Riley knew instinctively that it was all she was going to get out of him. He wasn’t defending Mitcheson, but neither was he condemning him. She guessed it was all she could expect and was grateful for it.
After dropping her outside her flat, he drove away into the dawn with a promise to keep in touch.
CHAPTER FORTY
They kept their heads down, urged by Weller to keep a low profile while the press furore grew like an insatiable monster, feeding on every scrap of information, real or imagined. Initial reports of an armed siege at a country house gave way to lurid accounts of fire-fights in the Royal Triangle and dead terrorists being carried off in body bags, then drug smugglers being tracked across three continents before being cornered in rural Gloucestershire in what was described as a co-ordinated undercover police operation.
Riley stayed busy working on the wider story, drafting and re-drafting words which she knew would be subjected to the closest scrutiny by Weller and his people, and even then might never see the light of day. Donald Brask, healthy once more and fired with enthusiasm, left his electronic hideaway to sit with her in her flat, helping her put together the story for maximum effect. In between, he made a series of phone calls, narrowing down the list of editors to be approached when — and if — they were given the green light.
‘What if they kill it?’ she said sombrely, meaning the Home Office. A momentary lull in activity had brought a faint deadening of optimism. The idea that she had deliberately not gone to press with the account of the shoot-out in Colebrooke House in favour of producing the wider story later kept disturbing her waking hours. If the authorities didn’t let her publish what she knew, she would be too late to do anything.
But Donald seemed impervious to doubt. ‘Trust me, sweetie,’ he told her, ‘they won’t kill it. They can’t. They might quibble over bits and pieces… a name here, a detail there. But they can’t stop this ball rolling, I promise. It’s already gone too far.’
When she saw the twinkle in his eye, Riley felt a knot of excitement in her gut. Donald was planning something. ‘What are you up to?’ she asked him.
He replied by placing a finger alongside his nose. ‘Building expectation, sweetie. Enough of this is in the public domain to have gained its own momentum. Even Weller must know that. The shootings, Myburghe’s alleged involvement, the Colombians. But the dots need joining together. Without that, it’s a series of random events. And that’s what you’re doing: joining up the dots.’ He smiled like a cat with a large bowl of cream. ‘I’m merely letting it be known in certain quarters that I have access to the full story, and that it will come out. And Donald Brask, sweetie, as everyone knows, never makes claims he cannot deliver.’
It wasn’t until the second week after the shootings that Weller put in an appearance. He was cheerfully open about the progress of the case.
‘The Americans are smarting a bit,’ he told her. ‘They don’t like admitting that one of their people went bad. Neither do we, but we don’t make such a song and dance about it. Myburghe was a blue-blood, and everyone knows they’re as mad as snakes, anyway.’
Mention of Myburghe reminded her of the funeral. Sir Kenneth’s ex-wife and two daughters had been captured on camera, attending a private service at Colebrooke village church. Pale and nervous, they had flitted briefly across the public consciousness, before disappearing behind a solid screen of friends and wider family. Starved of willing subjects, the press had soon discovered other targets for their attention in the shape of official releases in the UK and the US about new measures to tighten up accountability in government and state agencies, to ensure nothing like it happened again. Quite what it was that had happened, however, hadn’t yet been fully disclosed.
Weller watched the cat, which was circling Riley’s living room with its tail erect, eyeing the policeman with a cold, flat stare. ‘What’s his problem?’
‘I think he fancies you,’ said Riley. ‘Why haven’t Palmer and I been interviewed?’
‘You will be, in due course. We’ve been collating background facts, making sure we don’t trip over our feet. There’s a lot of muck to sort out.’ He noticed Riley’s laptop on the table. ‘I’d like to read your notes when you’re done. I can’t demand them of course, but it would help me fill in a few gaps. Confidentially. You happy with that?’
Riley wondered if this was Weller’s way of giving official clearance on the story. For some reason she trusted him. For a policeman, he seemed straight and uncomplicated. ‘As long as I get approval to publish.’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t see why not. Somebody has to. As long as I get my photo in there for the grandkids, of course.’ He grinned wickedly and waited for her answer.
‘I’ll email it to you.’
He nodded and walked to the door. ‘We found the guns you mentioned, by the way. The automatic is a MAC10 — a nasty little weapon. It doesn’t shoot, it sprays. We’ll need your fingerprints, just to eliminate you. Good job you mentioned them when you did, otherwise my superiors might have their suspicions about your involvement. Take care, now.’
One day, Palmer called and left a parcel for her, then drove away again. She took it off the doorstep and opened it. And smiled.
It contained an identical new jacket and a blue cotton shirt, to replace the ones spoiled at Colebrooke. There was also a note.
I know all about favourite jackets. FP.
John Mitcheson came and went at intervals. He had invested in a new car to replace the Land Cruiser, which he claimed had been mysteriously stolen the day after the firefight at Colebrooke, and was unlikely ever to be recovered. She didn’t believe a word of it, but decided it was probably a good thing.
They ate out occasionally and stayed in sometimes, which didn’t please the cat. It would sit and stare at Mitcheson, and he tried to out-stare it back. The two of them stayed like that for a long time.
The cat usually won.
Gradually, Mitcheson’s visits became fewer as work intruded. She missed him at first, wanting the nearness and strength of his presence. Then she realised that his absences were growing longer… and the missing became less. She began to recognise that something intangible had changed between them. She wasn’t sure if it was Mitcheson or herself.
Neither was she sure what to do about it.
But it gave her a chance to think about the events of the past weeks, and what lay ahead. It helped being able to write it down. In doing so, the shadows and stark images began to recede, like fog slowly dispersing.
When she sent the file to Weller and received a brief ‘OK’, it was with a feeling of relief.
The last thing she did was to send an email to Tristram/Jacob, telling him it was all over.
She received a one-word reply:
Justice.