Harrison thought aloud. ‘But it could be someone’s motive for a letter bomb.’
She almost recounted how the senator had brusquely rejected her request for an interview. Instead she decided to keep her mouth firmly shut and concentrate on her driving.
They arrived at the hotel off St James’s at two thirty.
To Harrison’s surprise there was not a policeman in sight. Only the anxious manager waited for him at the head of the steps, together with an elegant, familiar figure with a brown felt fedora and a Crombie coat worn over his shoulders like a cloak.
‘Don! What are you doing here?’
Trenchard laughed. ‘Yes, we really must stop meeting like this. I know, I was surprised when the Expos said you’d be coming. Sort of exchange thing, is it?’
Harrison nodded, taking in his friend’s usual sartorial dash: the Tommy Nutter suit and gold pin at the knot of the regimental tie. ‘So as I was here, I offered to lend a hand. And you?’
‘I was called in when they found the suspect package.’
‘And where is it now?’
‘Still in the American gent’s suite — in the bedroom.’ He appeared very relaxed about the whole business.
Harrison noticed that hotel guests were milling in the lobby. ‘The place should have been evacuated, Don.’
“That’s what I said,’ the manager interjected.
Trenchard ignored him. ‘It’s small, Tom. ‘Can’t contain more than a few ounces.’
‘There’s always the risk of fire,’ Harrison began.
‘I know, Tom, and the hotel staff are ready to act. But I talked it over with the manager and we decided a lot of fuss and unnecessary panic wouldn’t be good for the hotel’s reputation.’ Harrison had the distinct impression that Trenchard had done all the persuading. ‘By the way, a police car delivered some kit for you a few minutes before you arrived.’
Harrison said: ‘Then I’ll take a look.’
Casey tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Tom ‘
As he turned, Trenchard noticed her for the first time. ‘A new woman in your life, Tom?’
Harrison felt his cheeks colour, yet he wasn’t quite sure why. He stumbled over his words. ‘A friend of mine. She’s just given me a lift back from Jock Murray’s funeral.’
Trenchard’s smile turned down. ‘Poor Jock.’
‘Casey Mullins,’ Harrison introduced. ‘And an old pal of mine from way back, Don Trenchard.’
‘Casey Mullins,’ Trenchard repeated. He said it slowly and thoughtfully, extending thŤ vowels smoothly as though savouring a particularly fine vintage claret. His friend hadn’t changed, Harrison thought. The full head of crinkly hair still gold blond and the same winsome smile that had charmed so many girls into his bed. Once that had almost included Pippa — almost but not quite. Now the cobalt-blue eyes fixed Casey’s as he took her hand and pressed it briefly to his lips. ‘Enchanted to meet you, Miss Mullins.’
An uncertain expression showed on her face and a nervous tic flickered at the corner of her mouth. She withdrew her hand rather quickly. ‘I’m so glad you’ve already eaten, Mr Trenchard.’
Trenchard’s smile faded as Harrison tried to suppress his laugh.
Casey turned to him. ‘Look, Tom, I really must fly. I have to be back at my office. Perhaps I can give you a ring?’
Again he felt the blood flush his cheeks; he put it down to Trenchard’s appraising eyes and his knowing smirk.
‘Of course,’ Harrison said, and jotted down the number of the Explosives Section on a spare page of his notepad before tearing it out. ‘I might be busy while I’m here, but leave a message.’
‘Ciao,’ she said, then caught him by surprise with a kiss on the cheek before she strode towards the door. The hotel manager looked on, bemused. Somehow he hadn’t imagined that the arrival of a bomb-disposal expert would be quite like this. At the door Casey turned. ‘And, Tom, please take care.’ Then she was gone.
Don Trenchard said nothing more until they were climbing the stairs, carrying between them the kit sent over by Midgely. ‘ ‘Course, Tom, you know why she was in such a rush?’
‘Casey? No, she didn’t say.’
‘It’ll be to file her story for the West End Final edition.’
‘What?’ He didn’t understand what Trenchard was on about.
‘Wake up, Tom. She’s a journalist on the London Evening Standard.’
Harrison stopped dead in his tracks; he felt as though he had been struck a physical blow. ‘You’re joking!’
‘It’s no joke.’
‘She said she and her daughter had been caught up in the Seven Dials bombing. And she told me she was in publishing…’ His voice trailed off as he realised what he was saying.
‘Not exactly a lie, was it? And she was at the bombing which she wrote about in the Standard. Presumably that didn’t reach Northern Ireland?’
Harrison shook his head.
‘Did you discuss anything about this current bombing campaign with her?’
He hardly registered the question, still shocked at how easily he’d been conned. How he had even helped her through the police cordon at the funeral. ‘No, I don’t think so, I’m not sure. To be honest there’s not too much to tell.’
‘Presumably she knows all about this suspect package?’
‘Of course, I phoned the Section from her car. And she knows about Senator Powers.’
Trenchard gave one of his disarming half-smiles. ‘Bound to, I suppose, being an American.’ He continued walking. ‘Never mind, it can’t be helped. I just wanted to keep the lid on, that’s all. The same reason I didn’t want to evacuate the hotel.’
‘What the hell’s going on, Don? Are you still with 14 Int?’
Trenchard was evasive, but with his usual charm. ‘Not really. I’m transferred to the Security Service with a sort of open liaison remit with 14 Int.’
It was a garbled answer that suggested to Harrison that Don Trenchard might not be exactly answerable to either in a strictly official capacity. That could be useful if anyone started asking awkward questions; it made things simpler to deny if someone like Trenchard could just conveniently disappear in the gap between the two organisations. Or perhaps he just meant he was paid by both; he’d always had expensive tastes.
‘And what about this senator?’
Trenchard shrugged. ‘Just a private visit, Tom.’
Bullshit, Harrison thought. ‘So why are you involved?’
‘MI5 — counter-terrorism and all that. Senator Powers has connections with the US administration, Tom. A personal friend of the President. Can’t have anything untoward happening to him.’
Harrison drew to a halt outside the door to Powers’ suite. ‘Look Don, I’m just about to go in there with a possible IED. If it goes wrong I could lose my hands and my face. You owe it to me to tell me if there’s anything else I should know.’
Trenchard lifted his arms, his palms turned up in a gesture of innocence. ‘Nothing I can think of, Tom.’ He pointed to the portable Inspector X-ray machine and toolbag in the SATO’s hands. ‘Besides, you’ve got your box of magic tricks. You’ll be all right.’
Without waiting further Trenchard rapped on the door. There was a brief wait while someone peered through the tiny fisheye security lens before opening the door.
The minder from Special Branch was a slim but powerfully built man in his late thirties. He had alert mistrusting eyes, a bushy but neatly trimmed moustache and wore a well-made suit of inconspicuous charcoal-grey material. As he allowed them in, he resheathed his revolver in its rear waistband holster.