Spider Trap

TWENTY-FOUR

Tom wasn’t at his desk when Kathy returned downstairs. Bren

was standing nearby, and he gave her an odd look.

‘Hi, Kathy. Everything okay? Tom-’

‘Where is he?’

‘He just charged in here, grabbed his stuff and ran. Didn’t say a word.’

Kathy hurried to the front lobby, but Tom had apparently left. There was no sign of him outside in the street. She returned to the office and told Bren what had happened.When she finished he shook his head and said, ‘The old man wouldn’t be happy about that.’

‘He wasn’t.’

‘Maybe I’ll go up and have a word.’

While she waited for him to return, Kathy tried Tom’s mobile number and got his answering service. She didn’t leave a message, deciding it would be best to let him cool off.

When Bren reappeared he gave Kathy a wink. ‘He’ll come round. How do you fancy a spot of rape? Sad Simon’s made another hit.’

She groaned.‘Oh,not again.’

‘Yeah. All hands to the pumps. Brock wants you to work with me. Keep you out of mischief. Come on, there’s a briefing out in Barnet in half an hour.’

Kathy grabbed her coat and bag and followed Bren out to the car. It was the best thing, of course, a new case, a fresh start.

Over the following days she tried a number of times to make contact with Tom, but without success. He wasn’t answering his phones and there was no sign of him at his flat. She rang Nicole and asked if Lloyd had heard from him, but he hadn’t. As time passed without contact she was more and more haunted by an image that George had conjured up, of Tom at the JOS with Magdalen, flirting, dancing, drinking, and of Teddy Vexx watching them, apparently unmoved.

By Friday she was sufficiently worried to talk to Bren about raising the alarm.He was inclined to let it lie for a while.‘It’s only been a couple of days. He’s got you in enough trouble, Kathy. Raising a false alarm will just make things worse. He’s probably gone away for a while till the dust settles. Did you check with personnel if he’s asked for leave?’

‘Would they tell me?’

‘Hm. I’ll get Dot to give them a ring. And admin over at Special Branch, too, see if he’s contacted them.’

She thanked him. Bren’s calm, imperturbable solidity reassured her a little, and she waited while he went upstairs to speak to Brock’s secretary. As she sat there, staring at the blank screen on her desk, her phone rang and she was surprised to recognise the voice of Andrea, Michael Grant’s research officer.

‘Kathy? So glad I caught you. How are you? I hear you’ve been getting into trouble.’ She chuckled.

‘Andrea? Have you seen Tom?’

‘Oh yes. He’s standing here beside me as a matter of fact. That’s why I’m calling.’

‘Where are you?’

‘We’re waiting outside a committee room.’

‘Where?’

‘Parliament. Michael’s Home Affairs Committee has just reconvened. They’re in private session at the moment, and we’re waiting for them to open the meeting up so we can go in and watch. Tom thought I should tell you. He thinks you and your boss will be interested in the proceedings this morning. Michael’s planning to cause a bit of a stir.You can watch on live webcast on your computer-www.parliamentlive.tv.’

‘Oh no . . .’ Kathy groaned softly to herself.‘Andrea, will you put Tom on, please?’

‘Sorry, they’re opening the doors. I’ll have to turn my phone off now. Tom sends his love and apologises for the short notice.’

The line went dead.

Kathy immediately dialled Brock’s number. Dot answered, telling her that Brock was in a meeting.

‘You’d better put me through, Dot. He needs to hear this now.’

She did so, and a couple of minutes later Brock came into the office to join Kathy in front of her computer. Kathy had warned Bren, the word had spread and the other detectives were also clustered in front of screens around the room.

The picture showed a horseshoe-shaped table with the chair, Margaret Hart, in the centre. Michael Grant, further round to her left, was conspicuous as the only black member, and Kathy also recognised Nigel Hadden-Vane facing him across the central space. Margaret Hart was deep in conversation with an aide at her shoulder, querying something, nodding, and then speaking briskly into her microphone.

‘That’s confirmed then, all of next week’s meetings will be held in this room. The schedule of witnesses has been confirmed. Now, let’s get down to business. Mr Grant, you have something you want to raise?’

‘Yes, Madam Chair. I have a matter of such great relevance and urgency that I would beg your and the committee’s indulgence and request that I be allowed to introduce it immediately.’

‘How long will this take, Michael?’

‘No more than an hour.’

Hart looked around the table.‘How does the committee feel? Can we suspend our agenda for an hour for Mr Grant?’

There was a murmur of conversation and several heads on the Chair’s right turned to Hadden-Vane for a lead. He drew himself up and said,‘We’ve become quite used to the distractions offered by the Honourable Member for Lambeth North. I’m sure we can spare the time to be entertained by him once again.’

Several people chuckled. Margaret Hart nodded at Grant. ‘Very well. As quick as you can, please.You know I like to stick to our timetable.’

‘Thank you.’ Grant opened the file in front of him and paused for a moment, as if the contents were so significant that he had difficulty finding words to begin. Then, into the expectant silence he said,‘I am indebted to my colleague for his invitation to entertain the committee, but I can assure you that what I have to say will only shock and horrify you.As you know,the subject of our current inquiry is the involvement of organised crime in legitimate commercial activity in the UK. Well I have here evidence of a carefully planned and implemented conspiracy between apparently legitimate British businesses-household names on our high streets-and organised criminal gangs both here and abroad, to carry out criminal activity on an industrial scale and for enormous profit.’

There was a ripple of interest around the committee, but it was clear from some of their expressions-amused, sceptical-that they were used to hyperbole from Michael Grant and were waiting for something tangible. He proceeded to give it to them.

‘I will table evidence that the well-known off-licence chain Paramounts Beers,Wines and Spirits,wholly owned by members of the Roach family in London, has been used, with their knowledge and active participation,to import Class A controlled drugs into the UK under cover of innocent international trade.’

Now the room erupted in noise. Some members showed outrage or shock-no doubt, like Commander Sharpe, they were regular customers of Paramounts-while others were gesticulating to each other as if to say that Grant had finally gone mad. Only two figures were still-Grant himself,sitting with head bowed while the comments fizzed around him, and Margaret Hart, who was gazing at him with a worried frown. In the background, Kathy heard Bren’s muttered ‘Blimey’.

Hart allowed the turmoil to continue for a few moments before calling the meeting to order.‘Mr Grant, you have just made an allegation of the greatest seriousness. I have to warn you of the limits of parliamentary privilege.’

‘Hear hear!’ Hadden-Vane rumbled. ‘Madam Chair, may I comment? Some of our committee will recall that this is not the first time that Mr Grant has slandered this family under cover of privilege. They will recall his description of them as “slum landlords” and other scurrilous terms during earlier inquiries. The fact is that Mr Grant has a pathological hatred of this family, who have extensive business interests in his constituency. This committee is no place for a private vendetta of this kind.’

‘That is true,’ Hart replied,‘but I was going to point to another limitation on privilege. If, as you say, you have evidence of specific criminal acts, which presumably could become the subject of a police investigation, then you are bound not to reveal information that might prejudice a later trial.’

Grant nodded and said,‘I have consulted with the Clerk of the Committee on this, and understand that I must not comment on matters currently before a court of law or where court proceedings are imminent. But that is not the case here. In fact, this brings us to a crucial issue and the reason why this committee must listen to what I have to say and must act upon it. The fact is that the irrefutable documentary evidence I have here was provided to me by sources close to the Roach family. When confronted by this evidence these sources rightly took it to the police, who declined to act upon it. Only then did they bring it to me, and one of the most serious questions that this committee must ask is why the authorities have refused to investigate. We are the last bastion of the truth, Madam Chair.We must not shirk our duty.’

More turmoil, Hadden-Vane shaking his gleaming pink head in disgust.

‘I think,’ Margaret Hart said loudly, ‘that we will move to private session to discuss the implications of this.’

‘Personally,’ Hadden-Vane came in again, ‘I would favour hearing Mr Grant’s so-called evidence in open session.We’ve had enough of his outlandish and irresponsible behaviour. Let him have his say and live by the consequences.’

‘All the same, I’m calling a ten-minute recess to consider this. Will all those who are not members of the committee please leave the room.’

After a moment the image on the screen was replaced by a blank background behind the words COMMITTEE IN PRIVATE SESSION.

Everyone in the office swivelled round to stare at Brock. He rubbed the side of his chin.‘Hm. I’d better tell one or two other people to watch this. Are we recording it by the way?’ He got to his feet and ambled out.

They had armed themselves with mugs of coffee by the time the image flicked back to the live picture from the committee room. They leaned forward together in the attentive way that screens carrying breaking news command. Margaret Hart briskly announced that they would hear Grant’s submission in open session, a decision that provoked a murmur of excitement from the committee room and clicks of disapproval from around the office.Brock watched impassively.

Grant reached for a bag beside his chair and produced copies of a document for each of the eleven members of the committee. As he began to lead them through it, Kathy realised that they had repackaged Tom’s material as a dramatic narrative, a blockbuster thriller.With the help of photographs, diagrams and maps, the MP introduced them to the route taken by cocaine smugglers from Colombia to Jamaica, showed them the Dragon Stout brewery in Kingston,a bottle of the malty beer,twenty-foot containers stacked at the Kingston Container Terminal, the container ship Merchant Prince,which had brought the first consignment across the Atlantic, a Paramounts store in South London with cases of Dragon Stout on special offer and, finally, a chilling picture of blank-eyed crack-smokers in a derelict squat.

Grant also gave them copies of key documents supporting his accusations. His presentation was measured and unemotional until he came to the conclusion, a summary of the likely impact of the drugs on the people of South London.

Despite herself, Kathy was impressed, and so was the committee.When Hart called for discussion, Hadden-Vane’s attempt to find fault sounded like empty bluster. When he demanded that Grant reveal his sources, Grant neatly turned it into a further attack on the Roaches. He would not name his sources, he said, because they would be at serious personal risk,and to support this he would provide members of the committee with a list of criminal convictions of various members of the Roach family. Hadden-Vane seemed to realise that he was being outmanoeuvred,and after some heated debate around the table he proposed that discussion be suspended so that members could have time to study and digest Grant’s material over the weekend.Grant concurred,adding that he intended to bring to the committee at its next sitting, on the following Monday, a list of witnesses that he would ask the committee to call for interview under oath, including members of the Roach family.

As the committee moved back to their scheduled agenda, Dot appeared at the door. Her usual poise seemed ruffled.‘Brock,’ she said,‘Commander Sharpe on the phone.’

Brock got to his feet. ‘I’d like a transcript,’ he said. ‘But our priority is catching Sad Simon. Let’s concentrate on that.’

Later that afternoon Kathy got a call from Dot to say that Brock wanted to see her. He waved her to a seat.

‘Damage control. They’re going to keep mum to the press and try to nobble the committee chair, Margaret Hart, behind the scenes. I don’t fancy their chances. How far do you think Tom will go with this,Kathy? You know him better than I do.’

The coldness in Brock’s voice confronted her: Tom was the enemy now, the threat. She’d sensed that in the others’ murmured comments all morning, but coming from Brock she realised how absolute Tom’s betrayal had been.

‘I’m not sure. He was very angry after our meeting on Wednesday, and I haven’t seen him since. I’ve been trying to contact him but he won’t answer my calls.’

‘I don’t like to ask you to betray confidences, Kathy.’ He spoke slowly, eyes on a heavily marked-up copy of the webcast transcript lying on the table in front of him.‘But I need to understand what he’s doing. Is this some kind of elaborate professional suicide, or does he really think he can prove a point and come back to us covered in glory?’

All morning Kathy had been asking herself the same question. ‘I’ve had the impression, right from the beginning, that Tom felt he had to prove himself in some way. I mean in a personal, individual way, not just as part of the team. I didn’t realise it at first, but he wasn’t being open with me, not about what he was really thinking. He didn’t tell me about what he was planning with Magdalen until I came across a surveillance picture with the two of them together, and then he had to tell me. But he was desperate that nobody else should know until he’d pulled it off, and in the end I agreed, on condition I could go along as back-up. That was a big mistake, I know. I’m sorry. I really am, Brock. This is my fault.’

‘Divided loyalties,’ he murmured, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder.‘It does for us all.’

‘I think it goes back to a problem at Special Branch. He had some kind of personality clash there.’

‘It was a bit more than that. He didn’t tell you?’

Kathy shook her head, puzzled.

‘A couple of years ago there was an IRA group operating in the UK, responsible for a series of big robberies up north. It was believed they were based in a neighbourhood in Liverpool. Tom had had some earlier experience on the IRA desk and it was decided to plant him and another officer, a woman, in the area, as a couple moving in as new teachers at the local school,he for PE,she for maths. They settled in, got to know their neighbours through their children. They’d worked together before, Tom and this woman, and they made a convincing couple. The trouble was that it became a little too real. After a time they announced that they were going to get married, and they did, inviting their neighbours to the party. Branch disapproved, but didn’t do anything. Then things went wrong. A new gang member came over from Ireland and recognised Tom. They did nothing at first, then one night they paid Tom and his wife a visit. Only Tom was away from home, reporting to his people in Manchester.When he got back he found his wife battered to death.’

‘Oh God.’

‘The Branch brought Tom back to London and moved him into their A Squad, protecting VIPs. He never really settled into it. There may well have been personality clashes as he told you- I’ve only heard his boss’s side of the story. Anyway, I was happy to give him a berth here for a while.’

‘He never mentioned any of this to me,’ Kathy said. ‘I didn’t even know he’d been married twice.’ The story was a jarring revelation, throwing everything she thought she knew about Tom into a new context, every word, every action open to fresh interpretation. ‘You said he’d worked with the other officer, the woman, before.Was that in Jamaica?’

‘I believe it was, yes.’

Kathy remembered the evening of Jamaican cooking, the stories, funny and wistful. I have been a surrogate, she thought, no more than a channel to old memories, a bandaid for old wounds.

‘I think he’ll go all the way with this,’ she said sadly. ‘Maybe the real question is, how far will Michael Grant let him go?’

Kathy’s phone rang as she was getting ready to leave the office for home. She recognised his voice, and sank back into her chair. ‘Tom. I’ve been trying to reach you.’

‘Yes, I know. I’ve been very busy. There’s been so much to do.’ He sounded elated,speaking fast.‘Did you see it?’

‘Yes, we all did.’

‘What did you think?’

‘I think you’re going about it the wrong way.’

‘Why?’

‘You’re a serving police officer.’

‘There are higher loyalties than that. To the truth, for instance. This is the only way. They left me no choice.’

There was a pause, then Kathy said,‘Brock told me about your second wife.’

‘Did he? I didn’t think he knew . . . I’m sorry, I almost told you several times, but then I held back. It didn’t seem relevant to us.’

‘Wasn’t it? Isn’t it what this is all about?’

‘Is that what Brock’s saying? Listen, Kathy-’ he was angry now-‘what I’m doing is getting at the truth, the only way I can, the only way they’ve left me. I’m sorry you can’t be with me on that.’

‘Tom, you-’ But the line was dead.

The media were full of the story over the weekend, their appetite for scandal only sharpened by the refusal of any of the players to speak to them. For the moment they didn’t identify the Roaches by name, but there were clear hints that as soon as witnesses were called before the committee, their names would be published and the whole story brought out into the open. There was a great deal about Michael Grant, his background and his history of campaigning for the underprivileged.

On Monday morning the TV channels were carrying pictures of scenes outside the Houses of Parliament as reporters tried to get access to the committee meeting and to catch participants for comment. It seemed that some agreement had been reached to broadcast the session live on TV, and one of the channels was promising coverage during its morning news show. The picture was clearer than on the webcast, and in Queen Anne’s Gate, just a couple of hundred yards away, someone had fixed up a TV in the main office, around which people were clustering.

As the committee members took their seats Kathy had the impression that the mood was different from that on Friday, less informal and congenial.When Margaret Hart opened the session she sounded sombre. She reminded them of the duties and powers of the committee, and called upon them to use these responsibly.

‘Mr Hadden-Vane has asked to address the meeting.’

The MP acknowledged her with a nod, and when he spoke his voice was harsh and forceful, with none of the empty bluster of before.

‘On Friday we were confronted by an unprecedented accusation against a British company, and evidence of criminal activity on a huge scale. Since then I, like all of my colleagues, have been trying to form a dispassionate assessment of this shocking evidence. In the short time that’s been available to me, I have been able to discover several witnesses who can throw further light on it. It is crucial that the committee hear what they have to say, and I beg leave to call these witnesses immediately.’

The room was very still.

‘They are here?’ Hart asked.

‘Yes.’

‘You know the normal procedure for calling witnesses, Mr Hadden-Vane,’ the Chair frowned.‘The committee will need notice . . .’

‘When he interrupted our agenda on Friday, Mr Grant claimed that what he had to say was of such importance that the committee should suspend its normal procedures and we agreed. I claim the same latitude. People’s reputations are at stake here. Mr Grant has made this a matter of extreme urgency.’

Hart looked around the room, taking in nodding heads. ‘Very well.’

‘Thank you. The first witness is Mr Steven Bryce.’ Kathy stiffened and turned to Brock.‘The boss of the plastics

company that went bust. The one that was overseas.’

Hadden-Vane turned to speak to the Clerk and handed him a sheet of paper.While they waited for him to bring in the witness, the MP went on,‘Madam Chair,I propose that my witnesses give their evidence on oath. I know this is unusual, but Mr Grant proposed that his witnesses should do this and I don’t want mine to be seen as any less credible.’

‘This is not a competition, Mr Hadden-Vane,’ Margaret Hart snapped.‘And they are the committee’s witnesses, not yours or Mr Grant’s. However, under the circumstances, it may be advisable.’

A slight, rather anxious-looking man came into the picture, and was shown by the Clerk to the witness table across the end of the horseshoe, facing the Chair.

‘Mr Bryce,’ Margaret Hart said, leaning forward and smiling warmly at him. ‘I understand you’re willing to assist this committee with your testimony, is that correct?’

The man cleared his throat and said yes.

‘It has been proposed that you give your evidence under oath. If you do so, you will be liable to the laws of perjury. Do you have any objection to this?’

‘No, that’s been explained to me. I don’t mind.’ The man’s flat Midlands accent was distinct.

The Clerk stepped forward and Bryce took the oath, then Hadden-Vane spoke.

‘I’d like to place on record our appreciation to Mr Bryce for attending today. He was overseas when we were finally able to contact him yesterday, and he came back immediately when he understood the seriousness of the situation. Mr Bryce, were you the managing director of PC Plastics of Solihull?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Your company ceased trading last December, is that correct? Would you describe what it did before that.’

‘We were a small company, manufacturing a variety of plastic components for customers, mainly retail outlets.’

‘Was the Paramounts off-licence chain one of your customers?’

‘We did several jobs for them, yes.’

‘Now I’m showing Mr Bryce the order for 50,000 brown plastic sheaths that was included in the documents Mr Grant provided on Friday. Do you recognise this, Mr Bryce?’

‘You showed it to me last night, when I got back from Poland.’

‘Will you tell us your reaction, please?’

‘I’d never seen it before.’

‘You’re quite certain? Would you have seen every order that came into your company?’

‘Absolutely.We never received this order.’

There was a stir of consternation in the room. Michael Grant was staring at the witness, a frown on his face.

‘Have you any other comment on the document?’ Hadden-Vane went on.

‘Well, that’s certainly our name and address at the top, but the rest looks pretty odd to me. In the first place, I don’t think we’d have been capable of carrying out such an order.We did fibreglass mouldings, some vacuum forming, generally small-scale, short runs-shop signs, display stands, promotional material, that sort of thing. I’d say this job would have needed a large injection moulding machine.We’ve never had one of them.’

‘I see. Anything else?’

‘Well, the letterhead is Paramounts’ London head office, but we never had correspondence with them before.We always dealt with their regional office in Birmingham.’

‘Right.What about the signature at the bottom of the order, that of Mr Ivor Roach?’

‘I’ve heard of Mr Roach, but I’ve never had any dealings with him. I wouldn’t know if that’s his signature or not.’

Hadden-Vane beamed.‘Thank you.That’s all I wanted to ask, Mr Bryce.’

Margaret Hart asked if anyone had further questions, and all heads turned to Michael Grant. He seemed stunned and didn’t react for a moment, then said,‘Your company went out of business in December, you said?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘You’re in financial trouble, are you?’

Hadden-Vale exploded.‘That’s irrelevant and insulting!’

‘It’s all right,’ Bryce said mildly. He smiled at Grant. ‘I’m not down on my uppers, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I own eight other companies that are doing very nicely, thanks. I just decided to get out of plastics. It’s an overcrowded field.’

‘Thank you very much, Mr Bryce,’ the Chair said hurriedly, raising her eyebrows at Grant. ‘I don’t think we have any other questions.We’re most grateful.’

Hadden-Vane’s next witness was a document expert. His credentials were impeccable-formerly head of documents section in the Police Forensic Science Laboratory, now in private practice and well known to Brock and several of the other detectives in the office. His evidence was brief and decisive. He had examined the signatures on the order to PC Plastics and the handwriting on the summary sheet, and had compared them with dozens of samples of Ivor Roach’s signature and handwriting taken from other documents, and declared Michael Grant’s material to be forgeries. When the rumpus that this provoked had died down, he added the dryly amused comment that it seemed a little odd that the Para-mounts letterhead used on these forgeries was obviously old stock, since the telephone and fax numbers listed in small print at the bottom of the pages predated the change in the London codes.

‘From your long experience, could you make any general observations on these forgeries?’ Hadden-Vane invited.

‘Well, I’d say the forger was either incompetent or in a big hurry.’

Michael Grant didn’t ask any questions.

A third witness, an office manager from Paramounts’ London head office, confirmed that the letterhead design in Grant’s documents hadn’t been used for at least four years. She had been unable to trace any record of the order to PC Plastics.

By now a new mood had settled over the committee members. They no longer shook their heads in astonishment at each new revelation from Hadden-Vane’s witnesses, but instead focused more and more openly on Grant to see how he was reacting. It seemed to Kathy that the spaces on either side of his seat had widened.

‘I’ve had less than seventy-two hours to demolish Mr Grant’s so-called evidence against Paramounts and the Roach family,’ Hadden-Vane said. ‘Given more time and resources and expertise than I possess, I’ve no doubt that much more could be uncovered. But I think we’ve heard enough.’ There were murmurs of agreement around the table.‘I believe I’ve established the “What” -a number of forged papers have been added to a file of real documents relating to a legitimate consignment of beer from Jamaica to the UK to give the appearance of a criminal act. Our colleague was then persuaded to put this rather crude deception before us and broadcast it in the public domain under cover of parliamentary privilege. But that’s only part of the story.We must also discover the “How”and the “Why”.I now call on the Member for Lambeth North to explain to the committee exactly how and from whom he obtained the documents in his report.’

There was a long silence while the two men held each other’s eyes, Michael Grant with a look of loathing apparent even on the small screen. Then he turned to Margaret Hart and said, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t do that.’

A murmur of disapproval grew steadily louder.

‘I understand,’ Hadden-Vane pressed on, ‘that a departmental select committee cannot order a Member of the House to appear before it as a witness under oath,but I nevertheless invite the member for Lambeth North to volunteer himself to do so now.’ By the end of this sentence he had to raise his voice to an angry shout to make himself heard over the hubbub. ‘Madam Chair,’ he roared, ‘Michael Grant’s failure to respond amounts to a deliberate contempt of this committee and of the House!’ He let the turmoil seethe around him for a while, until it looked as if the Chair was about to act, then he cut in, ‘Nevertheless, we are not entirely dependent on his cooperation.’

The noise died away as people registered this.

‘I have here a piece of written evidence provided by another witness that may help us understand just how this was done.’ He held a piece of paper dramatically aloft.‘This sworn testimony has been provided by a member of the Roach family. Given the public libel against her family by Mr Grant, she is reluctant to appear here in person, and asks that her name not be released.When you read what she has to say, you will appreciate why. She feels embarrassed and humiliated by the story she has to tell, but tell it she does, because she feels she must. Let us call her “Ms A”. She describes how she, a recently divorced and emotionally vulnerable young woman, met a personable man at a nightclub. She met him again on a number of subsequent occasions, seemingly by accident, and he befriended her and gained her trust.

‘Then, just last week, this charming fellow persuaded Ms A to take him home with her,to her parents’house where she was living, her parents being overseas at the time. The man had given her a great deal to drink during the evening, and she agreed. Once there he offered her drugs, which she declined. However, she believes he gave her something because she became disoriented and fell asleep. At some stage she woke up and went to the bathroom, and on the way she saw him in her father’s office, using the photocopier. I have subsequently learned from her father,a director of Paramounts,that in his office he had a file of documents relating to that company’s importation of Dragon Stout to the UK. Madam Chair, I table this statement, which has been witnessed by a lawyer, for consideration by the committee.’

He handed the letter to the Clerk at his shoulder, and then, as if all this was costing him enormous personal effort, he snatched the blue handkerchief from his top pocket with a great flourish and dabbed at the pink dome of his head.

It was the second time he had reminded Kathy of Martin Connell’s story, and as she watched him Kathy was struck by the sudden certain knowledge that this was the MP Martin had described, and that his tale had not been told at random, but had been a quite deliberate message to her. Martin Connell, the Roaches’ lawyer,whose signature was no doubt on Magdalen’s statement,had known two weeks ago that this scene was going to be played out, and had wanted Kathy to recognise it when it came. She swore softly, then tried to tell herself that this was impossible.

‘Kathy?’ Brock was looking at her curiously.

She was about to speak when Margaret Hart’s voice cut through the noise in the committee room. ‘I believe we should take a twenty-minute break-’

‘If you please, Madam Chair, I believe that we should not!’

Hadden-Vane’s extraordinary remark silenced everyone, including Hart,whose frown became angry.But he went on.‘The writer of the statement I have just tabled has identified the man who took advantage of her. He is here in this room. I do not think we should give him the opportunity to slip away during a break.

I demand that he take the witness chair immediately and explain

himself.’

‘What a showman,’ someone murmured.

Kathy felt sick, realising what was coming, and feeling as if it was on her rather than Tom Reeves that the blow was about to fall.

‘You, sir!’ Hadden-Vane pointed theatrically off-camera, and everyone turned and craned to see.

‘No!’Michael Grant seemed suddenly to emerge from a torpor. ‘I insist that we discuss . . .’ But it was too late, the end of his sentence drowned out by the noise of voices and scraping chairs as the committee got to their feet. Slowly Tom came into view, Hadden-Vane triumphant at his side, as if displaying a prize. At the other end of the table,Margaret Hart,apparently dazed by the twists and turns of his melodramatic performance, was hurriedly consulting with the Clerk. Finally, as Tom stood in front of the witness table,she said,‘Ladies and gentlemen,it is within our power to order a witness to appear and give evidence. Is it your wish that we do so in this case?’

The cry of assent was overwhelming, and everyone hurried back to their seats. For a brief moment, only Tom and Michael Grant remained standing,and as Brock watched the MP hesitate,he wondered if he was thinking that the slum boy from the Dungle had finally been caught red-handed among the gilt picture frames and Gothic wall panelling of the immortals.

‘Give us your full name, please.’

‘Thomas Reeves.’

‘What do you do for a living, Mr Reeves?’

‘I’m a police officer.’

A groan went around the office at Queen Anne’s Gate at that, but Kathy knew that Tom had no choice-Hadden-Vane already knew, and she saw that Brock realised that too.

‘Of what rank?’

‘Inspector.’

‘And in what section?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘Special Branch, perhaps?’ Hadden-Vane suggested grimly. ‘You do undercover work, don’t you? Like befriending young women and persuading them to take you home with them?’

Tom didn’t respond.

‘Why did you befriend Ms A?’

Again Tom didn’t answer, but this time a restive grumble came from several parts of the table and Hart spoke up. ‘You must answer, Inspector Reeves.’

‘I was seeking evidence in relation to an investigation.’

‘Did you have a search warrant?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘And were you instructed by your superiors to befriend Ms A or search her house?’ Hadden-Vale said quickly, reluctant to let anyone else take over his role as interrogator.

‘No.’

‘And this investigation, it’s been approved, has it? It is official?’

Tom hesitated, glanced at the Chair, who peered back at him as if trying to place where she’d seen him before.

‘Not at present.’

‘So you inveigled your way into Ms A’s house without authorisationon a case of your own invention,broke into her father’s study, photocopied his private business papers, stole some letterheads that unfortunately happened to be out of date, and forged-’

‘No!’ Tom interrupted, but Hadden-Vane continued relentlessly.

‘-forged additional documents to create an incriminating body of evidence.’

‘Those documents were all exactly as I found them. I didn’t manufacture any of them.’

The MP shook his head as if that wasn’t worthy of a reply. ‘I noticed you were sitting next to Mr Grant’s research officer just now,’ he said.‘How long have you known Mr Grant?’

‘A . . . a couple of weeks, perhaps.’

‘Have you visited his offices?’

Another image of Hadden-Vane came into Kathy’s mind as she was listening to this, of the MP leaving the concert, and leaning in to give his little bow to Kerrie, Grant’s office manager, and the

woman’s oddly vivacious response.

‘Yes, once or twice.’

‘In connection with what?’

‘I think you should ask him, sir.’

‘I’m asking you, and let me remind you that if you attempt to mislead the committee you will be in contempt of the House.’

‘He felt I might be interested in some information he had been collecting, on crime in his constituency.’

‘What kind of crime?’

‘Drugs, violent crimes,Yardie gangs.’

‘And also the business activities of the Roach family, am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he ask for access to police information?’

Tom hesitated, then said,‘Yes.’

‘And you obliged.’

‘No.’

‘But you gave him the material you stole from Ms A’s house?’

‘That was the first time.’

‘With the knowledge of your superiors?’

‘No.’

Hadden-Vane gave a sigh of satisfaction, took a drink from the glass of water in front of him, sat back and mopped his brow with the blue handkerchief.‘Thank you.’

Now the others came in like a vengeful chorus.Was it commonplace for Special Branch officers to carry out investigations without the knowledge of their superiors? How many other innocent citizens’ homes had he broken into? How many other documents had he forged? Tom answered in a stoic monotone, until finally they had exhausted the possibilities and seemed satisfied, at which point Margaret Hart declared a recess.

At Queen Anne’s Gate the watchers sat back in stunned silence. Someone muttered ‘Bastards’, as if to put on record the general outrage at what had been done to Tom, but it was said without much conviction, for they all felt contaminated by what Tom had apparently done, and failed to do.

‘What got into him?’ someone asked, and then Bren, shaking his head, said,‘And how did that smug bastard get all that stuff in just two days?’

He turned to Brock.‘It was the Roaches, yes? They must have fed it to him.’

Brock nodded.

‘But why did they want to crucify Tom?’

‘It’s not Tom they’re after, Bren. They’re not finished yet.’ Brock checked his watch and got stiffly to his feet.‘I’d better make some calls.’

‘Madam Chair,’ Michael Grant said, sounding bereft of any real hope, ‘I ask that we suspend this matter for a few days. My colleague’s revelations this morning, if they’re true, have been as disturbing to me as to the rest of the committee, and I need time to frame a response to his questions.’

‘By all means,’ Hadden-Vane responded, with a shark’s smile. ‘After you’ve heard all of my questions.We know the “What” and the “How”. But we still have to consider the “Why”.’

Grant tried to object, but it was clear that the committee was against him.

‘I’m sorry,Michael,’Hart ruled.‘Nigel is right.We need to get all the issues out on the table.’

‘Thank you. You see, the real mystery is why a Member of Parliament, aided by a rogue police officer, would go to such lengths to malign a family of successful and respectable British businessmen. Now it is true that this family came from humble beginnings and that some of its members were involved in their youth in minor misdemeanours. They paid their debts, learned their lessons and devoted their talents to legitimate enterprises, but perhaps there are still members of the Metropolitan Police Service who resent that success and would like to settle old scores.’

A warning to Brock? Kathy wondered.

‘Perhaps Inspector Reeves thought that he could score career points in some quarters by his actions, who knows? But why would the Member for Lambeth North encourage such a thing? Indeed, why does he maintain a research office at taxpayers’ expense that seems largely devoted to trying to find links between the Roach family businesses and the Yardies and drug dealers in his constituency?

‘Mr Grant has never hidden the intensely personal nature of his campaigns against drugs and crime, and I think we’re entitled to ask if there is perhaps some private reason for his attacks on the Roach family. After all, he knew them as a young immigrant in South London, living in the same area where they ran several small businesses. I asked myself if perhaps that was where the roots of this animosity lay, and so I took it upon myself to speak to one or two people who might be able to shed light on our dilemma. I wish to call one of them as my final witness. I believe the committee will find his testimony both credible and illuminating. His name is Father Terry Maguire.’

Margaret Hart looked puzzled. Kathy remembered seeing her talking to Father Maguire at the concert and thought she must be wondering, as Kathy herself was, why Hadden-Vane would want to call such an excellent character witness for his opponent.

‘Do you have any objection, Mr Grant?’ Hart asked.

Grant looked equally mystified. He shrugged and said no.

The priest was led into the room and shown to the witness seat. He looked somewhat overwhelmed by the setting, and beamed with relief at seeing the familiar faces of Margaret Hart and especially Michael Grant. As with each of the witnesses, the Chair thanked him for attending and explained the circumstances.

‘Oh, I’m very happy to speak on Michael’s behalf,’ Father Maguire said, ‘although I’m sure he doesn’t need any help from me. His works speak for themselves.’

‘Indeed,’ Hadden-Vale said, with ominous emphasis. ‘You’ve known Mr Grant a long time, haven’t you, Father?’

He prompted the priest to talk about Grant’s youth and early career, which the old man did with such enthusiasm and at such length that the committee members began to become embarrassed and restless. When Hadden-Vane mentioned the Roach family, however,the priest’s flow faltered.He said he knew of no particular reason for animosity between the young Grant and the Roaches,in fact didn’t think they’d had much contact.

‘What about the local criminal types, Father, the so-called Yardies-did Michael have dealings with them?’

‘No, no. He concentrated on his studies, kept his head down, an exemplary student.’

‘So where does it come from, this single-minded crusade of his against those he imagines to be criminals in his community? Some might call it almost an obsession, rather like the excessive zeal of the reformed sinner.Yet you say he didn’t get into trouble himself in those days?’

‘Certainly not. His commitment comes from his experiences in Jamaica before he came to London. Those were terrible days, and he saw at first-hand what damage drugs and violence could do to poor folk.’

‘Ah yes, in Jamaica.You’ve had a lot of experience with young people coming here from Jamaica, haven’t you?’

‘I’ve tried to help, mainly through support for the work of a colleague of mine, Father Guzowski, and his mission in Kingston. He helped many young people in trouble to leave and start a new life elsewhere.’

‘What sort of trouble was Michael in, Father?’

‘I didn’t mean . . . I meant young people who were capable of bettering themselves,’ he said, sounding flustered. ‘Doing something with their lives-’

Hadden-Vane narrowed his eyes at the priest. ‘Come, come, Father Maguire. It’s a very serious matter to mislead a Parliamentary committee.’

The old man’s face turned deep red against the frame of white hair.‘I’ve no intention of misleading anyone,sir,’he protested.

‘Good.’ The MP beamed at him and suddenly reached for his pocket and produced the blue handkerchief with an exaggerated flourish. Father Maguire watched, bemused, as he mopped his face.

‘Father Guzowski used to tell you about the background of the men he was sending you, didn’t he? Their families, their circumstances, things like that.’

‘Ye-es, sometimes,’ the old man nodded cautiously.

‘What did he tell you about Michael Grant?’

‘Madam Chair,’ Grant interrupted.‘I object to this. I’ve made no secret of my background. This is offensive and irrelevant.’

‘Yes, what is the point of this?’ Hart agreed.

‘It will only take a moment, if Father Maguire remembers his promise not to mislead us. Michael Grant arrived in this country with another man, Father, didn’t he?’

‘That’s true. Joseph Kidd.’

‘That’s what he called himself, but you knew that wasn’t his real name.’

‘I’m not sure-’

‘Father Guzowski told you his real name, didn’t he? What was it?’

‘I . . . I don’t remember.’

‘What about Michael Grant’s real name?’

‘I don’t know . . .’

The priest’s answer was almost drowned by a hubbub of voices and a shout of anger from Michael Grant.

‘You knew they entered the country under false names, didn’t you?’ Hadden-Vale insisted, raising his voice above the din.

‘They had to!’ Father Maguire protested, and the noise was suddenly stilled. Even Michael Grant, half-risen out of his seat, was struck silent.‘They were in mortal danger.’

‘From whom?’

‘The police. The Jamaican police wanted them dead.’

‘Because?’

‘Because . . .’ The old man looked at Michael with a stricken face,then back at Hadden-Vane.‘Because . . .’His voice faded and he seemed on the point of passing out.

‘Because they’d murdered a police officer!’ Hadden-Vane roared, and the priest bowed forward, his face in his hands.

Michael Grant was on his feet. He shouted something incoherent at his tormentor across the table and began to struggle towards him, knocking his chair over and pushing aside his neighbour, who got in his way. His face was transformed by anger, mouth open in a furious snarl, his movements wild and violent. All around him people began to move in confusion, some to block him and others to get out of his way.The Clerk and a door attendant joined in,and Grant became locked in a tight scrum in the middle of the room. Beyond him, well out of range, Hadden-Vane was backed against the oak panelling,a look of elation on his face,dabbing at his mouth with his blue handkerchief.

From the window of the living room on the first floor Brock could see yellow and purple crocus tips pushing up through the last remaining crust of old snow against the fence of the garden below. If he listened carefully, he could hear the murmur of traffic on the high street, and the occasional muffled jangle of the bell on the front door of the antiques shop through the floor. He sat at the window, holding a mug of coffee, suspended.

Unlike Tom Reeves, whose suspension would become, after due process, an absolute rupture, his own, he’d been assured, was a temporary state designed to satisfy the ruffled sensibilities of the brass. All the same, it felt like being shouldered out of the way, out of the stream of life. Suicides were suspended, as were punch bags, victims in comas, and people holding their breath in fright. He wondered if that was how Suzanne’s daughter had felt before she stretched herself out above the cliffs.

While he’d been waiting for the coffee to brew, he’d come across the pile of newspapers, tactfully stacked away beneath the kitchen table for disposal. It looked as if she’d bought every one, their headlines a study in sanctimonious outrage . . .

‘Extraordinary scenes in Parliament’

‘MP was a YARDIE GUNMAN.’

‘PM condemns renegade MP’

‘Tragedy of Boy from the Dungle’

Her voice on the phone had been tentative. She hadn’t realised that he was involved, until Ginny had mentioned it, and was shocked when he told her he was suspended.What was he doing?

What he was doing was reading the papers and wondering at the speed with which they, as opposed to the police, had been able to uncover so much information in so little time.Here was a picture of a hovel beside a rubbish tip,where Michael Grant had grown up, and there an old lady,his grandmother,whose surname,Forrest,was the one that should have been on his passport. Here was Father Guzowski surrounded by small children, and there the sainted priest again, eyes closed, in a casket after his murder.

What he was also doing was imagining the research effort that must have gone into it, and the irony that, all the time Michael Grant had been beavering away gathering information on Spider Roach, Roach must have been doing exactly the same thing on Grant,saving up the juicy revelations,one by one,until the moment came to launch his devastating attack.

‘Well,’Suzanne had suggested tentatively,‘if you’d like a break, a drive down to the country . . .’

He’d accepted readily,too readily he now thought.Maybe she’d intended it as a hypothetical option for some time in the future, instead of which he’d got straight in the car and motored down.

‘We’re here!’ Suzanne’s voice came from the foot of the stairs, accompanied by a chatter of children’s voices, home from school.

Miranda rushed in first, with the unselfconscious assumption that she would be found adorable, which she duly was. Brock knelt to give her a hug, then straightened as her older brother came in, holding out his hand stiffly,right shoulder tilted higher than the left as if expecting to have his arm twisted. Brock shook the hand, then gave him a hug too. He’d brought some presents, a Meccano set for Stewart, who had a practical bent, and a puppet theatre for Miranda, who was already something of a performance artist. They accepted them enthusiastically, but Brock thought he also sensed a wariness, as if perhaps they associated gifts with adult guilt, with being abandoned and returned to.

Stewart had homework to do before teatime, and while he got on with that Brock helped Miranda erect her theatre from the kit in the box.Later they ate together and talked about inconsequential things, TV shows and movies they’d seen, what they were going to do that weekend.Brock had the impression they were all being care-ful.When the children went to bed he stood to leave, but Suzanne said they hadn’t had a chance to talk,and he agreed to stay for coffee.

They sat in armchairs on opposite sides of the fireplace and Brock remarked that the kids were looking happy. Suzanne spread her hand and rocked it like a bird caught in turbulence.

‘You’ve been having problems?’ he asked.

She sighed, then said, ‘Look, if you insist on driving back tonight you won’t be able to have a drink, and then I won’t be able to have one, but I need one if we’re going to talk about things-it’s the Aussies’ fault, they got me drinking more than I used to.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘Well, there’s a spare bed.’

He nodded. ‘Suits me. I don’t have a job to go to in the morning.’

‘Right!’ She got to her feet and fetched a bottle of wine and a corkscrew, which she handed to him while she went for glasses.

On the way back she carefully shut the living-room door and when she spoke she kept her voice low.

‘Cheers,’ she said.‘No, they’re doing pretty well, considering. Do you know, when they ran out of money Stewart started knocking on neighbours’ doors, offering to wash their cars. In the snow. Nobody thought to ask what was going on. And I was 12,000 miles away. It’s amazing Amber survived on the headland in that cold.’

‘How’s she doing now?’

‘It’s a terrible thing to say, but the stronger she gets the more trouble she becomes. She gets fretful, then abusive, then aggressive. What I’m most worried about is when she’s completely recovered physically and starts demanding the children back.’

‘Can she do that?’

‘I’m getting advice.’

He refilled her glass, unable to express the sadness he felt for her.‘Would it help,do you think,if I came with you to see her in hospital?’

She looked surprised, then smiled.‘I don’t know . . . Not now. Maybe later? Anyway, tell me about your disaster.’

So he did, and at the end of it she said, ‘Poor you. And you still don’t really know what happened to those two teenagers or the three men on the waste ground.You must be furious.’

‘Am I? I don’t know.When you peel away the hurt pride and the frustration, maybe I feel relieved. Coming on Roach again was like scratching at an old wound.Who needs it?’

‘I’ll drink to that.’

‘The only thing is that I did have a theory about those men, and now I’ll never know.’

‘To do with the old files you were going through?’

‘Yes. What I couldn’t understand was how they’d been disposed of-three shallow trenches in open ground. It seemed unnecessarily exposed and risky, when the Roaches had a safe and

discreet way of getting rid of their victims.’

‘What was that?’

‘They had their own funeral business. I knew that because I remembered we mounted a surveillance operation against it to try to find out what they were up to. But when I went back through the files I discovered that that came later.What happened was that one of the supergrasses we had at that time, a North London gang boss, started telling us about this perfect set-up south of the river, that gangs all over the city were paying big money to make unwanted corpses disappear.We traced it to Cockpit Lane.The business was in the name of Cyrus Despinides, whose daughter Adonia was married to Spider Roach’s son Ivor. But this didn’t come out until late in the summer of 1981, at least four months after the three men on the railway land were buried.So the question was,if Ivor and his brothers killed those men, why didn’t they use the family business to dispose of them, the same way everyone else did?’

‘Hm, all right, why didn’t they?’

‘Perhaps they didn’t want Cyrus to know what they’d done. Could the three Jamaicans have been friends of his or doing business with him? So I started investigating his background. We had quite a lot about him on old files, but nothing about any dealings with Jamaicans. In fact, from what I could gather, his attitudes were extremely racist. Then I had another thought. Perhaps it was his daughter Adonia, not Cyrus, who wasn’t to know what the Roach boys had done.

‘Tom Reeves had collected quite a bit on Adonia. Like her daughter Magdalen, who was used to trap Tom, she was fond of the Jamaican club scene. Before she married Ivor in ’78 she’d had at least one Jamaican boyfriend, for whom she’d provided an alibi in a rape case.’

‘You think she was involved with the three victims?’

‘It’s a thought, isn’t it? With all or perhaps just one of them. A series of revenge killings, interrogating the victims, trying to find out which one of the Tosh Posse was playing around with Ivor’s wife. Then there’s the matter of her daughter Magdalen, born on the eighth of October 1981. Adonia was three months pregnant with Magdalen when the three victims were killed.’

‘You think one of them might have been Magdalen’s father? But . . . they were black.We’d know, surely?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. She’s darker than her mother. At thirty-three weeks, Adonia and Ivor went to the US on family business, and Magdalen was born there, the only child they had. Maybe they wanted to see what colour she was before they brought her home.’

‘You’ve just got a suspicious mind.’

‘True, and even if one of them was Magdalen’s father, I could hardly use it, could I? It doesn’t prove that Ivor and his brothers killed them. But all the same . . .’

They sat in silence for a while, and then Suzanne murmured, ‘The penitent-that’s one of the meanings of the name Magdalen, isn’t it?’

Later, they made their way upstairs. When they reached the landing Suzanne said,‘Oh damn,the spare bed isn’t made up.’

‘Ah,’ he said.‘What shall we do?’

Kathy had prepared extremely carefully for their meeting. Though not herself suspended, she had been advised to keep out of the way while the review team was around, and she took the opportunity to buy some clothes and get her hair done. Martin had reacted with smug disingenuousness to her call, and had suggested Arnold’s, an upmarket cocktail bar where he was apparently known.

She arrived a calculated fifteen minutes late and he was already there, looking at home in the deep green leather banquette, absorbed in a brief of evidence.He tossed it aside as she reached the table, and stood and kissed her on the cheek, giving her arm a squeeze.

‘Mm, that smells nice. Is it new? I ordered you this. It’s Arnold’s trademark.’ He pointed to a green drink on the table.

‘Lovely.’ She slid in at right angles to him.

He raised his glass. ‘Great to see you. And you’re looking so good! You’ve done your hair differently.’

‘Well, I had to do something. Everyone’s going around with such long faces.’

He gave a little smile.‘I wasn’t sure you’d call.’

‘Nor was I. It took a little courage.’

‘Courage?’

‘Well, you know . . . History.’

‘Ah, history. But we’re all different now, aren’t we?’

‘Are we? Sometimes I think so, but then something happens and I feel just as vulnerable as I ever did.’ She guessed vulnerable was a word he’d like, a turn-on word.

‘I know what you mean,’ he nodded sagely. ‘Something happens and suddenly you’re back in short trousers, trying to hold back the tears.’

Tears? Martin? ‘Your brother, you mean? Yes, of course. Are your parents still alive?’

‘Mum is. She was devastated, of course. He was her favourite. Oh, I don’t mean that in a resentful way. It was just a fact of life. Doted on him.’

‘What did he do? I’ve forgotten.’

‘Academic, earned a pittance, wrote incomprehensible books about philosophy that were reviewed at inordinate length in the TLS and sold about a dozen copies.’

‘A philosopher?’

‘Yuh. I told him, ages ago, he should get onto the popularising bandwagon, get on the box, write some bestsellers-The Hegel Diet, Kiss me Kant, that kind of thing.’

She smiled.‘He scorned your advice, then?’

‘Of course, like always. But time has proved me right, hasn’t it? They’re all at it now. Daniel Connell could have been a household name. Never mind, what does it matter-money, fame-when you’re gone?’

A moment’s silence,then Kathy raised her glass.‘To Daniel.’

‘Yeah, yeah. To Daniel. Poor old sod.’

‘But it could have been confusing, having two household names in the one family.’

He gave his modestly roguish grin. ‘Now you’re being outrageously flattering, Kathy. I’m hardly that, hovering behind my notorious clients, a nameless legal functionary in the crowd.’

She laughed a little too much to show how absurd that idea was, and he ordered another round.

Finally he picked up the juicy little bait she’d offered at the start.‘So they’re all going around with long faces, are they?’

‘Oh God, yes! You should see the place. Brock’s been suspended, and Tom Reeves, of course.’

‘Mm, I had heard that. How do you feel?’

‘Well, it always hurts to realise you’ve been beaten.’

‘Sure.’

‘But I suppose I wasn’t altogether surprised. After we were so completely outmanoeuvred the first time, when we tried to arrest Ricky Roach,it just seemed too easy to snatch some incriminating documents from Ivor’s study and hope to make it stick.’

‘Did you try to tell them that?’

‘Yes, but Tom was so desperate to believe in what he’d done, and Brock too, being obsessed with trapping Roach. It was psychologically perfect, wasn’t it, offering something so completely over the top to people who couldn’t stop themselves from swallowing it? I had seen the warning signs, but I still didn’t see how they’d pull it off. They’re rather brilliant, aren’t they, in their way, the Roaches?’

‘You’re joking,’ Martin snorted. ‘They’re a bunch of thugs. They’ve made it in business through stubborn bullying. They couldn’t finesse a trick in a million years. It’s not their style.’

‘So they had great advice?’

‘You could say that.’ Martin was poker-faced, the playfulness gone from his manner. This was business, and Kathy sensed herself being led along a carefully selected route.

‘But . . .’ She looked thoughtful. ‘You know, there was a moment, when I saw Nigel Hadden-Vane pull his handkerchief out of his pocket, that I remembered that funny story you told me about the MP, and I thought, Martin anticipated all this. But of course that was impossible.’

He gave an enigmatic little smile.‘Was it?’

‘Well, yes.You told me the story days before Tom stole those papers, and long before Michael Grant and his committee got involved.You couldn’t possibly have known that would happen.’

‘Hm.’Still the mystery smile.‘You know what I think?’

‘What?’

‘I think we should have dinner.’

‘Aren’t you expected somewhere?’

‘Nothing important.What about you?’

‘Nothing special.’

‘Good. I’ll just make a couple of calls.’

‘I’ll powder my nose.’ She got to her feet and left him to tell his lies.

In the taxi across the West End, and in the restaurant, Martin spoke of other things, things that touched upon their mutual lives but indirectly, like the increasingly erratic mental condition of his father-in-law,the former judge,and the state of the housing market in Finchley and Kathy’s chances of getting a better place. Kathy suspected this was part of a test, and didn’t attempt to steer things back to work.

Then, much later, ruminating over the last of the excellent red that had accompanied the main course, Martin returned to their earlier conversation.

‘You know, I couldn’t help noticing a subtle change in your way of talking about your boss,’ he said.

‘Really?’ Kathy had always sensed Martin’s antagonism towards her relationship with Brock.‘In what way?’

‘More objective, more independent-minded. Am I right?’

He raised a challenging eyebrow, his grin suggesting the effects of drink, but Kathy remembered that ploy too, his way of luring people into confidences under the impression that he’d switched off. Martin never switched off.

‘You may be right.Yes, I’m sure you are. I mean, it’s been a long time.You get to know people’s ways.’

‘Do you remember that old Carly Simon song we were both crazy about, “You’re So Vain”? And I was thinking about Brock, that he probably thinks this song was about him. Am I right?’

It took Kathy a moment to catch on.‘You mean the Dragon Stout business?’

Martin gave a sly nod.

‘Well, yes, but it was a trap for him originally, wasn’t it? Only he didn’t fall for it, and Tom took it to Grant instead. I mean, the Roaches, or their very clever advisors, could hardly have anticipated that, could they? But they recovered so quickly, that’s what amazed me. All that information, all those witnesses lined up.’ She leaned forward to stare into his eyes.‘It was amazing, Martin.You must have had a hair-raising weekend.’

He smiled expansively.‘Pretty relaxing,actually.Feet up,game of golf …’

‘Well, how did you do it?’

‘Couldn’t tell you that now, could I? Like the magician, if he explains how he does it, nobody’s interested any more.’

Kathy sat back, nodding, knowing not to push.‘You are a bit of a magician, aren’t you, Martin?’

He narrowed his dark eyes and spoke more forcefully. ‘You mentioned information. How right you are. That’s what we’re both about, information. It’s our lifeblood. People have this odd picture of the cops, like anglers sitting around the edge of the water, keeping their feet dry, dipping their lines in and hoping to catch a big fish. But it isn’t like that, is it? You have to go down into the dark water, both you and I, and swim with the sharks. It’s the only way we get our information. Brock used to know that, in the old days. I think it’s what you’ve come to understand now.’

Kathy wasn’t sure she’d followed the switching metaphors. She smiled neutrally.‘Maybe so.’

‘We all need allies, Kathy, friends. I thought we made pretty good allies at one time, before Brock took you under his wing. I’m not talking about betraying loyalties, just about having sources, for mutual advantage. It can get pretty cold out there, in the dark water. Tom found that out, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, maybe you’re right.’

‘Of course I am.You’re going places, Kathy, no doubt about that.We should be friends.’

She frowned, as if needing time to think about this.

‘Anyway,’ Martin gave a dismissive flap of his hand. ‘What about dessert?’

He had made his pitch, she felt, or at least half of it. The other half came later, after they got the taxi back to his office, where he picked up his car to drive her home. It was a cold night, and then the rain began as they reached Kentish Town. The beating of the wipers and the dull glow of streetlights on drab buildings contrasted with the snugness of their capsule, dry, warm and smelling of new leather.

‘You’ll think about what I said, won’t you?’ he asked as his headlights swept across the forecourt of her block.

‘Of course.’

He pulled in to a visitor’s space, and as she detached her seat-belt he leaned over and cupped her cheek and kissed her mouth. She had to suppress a reaction of panic as she felt his tongue slide against her lips. Clammy, oppressive memories filled her head, of the claustrophobic intensity of treacherous love with him.

He pulled away at last. He was excited, breathing heavily. ‘What about a nightcap then,’ he said, not a question, reaching for the door handle.

‘Not tonight, Martin.’

He turned back to her, lips pressed tight to contain his irritation.‘Don’t be a tease, Kathy.’

‘I think you’re being the tease.You drop hints and mysterious pearls of wisdom all evening, but I’m really none the wiser. I still don’t know what you did to us.’

He took a deep breath, exasperated.‘Got to sing for my supper, do I? Carly Simon, Kathy, remember? This wasn’t about Brock.’

‘Who then? Not Tom, surely. Michael Grant?’

He stared ahead through the running film of water on the windscreen for a moment, and when he looked at her again he was calm, in control.‘Not Brock, not Tom, not Grant. This was about Spider, Kathy. All about Spider. About keeping him safe, at all costs. Brock, Tom, Grant were collateral damage-most welcome to Spider, of course, vindictive old bastard that he is.’

She still didn’t get it.Her incomprehension was written all over her face, and he frowned at her slowness. ‘He’s making amends, Kathy, coming in from the cold, spilling the beans, in return for amnesty, for him and his family. The last of the supergrasses.Your bodies under the snow threatened everything. He hadn’t mentioned them. They weren’t part of the package. The last thing they needed was Brock blundering around pinning a twenty-fouryear-old murder rap on the old thug.’

Kathy felt herself press back against the soft leather as if by the force of his revelation. ‘They? You said the last thing they needed?’

He raised his eyebrows.‘Come on,now you are being obtuse.’

‘But . . . But the Roaches did murder those three men?’

‘’Course they did, but who now gives a monkey’s fart? They were Jamaican illegals, for God’s sake, drug dealers, scum. Okay? Mystery solved?’

And Dana and Dee-Ann, she wanted to say, were they scum too? But he had leaned forward and taken her in his arms again, nuzzling her cheek and neck as if trying to trace her new perfume to its source. His hand moved in under the lap of her coat, and she wondered how she could extricate herself without him thinking her an even bigger bitch than she felt.

Then another car turned into the car park, and Martin pulled away as its headlights caught them. For a moment the interior of his car was illuminated by the blinding beam, their faces brightly lit. Then the other car turned quickly and sped away. Kathy recognised the Subaru.

‘That was Tom Reeves,’ she said, and Martin swore.

‘Does he know me?’

Kathy wasn’t sure, but she said,‘Yes.You’d better go.’

He didn’t argue, and as she ran through the rain to the front doors she heard his engine rev and drive quickly away.

When she reached her flat she dropped her coat and poured herself a big slug of Scotch and sat down to think. Then she got on the phone. She tried Tom first, without success, then rang Brock. He didn’t answer his home phone, but she got him on his mobile.