Sleep claimed her surprisingly quickly, and when she woke in the morning she understood that her mind had wanted her to slip under, to leave the solving of the problem to its unconscious side. For her immediate thought on waking was: I need to ask James about it directly.
That was the straightforward, no-nonsense approach. Bring the issue out into the open, clear the air. She’d show him what she’d found, and ask his opinion.
And if he was the one who’d put it in the lining of the handbag — something she couldn’t help but consider, given that she’d noticed it only after returning home for her most recent tryst with him — then so be it. He might admit it, might confess that it was a security measure, something he was obliged to do to all employees who had close contact with his boss, Sir Guy. She wouldn’t like it… but she could understand, sort of. On the other hand, if he had put it there but didn’t admit it — well, there was nothing she could do about that, but then again she’d never know.
Dimly aware that there was something shaky about her reasoning, Emma rose, stretched, peered across at a still-sleeping Brian, and went into the kitchen to make coffee.
While waiting for it to brew, she considered her options. She was going to meet James tomorrow afternoon; they’d planned it already. But she didn’t want to wait that long, or the handbag problem would gnaw at her, driving her round the bend.
She’d always been reluctant to call James at unscheduled times, however much she craved the sound of his voice. He was a busy man, in an incredibly responsible position, and the last thing she wanted to do was disrupt him at work. She didn’t need him thinking she was a clingy, needy woman; it would drive him away.
On the other hand, he might understand her concerns in this case.
She retrieved her phone from where it had been charging and thumbed in a text message: Sorry to bother you and on a Sunday especially. But I need to talk to you urgently. It might be a security issue.
Emma reread the last sentence. It was unbelievably manipulative, but it was the kind of thing that would get James’s attention.
She hesitated for a few seconds, her thumb over the Send key. Then she pressed it. Immediately afterwards she deleted the message from her Sent folder.
Breakfast passed slowly, a riot of laughter and spilled food and mock recriminations. Emma joined in heartily, stealing glances every thirty seconds or so at the display on her phone. It remained unlit.
Only afterwards, with the dishes piled and Brian hauling a sack of refuse to the outside bins, did her phone chime once. Emma snatched it up, read the message.
Meet me 2 pm outside main entrance of Tate Modern.
She read it several times, as if there might be some coded message underlying the straightforward instruction. Then she replied — Okay — and deleted both James’s text and her response. She looked up and saw Brian amble back in. He gave her a smile. Emma felt her heart hammering, her throat tight.
She sighed, as normally as she could. ‘Lousy news.’ She held up her phone. ‘I’m wanted again.’
The chest pains Sir Guy had been experiencing on Friday, Emma explained, were recurring. This time she was going to insist that the stubborn so-and-so went into hospital, and she didn’t care how busy he was. Brian smiled at her exasperation, but she could see the hurt underneath. Sunday was traditionally a family day, when they’d go to the Common or for a drive, and today they’d been planning to take a trip up to Hyde Park and Kensington Palace Gardens.
‘You and Ulyana take Jack and Niamh,’ Emma suggested. ‘I can meet you there.’
Brian agreed it was an idea.
Emma realised suddenly that she’d made a mistake. She said, suppressing the flame of panic in her, ‘Oh, and I’ve got to take the car. They’re not sending a driver for me today. Short supply on a Sunday, apparently.’
If Brian was surprised, he didn’t show it.
He hurried the children into their clothes while Ulyana prepared a picnic lunch, and Emma made a show of changing into work clothes — nothing fancy, just a blouse and skirt — and checking her medical bag. She kept the metal object from her handbag in her jacket pocket.
The family and nanny hustled into the station wagon, and Emma drove them to the tube station before heading towards the Thames. She could have taken the Underground herself, but it looked better for the show she was putting on if she seemed to be driving there.
Dear God, she thought, how complex these webs of deceit end up becoming.
Emma crossed the river and reached Victoria Station, where she parked. It was a little after one o’clock, an hour before her scheduled meeting with James. She walked the rest of the way, enjoying the sunshine on her upturned face. The South Bank was crowded as ever on a Sunday, the mimes and living statues at the base of Waterloo Bridge appearing suddenly vaguely sinister to Emma, as though they’d been placed there to monitor her progress.
Looming ahead she saw the shape of the old Bankside Power Station which housed the Tate Modern. It was just the sort of venue James would choose, she thought. Emma had dragged Brian along to the gallery once, to a cocktail party hosted by one of her artist friends, and although he’d gamely smiled and feigned interest in the chatter around him, she could see his heart wasn’t in it. James, on the other hand, could hold his own on the subject of modern art, and offer an intelligent opinion on the most obscure and difficult piece even after viewing it only once.
She scanned the throng outside the gallery for signs of James, but any number of dark, good-looking young men turned out not to be him. Emma checked her watch. Ten past two. She was wondering whether to go inside and get a coffee when she felt a hand on her elbow. Before she could turn, James’s low voice murmured in her ear.
‘It’s me. Keep walking in the direction you were going.’
Startled, she complied. He muttered beside her, so quietly she couldn’t hear what he said, but she realised it was for show: they were a couple strolling along, in intimate conversation, so she responded with aimless patter of her own. As he directed her into the building, its cavernous lobby cool and echoing, Emma felt the thrill of his closeness, the warm maleness of his arm against hers, his breath on her cheek.
And she acknowledged the smallest frisson of fear.
Thirty-three
The whole set-up put Purkiss in mind of Spandau Prison.
He wasn’t expecting to see Gothic gates or machine-gun towers, and indeed the building, as it appeared over the rise, didn’t look like a place of detention at all. Rather, it had the appearance of a squat office complex on an industrial estate, the kind normally found on the outskirts of a fair-sized town.
This one, though, was in the depths of the Berkshire countryside.
‘The Room,’ said Vale, in the seat beside him.
Kasabian had suggested Vale take Purkiss there. Although she said she’d cleared the way to allow Purkiss access, there was still the possibility of his being stopped by suspicious or ill-informed personnel along the way. Vale would be able to call in for assistance, pull strings if necessary.
Hannah had slipped out at seven, declining Purkiss’s offer of coffee. She hadn’t quite blown a kiss at the door, but there’d been a mischievous cast to her eyes he hadn’t seen before.
Vale picked Purkiss up in his car at the Covent Garden flat and they made their way west, out of the city, the traffic relatively light at eleven thirty on a Sunday morning. The highrises and estates in the west of the city gave way gradually to the undulating countryside of Royal Berkshire.
Vale began a winding descent towards a pair of high electric gates flanked by kiosks in each of which sat a uniformed police officer. The policemen emerged long before Vale reached the gates. Purkiss noticed they both carried carbines slung across their chests.