‘Connection.’
‘With none other than Sir Guy Strang.’
Purkiss listened as Vale explained. At the end, he realised he was gripping the phone hard enough to make the plastic squeak.
‘My God,’ murmured Purkiss.
‘Quite.’
And there it was. The way in, at last.
Forty-seven
It should have been perfect, an occasion for Emma to savour.
She and James had previously arranged to meet that Monday evening at nine, in a pub across the river from the headquarters at Thames House. As usual, Emma contrived a call-out to attend to Sir Guy — it was becoming increasingly easy; now that he’d apparently had a run of heart problems, she could just say he’d had a relapse and needed her attention — and greeted Brian at the door to say she was going out. Furthermore, Brian tentatively asked if she minded if he went out for a drink himself with some of his sporting friends that evening, and of course she said yes. It meant she could enjoy her time with James without the constant, niggling guilt tugging at her, the knowledge that Brian was alone at home with the children. Ulyana had said she could stay overnight if necessary to be with the kids, so all the arrangements were in place.
Except that Emma set off for central London with dread bearing down on her like a physical presence.
She considered, as she walked to the tube station, putting off confronting James with the second bug she’d found, at least until after they’d made love. But she wouldn’t be able to relax, to let herself go, and he’d know something was wrong. Better to clear the air at the outset, she thought. If clearing the air was what she was going to achieve, and she had her doubts.
The tube train was crowded on a Monday evening, the air stuffy with hot bodies and poor ventilation, and Emma found herself standing, gripping one of the poles for support and sandwiched in between two other commuters.
It was at Fulham Broadway, as the doors were sliding open, that she felt the arm round her waist, the hand on her arm tugging her towards the doors. Before she could gasp, she heard James’s voice in her ear.
‘It’s me. Come on, we’re getting off.’
Too startled to reply, she allowed herself to be steered down onto the platform. She turned to look at James but he nodded towards the exit, his face grim.
‘Let’s go.’
They marched through the press of passengers towards the stairs, then the escalators. Emma felt panic rising in her.
‘James, what — ’
‘Don’t say anything. Keep moving.’
He hustled her through the exit barriers and out onto the street. A few yards down the road, they stopped at a car, a black BMW. James pushed her into the passenger seat, then started the engine.
She stared at him wordlessly.
Once he was out on the road, he glanced across at her.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said.
‘You followed me?’
James ignored that. ‘I need to talk to you,’ he said.
‘I found another bug,’ Emma blurted angrily. ‘One of those things you’ve been hiding in my handbag, in my lipstick. Why, James? Is it just what you do? Spies, spooks, whatever you call yourself? Do you just tag and eavesdrop on people because it’s second nature to you?’
Again he didn’t reply.
‘James.’ Fury was smothering her fear. ‘I need answers. Now.’
He sighed, his eyes on the road ahead. ‘Yes. I planted those devices.’
Emma felt an immediate, immense rush of feeling, though its exact nature wasn’t clear. It wasn’t relief, that was for sure.
‘Why?’
‘Because I needed to find something out.’
‘For God’s sake.’ She felt her voice rising, nudging the lower reaches of hysteria. ‘Enough of the cryptic comments. Just — tell me.’
He was turning down streets unfamiliar to Emma. Darkened, silent residential streets with rows of terraced houses.
‘James, where are you taking me?’ Her voice was suddenly thinner, less bold.
In his temple, a taut ridge of muscle bulged.
‘James…’
This time it was a whisper.
Forty-eight
Dr Emma Goddard.
Purkiss looked at her picture on his phone. She was registered on the General Medical Council’s website as a family doctor of seven years’ standing. There was no photo, but she’d published a couple of research papers through Imperial College London and her mugshot was on the university webpage.
The picture was that of a pretty, coolly confident blonde woman in her mid-thirties. Below it was a brief blurb: she was married with two children, and worked as a general practitioner in south-west London.
That last part was out of date. But the university website could hardly mention that Dr Goddard was the personal physician to the director of MI5, Sir Guy Strang.
Her home address was, surprisingly, still listed on the GMC site. It was in Wimbledon. Purkiss memorised it, then looked at his watch.
A quarter past twelve.
If Dr Emma Goddard was at home right now, she’d be in bed next to her husband. If she wasn’t home, she’d either be at one of those innumerable conferences Purkiss knew doctors were always attending, somewhere in Britain or abroad; or she’d be at the bedside of her principal patient, Sir Guy Strang.
Wimbledon was his only realistic destination.
Purkiss rang a minicab firm, offering a substantial bonus if they arrived to pick him up within fifteen minutes. Then he rang Vale once more.
Eight minutes later he heard the note of the taxi’s horn outside.
He used the time in the back of the cab to flex his wrists and fingers, centre himself on the job at hand. The job was to locate Dr Emma Goddard and remove her for interrogation in regard to her role as Sir Guy Strang’s physician. More specifically, in regard to her relationship with the former parachute battalion captain, Tullivant.
Purkiss was aware the job would likely involve kidnapping.
He stopped the driver well clear of the actual address, paid him, and set off across the common. The night sky was clear, as it had been for the last six or seven weeks. It wasn’t the majestic star-speckled dome Purkiss had glimpsed briefly outside Riyadh, but it was a cosily British version thereof, the galaxies and occasional flaring dominant stars altogether closer and more intimate than their Gulf counterparts.
The house was in darkness.
Purkiss circled it using varying routes and loops. It was a stylish suburban detached property, set on the slope of what was probably Wimbledon’s closest approximation to a hill. There was a copious front lawn, even a swimming pool.
But there were no lights, either downstairs or upstairs.
It wasn’t unusual. Monday, after midnight… most professionals, most working people of any kind, would have turned in for the night.
If Dr Goddard was home, was it likely she’d be alone? Hardly. She was married with a family, and it was a week night.
Purkiss’s phone buzzed.
It was Vale. He recited a cell phone number. Dr Emma Goddard’s personal one.
‘The phone company was not happy,’ Vale murmured. ‘Nor were my SIS contacts.’
‘That’s too bad,’ said Purkiss.
‘I only mention it because I may be approaching the limits of my influence for the time being.’
‘Understood,’ Purkiss said. ‘Thanks.’
Watching the silent house from his position in the shadow of a hedge bordering the front lawn, he dialled Dr Goddard’s number.
It rang once. Twice.
A third time.
Purkiss pictured her floundering up from a deep sleep, grabbing at the phone on a bedside table to silence it.
But the voice, when it came, wasn’t befuddled by drowsiness. It was wide awake. And hesitant.
‘Yes?’
‘Dr Emma Goddard?’
‘Yes?’
Keeping his voice low, Purkiss said, ‘Dr Goddard, listen carefully. Don’t ask who I am or react with surprise in any way, if there’s anyone there with you. Just listen. Your life may be in danger. Are you at home at the moment? Answer simply yes or no.’