Tim Stevens - Jokerman

‘I didn’t feel safe leaving it at home,’ she said. ‘Nor carrying it around with me.’

They’d left the café and headed for the nearest A amp;E department, where Hannah had been seen promptly and had her leg wound dressed. She’d slipped and fallen at a dump, she said, and cut herself on corrugated iron. None of the staff appeared inclined to disbelieve her, or particularly interested one way or the other. The hum of conversation in the department was about the car bomb and how many likely casualties there were going to be.

While Hannah was being seen to, Purkiss watched a television set on the wall in the triage area. The reporting was all very preliminary, with little to be seen on camera beyond the bustling of the police, ambulance and fire services, but the excited reporter revealed that there appeared to be at least ten people killed or injured.

Hannah emerged, having changed into a pair of jeans she’d bought along the way. She’d washed the dirt off her face and arms, and looked pale underneath.

‘Did they look at your back?’ Purkiss asked.

‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Sunburn.’

At Victoria Station now, Purkiss perused the notebook. Almost every page was crammed with crabby lettering and symbols. Most of it, as Hannah had said, was unintelligible, a highly personal form of shorthand. But he saw the names leap out at times: Al-Bayati, Iraqi Thunder Fist .

And another: Arkwright , preceded once by the first name Dennis .

‘Heard of him?’ asked Purkiss.

‘No.’

The name hadn’t come up in the Morrow files Kasabian had given him.

‘Why would Charlie leave these names unencoded like this?’

Purkiss shrugged. ‘Insurance, I suppose. In case anybody else ever needed to use the information in the notebook. Like us, now.’

She swept a hand across her forehead. ‘If I could only access the Service database… But if this Arkwright is important in some way, his name will be flagged. Any search will not just set off alarms, but will probably lock his data and prevent anyone reading it.’

‘There’s another possibility,’ said Purkiss.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a long shot.’ He took out his phone and dialled Vale’s number.

‘John. You’ve heard about the car bomb?’

‘I was there,’ said Purkiss.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘No.’

‘What happened?’

‘The target of the bomb was Mohammed Al-Bayati, the London head of Iraqi Thunder Fist , a dissident group possibly involved in insurgent activity in Iraq. Morrow’s notes suggest Al-Bayati was a Service agent, or at least informant. He had a phalanx of bodyguards with him. I wanted to interview him but he was killed first.’

‘How did the killer know you intended to approach Al-Bayati?’

‘They may not have known. He might have been earmarked for assassination and I just happened to take an interest in him beforehand.’

Vale was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘Difficult to tie all this together. Morrow’s killing, the attempt on your life, and now this.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Yes,’ said Purkiss. ‘Could you run a name through the SIS database? Dennis Arkwright.’

‘I’ll be in touch,’ said Vale. He didn’t ask any more, and rang off.

It was, as Purkiss had said, a long shot. But it was worth checking. If the coded material in Morrow’s notebook related to Iraq, then it was possible this Arkwright existed in the database of the foreign intelligence service, SIS, as well as the domestic Security Service.

Hannah was watching him. ‘You need to fill me in on a few details,’ she said.

So Purkiss did. He told her about the attack at his home, about Kendrick in hospital, and about the access he’d obtained to Morrow’s files. But he avoided mentioning Kasabian altogether, saying only that he’d obtained the files via a “high-placed source”.

She put her hands together, touched her lips against her fingertips. Shook her head.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You’re going to have to tell me everything sooner or later. Who you’re working for. Because if this gunman attacked you in your home knowing you were involved in the case, then there’s a leak somewhere. Whoever’s employing you has allowed the opposition to get wind of the fact.’

‘True,’ noted Purkiss, who’d said as much to Kasabian. ‘But I can’t tell you who’s hired me. Not yet. Not until I know I can trust you.’

He expected her to react with anger, but she just nodded.

Vale telephoned back after twenty minutes. Although he was no longer an official SIS employee, he’d retained high-level connections within the service, as well as privileges to access the databases.

‘We have a match,’ he said. ‘But not much detail. Dennis Kincaid Arkwright, born twentieth February 1964. Did some freelance work for the Service — that’s our Service, SIS — in Turkey in the middle years of the last decade. The nature of that work is not recorded. He’s a former Royal Marine, Three Commando Brigade. Dishonourably discharged in 2002 for brawling and insubordination, narrowly avoiding a court martial.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t suppose you have an address for him?’ asked Purkiss.

‘I do, as a matter of fact.’ It wasn’t Vale’s style to sound smug or triumphant, and he didn’t do so now. ‘He draws disability benefit, luckily enough. The Department of Work and Pensions have him living in a village called Dry Perry, in Cambridgeshire.’

He gave Purkiss the exact address. ‘There’s a photo, too. Not a very good one, and a few years old. I’m sending it across.’

Purkiss said, ‘Thanks, Quentin. That’s a great help.’

‘Nine people so far confirmed dead in the car bomb explosion. Seven in the vehicle — I assume that’s Al-Bayati and his bodyguards — and two civilians. Do you think anyone will remember that you were nearby when it happened, John?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Purkiss. ‘In any case, it wouldn’t have looked as though I was involved, if that’s what you’re worried about. I was approaching the Range Rover at the time. Hardly the behaviour of someone who’s wired the vehicle to blow up.’ He paused. ‘There is something, though.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Shortly before the blast, I’d been making enquiries at the Iraqi Thunder Party office, posing as a policeman. I persuaded them to give up Al-Bayati’s home address. That might be why he went to the car when he did — he’d been tipped off, and didn’t want to hang around to be questioned me.’

‘I see,’ said Vale.

‘But it means the ITF staff will suspect me of doing this. One minute they’re giving me their boss’s home address. The next, he’s murdered. I’m just letting you know that there could be fallout from this.’

‘Understood. Thank you.’

Purkiss rang off. A moment later a text message arrived, with an attached photo. It was a blurred three-quarter view of a man’s face. His age was indeterminate, and he had close-cropped soldier’s hair, a truculent jaw, dark eyes. Arkwright, evidently.

Across the table from him, Hannah said, ‘This man you were talking to. Quentin.’

‘Yes.’

‘He seems like a man you can trust.’

‘He’s proved himself trustworthy more times than I can remember,’ said Purkiss.

‘And yet,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘You agreed there’s a leak somewhere. Somehow, the opposition were tipped off about your involvement in this case. It could have come from him. This… Quentin.’

Purkiss shook his head. ‘No, it couldn’t.’

She raised her eyebrows.