‘No.’
‘At work?’
‘Yes.’
‘Attending Sir Guy Strang?’
There was a moment’s pause. Purkiss strained his ears. Was there the trace of another voice in the background? A man’s?
Then she said, ‘Yes.’
‘At Thames House?’
Again, the briefest hesitation.
‘Yes.’
Lowering his voice almost to a whisper, Purkiss said rapidly: ‘When I finish speaking, tell me you’ll call me in the morning, that it’s a bit late now. Then, after I’ve rung off, tell whoever’s there with you that I was a lawyer asking if you’d consider being an expert witness in a forthcoming trial. Embellish it as much or as little as you need, but don’t get tripped up in a contradiction. After that, I want you to find a reason to get out of the building. Say you need some air, that you need a smoke, even if you don’t… anything, no matter how suspicious it looks. The important thing is to get out of that building. You’ll receive further instructions once you’re outside. Do I need to repeat any of that?’
‘No.’
‘Tell me you’ll call me in the morning.’
She repeated the words he’d given her.
The line went dead.
Purkiss walked out onto the pavement in front of the house, took the SIM card from the phone, dropped it and ground it under his heel. He threw the phone between the bars of a drainage grille a little further along the road. From inside his jacket he took another phone, one of two extra prepaid ones he carried on him which he hadn’t used before, and punched in Vale’s number.
‘New phone,’ said Vale.
‘Yes. I’ve just had a conversation with Dr Goddard. She was speaking under some kind of duress. I suspect she was being coached what to say.’
Purkiss had got rid of the other phone in case whoever it was that was with Goddard ran a trace on the number. He relayed the exchange he’d had with the doctor to Vale.
‘I need another favour, Quentin.’
‘I know what you’re going to ask for,’ said Vale.
‘A GPS fix on Dr Goddard’s phone. She’s not at Thames House.’
‘Quite.’
‘Can you swing it?’
‘I said I was approaching the limit of my influence,’ said Vale. ‘I didn’t say I was there yet.’
Forty-nine
The ability to make split-second decisions, to allow the unconscious judgement to take over and control one’s actions unimpeded by the delaying effects of conscious thought, was something Emma had found difficult to give expression to in the early days of her medical training. But it was an essential attribute for a doctor.
You had to weigh up consequences, of course, and apply a weight of knowledge in clinical settings which could only be gained through dogged study over many years. But sometimes you had to trust your instinct, trust the idea that all of that knowledge had seeped down into the deeper layers of your psyche and had been assimilated there into plans of action.
Emma knew the hazards of leaping out of a moving vehicle, even in relatively light traffic. She’d seen enough road traffic accidents that she’d ceased to be surprised at the variety of ways in which the human body could be damaged by colliding at speed with tarmac or concrete.
She also knew that she’d be dead if she didn’t take the risk.
James had turned on to a straight street lined by terraces and was picking up speed. If she jumped out now, she’d be more likely to hurt herself. On the other hand, if she waited till the car slowed down again, James would more easily come after her.
Emma drew a deep breath.
She dropped her hand to the clasp of the seatbelt, popped the button, and grabbed at the door handle, ramming her shoulder against the door at the same time.
It didn’t budge.
Emma pounded her shoulder against the door, desperately aware of how futile it was. Of course he’d locked the doors.
James looked across at her.
‘For God’s sake, calm down,’ he muttered.
She stared back at him. Suddenly she hated him: for his deceitfulness, for the way he’d violated her privacy with his listening devices. For the way he was keeping her prisoner.
For talking to her as though she was a hysterical woman, out of control.
Vaguely aware of the stupidity of what she was doing, Emma grabbed the handbrake and yanked it up.
The BMW rocked, its rear slewing round in a peal of rubber against tarmac. James’s yell was lost in the howl of a horn as a car veered past, its lights flashing across Emma’s vision. Emma was flung against the door, and she felt a jarring impact as the wheel on one side struck the edge of the kerb.
The car had stalled. Emma scrabbled at the door release, felt a surge of hope as the door yielded, the locking mechanism having been disabled. She tumbled out onto hard pavement, her arm barely breaking her fall.
She felt James’s hand close around her ankle.
Emma lashed and twisted her leg at the same time, felt his grip falter, kicked backwards. Her foot connected with some part of him, perhaps his chest, and she was able to wrench her leg free; but her shoe came off.
Emma crawled a few yards, rising to her knees and then stumbling down the pavement, aware how hobbled she was by the missing shoe. Awkwardly she bent and pulled the other one off, before breaking into a run.
A man walking his dog turned in surprise as she passed.
Please, Emma thought, let this look like what it is — a man chasing a woman with the intent to harm her — and let someone intervene.
Two teenage boys in hoodies were loping towards her. She considered appealing to them, asking for their protection, but their glinting eyes beneath their hoods and the peaks of their caps made her decide against it. Their laughter trailed after her.
Behind her, Emma could hear footsteps approaching rapidly.
Should she bang on one of the doors of the houses? It was nine o’clock, early still, and most of the windows had lights on. But what if nobody answered? She’d be trapped.
‘Emma,’ came James’s voice, urgent, shockingly close behind her.
It drove her on, even though she knew she couldn’t outrun him. She was in her bare feet, and while she was in reasonable, gym-honed shape, James was an athlete, a soldier, a man of action. He’d catch her, overpower her… then what?
Unknown horrors made the adrenaline flare, and Emma felt her legs respond, her bare feet not feeling the cracked and stubbled pavement beneath them. She sprinted towards an intersection ahead. If she could make it between the cars and across the road at the right time, the traffic might slow James a little, and give her an advantage, however slight.
He seemed to have sensed her intention because she heard his footsteps quicken behind her. As the junction approached, the cross-traffic cruising past in either direction at a steady speed, Emma spotted a long-necked beer bottle propped on a gatepost to her right. She lunged for it, felt its heft — it was still half-full, left there by some addled passerby — and, barely breaking her stride, whirled round, swinging the bottle in a backhand movement.
Whether because of instinct or luck, James was exactly where she’d sensed him to be. The bottle connected with the side of his head, not hard enough to shatter the glass but sufficiently solidly that Emma felt the blow shiver down her arm. The warm, rancid beer spilled over her hand and sleeve. James rocked sideways, stumbling.
Emma turned and put all her effort into her legs, hurtling towards the road. Already she could see cars braking in anticipation. Her eyes automatically mapped out a trajectory that would — might — take her safely between the vehicles to the other side.