Matt stood up from the bench and started walking. There had been five of them to start with, and now three of them were dead. In the next couple of hours he could take that down to one. It was time for some payback.
Sallum tapped his fingers against the table. The woman in the next room had been released and the row of interview cubicles had fallen silent. It was quarter past twelve according to the clock on the wall. They had kept him waiting for an hour already. There was no way he was going to make it to see Assaf before lunchtime now.
Of all the virtues the Prophet has taught his children, patience in the face of adversity is the greatest of them all.
Sallum looked up as the door opened. The man who came into the room was in his mid-thirties, with cropped blond hair and a tie loosened around his neck. His name was Ben Harper, according to the plastic name-tag slung around his neck. Without introducing himself, he sat down at the table opposite Sallum, a sheaf of papers in front of him.
'What's your name?' he asked, looking directly at Sallum.
'With respect, you know my name,' replied Sallum. 'Otherwise I wouldn't be here.'
'Nasir bin Sallum,' said Harper. 'Thirty-two, Saudi citizen, a businessman.'
This is just the warm-up act, observed Sallum. They'll send the comedian later.
'Why are you in Manchester?'
'Working.'
'What kind of work?'
'Like it says on the papers, I'm a businessman,' replied Sallum. 'Business work.'
'What business?' said Harper impatiently.
'I import football shirts to Saudi Arabia,' said Sallum. 'Manchester United, Liverpool, Newcastle. There are even some Bolton supporters in Saudi. I'm here to see some of the suppliers.'
'And in Spain?'
'Same thing,' said Sallum with a shrug. 'English football shirts. Spanish. We sell some German and French ones as well. European football is very popular in my country.'
Harper leant forward. 'It sounds like a good cover.'
'Really?' Sallum answered casually. 'To me it sounds like a good, solid business.'
Harper stood up. 'You wait here,' he said. 'A colleague will be along to question you some more later.'
'What's the charge?'
'No charges, just questioning,' said Harper.
'Then why are you holding me?'
Harper stood by the door. 'Prevention of Terrorism Act,' he said. 'We can hold you for three days, no charges. So shut up and get used to it.'
Matt walked from Hammersmith tube out into the Broadway. Traffic was flying around the roundabout and a thick layer of dark clouds had settled across the sky. He crossed the roundabout, dodging the cars, then started walking along King Street. The place was full of morning shoppers, but Matt kept his head down, ignoring everyone. This was not a moment to allow himself any distractions.
Before getting on the tube he had tried Gill again, but there was no answer at her flat. He'd called the school and spoken to Sandy, but she said Gill wasn't there, hadn't been in for a couple of days, and she didn't know where she was or what she might be doing. Maybe getting over the bastard who broke her heart by cancelling the wedding, she'd added acidly before hanging up the phone.
Women, reflected Matt. Now there's a Regiment that really knows how to fight for one another.
Cross one, and you take on the whole damned army.
Next he'd tried Janey at the Last Trumpet. Everyone at the bar was fine, she told him. Business was OK for the time of year: they were between the Christmas and Easter rushes, so it was quiet but no more than she would expect. Some men had been in looking for him. Any sign of Gill? Matt had asked, cutting through the small talk. No, answered Janey. Hadn't been in, and no mention of her. Can you look? asked Matt. Ask the regulars in the bar, check with the local police, try anything you can. What's up? Janey had asked. Nothing, said Matt. Just trying to track her.
He could tell she didn't believe him.
It's not like Gill, Matt thought, turning up one of the side streets towards Ravenscourt Park. She wouldn't just take off like that. She wouldn't stop going into school without telling Sandy where she was and why. He could feel his heart sinking as he ran the calculations through his mind. They'd got to everyone else. Why not Gill as well?
Number sixteen Cedar Road looked no different from the last time he had seen it. The same peeling paintwork on the door, the same overflowing rubbish bins in the scruffy front garden. Matt pressed hard on the doorbell, then hammered at the door with the knocker. He knew exactly what he was going to say. It was time to get this finished.
'Christ, no need to wake up the whole bloody neighbourhood,' said Ivan, holding the door open.
Ivan was never a good-looking man. His eyes sloped away from his forehead, and his skin was blotchy and pale. But he looked worse now, Matt noticed. Like he hadn't been out for days, like he hadn't eaten — like he'd been cooped up with only a dead body for company. 'You look terrible,' said Matt. 'And in about five minutes you're going to look a lot worse.'
'Remind me to blackball you from the bridge club,' said Ivan. 'We'll wait until you polish up your social skills.'
'Don't smart-talk me,' Matt snapped, and stepped inside. The hallway had the same musty, decayed smell he recognised from the last time he'd been here. Underneath the floorboards, Keith Whitson's body was probably starting to rot from the bones, filling the rooms with the sickly perfume of death.
'I want some answers and I want them now,' Matt said. 'No fooling around, no double talk.' He took the Beretta from his pocket, holding it in his fist. 'You mess with me any more, I kill you.'
Ivan looked into his eyes, his expression switching between sympathy and contempt. He raised one hand, then walked through to the kitchen. Next to the sink, Matt could see a pile of unwashed plates, saucepans and coffee cups. On the table, the remains of some breakfast cereal were still lying in a bowl. Next to it a laptop was open, a bridge game displayed on its screen. Ivan leant over, thought for a second, then pressed a key, making the cards move. A smile flickered across his face. 'You know what?' he said, looking up. 'A good bridge player always keeps one trump card up his sleeve.'
He walked away from the table and stood directly in front of Matt. 'Reid is dead, isn't he?' he said flatly. 'I'm sorry. He might have been SAS but he seemed like a straight enough sort of guy.'
Matt's fist hammered straight into Ivan's stomach. He doubled over in pain, coughing, then pulled himself up, his expression indifferent. 'One of these days a little light is going to go off in your head, Matt,' he said calmly.
Matt delivered a swift uppercut, his knuckles knocking into the stubble of Ivan's jaw. The man reeled backwards under the force of the blow, wobbling on his feet, his arms flailing outwards to regain his balance. He took two steps back, rubbing his jaw with his hand: his lip had opened up and a trickle of blood had started to dribble down his chin.
'I told you, no clever talk,' Matt shouted. 'Just the truth.'
'OK,' said Ivan with a shrug. 'The truth is I've been here for the last five days, ever since Whitson died. I'm just lying low until you tell me our money is ready to collect. I haven't been out, and I haven't spoken to anyone. I don't know where you or Reid went. I didn't have anything to do with his death. That's the truth, plain and simple. You can take it or leave it.'
'Then how did you know he was dead just now?' Matt snarled.
Ivan tapped the side of his head. 'I have a brain in here somewhere, despite your best efforts to punch it out of me. I can still add two and two together and get the right answer. If Reid wasn't dead, you wouldn't be here.'