Deception

FOUR

The house where Corporal Neville Pike had gone to ground was a tired-looking Victorian pile near Clapham Common, south London. Yet to be swept up by developers and gentrified, it seemed to be resisting change, unlike many of its neighbours which were proudly displaying radical facelifts and makeovers. Pike was in number 11 on the third floor, according to Ballatyne’s watchers, where he’d been holed up for three days living off pizza deliveries from a shop on the corner.

Harry buzzed the array of buttons until someone let him in, then climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. No answer. The floorboards squeaked as his balance shifted, but there was no answering shift from inside. He knocked again, waited, then slid a card underneath the door and walked back downstairs, trying not to breath in the sour atmosphere of damp walls, ancient carpets and stale cigarette smoke. He was deliberately making enough noise for Pike to hear him, and the card said he’d be waiting outside and why. He was hoping the soldier was going to come down without any drama.

If he didn’t, he and the MPs — military police — would have to go in and get him.

Fifteen minutes passed, during which a cat wandered across the unkempt rear garden, jumped over a rusting metal wheelbarrow and disappeared through a ground floor window propped open with a saucepan. Traffic noises sounded out in the street, kids laughing, the distant rattle of road mending machinery. A woman’s head popped up from behind a fence two gardens down and stared hard at him before disappearing again. Life was going on as normal.

Then Pike appeared.

He had a holdall in one hand and was wearing a denim jacket and jeans, with a baseball cap mashed down over his eyes. He was tall and lean, sporting the remains of a tan from his last tour in Helmand, or maybe his stay in Thailand. But underneath it he looked soft and pasty, and wobbly on his feet. Too long spent indoors behind curtains, waiting for the sound of footsteps. Instead of looking for Harry’s offer of a chat, though, he came out of the back door and down the garden path as if the place was on fire.

Harry let him come. He guessed he was heading for a green left-hand drive BMW 5 Series in the service alley at the rear. Four years old, good condition and a bit flash, the left-hander had been a sure giveaway, a cheap pick from the vast backstreet car market of south London.

Something silver glinted in Pike’s free hand.

When Harry stepped out from behind the garden wall, Pike looked shocked and skidded to a halt. Up close, his eyes held an unreal light which might have been from too little sleep, too much alcohol or too many pills. Drugs were the most likely, drugs to keep him awake, alert and ready to go, as available among active service units as they were on the streets. But there was something else in there, too: the look of a man who had travelled beyond reason and couldn’t stop.

He gave a small, high-pitched moan, more child than man, and dropped the holdall. It landed with a soft thump. Spare clothes, whatever he could carry that wouldn’t slow him down. Going AWOL means travelling light.

‘Don’t,’ Pike muttered, and motioned for Harry to get out of his way.

He had a compelling argument; he was holding an SA80 British army bayonet in his hand, blade up, the light glinting off the clean metal. The edge looked razor-keen, which went a long way to explaining what Pike had been doing to pass the time in his bolthole. There was no point wondering if he knew how to use the weapon.

He would know.

Harry waited for him to make a move. There were two options for dealing with Pike: one was under Harry’s jacket on his right hip. He could simply pull out the 9mm Steyr semi-automatic and shoot him — especially now he’d seen the bayonet. Under the rules of engagement, such as they were, armed defence was permitted. But he didn’t want to do that.

He waited instead while the seconds ticked by.

Pike launched himself on six.

The second option was less fatal, but risky if it didn’t work. Since he really didn’t want to shoot a man for being desperate and traumatized, he took out the Taser and pulled the trigger.

He had forgotten to issue the required warning, but that was just a technicality.

The twin probes hit Pike in the chest, the charge of electricity to his nervous system taking his legs out from under him and dropping him like a sack of cement. He lay trembling on the path, one foot kicking uncontrollably, the bayonet clutched in frozen fingers.

‘He’d have filleted you with that.’

The voice belonged to a big Londoner named Wallace. He was one of two Royal Military Police sergeants on standby in case Pike got lucky, and responsible for taking him in when Harry gave the nod. Wallace had been playing backstop in the lane by the BMW. He looked disappointed that the fun was over before he could join in. His partner, Collins, whom Harry had automatically thought of as Gromit, was covering the front door in case Pike tried to go that way.

After he’d disengaged the Taser probes, Wallace bent and prised the bayonet from Pike’s grip. He flipped it twice, tested the blade and hissed sharply. ‘I could shave with this.’ He gave Harry a sideways look. ‘Why didn’t you shoot him?’

His tone meant, you’ve probably shot people before, so why not now?

‘I didn’t want to start the day on a bad note.’ Harry bent and checked Pike for vital signs. It wouldn’t look good if he died on them. When he was sure the man was breathing steadily and showing signs of rallying, he gave Wallace the OK to take him to the nearest A amp;E for a check-up.

‘That’ll be King’s College,’ the MP replied. ‘Are you sure you want to bother? He looks OK to me. We’ve been told to get him to Colchester.’

‘I know. I want to take a look inside first. Wait for me at the hospital.’ He packed up the Taser and walked through to the front of the house where Gromit was lounging against a lamppost looking bored. He nodded moodily when he saw Harry and went round to join his colleague. Harry walked back up the stairs and found the door to Pike’s room open. The interior was surprisingly neat, with the bed made, blankets folded and everything in military order. Some habits died hard. A coffee table held a tidy pile of magazines and newspapers, and the only attempt at disorder was the sink drainer, which held three flattened pizza boxes and two empty soda bottles. An overhead cupboard held crockery, glasses and an unopened bottle of wine.

He took a look round, but it was clear that Pike had been on his way out and wasn’t coming back. If there had been anything of value, he wouldn’t have left the door open.

As Harry reached his car, his phone rang. It was Ballatyne.

‘Any joy?’

‘We’ve got him. The MPs are taking him to King’s College, Denmark Hill, for a check-up, then on to the Military Detention Centre, Colchester.’

‘What’s to check? Did one of the redcaps help him down the stairs?’ Ballatyne’s tone was as dry as dust.

‘I had to use the Taser.’

‘You really don’t mess, do you? OK, be at Langham Place Starbucks tomorrow at ten. Gordon Cullum will be there with the rest of the information.’ The phone went dead.