and dropped it down into his side pocket for later. Waste not, want not. Any luck he'd be at his desk before George put in an appearance. Stuff been hanging around his in-tray long enough to have grown whiskers.
As soon as he pushed open the door to the long, open-plan office, he saw his luck was in. And out. No George Mallory, but that long streak of piss Framlingham and Frank Elder along with him.
What the fuck was this all about? Payback for last night?
'Maurice, good to see you.' Framlingham's voice could have been heard three fields away, never mind between those walls. 'Frank and I thought it was time for a little chat.'
'What about?'
'Oh, you know, this and that. Loose ends. I don't doubt we'll go into details later.'
'Bollocks,' Repton said, shaking his head. 'I'm not going anywhere. You've got no jurisdiction. You -'
Framlingham lowered a friendly hand on to Repton's shoulder. 'Maurice, Maurice. No need to be hostile. Whatever this is, I'm sure we can work it out to the best of your advantage.' He gave the shoulder a squeeze. 'Yours at least.'
Repton glanced around: several heads turned in their direction, others bent judiciously over their desks. everyone listening.
'Come on, Maurice. We'll take my car, what do you say?' And then, as they were walking towards the door. 'Nice suit, Maurice. Good cut. You must let me have the name of your tailor.'
Up in Nottingham, Dave Eaglin was still stonewalling like a tail-ender facing up to Australians at Trent Bridge. Stubbornness, grit, and a dodgy technique. Self-preservation uppermost in his mind. Sooner or later, his interrogators would slip one through his defences and that would be that. Game over.
In another similarly airless and anonymous room, Ricky Bland was playing a different game. More attacking, more imaginative but mired in risk. Ian Botham. Andrew Flintoff. You scored your ton against the odds or went down fighting.
'Wait, wait a minute, Charlie. Wait. That tape, the conversation you claim I had with Summers -'
'Claim? It's your voice, Ricky, clear as day.'
'Maybe, maybe.'
'No maybes about it.'
'Okay, for the sake of argument, let's say it could be me.'
'Ricky.'
'Could be, okay?'
'We've got photographs of you and Summers talking, timed. We've got the tape, timed. What do you think? Right. They coincide. It's you on the tape, tapping Summers for information, offering him a deal.'
'Come on, Charlie. Wise up. Get your head out the sand. What d'you think? We get what we need out of this scum without offering them something in return? What d'you think's going on out there, Charlie? It's not helping old ladies across the fucking road. There's a serious fucking drug problem that we're just about keeping the lid on. Just. And never mind the odd handgun, there's thirteen-year-old kids out there riding round with grenades and fucking rocket launchers. It's a war, Charlie, a fucking war.'
'With rules.'
'Fuck the rules!'
'Exactly.'
'Fuck the fucking rules!'
'Exactly.'
Bland lurched forward. 'Okay, listen. You know how long I've been out there, on the streets? Down in the smoke and then up here. You know how long?'
'Too long?'
'Not so fucking long I'm losing my fucking brain. What? You think I'd let that creep Summers cut some kind of a deal in his favour? Let him run rings round me? I was out there doing this stuff when he was still crapping his fucking nappies, for fuck's sake. You know that? Promise him stuff, of course I promise him stuff. Promise him whatever he fucking wants. Ten per cent of cash? Okay, finder's fee. Half the drugs to go back out on the street? Why not? It's all baloney, Charlie, you know that. Use your common sense. Use your brain. It's not real, it's never gonna happen. Summers, he's gonna get fuck all. It's just what I need to say to bring him along, make sure he plays ball.'
'Like in Forest Fields, just over a week ago.'
'What?'
'Crack, heroin, nine thousand in cash. Another tip-off from Summers, I believe.'
Bland angled back his head and laughed. 'There was never nine grand, nothing near. A few hundred, as I remember. Enough crack to keep you and me and a couple of others happy for the rest of the day. Whoever told you anything else's a fucking liar.'
'You didn't give Summers some of the proceeds of that raid?'
Just for a moment, Bland hesitated. Front foot or back?
'A few grams of H, that's all. Keep him sweet.'
'You knew he'd sell it back on the street?'
Bland shrugged.
'What if I told you instead of selling it, he handed it over to the police?'
'I'd say someone was lying or Summers has lost his fucking mind.'
'And the rest of the proceeds from that raid, Ricky, the rest of the drugs, the cash, they're where? Logged somewhere? Evidence? Search and seizure?'
'They're safe, that's all you need to know.'
'Safe? Safe where?'
Bland leaned back and tugged his tie even looser at his neck; the front of his shirt was dark with sweat. 'Hot in here, Charlie. How about a fucking drink?'
The pub was at the bottom of Hornsey Rise, set well back from the pavement, a board promising hurling and Gaelic football on large-screen TV. Its wood-and-glass fascia had seen better days. A ratty nondescript dog, tied to one of several outside tables, barked at Furness and Denison as they approached the door and nipped hopefully at their ankles.
The interior was dark and smelt of disinfectant and stale beer.
At a round table close to the window, an elderly black man with white hair was playing patience with a dog- eared pack of cards. A woman of similar age and classic dimensions, the kind Furness thought only still existed in old seaside postcards, was sitting on a patched mock-leather seat near the fire, nursing a small drink in a tall glass.
It was the kind of pub, Furness thought, people meant when they said, admiringly, it's a real old-fashioned
