The kid’s removal left me with no excuse to avoid making a statement about the shooting to another pair of officers. It didn’t take too long, in the end. They didn’t ask anything too awkward. And I wasn’t too worried about what I said, anyway. I knew that even if MI5 didn’t make all record of it disappear, the Navy would.
When I was finished, I found that two more detectives were waiting to ask me about the blood I’d seen under the sluice door. It wasn’t a surprise, but I was still sorry when they confirmed it had come from the officers who’d accompanied Toby in the ambulance. Their bodies had been hidden there. Both of them had been shot at close range, with a .22. Presumably the physiotherapist woman had done it, to clear her path to the kid. She’d probably lured them inside somehow, because she wasn’t big enough to easily have moved their bodies. Or she’d had help, from someone stronger. Or who they’d have trusted. But whatever had happened, piecing it together wasn’t my problem. The only mystery I was still interested in at that point was Melissa’s whereabouts.
I hadn’t heard from her since she’d gone to talk to the triage nurse. There was no answer on her phone. Or Jones’s. Chaston didn’t know where she was. I even tried Leckie’s number. And no one at Thames House could tell me anything useful, either. As a last resort I swung by her apartment on my way back to the Barbican, but that was a fool’s errand, too. The place was cold and dark and empty.
I was still wondering about her when I opened my front door, twenty minutes later. Was she missing? Had she run away? Had she been the one who’d helped the physiotherapist kill the officers? Had she left the hospital with someone, as the ward clerk had thought? If so, was it Leckie? And had she gone voluntarily? Or under duress? But as soon as I moved into my lounge and looked out over the unfamiliar silhouette of my home city, my focus expanded along with my view of the skyline. I began to reflect on the case as a whole, not just the people who’d been killed in London. What would have happened if Toby Smith, or whatever the diplomat’s son was really called, had drunk the radioactive water? How long would the caesium solution have taken to eat his organs away? How would his father’s government have responded to watching his slow, agonising death?
Part of me knew I should have felt good about the outcome. I’d saved an innocent kid’s life. And I’d averted a critical threat to the coalition of pro-western nations. But along with the successes, I had to recognise a significant failure. I hadn’t done the one thing I’d been sent to do. Expose the traitor inside MI5. Whether it was Melissa or someone else, who knew what the fallout would be? What kind of havoc had I left them to wreak in the future?
I was brought back down to earth by my phone. The screen said it was Tim Jones. I answered, but no one spoke for fifteen seconds. I knew someone was there, though. I could hear them breathing at the other end of the line.
“David?” Jones said, eventually. “Are you there?”
“Yes,” I said. “Are you?”
“Are you on your own?”
“Yes. Why?”
“There’s a problem. It’s about Melissa.”
“What’s she done?”
“Done? Nothing. Why would you ask that?”
“Never mind. Just tell me what’s happening.”
“She’s disappeared.”
“I know.”
“Well, I know where she is.”
“You do? Where?”
“With Stan Leckie.”
I took a moment to think.
“Why would she go anywhere with Leckie?” I said.
“She had no choice,” he said. “Leckie snatched her.”
“How do you know?”
“He just called me. He told me.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Well, yes. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Did he say where he snatched her from?”
“St Joseph’s.”
“When?”
“About ninety minutes ago.”
“Where are they now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can’t you trace his phone?”
“That’s the first thing I tried. But it didn’t work. It’s somehow spoofing the network into thinking it’s in seventy-two different locations, all at the same time. He’s ex-Box, remember. He knows all the tricks.”
“What does he want?”
“Not much. Just two things. You. And me.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t spell it out, but it’s pretty clear. He must have been working with al-Aqsaba’a on the theft of the caesium. Maybe more. He must think we’ve pieced it together, and wants to silence us. Even frame us.”
“And Melissa?”
“He says if we hand ourselves over to him, he’ll let her go.”
Was Leckie using Melissa as bait? Or were they working together to lure Jones and me into a trap? The set-up would sound the same, either way. It was impossible to tell without more information.
“Well, Leckie obviously won’t be letting anyone go,” I said.
“Obviously,” Jones said. “But we can’t risk calling the police, or our own people, because he must be connected to someone on the inside, and we have no idea who that is.”
“Agreed.”
“He’s given us two hours. Then he wants us to meet him at the old workhouse in Luton. Remember the place?”
“I do.”
“Where are you now?”
“At home.”
“I’m in Croydon. I’ll be on the road in five minutes. Do you want me to come into town and pick you up? We could drive up there together?”
“No thanks,” I said. “If the rumours about Leckie are true, we might not have two hours. Melissa might not, anyway. So drop whatever you’re doing. Leave now. Go directly to the workhouse. I’ll meet you there.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
One aspect of owning an apartment in the middle of the city and spending most of the year abroad is that you don’t need a car. Normally, that’s an advantage. That morning, however, it was the exact opposite. My ability to travel beyond walking distance and out of the scope of public transport was severely limited, and that needed to change. Quickly. So as soon as Jones had hung up, I made another call.
“Logistics Support,” a male voice said.
I pulled open the centre drawer in the desk in my living room, scooped out a letter opener and a collection of other random stationary items, and prised up a tight-fitting panel that had been installed beneath them.
“I need a vehicle,” I said, after running through the standard identification ritual. “And I need it outside my building in ten minutes, max.”
“I’m sorry sir, but that’s not possible,” he said.
I took an ancient Sig Sauer .22 from the shallow space I’d revealed, and jammed it into the pocket of my jeans.