Breaking Cover

55

Miles had been gone for ten minutes and Peggy had just come back with much-needed coffee for them both when Liz’s phone rang.

She picked it up and a familiar voice said, ‘Fane here.’

‘Hello, Geoffrey. I was about to ring you. We’ve just been having a wash-up with Miles. Tim, the lecturer from King’s, has definitely identified Marina as Mrs Patricov. I’ve also heard from Chief Constable Pearson in Manchester. Apparently Hansen–Karpis hasn’t said a word, but Pearson thinks Mrs Patricov will sing like a bird when Bruno and I question her. But any news of Jasminder?’ She hadn’t yet heard the details of Fane’s interview with her.

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Finally he said, ‘There is actually. I’m afraid it’s bad.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘I’m very sorry to tell you that Jasminder’s dead.’

‘Dead?’ said Liz. Her stomach lurched. She could see Peggy watching her. Her face had gone pale. ‘What happened?’ Liz asked.

‘Drowned,’ said Fane. He sounded short of breath. ‘Her body was found this morning under the Albert Bridge. Apparently, she jumped off Tower Bridge last night. A woman in a flat overlooking the bridge saw her and phoned the police. There was a man nearby but she’d gone over before he could stop her. The tide was coming in fast and they’ve been looking for her all night. It wasn’t until low tide that they found her. The only identification was a receipt from a shop where she’d paid by credit card. It’s taken this long to confirm it was her.’

‘You’re saying she jumped into the river?’ Liz could see Peggy’s enquiring expression, and could do nothing but look back at her grimly.

‘Apparently. There’s no question of her being pushed. The woman in the riverside flat saw it all quite clearly and was on the phone immediately.’ Fane paused for a moment then went on, speaking quickly. ‘Jasminder had already resigned from the Service. I made it quite clear that we weren’t going to prosecute her and that we’d help her in every way we could. I was very sympathetic; I didn’t criticise her or blame her in any way—’ His voice faltered; he was obviously upset.

‘I’m sure you dealt with it perfectly, Geoffrey. None of this is your fault. It sounds as if you couldn’t have been kinder to her.’

Fane waited a moment to reply. ‘It’s good of you to say so, but I can’t help feeling – I mean, I was the one who questioned her. We’d prepared a safe house for her to go to while I finished the questioning; then we were going to discuss how she was to deal with the media. But I agreed she could go home to collect her things. I should have sent someone with her, but I didn’t. That was my fault.’

It was clear that all this had deeply shaken Fane – he who had so opposed Jasminder’s appointment must have come round to it. He would have been terribly shocked at first to learn of her betrayal. Or was that too strong a word? No, thought Liz. Admittedly Jasminder had been pressurised into doing wrong, which made it explicable – but not, Liz thought, defensible. Jasminder could have asked for help as soon as Laurenz Hansen had turned the screw. That had been her fatal mistake, ‘fatal’ now being the word.

‘There will be a memorial service of course,’ Fane said, as he regained his composure. ‘In the meantime we’ll have the press to deal with.’

‘Yes. That will be bad for a time; the media will blame us – that’s inevitable. It’s more important that you don’t blame yourself. You did what you had to do, and you could have been much harder on her than you were.’

‘Well, I must have been hard enough,’ said Fane bitterly. Liz realised there was nothing more she could say to help him. She muttered a few more words of sympathy, then Fane said goodbye abruptly.

Putting down the phone, Liz looked at an anxious Peggy.

‘Jasminder’s dead, isn’t she?’

‘I’m afraid so. She was found drowned in the river this morning. She jumped off Tower Bridge last night.’

Tears welled up in Peggy’s eyes. ‘That’s a horrible way to go. She must have been desperate. What on earth made her do… that?’ Then she shook her head abruptly. ‘What a stupid question.’

Liz said, ‘She must have found it impossible to see a way through. She was going to have to leave the Service; she would have had to explain why it hadn’t worked out, and what had gone wrong. It would all have been lies, too, because she wouldn’t have been allowed to explain what had really happened. And then what could she have done next? I suppose she couldn’t see a way forward.’

Peggy slumped in her seat. ‘I feel terrible. I think she and I could have become good friends. But instead I helped unearth her secrets.’

‘You didn’t have a choice,’ said Liz. ‘You did the right thing. Think of how you’d feel, possibly years from now, if she’d stayed in place and relayed intelligence to the Russians. You’d have been like all those colleagues of Philby, Burgess and Maclean who couldn’t believe that their friends could be spies. But instead you did your job, and helped expose a plot that could have done tremendous damage to the country.’

Peggy sighed. ‘I’m sure you’re right. And thank you for the kind words.’ She stood up. ‘I think I might go for a walk, if you don’t mind. I’d like to clear my head.’

‘Of course. Then go home. You’ve worked hard enough for one week. They’re bringing Karpis and Marina down to Paddington Green police station this afternoon and Bruno and I will start the interviews tomorrow. But I’ll be in the office early on Monday – something new’s come in and I’m going to need your help.’

Peggy nodded and left the room. Liz sat still for a minute, suddenly feeling overwhelmed herself. She knew she’d been right to speak to Peggy that way, but recognised as well that sometimes the professional requirements of their jobs rode roughshod over personal feelings. It had to be like that, of course, but it didn’t make life any easier. She had her own guilt to bear; if she hadn’t rather mischievously suggested Jasminder to MI6, none of this would have happened.

Her phone rang again, and reluctantly she answered it. ‘Liz Carlyle.’

‘That’s good,’ said a cheerful voice. ‘I guessed you’d be at your desk even though it’s Saturday.’

‘Who is that?’ said Liz, feeling annoyed at the intrusion.

‘I hope it’s your favourite policeman. For the moment anyway. Chief Constable Pearson at your service, ma’am.’

Liz smiled. ‘Always a pleasure to speak to you.’

‘I’m in Tate Britain. They say the restaurant’s very good here. I hope you haven’t had lunch yet because, on the off chance you’d be free, I’ve booked a table. If you had time, we could look at a picture or two after lunch. I’ve never understood Francis Bacon myself and I thought maybe you could provide a brief tutorial.’

‘Fat chance of that.’ Liz glanced out of the window and saw that the river was calmer now, the swell dying as the tide turned. She shivered as she watched it briefly, thinking she would never see it again without remembering Jasminder. Then she said, ‘We might give Francis Bacon a miss this time. But lunch would be lovely, thank you.’