‘But I can’t say the same for you, necessarily. When I come to ask you my questions, I want you to answer completely and unhesitatingly truthfully. I’ll know immediately if you’re lying. As you’ve discovered, I’m not who you thought I was. I have skills you won’t be able to beat.’
He let his words sink in for a few seconds.
‘If any of the answers you give me are less than the full and unvarnished truth, I will hurt you. If the lies accumulate, so will the pain. Eventually you’ll die.’
The closest thing to a scream escaped the confines of the gag. He felt her writhing in the back, thumping her knees against his seat.
‘Think about it, Emma.’
He said nothing more, and Emma’s stifled wails ebbed into harsh-sounding rattles. Tullivant wondered if she’d noticed what he hadn’t said.
That if she told him the truth, she wouldn’t necessarily live.
He found a less-than-salubrious street with faulty lamps that left most of it in darkness, and pulled up. Climbing out, he moved Emma into the front seat and sat beside her. Anyone passing would think they were a couple who’d stopped to pursue a late-night argument.
He pulled the gag free. Red lines marked its pressure across her cheeks.
She turned to look at him. In her eyes there was only wonder.
Tullivant began with some mild test questions — how long had she been having the affair with James Cromer, where had they met on specific occasions — to which he knew the answers. In each case she replied hurriedly, as though desperate not to be suspected of even trying to lie. He watched her carefully much of the time, only occasionally glancing up as a car’s headlights swept past. Before long, he moved on to more recent events.
What had she found that she’d shown Cromer at their meeting in the Tate Modern yesterday?
She paused for the briefest instant. Tullivant thought it was because she was stunned that he’d been there, watching the two of them in what they’d thought was the camouflage of the crowd.
‘Something he’d hidden in my handbag,’ she blurted. ‘A listening device.’
Had she found others?
Yes, she had. Hidden in her lipstick.
Had Cromer told her what they were for?
To eavesdrop on him, on Brian, she replied.
Tullivant closed in with his questions.
‘What did James tell you about me?’
This time her pause was, he knew, because she still couldn’t quite believe the enormity of what she was about to say, despite what she’d seen him do a short while earlier.
‘He told me you were a murderer. That you were responsible for that bomb that went off in Lewisham on Saturday.’
‘Anything else?’
She looked appalled by what must seem like his nonchalance. ‘No. I mean, yes. Just that… you’re a murderer. That you’ve been under surveillance for a long time. That he… used me to get to you.’
It came out in a rush. Tullivant let her continue, allowing her to vent. When Emma’s tone became increasingly shrill, he stopped her, guided her with a specific question.
He owed it to her to give her a chance to speak, because he had a momentous decision to make.
After half an hour, Emma seemed to be flagging. It was time.
Tullivant began the systematic interrogation. The questions about the fine points of what she knew, repeated sometimes in reworded form so as to catch her in a lie if possible. He worked methodically, patiently, relentlessly. Mercilessly.
Twice, Emma broke down in tears, and he had to give her time to regain her composure. Only twice; he thought it did her credit.
By the end, it was as though her eyes were desiccated, unable to express any more fluid. There was no gleam to them, just the dull patina of death in a still-living person.
Tullivant had detected three or four contradictions in her answers, all of them minor ones, none of them deliberate. It was par for the course. An experienced interrogator knew that a sustained barrage of questioning which elicited no errors whatsoever had to be regarded as suspicious.
Emma had told him the truth. And it was clear she knew next to nothing, about Tullivant or about his operations.
The tragedy was that what she did know was enough to condemn her.
He watched the side of her face in the silence of the car, considering the ways he might do it. Weighing them up for efficiency.
Her phone rang in his pocket, and although it was set to vibrate the noise was startling, making even Tullivant start.
He looked at the display. It was a number that was unknown to him.
Tullivant held the phone so Emma could see. ‘Who’s this?’
‘I don’t know.’
He believed her.
Tullivant grabbed pen and paper from the glove compartment and handed the phone to Emma. ‘Answer it. Put it on speakerphone. Follow my written instructions.’
She pressed the keys, just before the voicemail function kicked in, Tullivant thought.
‘Yes?’
‘Dr Emma Goddard?’
A man’s voice. Tullivant knew it.
He made a keep rolling gesture to Emma.
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice steady.
‘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.’
Purkiss. It meant he’d discovered Tullivant’s identity.
And suddenly Tullivant saw a solution, one that would solve the problems of Emma and Purkiss in one go.
Fifty-six
Purkiss entered Regent’s Park at the western side, just down the road from the Central Mosque. He waited until the cab driver was out of sight, then vaulted over the spiked railing and landed in the shrubbery beyond.
He felt the vastness of the 400-acre park before him, dark and silent. It was closed to the public until five a.m., which was three hours away.
The display on his phone located Dr Emma Goddard, or at least her phone, in the north-west area of the park. Vale had called in what must be the last of his favours while Purkiss had hailed a taxi and made his way into central London, ready to go wherever the signal led him. As the taxi headed down Piccadilly, Purkiss’s phone rang.
‘They’ve got a lock,’ he said.
Purkiss switched to the relevant display. The pulsating dot was moving slowly to the north. Purkiss instructed the driver, his eyes on the display. After a few minutes the dot stopped, and remained stationary as it had done ever since. In Regent’s Park.
Purkiss knew it was a set up. Tullivant had his wife, Emma Goddard, captive, and had been listening in when Purkiss called. Tullivant knew Purkiss was on to him, and would put a trace on Goddard’s phone. And so he was leading him into a trap.
Without knowing exactly what he was heading into, Purkiss understood nevertheless why Tullivant had chosen this particular location. Regent’s Park was large enough that it would be next to impossible to cordon off, should Purkiss call in the police. There would be plenty of escape routes if things went wrong.
En route in the taxi, Purkiss made three calls. The third was to Kasabian.
She answered at once, as if she’d been expecting him. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s Purkiss.’
If she was surprised that he was calling her directly rather than having Vale do so as normal, she didn’t show it. ‘What have you got?’
‘The gunman — Jokerman — is Brian Tullivant, a former captain in the Paras. He’s got his wife hostage in Regent’s Park. I’m heading there now.’
‘What? Start at the — ’
‘I’ll explain later,’ Purkiss cut in. ‘I need you to keep back. Don’t send anyone in, not Special Branch, not an armed response unit. Tullivant wants me. I’ve figured him out, and he knows it. He’s using his wife as bait. He knows I know that he’ll kill her if anyone else but me shows up. Understood?’