Tim Stevens - Jokerman

Quietly, so as not to be overheard, Rossiter said: ‘Get him, John. Get Strang.’

Purkiss turned his back and went out.

Vale was waiting near the entrance, in a small office they’d lent him. He stood when he saw Purkiss.

‘Anything?’ he asked.

‘Maybe,’ said Purkiss. ‘I need a flight to Riyadh.’

In the Poetry and Dream room, its walls weaving and shimmering with Surrealism, Emma opened her hand. Nestled in her palm was the tiny bead she’d found in the lining of her handbag.

James, close by her side, glanced down at it.

She looked at his profile but it revealed nothing.

James picked the bead out of her hand and peered at it, rolling it between thumb and forefinger.

‘What is it?’ Emma whispered, both out of reverence for the gallery’s atmosphere and because she was reluctant for anyone else to hear.

‘Difficult to say,’ murmured James. ‘Probably nothing. A flaw in the bag.’

‘But it wasn’t there before,’ she said. Before I came home from being with you , she managed to stop herself from saying.

He made a wry mouth. ‘Can you be sure?’

‘It’s part of my training as a doctor to spot things out of the ordinary,’ Emma said. ‘This is definitely something new.’

‘Okay.’

‘Might it be a bug? Some sort of transmitter?’

He sighed. ‘It’s possible. I’ll take it back to the office and have it examined. But more likely you’re reading too much into this.’

Emma gazed at the picture on the wall before her, a nightmarish vision of distorted screaming faces on blurred bodies. She should feel reassured, she knew. But instead she felt uneasy.

‘James.’ She turned to look up at him.

His brow furrowed. ‘Yes.’

‘Did you plant this in my bag? Are you… monitoring me? Spying on me?’

Something changed in his eyes.

He placed a hand on each of her shoulders, drew her nearer. His face grave, his eyes warm again, he said: ‘No. I promise you.’

After a few seconds she said: ‘Okay. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’

They walked hand in hand for fifteen minutes, pretending to look at the exhibits. Emma registered none of them.

There’d been something in his eyes. Something dark, just for an instant.

James’s hand tightened on hers and he stopped.

‘I have to get back now,’ he said.

‘Of course. Sorry to have called you away.’

He kissed her forehead. ‘No problem.’ Pulling away, he raised an eyebrow. ‘Still on for tomorrow?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it.’

He left first, disappearing into the milling visitors at the entrance. Emma watched him go.

She gave it five minutes.

Then she set off, walking rapidly back along the south bank. The afternoon heat cloyed at her, trying to plug her mouth and nose. The crowds felt similarly oppressive.

At Victoria she unlocked her car. Driven by something she couldn’t identify, she began searching. She rummaged in the glove compartment and side pockets, ran her fingers under the seat and dashboard, lifted up the carpets to look underneath.

Nothing. Emma straightened beside the car, wondering at herself.

She got in and drove home. Hurrying inside, she went through to the bedroom and began ransacking her clothes, groping in the pockets, feeling the hems.

She moved on to the bathroom next. Pill bottles, overnight toiletry bags, towels. None of them yielded anything.

It was by chance that she found it. Emma was about to replace the cap of a lipstick tube when she twisted the end the wrong way in her haste.

The end came off. There, affixed to the disc of metal, was another tiny bead, identical to the one from her handbag.

The lipstick was from her overnight bag, a spare. She hadn’t taken it two nights ago, but she had when she’d spent the night with James before. The last time had been about a month ago.

Emma sat heavily on the toilet seat, staring at the floor. She felt lost, and cold.

And afraid.

Tullivant walked at a fast clip across the Millennium Bridge towards the north bank, thumbing the speed-dial key.

‘It’s confirmed,’ he said tersely. ‘They’re on to me.’

He explained. There was a silence at the other end.

Then: ‘Not good.’

‘I know.’ A tourist jostled him, wheeling angrily, but Tullivant kept moving. ‘I need to take him down.’

‘No. Not at this point. It’ll just get in the way.’ Another pause. ‘Take precautions. But stay focused on the main game.’

‘So what’s the next move?’ he asked. A busker stepped into his path playing a ukelele and Tullivant veered away.

‘I’m waiting for Purkiss’s next step. That’ll determine ours. But be prepared to move in at short notice. Cancel whatever plans you’ve got for tomorrow.’

‘That’s going to be tricky.’

‘Cancel them. This should soon be over.’

‘Understood.’

Tullivant put his phone away. He cut north-west towards the Strand, burning off adrenaline with each stride. It had been a tough forty-eight hours, all told. First the bungling at Purkiss’s house, then the mess up in Cambridgeshire, and now… this .

At least the targets had been neutralised. At least Arkwright was dead. And by the way things were playing out, Tullivant had got him at just about the right time. But his failure in his battle with Purkiss bothered him. The man had been blinded by teargas, and already weakened by earlier brawling. For Tullivant barely to get away unscathed was shameful. Perhaps he was getting too old; or perhaps Purkiss was simply more than a match for him.

Shame was good, he reflected. Used correctly, and not wallowed in, it stiffened the resolve. He’d learned that during his Army days. If you survived your blunders, you learned from them, did better next time. His next encounter with Purkiss would not result in failure on his part.

His more immediate problem was Emma. She was a loose cannon now, he could tell. Unpredictable, in a different way from Purkiss. And he couldn’t address anything with her directly. Couldn’t confront her.

The charade — yes, that was what it was, even if the word and the concept were distasteful — had to be maintained. The final outcome, however, was going to be most traumatic for all concerned. For Tullivant himself, too; he couldn’t pretend otherwise.

He’d done the odds and ends he needed to do, and was on his way to his destination, when his phone rang.

‘An update.’ Tullivant detected a note of tension that fell just short of urgency. ‘Purkiss is no longer part of the game. You don’t need to concern yourself with him any more.’

Tullivant was intrigued. ‘He’s been taken out?’

‘As good as.’

One of the things that impressed, and sometimes astounded, Purkiss about Vale was the speed at which he worked.

On the way out to the car, Vale had rung Kasabian, then handed the phone to Purkiss. Purkiss gave a brief summary of what Rossiter had told him.

‘Riyadh,’ Kasabian said.

‘Yes.’

‘Hell of a long shot.’

‘Better than no shot.’

In the car, while Purkiss used his phone to locate the address of Scipio Rand Security, Vale spoke on his own phone via its hands-free function, cutting from one connection to another, issuing instructions, considering and rejecting suggestions. He fell silent eventually, waiting for a call back.

Purkiss found a stark website for Scipio Rand Security, minimalist in its design yet expertly done. They called themselves one of the leading providers of personal and corporate security in the Middle East, and a link provided examples of their clients: mostly British and American businesses, but there were a few Saudi-sounding names there as well. There were none of the gushing testimonials normally to be found. It made the firm sound somehow more professional.