Tullivant stopped the car, leaving the engine running, took out his phone, and watched the pair’s backs. When the woman turned slightly to say something to Purkiss, Tullivant took a quick series of photos with his phone. The angle wasn’t great, but it would have to do.
He drove on, thinking. They’d knock on the cottage door, find that Arkwright wasn’t home… and then what? Would they force their way in to search the place? Possibly. But they wouldn’t find what Tullivant had left there, because they wouldn’t be looking for something like that. And afterwards? Tullivant doubted they’d turn round and head back to London. More likely, they’d hang around. Perhaps make enquiries in the village.
He hadn’t anticipated that Purkiss would arrive this soon, and had been banking on Arkwright’s being home when Purkiss did turn up. No matter. It was a detail, that was all.
Tullivant parked up another residential lane and sent a text which read: Who’s the woman? He attached a couple of the photos he’d taken.
While he waited for a reply, he considered his options. The obvious thing to do would be to carry on with his original plan: hole up near the cottage and wait for Arkwright to return, and after that Purkiss. But what if Purkiss went in search of Arkwright, found him, and took him somewhere else?
It was a risk too far. Tullivant started the car again and drove back. At the end of Arkwright’s street he saw Purkiss and the woman emerge from the lane once more. He watched them head back in the direction of the green.
This was going to be tricky. Surveillance in a crowded city, whether on foot or by car, was one thing. But in a tiny village like this, he’d be spotted quickly, especially by a professional like Purkiss.
The pub was the obvious place, Tullivant thought. The hub of the village, it would be where a stranger would go to ask questions.
Parking again, he headed straight for the pub without looking around for Purkiss or the woman. On the way, a text message arrived: Can you talk?
He rang the number.
‘The woman is Hannah Holley. A Service agent. Not assigned to the Morrow investigation.’
‘She’s operating off the books?’ asked Tullivant.
‘Apparently.’
‘She was the one who saved Purkiss when the bomb went off,’ said Tullivant.
‘Interesting.’ There was a pause. ‘I’ll have to think about this.’
Tullivant rang off, reached the pub and went inside.
Purkiss was at the bar, the woman beside him.
Twenty-six
‘So talk,’ said Arkwright.
His accent was Merseyside, the catarrhal glottals enhanced by some kind of speech defect. Purkiss wondered if his tongue had been damaged at some point.
They sat around a huge oak dining table, as scarred as Arkwright himself. All the furniture in the cottage looked similarly rustic. Arkwright was across from Hannah and Purkiss, one of his sons — Steve, the one who’d led them out of the pub, the one who’d pulled the knife and whom Hannah had put down — sitting beside him. The other two, Dave the big one and Jimmy the smaller, stood behind Arkwright on either side, like a pair of bodyguards.
Dave had had a tooth knocked out; Jimmy held a wad of cloth to his bleeding ear. Purkiss himself had probed his wounded upper arm gingerly, picking ribbons of cloth out of the punctured flesh. He’d need it seen to. Human bites could be nasty.
The shotgun was on the table, the business end pointing in Purkiss’s direction, though Arkwright wasn’t touching it. He’d walked them all back to his cottage, holding the gun hanging down as if they’d all been out on a hunting trip together with one piece to share.
Purkiss said, ‘So, we wanted to ask you some questions. Your sons attacked us. We put them down. They had it coming.’
On either side of Arkwright the three men stirred. Not looking at them, Arkwright raised a finger.
‘You’re not police,’ he said.
‘No.’ Purkiss folded his hands, leaned forward. ‘We’re not. We’re from an agency that could make life extremely difficult for you if you don’t cooperate with us, Arkwright. As in, revisiting the reasons you were kicked out of the Army and making a persuasive case that criminal charges should be pressed, even at this late stage.’
Arkwright’s face was twisted into a permanent grimace, so it was hard to tell how he reacted to this. He watched Purkiss, his glance flicking occasionally to Hannah.
Purkiss went on: ‘Your sons, reacting the way they did. That suggests they’re protecting you. That anybody who comes round asking questions of you needs to be seen off. It’s the behaviour of a man with a guilty secret. With something to hide.’
‘You said cooperate,’ Arkwright rasped. ‘Cooperate, how?’
‘Just answer some questions.’
The big man, Dave, snorted, rolling his eyes.
Hannah stood up, walked round the table until she was inches from him, stared up into his face.
‘What was that?’ she said. Her voice was quiet, icy with menace.
Dave’s eyes narrowed. His shoulders swelled, his hands bunched into fists.
She laughed at him. ‘You think you’ve seen a fraction of what we’re capable of? The two of us, unarmed, dropped the three of you. We’ll do it again if we have to. But we won’t have to. Because there are others, waiting for the signal. The signal is our failure to make a phone call within — ’ she glanced at her watch — ‘just under thirty minutes from now. If we don’t make that call, our backup arrives. This time you’ll be the ones who’re outnumbered. And they won’t play nice, the way we did.’
He glowered down at Hannah, hate threatening to spill from his eyes and hooked mouth. ‘Jesus, you — ’
‘Shut up. We want to hear from your father, not you.’ Ostentatiously she turned her back to him and went to sit down again next to Purkiss.
Arkwright transferred his gaze from her to Purkiss once more. His jaw worked, as though he was chewing something invisible.
He shrugged. ‘Ask.’
He’s been expecting this, thought Purkiss. He’s resigned to it. Not outraged.
‘Charles Morrow,’ said Purkiss.
He studied Arkwright minutely. The eyes and the scarred flesh around them, the mouth, the hands.
‘Never heard of him,’ said Arkwright.
Nothing moved. There was no tell-tale lifting of the fingers towards the lips to suppress a lie.
Beside Purkiss, Hannah said, ‘Bullshit.’
Arkwright ignored her, holding Purkiss’s stare instead.
Purkiss said, ‘You’ve never heard of Charles Morrow.’
‘No.’
Either Arkwright was telling the truth, or he was such a spectacularly accomplished liar that the whole interview was a waste of time.
‘Charles Morrow was murdered two days ago,’ said Purkiss.
No reaction from Arkwright.
‘Why was your name mentioned prominently in Morrow’s notebook?’
Arkwright leaned forward. He spoke slowly, enunciating each word as though talking to a dim child. ‘I have no idea.’
Purkiss watched him in silence for a full ten seconds.
Then: ‘Mohammed Al-Bayati.’
There it was. A tell-tale shifting of Arkwright’s eyes, just a fraction. He was in control enough not to blink, or to move his hands; but the eye muscles flickered.
‘So,’ said Purkiss. ‘You know Al-Bayati. Or knew him, I should say.’
Still Arkwright said nothing.
Purkiss went on: ‘Al-Bayati was killed by a car bomb less than six hours ago. You may have heard the news? An explosion in South London. That was him.’
The scars streaking Arkwright’s face and scalp made it difficult to be certain, but Purkiss thought he saw the faintest glint here and there.
‘You’re sweating,’ he noted.
Hannah slapped the table with both palms. ‘We’re wasting time here. This is too slow. Let’s just take him in and let the others get to work on him.’