‘That remains to be seen.’ The major eyed his underling carefully. Xue Xi was turning into something of a disappointment and it pained him more than he would have imagined. She had been his star student but her efficiency was beginning to be undermined by a lack of discipline. First she almost takes the security guard’s head clean off, and then this. Perhaps the deaths were indeed due to circumstances beyond their control. But wasn’t it the job of Ministry personnel to control all circumstances at all times?
Sensing her boss’s displeasure, Xue stared at her boots. A gift from her father when she had joined the MSS, she knew that they would last her whole career. As always, they were polished to an impressive shine. Flexing her toes, she felt the leather creak.
‘Did you hit him?’ Guo asked.
‘What?’
‘Did you hit him?’
Xue paused. She should deny it but she could not lie completely. ‘I used appropriate force,’ she said quietly, ‘when it came to restraining the prisoner. He struggled when the doctor came to give him the injection. It was hard to find a vein.’
‘Is that right?’ Guo was old enough to remember the Cultural Revolution. ‘Appropriate force’ meant anything up to and including throwing people out of tenth-floor windows.
‘Yes, sir.’
Guo looked around the room. I should have installed a surveillance camera, he thought, up there in the corner. In the event, there simply hadn’t been time. It was just one more way in which this wasn’t a secure location. That’s what happened when you went off on these private adventures; everything got compromised. He had always considered his loyalty to Ren Qi as unwavering but now he could see that it had its limits. His patron was becoming increasingly erratic in his decision-making. Driven by hubris and lust, it seemed that the man’s fall from grace was written in the stars. It was a story as old as the hills. The final chapter was only a matter of time and there could only be one ending.
The chatter in Beijing was getting louder. Guo had already been approached on two separate occasions, with offers to dish the dirt on his boss. So far, he had refused. Next time, however, his answer might very well be different. His gaze once again fell on the dead Englishman. ‘Leave him for now,’ he commanded. ‘He’s not going anywhere.’
* * *
Looking exceedingly pleased with himself, Umar sucked down another mouthful of Coke. ‘It was really straightforward. Once we found their box of tricks under the stairs, all I had to do was erase the hard drive.’
Carlyle grunted. His All Day Breakfast had settled in his stomach and he was feeling less than chipper. What he really needed was a lie-down in a dark room with a damp towel over his head.
‘Basically, everything gets stored for a month.’ The sergeant paused, taking another mouthful of his drink. ‘I’ve cleared it all and set it to start up again in a couple of hours.’
‘And there’s no back-up?’
‘Let’s hope not,’ Umar played with his can, ‘for your sake.’ Acknowledging the look of vague distress on his boss’s face, he quickly added: ‘I couldn’t see any evidence of anything else. It’ll be fine.’
‘Thank you,’ Carlyle said grudgingly. ‘Seems like a lot of kit to have in your house.’
‘Not really,’ Umar countered. ‘It’s quite common these days. Apart from deterring burglars,’ he shot Carlyle a look, ‘attentive burglars, that is, people use it for spying on the nanny, things like that.’
Umar finished his drink. ‘Bit risky, wasn’t it?’
No more risky than sending everyone in the station pictures of your willy, Carlyle thought sarkily. ‘I just wanted to take a look.’
‘What were you doing in there anyway?’
With what he liked to think was commendable brevity, Carlyle brought his sergeant up to speed on the situation with Gregori and Kortmann and his earlier visit to see Barbara Hutton.
‘So you think she is this other woman?’ Umar asked. ‘The German terrorist?’
‘That,’ Carlyle replied rather wearily, ‘is what we’re gonna have to find out.’
* * *
The receptionist at Horse, Kellaway amp; George was not in the mood to take any nonsense from the man who had just dropped in on the off-chance of a word with one of her senior partners. A sturdy fifty-something, the woman had clearly spent decades perfecting various looks of displeasure as she contemplated the broad array of miscreants that arrived at her desk. Smiling lamely, Carlyle imagined that she couldn’t have looked more put out if she realized that he had recently broken in to her boss’s home.
‘I do not have an appointment,’ he said patiently, ‘but I think that Mr Hutton will want to see me.’
‘What is it concerning?’ the woman asked brusquely, making it clear that she doubted that very much.
Resisting the temptation to start flashing his warrant card, the inspector went for the enigmatic approach. ‘It’s a private matter.’
Without another word, the woman shot out of her seat, buzzed herself through the door to the left of her desk and disappeared, leaving Carlyle to peruse the mug shots of grinning lawyers that lined the wall behind the desk. He found the chubby, cheery face of Derek Hutton on the top row, directly underneath HK amp;G’s mission statement. With nothing better to do, Carlyle read it carefully: Our human rights experts provide access to justice for our clients, despite the notoriously expensive and complex UK legal system. Combining civil liberties, discrimination and social care expertise, we act for individuals, groups and organizations who find themselves challenging the lawfulness of decisions, acts, omissions and policies of public bodies and authorities.
‘Guardian-reading, sandal-wearing, lentil-sucking lefties,’ Carlyle scoffed.
‘Sorry?’ The receptionist pushed her way back through the doors looking even more irritated than she had when she’d left her station.
‘Nothing,’ Carlyle mumbled, blushing slightly as he moved away from the desk.
‘Mr Hutton is not here,’ she said firmly. Sliding back into her seat, she began tapping at the keyboard of her computer, in order to underscore the inspector’s dismissal.
‘Not here?’ Carlyle acted bemused. Rudeness rarely bothered him and he had made a conscious decision that he wasn’t going to let this woman wind him up.
‘He’s not in today,’ the woman said huffily, keeping her eyes on her computer screen.
‘On holiday?’ Carlyle persisted. ‘Off sick? With a client?’
‘Out.’ Was all he got by way of reply.
Deciding not to push the matter any further, Carlyle admitted defeat. ‘OK. Thank you for all your help.’ Ignoring her petulant toss of the head, he headed for the exit.
Walking down the street, he checked his phone and was dismayed to find he had four missed calls and a text from Helen that simply said: where are you? ‘I’m at work,’ Carlyle muttered crossly, almost dropping the phone as he walked into a young woman pushing a pram. ‘Where do you expect me to be?’ Glaring at the woman, he jumped into the gutter and continued on his way.
‘Here. You can hold the baby while I make some coffee.’ Before he could protest, Caroline Hutton placed the sleeping infant on Umar’s lap and headed for the kitchen. Shifting uncomfortably on the sofa, the sergeant grimaced.
‘What’s his name?’ he called after her.
‘Sssh,’ she admonished him, before adding in a theatrical whisper: ‘Her name is Mary.’
‘Ah.’
‘She was named after my grandmother, on my father’s side.’
‘I see.’ Although he was now a father himself, Umar felt anxious about the responsibility of holding someone else’s child. Mary, on the other hand, seemed perfectly content. Wrapped in a blanket, in a red babygro, she snored peacefully as he took stock of his surroundings.