Tim Stevens - Jokerman

After six rings, just as Purkiss assumed the voicemail function was going to kick in, the receiver was snatched up and a woman’s voice said, ‘Hello?’

‘Good evening,’ said Purkiss. ‘Sorry to call so late. It’s nothing to worry about. I wonder if I might speak to Mr Terence Hollingsworth?’

The silence on the other end went on for so long that Purkiss wondered if he’d been cut off. Then he heard the choking sob.

‘Madam?’ he said.

He heard another voice, also a woman’s, and the rustling of the receiver being taken by someone else. ‘Who is this, please?’

‘I’m an associate of Terence Hollingsworth. I need to speak to him urgently.’

The silence was briefer this time. The new woman’s voice said, ‘I’m assuming you don’t know.’

‘Know what?’

‘Terry Hollingsworth was in a climbing accident last week Thursday. He’s… he’s dead. His wife isn’t really up to speaking to anyone right now, especially this time of night.’ The woman’s voice grew firmer. ‘Who did you say you were again?’

Purkiss ended the call.

He dialled the next number. It was a military barracks in Colchester, Essex.

The woman who answered was clipped, professional. Purkiss introduced himself as a solicitor.

‘I’m trying to locate a Darren Wallace as a matter of urgency.’

The woman asked him to hold. She returned a minute later.

‘Sir? I’m afraid I have some unfortunate news. Sergeant Wallace is no longer with us.’

‘Could you perhaps tell me his new address? It’s — ’

‘No, I’m afraid you misunderstand me.’ She kept up the professionally detached tone well, Purkiss noticed distantly. ‘Sergeant Wallace is dead. He and four other military personnel were involved in a fatal motorway collision last month. If you’d like to speak to — ’

Again, Purkiss ended the call.

He rang Vale.

‘Quentin, there’s a problem.’

‘I know,’ said Vale.

They decided together that ringing around and having to find out from grieving relatives that their spouses or sons were dead, was neither the most humane nor the most efficient way of doing it.

Instead, Vale suggested trying his SIS contact once more. The person, whoever it was, had some kind of liaison role with the Ministry of Defence, and the MoD was under instructions to cooperate fully. Purkiss imagined that rankled.

‘I’ll ask for up-to-date records of all military personnel recently deceased,’ said Vale. ‘It won’t capture everyone on the list, because many of these men will have already left the Forces. But it’ll whittle it down.’

While Purkiss waited, his skin crawling in frustration, he thought about what he and Vale had discovered. Six former Paras so far, all of whom had been in Iraq in 2006, turned out to have died within the last two weeks. They’d succumbed to an assortment of fates: car accidents, drive-by shootings, falling in front of a tube train while drunk. And then there was Kendrick, not quite dead, having been shot in the head. Some of the deaths were made to look like accidents, but in others there’d been no attempt to pretend that anything but a deliberate killing had occurred. It was as if the priority was to get these men dead by whatever means were available, and if that meant murder in broad daylight, then so be it.

Purkiss used the waiting time to limber up. His left arm was sore and stiff from the bite he’d sustained, and he had a mild sunburn from the desert. He rode out the pain, doing press ups, sit ups and squats, adrenaline and the caffeine he’d drunk making him feel wired and edgy.

At a little before midnight, the city outside calmed if not slumbering, Purkiss’s phone rang.

Vale said: ‘Of the remaining eight men, we have confirmation that four are dead. Two were with your man, Wallace, in that collision on the motorway. Two were gunned down outside a nightclub in Dartford. That last pair were no longer in the military, but I got someone in the Work and Pensions Department out of bed to check on them.’

Purkiss whistled silently. ‘Great work, Quentin. The others?’

‘No record that they’re dead, or alive. But…’

Purkiss waited.

‘One of the names. Tullivant. He’s got an interesting connection,’ said Vale.

‘Connection.’

‘With none other than Sir Guy Strang.’

Purkiss listened as Vale explained. At the end, he realised he was gripping the phone hard enough to make the plastic squeak.

‘My God,’ murmured Purkiss.

‘Quite.’

And there it was. The way in, at last.

It should have been perfect, an occasion for Emma to savour.

She and James had previously arranged to meet that Monday evening at nine, in a pub across the river from the headquarters at Thames House. As usual, Emma contrived a call-out to attend to Sir Guy — it was becoming increasingly easy; now that he’d apparently had a run of heart problems, she could just say he’d had a relapse and needed her attention — and greeted Brian at the door to say she was going out. Furthermore, Brian tentatively asked if she minded if he went out for a drink himself with some of his sporting friends that evening, and of course she said yes. It meant she could enjoy her time with James without the constant, niggling guilt tugging at her, the knowledge that Brian was alone at home with the children. Ulyana had said she could stay overnight if necessary to be with the kids, so all the arrangements were in place.

Except that Emma set off for central London with dread bearing down on her like a physical presence.

She considered, as she walked to the tube station, putting off confronting James with the second bug she’d found, at least until after they’d made love. But she wouldn’t be able to relax, to let herself go, and he’d know something was wrong. Better to clear the air at the outset, she thought. If clearing the air was what she was going to achieve, and she had her doubts.

The tube train was crowded on a Monday evening, the air stuffy with hot bodies and poor ventilation, and Emma found herself standing, gripping one of the poles for support and sandwiched in between two other commuters.

It was at Fulham Broadway, as the doors were sliding open, that she felt the arm round her waist, the hand on her arm tugging her towards the doors. Before she could gasp, she heard James’s voice in her ear.

‘It’s me. Come on, we’re getting off.’

Too startled to reply, she allowed herself to be steered down onto the platform. She turned to look at James but he nodded towards the exit, his face grim.

‘Let’s go.’

They marched through the press of passengers towards the stairs, then the escalators. Emma felt panic rising in her.

‘James, what — ’

‘Don’t say anything. Keep moving.’

He hustled her through the exit barriers and out onto the street. A few yards down the road, they stopped at a car, a black BMW. James pushed her into the passenger seat, then started the engine.

She stared at him wordlessly.

Once he was out on the road, he glanced across at her.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said.

‘You followed me?’

James ignored that. ‘I need to talk to you,’ he said.

‘I found another bug,’ Emma blurted angrily. ‘One of those things you’ve been hiding in my handbag, in my lipstick. Why, James? Is it just what you do? Spies, spooks, whatever you call yourself? Do you just tag and eavesdrop on people because it’s second nature to you?’

Again he didn’t reply.

‘James.’ Fury was smothering her fear. ‘I need answers. Now.’

He sighed, his eyes on the road ahead. ‘Yes. I planted those devices.’