Stella Rimington: Breaking Cover

Jasminder looked up at the tall man who had saved her. She was breathing in short gasps and swaying slightly. He came over to her and reached out one hand to take her arm. ‘Did they hurt you?’

‘No, I’m fine. Just a bit shaken. They were trying to force me over there.’ She gestured with her head to the dark shadows under the nearby trees. ‘They were going to…’

‘Best not think about it,’ said the man. ‘Come on, let’s get your things.’

They collected her briefcase, which the man carried while Jasminder clutched her handbag, its cut strap dangling uselessly, in both arms.

‘Thank you,’ she said. It sounded feeble. ‘You were very brave. It was amazing how you fought them off,’ she added.

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’

I’m not sure about that, thought Jasminder, but what she said was, ‘We should call the police.’

‘We can if you want, but frankly I’m not sure there’s much they could do.’ He pointed into the dark interior of the gardens. ‘Those two will be long gone by now. And I’m not certain I’d be able to give a good description of either of them. Could you?’

‘No. I didn’t really see their faces. It all happened so fast. If you hadn’t come along—’

‘But I did. Tell me, where were you going when you were so rudely interrupted?’ He was smiling, which Jasminder found immensely reassuring. She felt safe now.

‘I was going home. I live just in the next street. Down there.’ She pointed towards the far end of the gardens.

‘I’ll walk you home then. In the circumstances it seems wise.’

As they walked, the man introduced himself. His name was Laurenz Hansen, he said, and he was Norwegian. Jasminder recognised the faintest hint of an accent in his voice, though otherwise his English was flawless. Laurenz explained that he had lived in England on and off for several years, and was hoping to settle permanently in the UK. Beyond that he said very little, and after Jasminder had told him her name they walked on in silence – for which she was grateful. Just then she had no wish to make small talk.

They arrived at her street, one of several in this part of Islington that were still lined with small Georgian houses. Number seven, where Jasminder had a flat on the ground floor, looked well cared for, its door painted a fashionable greyish-green. They stopped on the pavement by the front steps.

‘Is your husband at home?’ he asked solicitously.

‘I’m not married. I live alone.’

‘Is there anyone to come round and look after you? A friend? Or a relative?’

‘It’s all right. I’ll be fine once I’m in my own flat.’ She hoped this was true; she still felt very shaken by what had happened. She’d barely had time to be scared while she was being attacked – it had all happened so fast. With the immediate danger over, she was starting to feel fearful, aware of what a narrow escape she’d had. The men hadn’t just wanted to rob her; they’d been about to… Jasminder shook her head, determined not to scare herself further.

‘I’d be happy to stay with you,’ said the man called Laurenz. ‘But you don’t know me, we’ve only just met.’ He gave her a friendly smile. ‘Still, it would probably be better if you were with someone.’

She nodded shakily. ‘I have a friend who lives not far away. We’ve been to the theatre together tonight; I was just on my way home. If I need any company I’ll ring her. But are you sure we shouldn’t tell the police?’

Laurenz seemed to consider this. ‘We could, and obviously if you insist I’ll be glad to. But you do have your bag and briefcase back – so in that sense the mugging was entirely unsuccessful. And I don’t think you were badly hurt. Just a few bruises perhaps, and shock of course.’ He hesitated. ‘The thing is, I wasn’t actually meant to be here tonight. In this neighbourhood, I mean. I can’t really explain – and I’m not sure it would make much sense to you if I did – but to be perfectly honest, involving the police would make things a little tricky for me. Nothing illegal,’ he reassured her. ‘Just… tricky.’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘I suppose there wouldn’t be anything much they could do anyway and it would probably take a long time.’

He nodded. ‘You’re right. They wouldn’t have any chance of catching the muggers now and it would just involve a lot of questions when you’d probably like to go to bed. So if you’re sure you are OK, I’ll say goodnight, though I’ll wait here until you’re safe inside your house.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you. You have been so kind, and it was amazing how you dealt with those men. Are you a black belt or something? ‘

‘No, I just keep fit. I was pleased to help. Perhaps we can have coffee some time – in happier circumstances. I’ll give you a ring.’

She gave him her mobile number, which he wrote down on the back of a scrap of paper he produced from his pocket. ‘Or ring me at work,’ she said. ‘I teach part-time at King’s College.’

‘I’ll do that.’ He held out his hand and she shook it.

A minute later she waved to him from her living-room window and he waved back. She watched his tall back as he walked away. She drew the curtains and sat down; her legs seemed to have given way suddenly and she was trembling. She wondered if she should ring Emma, but it was eleven-thirty and her friend would probably be in bed. As she sat, Jasminder was going over the attack in her mind; she could remember every detail, feel the man’s hot breath on her neck and his hands on her body.

After half an hour of sitting in her chair she got up and turned on a bath, pouring in a generous dose of bath oil; she needed to get rid of all traces of her attacker. As she lay back in the comforting warmth of the scented water she found herself thinking about this man Laurenz. She wondered if he was married. He was very attractive but rather mysterious. She wondered why he’d said he wasn’t actually meant to be in the neighbourhood. Maybe if he rang her she would find out. She hoped he would. Sometimes good things happen from bad ones, she mused – at least that was what her mother had often said. Maybe that would be the case this time.

Liz Carlyle was walking slowly along the Embankment towards her office in Thames House, the headquarters of MI5. The sun, glancing through the branches of the trees lining the busy road, had some warmth in it for the first time that year and she felt a small thrill of pleasure at the sight of the river sparkling in the sun. Since Martin Seurat had died she had found it difficult to rouse herself to take much interest in anything, but suddenly and quite unexpectedly she found she was actually looking forward to getting to work and dealing with whatever the day might bring. Her oval face was still very pale, the skin around the grey-green eyes looking bruised from lack of sleep, and her fine brown hair was dragged carelessly back into a pony tail, but she was standing up straight again, as though the burden of grief that had settled on her shoulders since the tragic events in Paris the year before was shifting slightly. Her pace quickened almost automatically and she lifted her head and looked towards the long white building crouching on the other side of the road. She had been conscious for some minutes of the sound of shouting voices and now she could see that it was coming from a crowd of people, gathered at the small roundabout where Lambeth Bridge joined Milbank and Thames House began. The traffic was backed up along the bridge and along Millbank.

As she drew nearer she could read some of the placards carried by the demonstrators: ‘Get out of my Facebook’, ‘#stopwatchingus’. One displayed a large photograph of Edward Snowden and another read ‘Democracy is watching you’. Liz stopped at the edge of the crowd and spoke to a policeman standing beside his motorbike. ‘I need to get in there,’ she said, pointing towards Thames House. ‘I work there.’