Has Paul told Joanna any big lies about himself? You never know, do you? Paul seems so simple, and passionate and kind, but who knew, really? She’s as sure as she can be, and that’s all you can do. She knew Ibrahim was right: that Paul was the man for her. Completed her in a way that she finally made sense to herself.
‘Champagne in a hot tub?’ says Paul, unstrapping his harness.
‘Yes, please,’ says Joanna.
‘You’re sure?’ says Paul. ‘Perhaps you don’t really like Champagne?’
‘I wanted to sleep with you,’ says Joanna. ‘You should be flattered.’
‘I was flattered,’ says Paul. ‘You really should learn how to bandage a wrist properly too. It was all over the place.’
Joanna takes her phone from a locker.
A message from her mum. She takes a look.
‘Mum wants Holly’s number.’
‘Holly?’ says Paul.
‘They want to invite her for dinner,’ says Joanna. ‘Poor Holly.’
Paul gives a non-committal grunt. Very unlike him. But he’s just been climbing a wall, and he’s probably knackered.
‘Will you send it to her for me?’ Joanna asks.
‘Huh?’ says Paul.
‘Holly’s number,’ says Joanna. ‘Will you send it to my mum?’
‘Course,’ says Paul, but without enthusiasm.
Something is not quite right here.
If Joanna has found one of Paul’s lies, she hopes it’s a small one and not a big one.
18
Joyce loves a trip to London, even under such unusual circumstances. She likes the posh bits with the umbrella shops and the palaces, she likes the noisy bits with the Moroccan food and all the lovely fabric shops, and she likes the modern bits with the high-rise flats and the swimming pools up in mid-air. Which one would they be visiting today?
They might not have the bomb, heaven knows where that is right at this moment, but Elizabeth has the photographs, which she says are the next best thing. Joyce could imagine them being analysed in any of those places. Perhaps a fake bookshelf in a centuries-old cigar shop pivots open to reveal a dark room? Or, in the smoky back room of a Lebanese café, a man sits with a visor, a microscope and a scowl? Maybe, in a marbled boardroom on the 35th floor of a skyscraper, a hologram of data hovers over an enormous table.
It was somewhere in the middle of this final reverie that Elizabeth had woken Joyce to let her know they were getting off the train at Purley, three stops and a million miles away from the cosmopolitan buzz of London proper.
Still, even then, who knew? Perhaps sleepy Purley had hidden depths? An underground gambling den? A warehouse run by the Yakuza? Joyce had recently watched a Netflix series on the Yakuza, and they did turn up in the most surprising places. There was one of them in Spain, for example.
But instead they walked through suburban streets until they found a quiet crescent of bungalows that Joyce could honestly have found anywhere. Her disappointment was not any sort of value judgement on the street itself, far from it: Purley seemed delightful, and bungalows were always at a premium. It was just she was expecting adventure, in one or other of its forms, and Birch Drive seemed unlikely to deliver.
Number 17 Birch Drive had seemed less promising still. A neatly trimmed front lawn, with orderly flowers, and the only sign of personality a large porcelain ginger cat guarding the pale beige front door.
Perhaps inside she might be shocked. That had been her final hope. The outside so ordinary, so everyday, the inside a lair, a laboratory, a gleaming hub of computers hidden away in plain sight.
Instead they had got an ‘old friend’ of Elizabeth’s called Jasper, who wore a shirt and bow tie, but also tracksuit trousers. In his front room were no piranha tanks, no flashing monitors and no lightly smoking test tubes. Instead there were more porcelain cats, maybe fifty or so. There were porcelain cats playing snooker, porcelain cats riding tandems, porcelain cats singing carols, and porcelain cats in sunglasses smoking what Joyce, after prolonged exposure to Pauline, recognizes as joints of marijuana. Joyce has yet to notice any real cats though.
But here they are, and, disappointed or not, you must always try to make the most of it.
‘Do you have any actual cats?’ Joyce asks.
‘Cats?’ asks Jasper. He looks at Elizabeth for guidance, then back at Joyce. ‘No? Why do you ask?’
Every time you met someone Elizabeth used to work with, there was something or other.
‘Sorry for the mess,’ says Jasper, taking a seat at the dining-room table. ‘My wife was always the one for visitors, I’ve never quite got the hang of it. Where are these famous photos, then?’
Elizabeth sits next to him and shows him her phone. ‘It looks real to me, but I’m not the expert, am I, Jasper?’
‘No, no,’ agrees Jasper, then looks at Joyce. ‘That’s me. I’m the expert.’
‘I wish I was an expert in something,’ says Joyce. ‘Even if it’s bombs. Do you have to keep up with all the new bombs?’
‘Keep up?’ says Jasper. ‘Umm, let me think. I do get a regular invitation to a little place on the south bank of a river; you just might have heard of it – it’s called the Thames.’
‘That’s nice,’ says Joyce. Jasper seems very jolly. ‘Yes, I have heard of it. Some lovely shops.’
‘Let’s just say that this particular shop is of the secret variety,’ says Jasper. ‘And we shall say no more on the matter. Naughty Jasper, hush my mouth.’
‘Oh, I understand,’ says Joyce. She doesn’t, but there’s no need to offend anyone.
‘He means they still let him go into MI6,’ says Elizabeth. ‘The building is on the South Bank of the Thames.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Joyce to Jasper. ‘I didn’t pick up on that.’
Jasper waves two hands to let Joyce know it simply couldn’t matter less. ‘I pop in from time to time, see what’s what. Shouldn’t really talk about it.’
‘I’m used to it from Elizabeth,’ says Joyce. ‘You’d think no one else ever worked for a living.’
Jasper scrolls through the images.
‘What do we think?’ Elizabeth asks.
‘Oh, it’s real,’ says Jasper. ‘It’s Russian. Or Russian-made at least, not that that signifies anything. Pretty solid bit of kit, stable. It didn’t go off?’
‘Our man spotted it,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Decided to take a taxi that morning.’
‘Very wise,’ says Jasper. ‘Very wise indeed, I would say. So where’s the bomb now? May I see it? I’d love that. Have a tinker? Try not to wake the neighbours.’
‘It seems to have disappeared,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Ah,’ says Jasper. ‘A disappearing bomb. Happens, doesn’t it? Though they often make their presence known sooner or later. Ha, ha, ha. One shouldn’t joke about bombs, of course. Bombs are very serious, Joyce.’
‘Understood,’ says Joyce.
‘You’re certain it’s real?’ Elizabeth asks.
‘Who is ever certain of anything?’ Jasper asks. ‘But if it’s not real, someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to make it look real.’
‘And big enough to kill?’ Elizabeth asks. ‘Or just send a message?’
‘Big enough to kill,’ says Jasper. ‘And then some. Blow you straight through the roof still holding the steering wheel. Send you halfway to space. Ha, ha, ha. Again, one shouldn’t joke, one shouldn’t joke.’
‘The sort of thing a connected criminal might be able to get their hands on though?’ Elizabeth asks.
‘Oh, with ease,’ says Jasper. ‘You can pick these things up online these days.’
Elizabeth’s phone starts to ring. She walks over to a corner and answers. ‘Donna, about time. What do you have on The Compound?’
Jasper looks up at Joyce. ‘I know I shouldn’t wear these trousers with this shirt, by the way. I do know that. A part of me wants to make the effort, but the other part of me … well, perhaps you know.’