The front door was ajar and they were almost bowled over by two of the mourners’ children playing tag, the funeral forgotten and their lives to lead. People were standing in the hall, chatting and trying to balance plates of tiny sausage rolls and glasses. Their relief at the return to normality was obvious. But the good humour was a little forced, the laughter too loud. Even Brenda was making a determined effort, talking articulately in the packed chaos of the front lounge, her hat and veil abandoned.
Followed by Casey, Harrison made his way to the kitchen where bottles and cans had been laid out in readiness for the invasion of mourners.
‘To Jock,’ Midge Midgely, the Yorkshireman, was saying. He toasted the lager can with Les Appleyard. ‘To Jock.’ Then he saw Harrison: ‘Hello, Tom. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to speak earlier.’
‘A lot of people.’
Appleyard nodded. He was a tall, thin man with swept-back hair that emphasised his angular features and prominent beaked nose. ‘Jock was well liked. A good send-off, nothing more than he deserved.’ He noticed Casey and grinned enthusiastically. ‘What can I get you? Seems I’m the unpaid bar staff. Looks like lager or sherry.’ ‘.
‘A lager, please.’
A wink. ‘American? No root beer, I’m afraid.’
‘Lager’s fine.’
Harrison took two cans; they were out of glasses. ‘This is Casey ‘
‘A sort of family friend,’ she said quickly. If these were Jock’s working colleagues she didn’t want to end up talking about the events at Seven Dials. She wondered if Harrison might tell them, but something in his eyes when he looked at her made her think he wouldn’t. That he would understand her reticence to talk about it.
Midgely said:’ Al’s not too happy about this turn of events, Tom. You might as well be warned if you hadn’t already guessed.’
Harrison took a swig of the beer. ‘I’m not too chuffed about it either, Midge.’
‘Al’s like a bear with a sore head at the best of times.’ Appleyard added. ‘At the moment it’s like working with a cocktail shaker full of nitroglycerine. If you squint you can almost see the old black dog trailing round after him.’
‘That bad, eh?’
‘Moody sod,’ Midgely agreed. ‘Mind you, this new campaign is getting us all down. It feels sort of personal — and I’ve never felt that before. Like someone’s deliberately trying to catch us out and make us look chumps into the bargain.’
‘Whoever’s behind it, is good,’ Appleyard said with an air of professional detachment. ‘After all, he or they got old Jock.’ He looked at Harrison. ‘But you’d know all about AID AN, Tom.’
A vision of the third-floor corridor in the Europa flashed through Harrison’s mind, the silvery photographer’s case seeming to beckon him like a siren’s song. He took another draught of lager. ‘Sure, we’ve had that codeword in Belfast for — what? — two months now. I think that’s about when it began. One ATO dead and two injured — the first in a long while. Not to mention two ‘barrows destroyed.’
‘Then that’s two lives saved,’ Appleyard mused. ‘Our bomber’s been a busy little bugger then, hasn’t he?’
Midgely was about to respond when his bleeper went.
‘Use the wall phone,’ Appleyard suggested.
The Yorkshireman picked up the extension receiver and punched in a central London number. ‘Al, it’s Midgely here. What gives?’ He listened intently, his inscrutable flat features giving nothing away. But his knuckles turned white as he slowly crushed the lager can in his left fist. He tossed it into the waste bin. ‘Okay, Al, we’ll be waiting — Listen, Al, Tom Harrison’s here at the funeral. Shall I — ?’ His lips clamped shut as he continued to listen to the voice at the other end. Midgely said nothing more before replacing the receiver.
‘Well?’ Appleyard asked.
Midgely was grim. ‘All hands to the pump. There’ve been bomb warnings coming in from all over London. Four vans left abandoned under the Chiswick flyover, the A40(M) flyover into Marylebone, the M25/M4 junction and the Blackfriars Bridge underpass — all with our friend AIDAN’s calling card. Then, just for good measure, there’s a suspect package at Clapham Junction and a threat of firebombs in Oxford Street — the greatest time wasters of all.’
‘Are those AIDAN-coded too?’ Appleyard asked.
Midgely shook his head. ‘Apparently not, but why make life simple for us? Al reckons it’s all part of the same setup, otherwise it would be too much of a coincidence. Anyway there’s a squad car on its way from Dorking police station.’
Appleyard glanced at his watch. ‘If the driver’s good we can make it in twenty minutes.’
7
Harrison said: ‘Did I hear you ask if I could come along. Midge?’
The Yorkshireman looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid I got a dusty reply, Tom. The boss is having apoplexy at the moment and says your presence in England is due to an official Home Office request. Therefore, according to protocol, you should report first to Chief Super Jim Maitland. He’ll bring you down to us and you’ll be allocated a desk.’
‘For God’s sake, Midge!’ Harrison retorted with a rare display of anger, ‘that’s hardly the right attitude.’
Midgely shrugged. ‘I know that, but it’s the one Al Pritchard’s got. He’s a prickly bugger at the best of times. And this is not the best of times, as you can gather.’
‘But you can give me a lift in the car, can’t you? At least I can report in and be on-scene…’
The Yorkshireman was shaking his head. ‘I’m afraid he was quite specific, Tom. You’re British Army, not police, and until you’ve reported in you’re on your own.’
Harrison drew a deep breath. He just could not believe what he was hearing. But then it had been a long time since he had served with Al Pritchard. He’d forgotten what the man could be like. There was no doubting the man’s personal courage — as testified by the MBE and QGM — but other people’s sensibilities had never been high on his list of priorities. He ran a tight ship and you did things his way or not at all. Already he was sending out the warning signals loud and clear: he resented the request for outside help and considered it an affront to his leadership of the Explosives Section. At that moment Brenda Murray appeared at the kitchen door with Pippa. ‘There’s a policeman at the front door, Midge, asking for you. A car to London, he says. Is something wrong?’
‘A spot of bother, I’m afraid. We’ve been called back to London.’ He didn’t elaborate. ‘No rest for the wicked.’
As he and Appleyard moved into the hallway, Harrison turned to his wife. ‘I’ve got to go too and I’ll need the car.’
‘Can’t you go with them?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s a formality thing.’
‘That’s ridiculous, Tom. How are Archie and I going to get back home tonight?’
Before he could respond, Casey interrupted: ‘Look, I ought to be going back now. My car’s in the village and you’re welcome to a lift.’
Pippa grinned triumphantly. ‘There you are, that’s solved then.’
She drove her husband and Casey back past the church to where the Porsche was parked. There was no sign of Eddie Mercs or Hal Hoskins; Casey assumed they’d made their own way back to the city.
Harrison found himself distracted by the American’s long tanned legs as she hiked her black dress up to her thighs for freedom of movement before engaging first gear. It had been an unconscious action and he found it beguiling how seemingly oblivious this woman was of the power of her own sexuality, apparently unaware of his admiring glances. He also realised for the first time how tall she was. She drove with skill and confidence, unafraid to use the car’s unbridled acceleration, changing through the gears with a deft economy of movement, her overtaking fast and decisive. There was no sense that she was intimidated by the presence of a male stranger as passenger, or that she was trying to impress; he had the distinct feeling that this was how she always drove. Had he been driven this hard at this speed with most male colleagues he knew, he’d have been holding his breath. With Casey Mullins at the wheel, he felt in surprisingly safe hands.