‘So sue me.’

‘You killed him.’ It was a statement.

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘Very well.’ She brushed at her hair, a small charm bracelet tingling on her wrist. ‘I’ll have to verify what you’ve told me, of course. It might take some time.’

He stared at her. ‘Is that all? You’ll look into it?’

‘Is there something else?’ For a second, she looked faintly alarmed, and Harry wondered how closely aware she had been of the decisions made by Bellingham and Paulton over the past few months. The civil service and government was a notoriously small community and as incestuous as a bunch of alley cats. It was inconceivable that she or some of her colleagues hadn’t been at least partly aware that something was going on in the woodpile. But suspicions didn’t amount to definite knowledge. And he couldn’t go down the route of divisive thinking, he reminded himself. He had to trust someone, at least part of the way, otherwise he’d go quietly mad.

‘Is something going to be done about them?’ he demanded quietly. ‘About what happened… setting up Red Station… the murder of Brasher and Gulliver?’ He suddenly found an impulse to shout this bloody woman out of her immaculately coiffed and manicured air of control. Instead he kept his voice even.

She nodded slowly. ‘It’s in hand. That’s all you need to know.’ She reached out and pressed a button on the telephone console. The door opened and the security guard stepped in.

Harry stayed where he was. ‘There’s also the shooting,’ he said, ‘for which I was sent out there.’

Rudmann nodded at the security guard, and he retreated and closed the door.

‘That is still under investigation. What of it?’

Harry told her what Maloney had discovered about the over-flight photos and the Land Rover; how the shooting of the man, at least, might not be as innocent or as accidental as it had seemed. Rudmann made more notes on a pad.

‘I’m not saying it wasn’t a disaster,’ he finished quietly. ‘It shouldn’t have happened and those people shouldn’t have died. But neither was it the simple lash-up that everyone assumes. Cuts were made to manpower on economic grounds and because the Prime Minister was due to visit Stansted.’

‘I’m not sure that has any relevance.’ She dropped into denial mode, the government’s default position.

‘But the PM was at Stansted the next day?’

Hesitation. ‘Yes.’

‘You know that? Or you checked?’ She wouldn’t know all his engagements.

‘I checked.’

‘Why?’

Rudmann looked uncomfortable at the probing, but couldn’t avoid the question.

‘You had doubts,’ said Harry. ‘Didn’t you?’

‘Some, yes.’

‘Pity you didn’t ask more questions, then,’ Harry retorted bluntly. ‘You should have asked about Red Station, too. It might have saved some lives.’

She showed no emotion, but said, ‘We will be reviewing all the facts, I promise.’

It seemed to be the best answer he was going to get, and he decided not to outstay his welcome. He reached the door and turned to look at Rudmann. She was watching him, hands folded on the desk before her, a perfect mandarin, unemotional, impassive.

He wondered if coming here had been a mistake.

‘This won’t go away,’ he told her. ‘It will come out… who set it up, who knew about it. People like Bellingham, they’ll talk. You can’t sweep it under the carpet.’

Rudmann returned his stare. ‘What do you want, Mr Tate?’

‘Me? I want my life back. Simple as that. Not too much to ask, is it?’

SEVENTY

Marcella Rudmann sat and waited for confirmation from the front desk that Harry Tate had left the building. When the call came, the security man asked if she wanted Tate followed.

‘Don’t bother,’ she said. ‘He’ll spot whoever you send after him.’

She cut the connection and made two calls, then walked along the corridor to a small office at the end. It was windowless, drab and overheated, and contained a single desk holding an array of audio equipment. A man in shirtsleeves sat waiting.

He stood up when she entered. His name was Everett and he was a senior officer in Home Office Security and had Rudmann’s full confidence.

‘Did you get all that?’ she asked.

Everett nodded. ‘Nice and clear.’ He picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘I’ll get it transcribed right away.’ He paused. ‘Tate’s a bit of a time-bomb, isn’t he? Is it true what he said — about your front door?’

‘Yes.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll arrange it today. I’m more concerned about what he claims about Red Station. If it’s true, it’s appalling.’ She looked at her hands as if wanting to wash them clean, and paced across the office and back. Everett waited for her to speak. ‘I’ve just had confirmation that George Paulton has disappeared,’ she said finally. ‘I always had my doubts about that man. And the police have now identified the man they believe was responsible for Shaun Whelan’s death. It wasn’t a mugging. The killer is a subcontractor for the security services.’

‘Ouch.’ Everett pulled a face. ‘And Paulton was involved.’

‘I’m certain of it.’

Everett’s eyebrows rose. ‘I’ll talk to the Met. Not that I expect they’ll find anything; if Paulton’s gone, he’ll have covered his tracks.’ He hesitated. ‘It leaves Sir Anthony Bellingham rather exposed, doesn’t it?’

Rudmann nodded. She had reached the same conclusion. Which was why the other call she had made before leaving her office had been to the deputy PM.

His question had been simple and to the point. Two very senior security officers had gone stratospherically beyond their brief. What was she going to do about it?

SEVENTY-ONE

Harry leaned on the wall overlooking the Thames and watched a plank floating downriver. It swirled almost majestically, flashing bright against the grey wash, then was gone, consumed by the fierce undercurrent.

A bit like me, he reflected, that plank. Thick, weather-worn and likely to be dragged under when not expecting it.

He looked to his left and saw a familiar face strolling along the riverside walkway. He cut a smart figure, an unhurried, well-fed man in an expensive suit; an anachronism compared with the fleeting, toned and anxious office workers hurrying by elsewhere.

Sir Anthony Bellingham. It had to be.

Behind Bellingham, a tall man in a dark suit wandered along at the same pace, eyes on the road, the walkway and the river. Bellingham’s bodyguard.

Harry waited. There was plenty of time. He’d come a long way for this. He glanced at the nearest camera focussed on the length of the riverside walkway. It would have a clear view of everyone passing by; of their faces, clothes, what they carried and even their conversation if the operators had a good lip-reader handy.

Across the river were more cameras. Most would be concentrated on the several hundred square metres surrounding the stone building of the MI5 complex, known as Thames House. One or two might be temporarily offline; according to Rik Ferris, the number of cameras inoperative in London at any one time was staggering. Maintenance cuts, mostly, aided by the occasional brick lobbed by a disgruntled resident or an aggrieved motorist.

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