He was a detective constable, an authorized firearms officer, in demand to the extent that most evenings he went back to his bedsit in a west London attic reeling from exhaustion. But he tried, moving in her wake, to smile with warmth when he was introduced to distant relations of whom he had heard vaguely but never met. He shook hands, was careful not to squeeze hard and heartily on skeletal fingers. The talk drifted around him but he heard little of it. His mind was away, the funeral of Enid Darke subsumed by thoughts of where he would be that evening and the previous day's briefing on the risk to the Principal posed by the man's presence in the capital on a three-day visit.
An old man came to his mother's side — and it was the policeman's reflex that he stiffened because a stranger had approached her. Banks ground his fingernails into the palm of his hand as if that might relax him.
He could not hear them but sensed the earnestness of the man's words to his mother, and she had leaned closer to hear better. Nor could he see what was passed from the jacket pocket into his mother's grasp. The man did not draw breath, and talked with a faint, whistling reediness. And then he was gone, tottering in the direction of the bar and the steward, and Banks saw him grapple shakily with a further schooner of sherry. His mother held what she had been given in both hands, turned to her son and grimaced.
'What was all that about?' He spoke from the side of his mouth, his eyes roving again.
Her voice was low, confidential and conspiratorial. 'Rather interesting, actually. His name's Wilfred Perry. He lived next door to Great-aunt Enid in some ghastly tower block in east London — he's still there. Eight months ago, or whenever she was moved out and taken to the nursing-home, she knocked on his door early in the morning. She couldn't look after herself any more and needed care. She told him that she had only one item that was precious and she wanted it taken care of, then passed on in the family. She gave it to Mr Perry — why not to one of her family he doesn't know, and I don't. If he'd fallen off the twig before she did, God knows what would have happened to it. Anyway, I've got it. But it's for you — why you? Someone must have told him that you were family, but also that you were a policeman.'
She passed her son a small leather-covered notebook.
He took it. 'What am I supposed to do with it?'
'Read it, I suppose, and keep it. It's family and it's history, so he said — and Great-aunt Enid had made him promise that it would be given to the younger generation of the family. He's done that, fulfilled his obligation.'
The leather had been black once. It had long lost any lustre, was chipped at the edges; across the open side of it a dark stain had smeared down and on to the paper sheets. An elastic band, wound over it twice, held it together. He peered at it and saw the faintness of what had once been gold-embossed lettering. 'So, who was Cecil Darke?'
'According to Mr Perry, Cecil was Great-aunt Enid's elder brother. Sorry, David, I haven't heard of him. She gave it to Mr Perry with that elastic band round it, and he never opened it, never looked to see what was inside.'
Banks saw, across the garden room, that Wilfred Perry — the man who had kept a promise — had set his empty schooner back on the steward's table, and was reaching for another, which was filled. He looked at his watch. 'I have to go, Mum, in a couple of minutes. You'll get a taxi? It's something I can't be late for.'
'You'd better open it, David. I mean, on her funeral day, you should see what was important to her.'
'Yes, Mum — but I can't hang about.'
He peeled off the elastic band, and the spine of the notebook cracked as he opened it. He saw handwriting, barely legible, on the cover's inside…Gad, but he did have to shift himself…and he read aloud but softly so that only his mother shared with him: 'To Whom it may Concern: In the event of my death or incapacity will the finder of this Diary please facilitate its safe delivery to my sister, Miss Enid Darke, 40 Victoria Street, Bermondsey, London, England. Many thanks. Signed: Cecil Darke.' There was a date on the facing page, then close-set writing. It would take his full concentration to decipher it. He snapped the notebook shut, twisted the elastic band back over it and dropped it into his pocket.
'Got to dash. Good to see you, Mum, and you look after yourself.'
'Thanks for coming. You will read it, won't you? I suppose it's part of us.'
'I will, when I've time.'
He pecked her cheek and was gone. He ran through the thin rain across the car park, and the notebook bounced in his pocket lightly against his hip. Later, when he was working his shift, a Glock 9mm pistol, with a loaded magazine of eleven bullets, would — should he run — be flapping against that hip.
Chapter 2
When he saw them loaded into the two pickups, Ibrahim felt a sense of loss. He had been with them since the previous evening. He did not know their names, where they had come from, what they would be leaving behind them, but in those few hours of chaotic trauma — for all of them — they had been his brothers.
New masters had selected them and now determined into which of the pickups they should climb. The fighting men, those who had made the choices and had seemed to weigh their value, barked instructions and gestured them forward. None was helped over the tail gates: they were left to struggle up. When they were all on board, crouched and half hidden by the sides of the vehicles, Ibrahim fought the stiffness in the joints of his legs and stood. The engines had started, and he heard the clatter of the mounted machine-guns being armed — an alien sound — and he wondered if he should wave in farewell to them.
Their laughter came to him over the gravel roar of the straining engines, as if now they were old friends, but distanced from him who would not travel with them.
None looked at him, none noticed him, so he did not wave.
The farewell that was seared in his mind was in front of him. The fighting men left the engines running and the machine-guns armed, and walked briskly to the man Ibrahim thought of as the Leader, his leader. Each in turn hugged him and their lips brushed the cheeks obscured by the balaclava. Those men had no joy, no happiness, and the kisses were perfunctory, without cheer or laughter. He sensed the difference between the fighting men, and his new-found leader, and the brothers crushed close in the pickups. They broke away, but each held the Leader's hand tight for a moment longer than was necessary, as if that farewell was more meaningful, as if a little of the danger and threat, risk and uncertainty was communicated between them. The pickups edged away across the sand, like the dhows going from the harbour at the end of the Corniche. Then, as the dhows did when they were outside the harbour wall, they increased speed, and the engines throbbed with power.
He watched them go.
For a few seconds the vehicles were lost behind the walls of the building. When he saw them again they were moving fast. He saw them bounce across the raised heap of sand where the single strand of barbed-wire was buried. To the right and to the left, the wire was raised and hung from rusted posts of iron, but at the point Of the track it had been lowered. The wire was the frontier. He did not know, when they were taken into Iraq, why he had been left behind. He watched the two billowing clouds of sand thrown up by the back wheels of the pickups for as long as he was able, long after his eyes failed to find them, and long after the sound of the engines had dispersed in the quiet of the desert.