‘Randall and I are selling the flat and the estate agent’s got some people coming to look at it later today. I hope they’re taller than the couple who came yesterday. I hate the thought of short people living there. I mean, are only short people rich in this country?’ She glared through the windscreen. ‘Short people shouldn’t have money.’
Even during the walk from the parking bay to New Scotland Yard, the heightened sense of security was evident even to the casual observer. There were officers on most corners around Parliament Square and stationed at intervals around the police headquarters building which took up the entire block.
Eddie nudged Casey as they walked and pointed to a police car stationed opposite the entrance. ‘An armed response vehicle, see? I’ve spotted several on the road this morning. Everyone’s expecting trouble, you can smell it.’ As they showed their press passes at the door, he added in a conspiratorial whisper: ‘I was talking to some copper mates of mine in the Albert last night. Apparently all leave’s been cancelled in the AntiTerrorist Branch. London’s been flooded with plain-clothes cops, several hundred in fact.’
She knew what Mercs meant about the heightened atmosphere of expectation on the London streets. Bombs in the West End and at Chiswick, they were on everyone’s mind. The previous night, alone over a TV supper with Candy, she’d been aware of the near and distant wail of police car sirens, seemingly crisscrossing the city into the small hours of the morning. Responding to raised alarms, false or otherwise, ever vigilant; just waiting, knowing that the next terrorist attack would come, it was just a question of when and where. It made her want to cuddle up with her daughter in front of the television, to draw the curtains and shut off the outside world in the optimistic belief that everything would be all right in the morning. Yet somehow she suspected that this was one storm that hadn’t yet run its course.
By contrast the press conference was a very upbeat affair, a superlative example of mass media management. Or was it manipulation? Rows of hard plastic chairs filled the room, all facing the rostrum with its heraldic crest and cluster of microphones. The place was packed to capacity with Casey’s flush-faced newspaper rivals, several of whom she recognised from the scrum outside the churchyard the previous day. Radio reporters checked their sound levels: ‘Two, three, one, testing. I had bacon, eggs, sausages, coffee’ and the television news crews fiddled with their lights, blinding some and just irritating others, demanding the best positions and tripping people up with their coils of cable. Meanwhile the sallow-faced young men and serious-looking women from the Met’s public relations department put on plastic smiles to hide their exasperation with the unruly, jostling mob which was never satisfied and would never quite do what it was told.
In one corner by the door a number of senior officers with peaked caps and smart-suited civilians watched on with varying expressions of disdain. Clearly these official observers were not liking what they observed.
Mercs felt a nudge in his ribs.
‘That’s him,’ Casey said. ‘Look, right at the back.’
‘Who?’
‘Major Harrison. Tom Harrison.’ She raised her hand and waved above the surrounding sea of heads. For a second she thought she’d caught his attention, but then he appeared not to have noticed. He looked to the man next to him. A man with a tanned face, easy smile and crinkly gold hair. The man who had been at Dukes Hotel, the man who had kissed her hand.
Then the Commander of the AntiTerrorist Branch swept in with his entourage. A distinguished man in his early fifties, with an open face but wary eyes, he fiddled for a moment with the height of the microphones. Then he appeared to take a deep breath, like a man about to plunge into a pool full of sharks.
His speech was brisk, no-nonsense and well-rehearsed. He skimmed across the facts quickly, offering little detail that the gathered journalists didn’t already know, and his words were riddled with cliches.
‘This latest barbaric IRA campaign with scant regard to innocent life.’ ‘One real bomb of about one thousand pounds of home-made explosive at Chiswick flyover.’ ‘Warning totally inadequate.’ ‘Three other hoaxes swiftly dealt with by our bomb disposal experts using controlled explosions.’ ‘All obviously intended to bring London traffic to a standstill and to cause maximum economic damage.’ ‘Eyewitness descriptions of people we’d like to eliminate from our inquiries…’ Details followed, then: ‘Need for continued vigilance.’ ‘Any questions?’
Hands flew up, waving for attention. Casey had to shout in Eddie Mercs’s ear. ‘There were four real bombs yesterday, not hoaxes. Tom said so on the way back from the funeral.’
‘Your disposable bomb man?’
‘Sure.’
‘Maybe he didn’t know all the details then.’
She didn’t answer, instead slipping into deep thought, only half listening to the Commander fending off the barrage of questions, trying to introduce a note of cautious optimism.
As the proceedings ran their natural course and the Met public relations people began looking pointedly at their watches, she suddenly realised that no mention had been made of the Dukes Hotel parcel bomb. She raised her hand.
The Commander looked in her direction and smiled.
‘Casey Mullins, sir, Evening Standard.’ Many heads in the audience turned. Few knew her personally, but most had become familiar with the by-line in the past week. ‘Can you confirm that a parcel bomb was sent to a guest at the Dukes Hotel in London yesterday?’
The smile on the Commander’s face melted like butter in the sun. ‘Er, I have no knowledge of such an incident.’
Casey frowned. ‘Are you saying there was no such incident, sir?’
‘Young lady, if there was such an incident I am certain I would have heard.’ He looked at his senior PR officer and nodded.
‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’
That was it. Everyone started to move, the meeting breaking up, the gabble of conversation rising.
‘What was that all about?’ Mercs hissed. ‘Who was sent a parcel bomb?’
She shook her head. ‘Not here, Eddie, not in front of all these news vultures.’ Then she noticed Major Tom Harrison moving towards the door, talking with his fellow observers. ‘Just a minute, ‘% Eddie.’
The crowd was thinning and she elbowed her way through, clumsily upsetting several chairs. Ahead the observers had almost reached the door leading to the inner sanctum of New Scotland Yard. Tom Harrison was near the back, chatting to the man who had kissed her hand. The name came back to her. Don Trenchard. ‘Major Harrison!’
He hesitated and turned, his face clouding as he recognised her.
‘Hi, Major,’ she was breathless. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’
He looked uncomfortable, almost angry. ‘Miss Mullins,’ he acknowledged stiffly. ‘You didn’t tell me you were a journalist.’
She shrugged, her cheeks colouring. ‘I’m sorry, but when I realised all of you were so anti-press, I thought it best. I didn’t want to cause a scene for Brenda Murray’s sake. And I really didn’t want you to be annoyed and upset.’ Her laugh was forced and nervous. ‘It was all a bit of a silly mistake really. Please forgive me.’
Under her winning smile and the earnest shine in her eyes, he felt his resistance crumble, but refused to show it. ‘Forgiven, but I think you’ll find that in life honesty is usually the best policy.’
The hurt flickered momentarily in her eyes; somehow she hadn’t anticipated such a patronising put-down. Glancing round, she realised he had been separated from the rest of the group. Only the man she knew as Don Trenchard lingered at the door for his friend. She said quickly: ‘I was worried stiff after I left you at Dukes Hotel yesterday.’