Ian Rankin - Westwind

Farquharson didn’t like being shouted at. His cheekbones were veined with blood, his voice tremulous. ‘Well then, let me tell you a few things, Mr Hepton,’ he said. ‘We need proof, solid hard factual proof. Because RAF stations and tracking stations and their like are out of our jurisdiction. In fact, there’s precious little that isn’t out of our jurisdiction. The intelligence services have no formal powers. We have to work with Special Branch, and they’re not convinced so far by what we’ve told them. We can’t get Number Ten to listen to us, because frankly the PM has been got at by military advisors and MoD officials. Our agents in the field have found nothing, so there’s precious little we can do at this moment. Except wait.’

‘What?’ Hepton was yelling now. Yelling out all his fear and frustration, all the last few days of madness and murder. ‘Wait for them to pick us off? Look, whatever this COFFIN is, it’s been buried. How do we find something once it’s buried? We don’t. The longer we sit here, the more chance they’ve got of getting away with whatever it is they’re getting away with while we sit here!’

‘Bravo!’ Dreyfuss called. He was smiling grimly.

‘Who told you the coffin was buried?’ Parfit asked in a purposely quiet voice.

‘What?’ Hepton asked.

‘Who told you?’

‘Harry did. Well, sort of. She certainly didn’t deny it.’

‘And you believed her?’

‘Why would she lie? She was going to kill me.’

‘But she didn’t.’ Hepton began to see Parfit’s point. ‘Now answer me another question: why is the Zephyr ground station being temporarily decommissioned?’

Hepton pondered this. He gave up and shrugged his shoulders.

‘I’ll tell you,’ said Parfit. ‘Or rather, I’ll tell you my interpretation. The coffin isn’t buried yet — not quite. But they know we’re getting close. They’ll put a ring of steel around Buchan, but they can’t stop Zephyr spying on them from space. That’s why they went to an extraordinary amount of effort to nobble it. But because we’re closing in, they want to make doubly sure, so they’re sending the sky-watchers home until the burial’s complete. That means there’s still time for an exhumation.’

‘Fine,’ said Dreyfuss coolly. ‘So what do we do?’

Parfit turned to Farquharson, his eyes asking the same question.

‘We wait.’ Farquharson saw that Hepton was about to protest and hurried on. ‘We wait until we see what information comes back from Buchan. If there’s enough to present to the PM, then I’ll arrange a meeting.’

‘And if there isn’t?’ There seemed no ready answer to Hepton’s question. He repeated it.

Farquharson looked to Parfit, but Parfit’s face was a blank.

‘We’ve got video tapes,’ Hepton continued. ‘Don’t they count as evidence?’

‘They indicate that something’s going on,’ said Parfit quietly, ‘not what that something is.’

‘You mean they’re not enough?’

‘What do you think?’

Hepton considered. The tapes suddenly seemed very small in comparison to the scale of the conspiracy.

Dreyfuss was shaking his head. ‘You’re going to let them get away with it,’ he said bluntly.

Farquharson slapped the desk. ‘Get away with what exactly? We don’t know what’s happening, do we?’

But Dreyfuss only smiled, as if to say: I ’ ve got a damn good idea .

The first report arrived just after they’d eaten a lunch of sandwiches and tea. The tea came in disposable beakers, which was a relief to Hepton, who had feared the offer of one of the mouldy mugs. He was finishing his last cheese sandwich when the telephone rang. Parfit, himself still chewing, picked up the receiver.

‘Yes?’ he said. He listened, his eyes fixed to the wall in front of him. ‘Is that everything?’ he said finally. ‘Thank you.’ He replaced the receiver in its cradle and swallowed some tea.

‘Well?’ asked Farquharson.

‘That was our man in Buchan. He’s been past the base. Heavily guarded, and not very subtly. He stopped to ask why, and was told that there had been anonymous threats concerning the pull-out. He says there is a pull-out taking place, but there’s also a lot of work going on. He thought perhaps they were busy dismantling something.’

‘Dismantling something?’ Farquharson repeated. ‘What sort of thing?’

Parfit shrugged his shoulders. ‘He couldn’t be sure that it was dismantling.’

‘So it could be building work then?’ said Hepton.

‘Building work?’ Farquharson sounded sceptical. ‘But that would be noticeable, wouldn’t it?’

‘Not if it was underground,’ said Hepton. ‘As in “burial”.’

‘That’s the impression I get,’ Parfit agreed. ‘They’ve got to be building something underground.’

‘Such as?’

He shrugged again. ‘If we knew what COFFIN stood for, we might get an answer.’

‘So,’ Dreyfuss said, pointing at Farquharson, ‘ are you going to go see the PM?’

Farquharson was flustered. ‘What with?’ he exclaimed.

Dreyfuss got to his feet. ‘With everything you’ve got. It all adds up to quite something, after all, doesn’t it? Drag the PM up to Buchan if you have to, but do something! ’

Farquharson looked to Parfit, but saw in him no ally ready to leap to his defence. He examined his trouser legs thoughtfully and picked a thread from one. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll do what I can. May I use your phone?’

‘Be my guest,’ said Parfit.

Farquharson picked up the receiver and punched out a few numbers. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘it’s Blake Farquharson here. Any chance of a word with the chief? Yes, I’m afraid it is urgent. Urgent as in very.’

Hepton and Dreyfuss were given leave to visit the canteen, situated in the building’s basement.

‘I’ll get someone to show you where it is,’ said Parfit.

‘We’ll find it,’ Dreyfuss snarled. But he calmed almost immediately and apologised. ‘I’d just like Martin and me to have a little time to ourselves, to talk about, well, Jilly. Is that okay?’

Parfit looked cowed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘if it seems we’re not doing enough to locate and free her. I admit it’s needle-in-a-haystack stuff, but we are trying. Try to relax a little. I’ll join you shortly.’

‘No rush.’

Whether irony was intended or not, Parfit caught some in Dreyfuss’ words. No rush indeed. Farquharson had gone off to Downing Street. The prime minister had agreed to give him a ten-minute interview, starting at quarter past four, which barely gave him time to gather together the relevant details and assimilate them. Still, actually gathering the details was a job for Farquharson’s PA, Tony Poulson. Poulson would be panicking right about now, and the thought pleased Parfit greatly. What Farquharson saw in the man was quite beyond him. He had even instigated his own highly furtive investigation of Poulson’s past and private life, but with precious little success: the man was as clean as a nun’s conscience. But then how clean was that?

He sat behind his desk, wondering if he should have insisted on accompanying Farquharson to Number Ten. He stared at his door, thinking of Dreyfuss and Hepton. Pity the canteen wasn’t bugged, but no member of staff would have stood for it...

Parfit was a patient man, but also a man who enjoyed the occasional slice of action. He had, for instance, thoroughly enjoyed breaking the man’s neck at the airport in DC. He hoped one day to enjoy killing Harry. But it had to be sanctioned. Given that sanction, he was ready to fall on Villiers, Harry and the rest with the most extreme prejudice he could muster. A nod from the PM, that was all he craved right now. His men were ready to act. He’d arranged for Special Branch to turn a temporary blind eye. And he had the necessary tools of his profession to hand. A nod was all he needed. But he doubted he’d get it. All the same...