‘What kind of prick answer is that?’
‘The only prick answer I’ve got!’ Hobden shouted.
The pitch of his voice caused something metallic to ring.
It gave PJ pause, or caused him to appear that it did. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. Well. Crikey. I suppose you’ve got a reason.’
‘Someone tried to kill me,’ Hobden said.
‘To kill you? Yes, well. Lots of fanatics about. I mean, you’re not the most popular—’
‘This wasn’t a fanatic, PJ. It was a spook.’
‘A spook.’
‘We’re talking assassination.’
Judd’s lapse into his public persona didn’t survive the word. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. What was it, a close encounter on a zebra crossing? I’ve got guests, Hobden. The fucking Minister for Culture’s upstairs, and he’s got the attention span of a gnat, so I need to—’
‘He was a spook. They’ve been following me. He broke into my flat and waved a gun around and—somebody got shot. If you don’t believe me, turn the news on. Or on second thoughts, don’t—there’ll be a D. But call the Home Secretary, he’ll know. Blood on the pavement. Outside my flat.’
PJ weighed it up: the likelihood of any of this having happened, as against Hobden’s appearance in his kitchen. ‘Okay,’ he said at length. ‘But you live at the arse end of nowhere, Robert. I mean, home invasions, they must be weekly events. What makes this different?’
Hobden shook his head. ‘You’re not listening.’ Then shook his head again: he hadn’t laid out the whole story. That business at Max’s the other morning; the spilt coffee. Nothing to it at the time, but since the gunman’s appearance Hobden had replayed recent history, and concluded that this evening had been a culmination, not a one-off. When he’d picked up his keys to leave the café, his memory stick had fallen loose and bounced on to the table. It had never done that before. Why hadn’t a warning bell rung?
‘They tried to take my files. They want to see how much I know.’
And now PJ took on a new seriousness; a side the public never got to see. ‘Your files?’
‘They didn’t get them. They copied my memory stick, but—’
‘What the fuck do your files contain, Hobden?’
‘—it’s a dummy. Just numbers. With any luck they’ll think it’s a code, waste their time trying to—’
‘What. Exactly. Do your files contain?’
Hobden raised his hands to eye-level; examined them a moment or two. They shook. ‘See that? I could have died. They could have killed me.’
‘Give me strength.’ And now Peter Judd started ransacking his kitchen, morally certain there’d be alcohol somewhere, or what was the point of it? A bottle of vodka appeared. Cooking vodka, would that be? Did people cook with vodka? Was PJ muttering any of this aloud, or did his body language shout it while he located a glass and splashed out a generous measure?
‘So.’ Handing the glass to Hobden. ‘What do your files contain? Names?’ He barked the sudden laugh TV audiences liked. ‘My name wouldn’t be there anywhere.’ Underneath the bark, the hint of bite. ‘Would it?’
‘No names. Nothing like that.’
This was good news, but prompted a follow-up. ‘So what are you on about?’
Hobden said, ‘Five’s running an op. I’ve known about it for a while. Or not known about it, exactly—known something was going to happen, but not precisely what.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. Start making sense.’
‘I was at the Frontline. One night last year.’
‘They still let you in?’
A flash of anger. ‘I’ve paid my subs.’ He finished his vodka, held the glass out for more. ‘Diana Taverner was there, with one of her leftie journalist pals.’
‘I’ve never been sure what disturbs me more,’ Peter Judd said, filling Hobden’s glass. ‘The fact that MI5 is run by women, or the fact that everybody seems to know this. I mean, didn’t it used to be called the secret service?’
Pretty sure he’d heard this riff already, probably on a panel show, Hobden ignored it. ‘It was the night of the Euro elections, and there’d been BNP gains. Remember that?’
‘Well, of course I do.’
‘And that was the subject of discussion. This hack, Spencer his name is, got rolling drunk, started spewing off the usual nonsense about how the fascists were taking over, and when were Taverner’s lot going to start doing something about it. And she said …’
Here Hobden screwed his eyes shut while summoning up history.
‘Something like yes, that’s under control. Or on the agenda. Christ, I don’t remember the exact words, but she gave him to understand it was happening. That she was setting something up not just against the BNP, but against what she’d call the extreme right. And we all know who that includes.’
‘She said this in your hearing?’
‘They didn’t know I was there.’
‘Second Desk at MI5 announced her intention to sting the BNP, to sting the right, and this happened in a bar?’
‘They were drunk, okay? Look, it happened. Is happening. Haven’t you seen the news?’ PJ eyed him coldly. ‘The kid in the cellar?’
‘I know what you’re referring to. You’re saying that’s it? That’s a Service op?’
‘Well, it’s a big bloody coincidence, don’t you think? That I’m being hassled the same week it happens, that somebody tries to kill me the same day—’
‘If it is,’ PJ said, ‘it’s the single most cack-handed intelligence operation I’ve ever heard of, and that includes the Bay of fucking Pigs.’ He glanced down at the bottle in his hands, then hunted around for a second glass. The nearest candidate was an unrinsed stem, waiting by the sink. He poured a slug into it, and put the bottle down. ‘Is this why you were calling?’
‘What do you think?’
PJ slapped him hard, the noise ricocheting round the kitchen. ‘Don’t talk back to me, you little creep. Remember who’s who. You’re a one-time journalist whose name stinks from here to Timbuktu. And I’m a member of Her Majesty’s loyal cabinet.’ He examined his wet shirt cuff. ‘And now you’ve made me spill my drink.’
Hobden, his voice as shaky as a pea in a whistle, said, ‘You hit me!’
‘Yes, well. Tempers running high. Oh, for God’s sake.’
He poured more vodka into Hobden’s glass. Hobden was a toad, but not an ignorant toad. It had been a mistake to forget that. Still, though: PJ was furious. ‘You were calling me because you think this this this piece of theatre has been organized by MI5 to discredit the right—you’ve barely finished explaining that you’re under surveillance, and you’re calling me? Have you lost your fucking mind?’
‘Somebody had to know. Who was I supposed to call?’
‘Not me.’
‘We’ve known each other for years—’
‘We are not friends, Robert. Don’t make that mistake. You always treated me fairly in print, and I respect that, but let’s face it, you’re a fucking has-been, and it’s no longer appropriate to be associated with you. So take it somewhere else.’
‘Where do you suggest?’
‘Well, your chums in the British Patriotic Party spring to mind.’
The red weal PJ’s hand had left on Hobden’s cheek darkened. ‘Chums? My chums? When that list appeared on the net, who do you think they blamed? Half the death threats I get come from people I supported! As far as they were concerned, if it weren’t for me, they’d have been left alone. Because we all know who was responsible for posting that list. The same bunch of leftish criminals who’re hassling me now!’
‘Maybe so. But I’m still not sure why that means you have to turn up on my doorstep in the middle of the night—’