“Yes, ma’am,” said Annie, draining her glass and standing up before Gervaise changed her mind. “I’ll do that.”
“Where is DCI Banks, by the way?”
“He’s finishing his holiday at home,” said Annie.
“Things not work out in London?”
“I suppose not.”
“Well, let’s hope they improve. The last thing I want is a lovesick DCI moping about the station. Go on, then. Get to it. I’ve got to get back to my herbaceous border before Keith and the kids get back from the cricket match and want their dinner.”
"This is a bloody godforsaken hole you’ve chosen for a meeting place,” said Burgess as they walked around the scenic footpath.
“It’s supposed to be a spot of great natural beauty,” said Banks. “You know me. I’m a city boy at heart. I have to tell you, though, Banksy, Dewsbury is a boil on the arse of the universe.”
“It’s got a nice town hall. Same architect who designed Leeds, I think. Cuthbert Broderick. Or Broderick Cuthbert.”
“Bugger the bloody town hall. It’s the mosques that interest me.”
“That’s why you’re up there?”
“Why else?” He sighed. “It just gets worse, doesn’t it?”
“So what’s the answer?” Banks asked.
“You tell me. I’ve been up in Dewsbury for a couple of weeks or so investigating various terrorism-related matters, and now we know that two of the young lads involved in planning yesterday’s bombing live there. They’re all homegrown these days. We don’t need to import our terrorists anymore.”
“Don’t feel so bad. They could have sent you to Leicester.”
“Not much in it, if you ask me. Anyway, for what good it’ll do, we’re searching for a garage, a lockup somewhere out of the way. Obviously to rig up the car and driver the way they did, they had to have a secure place, out of the public eye. Could be Dewsbury.”
“Leicester’s closer to London,” said Banks.
“What I said, but did they listen?”
“And why not use London as a starting point?”
“It’s not the way they do things. It’s their policy to use cells. Networks. Contract out. You can’t centralize an operation like that. Too many risks involved. Besides, we’ve got London sewn up tighter than a gnat’s arsehole.”
“I’d say there were plenty of risks involved in driving a car full of explosives down the Ml from Dewsbury to London,” said Banks. “Or even from Leicester. Haven’t you ever seen The Wages of Fear?”
“Great film. But they use much more stable stuff these days, for crying out loud. It was hardly nitroglycerin.”
“Even so,” Banks said
Burgess kicked a stone off the path. “Can you imagine it, though? Some bastard driving a car full of explosives two hundred miles or more knowing he’s going to die at the end of it.”
“Same as those terrorists on the planes that flew into the twin towers. It’s what they’re trained for.”
“Oh, I know all about their training, Banksy, but it still boggles my imagination. Twenty-two years old, the kid who did it. Bright lad, by all accounts. From Birmingham. Islamic Studies degree from Keele. Anyway, he’s wearing an explosive suit wired to a bootful of explosives and he drives two hundred miles to his appointed destination, where he promptly presses the button. The score’s forty virgins for him, forty-six dead, fifty-eight injured, some seriously, and seventy-three orphans for London.” Burgess paused. “I counted. Do you know, when they raided one of the flats, they found plans drawn up for possible similar attacks on Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square and the front of Buck House, where the tourists all stand and gawp at the changing of the guard?”
“So why Oxford Circus?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
Banks said nothing.
“Hang on a minute, you were in London yesterday, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” Banks said.
“Were you anywhere near? You were, weren’t you?”
“I was there,” Banks said. He hadn’t planned on telling anyone, but Burgess always had an uncanny knack of knowing these things anyway.
Burgess stopped and stared out over the water. Its surface was ruffled by a few ripples caused by the light breeze. “Bugger me,” he said. “I won’t ask you...”
“No,” said Banks. “Don’t. Thanks. I don’t really want to talk about it.” He could feel a lump in his throat and tears prickling in his eyes, but the sensations passed. They continued walking.
“Anyway,” Burgess went on, “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what you want to see me about. It’s to do with these dead shirt-lifters, isn’t it? The one who worked for MI6 in particular. The answer’s still no.”
“Hear me out,” said Banks, and told him what he knew about Wyman, Hardcastle and Silbert, along with had happened at Sophia’s house and Tomasina’s office.
Burgess listened as they walked, head bowed. As his hair had thinned over the years, he had finally gone for the shaved look rather than the comb-over, which some people unwisely chose. He was in fairly good shape, his paunch diminished a little since their last meeting, and he reminded Banks physically a bit of Pete Townshend from the Who.
When Banks had finished, Burgess said, “No wonder you’re red-flagged.”
“It’s not just me,” Banks said. “If it were only me, I could deal with it. They go after your loved ones as well.”
“Well, the terrorists don’t discriminate, either. These are interesting times. Bad things happen. Difficult decisions are made on the fly. No pun intended, Banks, but there’s a darkness out there. You should know.”
“Yes, and the struggle is to keep it out there.”
“That’s too metaphysical for me. I just catch the bad guys.”
“So you’re defending their actions? What they did in Sophia’s house, Tomasina’s office?”
“They’re the good guys, Banksy! If I don’t defend them, whose side does that put me on?”
“Do you know a Mr. Browne?”
“Never heard of him. Believe it or not, MI5 and MI6 are not my outfits. I work with them from time to time, yes, but I’m on a wholly different detachment. I don’t know those people.”
“But you do know what’s going on?”
“I like to keep my finger on the pulse, as well you know. Can we sit down on this bench a minute? My legs are starting to ache.”
“But we’ve only walked round twice. That’s not even half a mile.” “I think the altitude’s getting to me. Can we just bloody sit down?”
“Of course.”
They sat on the bench, donated by some famous local moorland enthusiast whose name was engraved on a brass plate. Burgess examined the name. “Josiah Branksome,” he said in as close an imitation of a Yorkshire accent as he could manage. “Sounds very northern.”
Banks leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and cupped his head in his hands. “Why did they do it, though?” he asked.
“Because they’re fucking crazy.”
“No. I mean MI5. Why break Sophia’s things and scare Tomasina out of her wits?”
“What makes you think it was MI5?”
Banks glanced at him. “Browne said he was MI5.” But when Banks cast his mind back, he couldn’t be certain that Browne had said that; he couldn’t be certain what Browne had said at all. “Why? What do you know?”
“All I’m saying is that Silbert worked for MI6. A whole different kettle of fish, they are. The two don’t exactly work hand in glove, you know. Half the time they’re not even talking to each other.”
“So you think MI6 are more likely to be involved in this than MI5?”
“I’m only saying that it’s possible.”