Revenger

93

Carver took one last look at Alix, then left the bedroom and closed the door.

A clearly defined sequence of events was forming in his mind, and it began with locating the duct tape that Novak had used on Alix. It was sitting on the kitchen island with a pair of scissors neatly placed across the top. Carver grabbed them both and retrieved the nail gun that was lying not far away. He went back to the hall and crouched down beside Grantham, just as Novak had done a few minutes earlier. He placed the tape and scissors on the floor. He took the head cam out of his jacket pocket, switched it on and held it in his left hand, pointing it at Grantham. With his right hand he placed the head of the nail gun against Grantham’s crotch.

Grantham’s eyes widened. Clearly his sight was returning. What about his hearing? Speaking very clearly, with his mouth not far from Grantham’s ear, Carver said, ‘Can you hear me?’

Grantham nodded.

‘Good. Now here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to remove your gag. If you try to call for help, I will fire the nail gun. I’m then going to ask you some questions. As you see, your answers will be on camera. I already know what happened, so don’t try to lie to me, or pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, or my trigger finger will start itching. I’ve already tried this gun out on Novak, and it works pretty well. So unless you fancy life as a eunuch, I’d advise you to do precisely what I say. Nod if you understand.’

Grantham nodded.

Carver put the camera down for long enough to pull the gag from Grantham’s face and the sock from his mouth.

‘Right,’ he said, picking up the camera again, ‘let’s get started.’

As Carver began his interview the CIA’s black Suburban was rounding Marble Arch and taking the direct route to the flat, straight up Abbey Road. The driver was paying no attention whatever to speed limits, red lights or road safety. He tilted his head back and shouted out loud enough for all the men in the back to hear: ‘Estimated time of arrival: four minutes!’

Metropolitan Police vehicles were also converging on the scene from several different directions. They were a little way behind, but they had the advantage of lights and sirens. Keane had the longest distance to travel. She radioed the officers in the leading car. ‘How long till you get there?’

‘Five minutes at the outside, ma’am.’

‘That won’t do,’ she insisted. ‘I need you there faster than that.’

‘We’re going to keep it very simple,’ Carver said. ‘Just answer yes or no. So, are you Jack Grantham, the Head of the Secret Intelligence Service, otherwise known as MI6?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you order a man called Danny Cropper to organize a series of riots, including the one in Netherton Street last night?’

Grantham paused for a second. Carver pressed the nail gun into his balls. Grantham said, ‘Yes, but—’

The nail gun fired. Carver had pulled his hand back a few inches. The nail blasted into the floor between Grantham’s legs. The blood drained from Grantham’s face and Carver said, ‘Just stick to yes or no… You were going to say that it wasn’t supposed to be violent, weren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you know what field ops are like: anything that can go wrong will go wrong. Next question: were you planning to frame Mark Adams?’

‘Yes.’

‘You wanted everyone to think that he had set up the riots?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then his whole campaign would be totally discredited and he would face criminal charges?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you working under orders?’

‘Not exactly…’

‘Tut-tut… that’s not quite a yes or a no, is it? All right, then… your specific actions were deniable…’

‘Yes.’

‘But someone wanted you to go after Adams, even if they didn’t want to know how you were doing it.’

‘Yes.’

‘Someone close to the Prime Minister?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let me guess: Cameron Young?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you. That’s all I need.’

Carver turned the camera off and put it back in his jacket. Then he took the nail gun away from Grantham’s crotch. Grantham’s shoulders slumped as the tension left his body, but a second later his eyes were widening in protest again as Carver shoved the sock back in his mouth and replaced the gag. Carver said, ‘I really don’t want to have to look at you any more,’ and wound the duct tape round and round Grantham’s head until everything was covered and sealed tight except a small breathing-hole beneath his nose.

It was time to go.

There was a side-table beneath the mirror in the hall and on it a small, hand-carved wooden bowl in which Peck kept his house and car keys. Carver took them. He also discarded his windcheater and glasses and swapped them for a smart dark-brown leather bomber jacket hanging on a coat rack, a vivid purple baseball cap with a white letter ‘H’ on the front that was dangling from the next hook, and a pair of aviator shades that had been left on the side-table next to the bowl of keys. The effect on Carver’s appearance was instantaneous. All trace of his previous, loser persona had entirely disappeared. As before, he transferred his phone and wallet into the new jacket. But he left the head cam in the old windcheater. He wanted it to be found.

Carver trod down hard on Grantham’s feet to hold them still and pulled on his bound arms until he was virtually upright. Then Carver dipped his right shoulder and hoisted Grantham over it in a fireman’s lift. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’re going for a drive.’