Revenger

45

Carver was just walking past a boarded-up pub on Stewart’s Road, keeping fifty metres between himself and the riot leader, when Alix called. He had his phone on vibrate and his earphones plugged in.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting,’ she said.

‘No… it’s all right,’ he murmured into the scarf, keeping his voice too low for the man ahead of him to detect it.

A slight note of anxiety entered her voice. ‘Are you all right? You sound a little down.’

‘No,’ Carver lied. ‘Just can’t speak very loud. How about you? How was Adams?’

‘Very, ah… interesting. He’s why I called you, actually. He was wondering if you’d like to join us for dinner. I didn’t know if you and Snoopy had already made plans… you’ve probably eaten already. Well, maybe you could join us for coffee.’

Carver really didn’t feel like going off to dinner with some puffed-up politician. He didn’t feel like doing anything. He was empty, washed-out and badly shaken up by what had happened in Netherton Street. The safest place for him right now was anywhere but here, and if he had any sense he’d be getting the hell out of London and taking Alix with him. But if he did that, he’d have to spend the rest of his life weighed down by the knowledge that he’d done nothing, if not to put things right — it was far too late for that now — then at least to find an explanation for what had happened and to make sure that those responsible were punished. Every instinct he had told him that it was all in some way connected to Mark Adams and his political campaign. If that was the case, then he needed to see the man for himself, hear what he had to say, look him in the eye and get a sense of just how far he was prepared to go and how many people he was prepared to sacrifice in the pursuit of power.

‘In the end, we didn’t eat,’ Carver said. ‘Snoopy had… well, he had something else to do. He found a girl. She seemed to like him…’

Alix laughed. ‘So he left you high and dry? Poor baby! Does that mean you’re coming to dinner?’

‘Why not? I’ve got an errand to run so I may be a little late. Where are you going to be?’

‘It’s called Roast,’ she said.

An image flashed across Carver’s mind: the scorched flesh of the bomb-victims. He swallowed hard and said, ‘Sounds great.’