His phone rang again, Erin, with Stamoran’s address and phone number. He fed the former into his satnav while Erin not so subtly probed for an explanation. When she rang off, clearly not thrilled, he dialled Stam, but got no reply. Then he contemplated calling Lamb, seeing if he could find out precisely what Taverner had said, but concluded he’d sooner French kiss a wet dog. If Taverner planned to squeeze him, so be it: He’d suffer being squeezed—squoze?—if it would settle his future. Talking to Lamb would hardly help, “Cry me a you” being his standard consolation for River’s woes. And meanwhile, River had his grandfather to worry about: what crap Stamoran was pulling that required the O.B.’s name to be tarnished, and what it was that had really been hidden in the box-safe. Enough to be getting on with.
Not going back—his career over—the Park a fantasy—that could wait.
Meanwhile, the satnav took him what felt like all the way round Oxford, largely because that’s what it was, then dumped him in a tailback heading towards the centre, along a road lined with hoardings advertising mattresses, warehouse-sized electrical stores and too many traffic lights. Somewhere in the distance, a train was crossing a bridge. He called Sid but it went to voicemail so he fiddled with his radio instead, and finding nothing he wanted to listen to sat and fumed, the traffic nudging forward, his temperature rising, the morning crawling by.
It was the train before the one River noticed, or even the one before that, that Sid had arrived on. An otherwise admirable TV series had recently suggested that London/Oxford rail travel was a complicated business, but Sid simply caught the tube to Paddington and hopped on a direct service. While the train did its job, she read the notes Taverner had included in the envelope: Charles Cornell Stamoran’s home address, which was off the Botley Road—a short walk from the station—plus a reminder of where the Spooks’ College was, where he mostly spent his days, and the safe house on Woodstock Road he had nominal care of, tidying up between periods of usage, replenishing stocks, binning junk mail. If she hadn’t been on medical leave she could have accessed Park files and found out more, but the list of places he might be had to suffice. The envelope also held a thousand pounds in box-fresh twenties and a burner phone. She resealed it, and spent the rest of the journey gazing through the window at the sun-flattened landscape, noting the absence where Didcot Power Station’s chimneys once stood. The train carrying her forward was also taking her back: She’d studied at Oxford, and this scenery was familiar. The cows were probably different, though.
At the station she cut under the railway bridge and within five minutes was at Stamoran’s address: a terraced house that backed onto the river, and had three doorbells replacing a knocker. Stamoran was on the top floor, or was when he was in, but Sid rang twice, and then a third time, to no avail. She thought about ringing one of the other bells, but if he wasn’t there, he wasn’t there. The college was her next best bet; on the other hand—the city’s geography returning to her—she could reach the safe house by walking up the canal, and the weather made that an attractive prospect. Besides, Stamoran was old-school, she was guessing—a pensioner, Taverner had noted—and safe houses were where the old-school hid themselves when sins had been committed. And also, maybe she should give herself time to wonder whether she was doing the right thing.
Cash was cash, and presumably wouldn’t be unwelcome. It also suggested that manacles weren’t awaiting him, but Stamoran had attempted to extort money from the Park, so any amount of fucking him about was within the acceptable range of responses. And now she was part of that, her own agenda weighted by self-interest, or River-interest at any rate. Did she want River back at the Park? Not as much as he wanted to be there. All of this, though, was after the event. She was hopping to Taverner’s beat. There was no point leaving the dance floor now, even assuming the choice was hers to make.
Up the canal, across the meadow, over the railway line once more. A northwards stroll through suburbs where the houses were large, the pavements leafy. The safe house itself was on a busy thoroughfare heading out of the city, and was small—a cottage—and out of place, though might be cosy inside. Walking past on the opposite pavement she saw no signs of life, though all that meant was, there was nobody hanging out of a window or sitting on the roof. A wheelie bin had the next door’s number painted on it. A hundred yards up the road, whose curvature meant the manoeuvre couldn’t be spotted from the house’s window, Sid crossed the road and headed back.
Charles Cornell Stamoran. She was composing a mental picture: greying, benign, a corduroy jacket. Spectacles on a chain. He’d ride a bike—a black step-through with a basket up front—and tuck his trouser turn-ups into thick woollen socks. Would open the door when she rang the bell and pretend to be someone else, but the elbow patches would give him away. His home address: Spook Street. Here’s a grand and here’s a phone. Someone wants a word. That’s if he was even here in the first place. One way of finding out was ringing the bell, though even as she did so she was thinking, And this is what you do in a safe house, right? When someone rings the bell, you answer it. The days she’d spent in David Cartwright’s study flashed through her mind, in the snug nest she’d made, surrounded by his books. When anyone approached the house, she’d made herself invisible. Answering the door was not on the agenda.
But this one opened. “Yes?”
It was a woman of sixty or so, Sid’s height, with grey hair, wearing jeans and a thin lilac sweater, and whose eyes glittered in a way Sid found disturbing, not least because she recognised their sparkle. It was the same look she caught in her reflection, on mornings when her wound felt recent. The phantom bullet lodged in her head pulsed. “I’m sorry, I might have rung the wrong—”
“Daisy!”
A man appeared at her shoulder: an apologetic figure was Sid’s first thought, a little raggy of sleeve, a little threadbare at the hem. Bullish of frame, reddish of face, whitish of hair. And also, to her stifled satisfaction, wearing a pair of spectacles on a chain around his neck. But his gaze was piercing. He placed a hand on Daisy’s forearm, adding irritation to the sparkle in those eyes. “You are?”
Good question. She hadn’t thought to prepare an alternative identity, though why would she want one? If what Taverner had said was true, it was this man who needed a cover: He was the one shaking down the Park. She said, “My name’s Sidonie Baker. If you’re Charles Stamoran I’ve something for you.”
“How did you know to find me here? No, don’t answer. It’s obvious.” Something went out of him: air. As if he’d been keeping himself aloft on hope, and had just seen that blow away down the road.
“May I come in?”
He thought for a moment then stepped back, drawing Daisy with him. It was a narrow hallway, barely worth the name. Turn right, you were in the front room. Daisy released herself from Stamoran’s grasp and slid away to give Sid space, and as Sid entered she became aware—nothing extra-sensory; it was too small a house to keep secrets—that they weren’t the only ones within, and this required a quick rethink. Stamoran wasn’t alone. Was Taverner aware of this? The window’s view of the front road was shrouded by a net curtain; there was a two-seater sofa, and a hint of last night’s alcohol in the air. Maybe Stamoran was guilty of other crimes, like running a Service safe house as an Airbnb, but that was another rabbit hole she’d best not tumble down. She turned to ask a question, and it was on her tongue, all but spoken, when her legs were whipped away from her and for one turbulent moment she was unconnected to the floor. And then she was on it and Daisy was on top of her and there was a blade at her throat, and that was it; that was all there was.