‘He’s off his head, Tally, it was some kind of a sick joke. He found my card in his place... he was letting me know what it felt like...’
Tally looked at Steven accusingly. ‘Is that how you see it? Is that how you really see it, Steven?’ She took a step back. ‘That sick creature nearly beat his wife to death, he goes on to murder an intelligence officer and he came here as a joke? If I’d been here... If I hadn’t been held up at the last moment this evening, I might have answered the door to him... I could have died laughing at that joke, Steven.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Steven’s tone had changed. He’d given up on hiding the truth from Tally. She’d always hated his job and this kind of situation was why. It wasn’t a flaw on her part, far from it; she was a decent, normal human being who loathed violence and anything to do with it. Her job involved doing her level best to make sick children well again and give them the best possible chance in life. She couldn’t come to terms with his world because, despite his protestation that Sci-Med investigations were largely routine, the threat of danger and violence was ever present at the back of her mind or, as in this instance, the front.
‘He won’t be back.’
‘How do you know?’ Tally’s voice had dropped to a whisper.
‘The flat will be put under twenty-four-hour surveillance and you’ll be given police protection from now on until this is over.’ Steven knew he sounded cold and dispassionate, but, for the moment, this was what was required
‘And who is going to protect you?’ Tally asked.
‘I am. I can call for police assistance any time I need it.’
‘He obviously blames you for all that’s happened. He wants revenge.’
‘Doesn’t seem right,’ said Steven. ‘You’d think looking for revenge would be way down his list of priorities in his situation.’
‘You’d think getting his hands on his research data would be even further down,’ countered Tally.
‘Good point.’
‘Supposing it comes down to you versus him?’
‘I’ll win.’
Tally looked at Steven, feeling that she was seeing a side to him she’d never seen before.
‘He’s spent his life as an academic, I haven’t. If it comes down to him taking me on, he’ll wish he’d stayed home and played with his train set.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tally softly. ‘We’ve been here before, I’m giving you a hard time and you don’t deserve it. It’s probably the last thing you need after finding that thing.’
‘You’ve every right to be upset and I’m so sorry that something that shouldn’t involve you at all has come so close.’
‘I guess it’s always a bad idea to bring your work home,’ said Tally, with a smile that competed with tears.
Steven wiped the first teardrop away with his forefinger before saying, ‘The world needs people like you, Tally; unfortunately, it also needs people like me.’
Tally took a deep breath. ‘We’ll make the best of it.’
‘I’ll make some phone calls.’
Nineteen
Steven’s final call was to John Macmillan who heard him out before saying, ‘Interesting.’
‘Not exactly what Tally said,’ said Steven, feeling a bit nonplussed at Macmillan’s response.
‘I can imagine.’ said Macmillan. ‘She must have been very upset.’
‘Try bloody angry,’ said Steven, adding what sounded like an afterthought but wasn’t, ‘Why did you say you found it “interesting”?’
‘Man on the run... wanted for murder... hunted by police and security services, but takes time out to come into central London and do something like that. I think we can learn from that.’
‘I put it down to the arrogant single-mindedness of the psychopath,’ said Steven. ‘They’re known for showing off how smart they are and are always keen to expose the foolishness of the authorities.’
‘A reasonable hypothesis,’ agreed Macmillan.
‘But not shared by you?’
‘I see someone who has found safety and security. I don’t think he’s on the run any more. If he feels confident enough to take risks playing silly games, he’s doing it from a secure base and he probably has support. He’s not alone.’
‘Respect,’ Steven murmured after a long pause. ‘I read the text book, you read the man.’
‘I take it you’ve arranged to have police protection for Dr Simmons and your flat?’
Steven confirmed that he had and asked about progress with the PO box number. The short silence that ensued suggested that more bad news was on the way.
‘I’ll be seeing the Home Secretary in the morning.’
‘The Royal Mail didn’t play ball?’
‘The box has something called private security status. No one I spoke to could tell me anything about it because they maintained that they personally didn’t know. They don’t have a list of these numbers.’
‘This is crazy,’ said Steven. ‘Royal Mail security doesn’t know where their PO box is, but Barrowman does. He gets someone in Edinburgh to put a package in the post with a number on it and obviously expects it to reach him. How in God’s name does that happen? Does he have some kind of diplomatic immunity? A personal courier?’
‘I’m looking forward to the Home Secretary telling me,’ said Macmillan.
Steven flopped down in his favourite chair feeling exhausted. He swung his feet up on the windowsill and closed his eyes, intent on escaping the windmills of his mind for a few minutes, but Macmillan’s theory about Barrowman’s circumstances put a stop to that. What kind of friend would still be a friend after hearing what Barrowman had done. How could anyone bring themselves to offer him shelter knowing that? At least, if Macmillan was right, earlier suspicions that Barrowman might not be on the run at all but was being held by security services could be discounted; they would hardly be letting him out to roam around central London.
Steven was interrupted by Tally’s hand on his shoulder. She handed him a glass of malt whisky and said, ‘I’m going to bed, don’t stay up too late.’
Steven took the whisky and kissed her hand.
The welcome fire in his throat helped him find momentary distraction and allowed him to concede that he wasn’t going to get anywhere wondering about Barrowman or who might have helped him. He turned his attention to the reports Jean had obtained from the U.S.
After forty-five minutes of concentrated reading Steven put the papers down on the floor by his side and put his head back on the chair to look out at the night sky. Both reports were detailed and well presented. Any question he might have asked had been answered and the conclusions that foul play could be ruled out and the fire had been the result of a tragic accident seemed sound.
This in itself was a relief, something he knew he should feel pleased about as just about every other aspect of his investigation was clouded in uncertainty... and yet something was wrong. He tried telling himself it might just be his natural suspicion and the knowledge that people compiling reports often tended to see what they and everyone else expected them to see before reporting accordingly. This wasn’t conscious bias, it was human nature and had to be guarded against, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Coffee might help.
A double espresso did the trick. It was the bodies; the position of the bodies was telling him something. A gas leak from a main supply pipe had been the cause of the fire but there had been no mention of an explosion so why had there been no sign of the victims fighting the fire or attempting to escape? Much mention had been made of the flammable substances in the lab like ether and ethanol, which no doubt had contributed to the ferocity of the fire, but still... if the pair had been drunk, shocked, confused... fair enough, but they weren’t. They were young, alert and wide awake, working on something exciting and of huge importance to them.