Commissioner for Operations in the Metropolitan Police, was waiting impatiently for her return.
‘I’m sorry to drop in without an appointment,’ he said smoothly, ‘but I have some information which might be of interest.’ He sat down without being asked and placed a folder on the desk in front of him.
Rudmann wondered who he was planning to undermine this time. She had no illusions about the senior policeman’s ambition for favours and higher office, but he did have his uses. All she had to decide was whether the information he claimed to have was useful to her or not, and whether the knowledge might harm her in any way.
‘What can I do for you?’
Nolan delved into his folder and produced a 10-inch by 8-inch black-and-white photograph. It was the sort that Rudmann had seen many times before, culled from security cameras. It had a row of numbers and letters printed in white across the bottom, and was grainy and lacking light. It was a profile shot of a man in jeans and a hooded top crossing a tiled floor.
‘This was taken from a CCTV tape at Clapham South underground station,’ Nolan explained importantly. ‘It was timed, as you can see, at twenty-one thirty hours on the night Shaun Whelan was killed, and shows this man leaving the station.’
Whelan. Rudmann felt a chill across the back of her neck at the mention of the journalist’s name.
‘Go on.’
Nolan slid a second photo across the desk. Rudmann recognized the figure immediately.
‘This shows Shaun Whelan leaving the station just before ten o’clock.’ He paused for effect, then passed her a third photo. This showed a figure in a hooded top walking towards the camera. The time stamp was 22.20 hours. ‘And this man was shown re-entering the station at twenty past.’
It was the same figure as in the original shot.
‘Who is he?’
Nolan smiled and sat back. ‘We’re not sure. But we’re running facial-recognition software to confirm it right now. I should have an answer for you by tomorrow morning at the latest.’
Rudmann was surprised. She was aware that the database of known ‘faces’ was very large, but it did not — could not — include everyone. ‘You sound very sure of that. What do you mean by confirm?’
‘One of my officers thinks he knows the man. It helps us narrow down the field considerably. Once we’re certain, we’ll pick him up.’
Rudmann tossed the last photograph on the desk. The senior policeman obviously wanted a pat on the head. ‘It will be good work if you can get him, Deputy Commissioner. Very good work. But I’m not sure why you feel I should be interested in a murderous little mugger who preys on the unwary.’
Nolan gave a smug grin. ‘Oh, he’s no mugger. Far from it.’
Rudmann’s stomach tightened. Nolan was looking too pleased with himself.
‘What do you mean?’
‘My officer thinks he met this man on an anti-terrorist training course.’
‘What?’ She sat forward.
‘He works for the security services.’
FORTY-THREE
‘ No sign of the Clones yet.’ Rik sidled up to him at the coffee table next morning.
It was gone eleven. Harry had got in late, exhausted by lack of sleep. He had noticed the younger man staring out through the front windows, scanning the street, and guessed why. It was no surprise when he approached him the moment Harry walked through the door.
‘Maybe they overslept.’ Harry spooned in extra coffee and sugar; he needed a caffeine boost to keep his eyes open and his brain in full working order. He’d been extra careful coming in this morning, checking his route back and front for unusual faces. But other than a lot more military vehicles and soldiers standing around looking menacing, there had been no sign of watchers.
And that was a worry. If the Clones were already gone, abandoning their colleague in the process, did that mean the Hit was here? With Stanbridge’s body lying in the flat below his, he could almost feel the increased threat in the air.
‘Yeah, maybe.’ Rik shifted his feet, then said, ‘I told Mace about the email.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Not much. Just told me to pass it on. Said London would know what to do. Do you reckon they’ll pull us out if things get too hot?’
‘I don’t know,’ Harry said honestly. ‘If they do, it’ll be to assign us somewhere else. Have you passed on the email?’
‘Yes. First thing.’ He wandered away to fiddle with one of the monitors.
Harry stretched his arms and felt his muscles complaining. With Clare a reluctant helper during the night, they had taken the body downstairs to Mario’s flat. He had a feeling the Italian photographer wouldn’t be needing it anytime soon. They had placed it in the bedroom, inside an old blanket box, with a jumble of clothes on top. It wasn’t a pleasant task, but short of dumping the corpse out in the open countryside it was as good as they were going to manage.
He had been debating whether to tell the others about Stanbridge, and still hadn’t made up his mind. Mace might blow a fuse and tell London, as he was officially required to do. If so, there was no saying what might happen. Knowing that a member of your own side, whatever their function, had been murdered, then hiding the body, wouldn’t go down too well. It wouldn’t matter what the likely motive might have been; a death was a death and would have to be investigated.
He waited for Clare to come in. When she put in an appearance, she looked even paler than usual, with dark rings around the eyes. She avoided catching Harry’s eye and went straight to her desk.
No help there, then.
Mace came in and headed for the coffee pot, pouring himself a liberal dose. He looked a mess, as if he’d been on a bender. The others carefully avoided noticing and went about their business.
The Ericsson in Harry’s pocket buzzed softly, and he stepped away from the others. He didn’t think anyone else had heard it, although Rik was giving him an oblique look. Maybe the IT man had developed an especially acute ear for electronic noises over the years, and could identify a model by its tone.
Harry ignored him and went to the toilet on the ground floor. The phone was still buzzing and he realized it wasn’t a text message.
Somebody was calling him.
The screen showed no caller ID. It had to be the former owner. He was surprised they hadn’t tried already. They had probably blocked the phone automatically the moment it went missing, and were now trying to recover it any way they could.
‘Huh?’ he grunted.
‘Who is this?’ It was a man’s voice; thin, reedy, American. Rudi sounded American. Maybe he was calling to offer an upgrade, although Harry doubted it.
‘Why you call me?’ he muttered gutturally. If he was lucky, the man might identify himself.
‘I said, who is this? What the fuck are you doing with my fucking cell, you jerk?’
American. A very angry American. Harry cut the connection. Before he could switch it off, the text tone sounded.
Maloney.
Whre U?
Harry thought about it for a moment. It was just a name, for Christ’s sake. And already all over the news and networks, filling the airwaves, making a trace less likely. He thumbed the name of the town and hit SEND.
The answer was swift and to the point.
Fk!! Gt out of there!!
