William Boyd - Ordinary Thunderstorms

Reverential mutters of approval from the other professors round the table. Ingram felt a twinge of unease — who was this man they were flying in, and at what cost? Why hadn’t he been consulted? He saw Ivo cleaning his fingernails with the sharp tip of the pencil that had been placed on the blotter in front of him.

“So much the better,” Ingram said, feeling that he had to reassert his authority — he still hadn’t had the chance to reveal his piece de resistance .

“Right, now—” he began and then stopped. De Freitas had raised his hand. “Paul?”

“I should say, for the record, that there is some data missing from Philip’s files.”

Ingram kept his face blank, authoritatively blank. “Data missing?”

“We think,” de Freitas flourished his copy of the Kindred profile, “that Kindred may have it.”

The professors gasped. Ingram felt that sick premonition again. Something bad was going to happen, he couldn’t see it yet, but this awful death was just the beginning.

“What kind of data?” Ingram asked, in a quiet voice.

Keegan pitched in now. “Data that is incomprehensible to anyone not wholly cognisant of the Zembla-4 programme. We think Kindred has it — but he doesn’t know what he has.”

Ingram’s instincts were hard at work — he felt high anxiety now: Keegan and de Freitas’s insouciance didn’t fool him at all — this was very serious. He was suddenly glad he’d had an apple juice and not a brandy.

“How do you know this data is missing, Burton?” he asked, carefully.

Keegan smiled his insincere smile. “When we went through the material recovered from the London flat we became aware of inconsistencies. Stuff we expected to see wasn’t there.”

Ingram eased himself back in his chair and crossed his legs. “I thought the London flat was a crime scene.”

“Correct. But the police were most accommodating. We informed them of the importance of the Zembla-4 programme. They gave us complete access.”

“I don’t get it,” Ingram said. “Do the police know data is missing? Doesn’t that provide motive?”

“They will know, in the fullness of time.” Keegan paused as de Freitas whispered something in his ear. Keegan fixed Ingram with his dark, intense eyes, and then they traversed the table. “For the sake of the Zembla-4 programme it’s best that this knowledge is kept within this room.”

“Absolutely,” Ingram said. “Absolute discretion.” There were mutters of agreement from around the table. Then he said ‘Good’ three times, cleared his throat, asked Mrs Prendergast for another cup of coffee and announced that he had decided that Calenture-Deutz should offer a reward of £100,000 to anyone who assisted the police in the capture and arrest of Adam Kindred. He put it to the board for a vote of approval, confident that it would be unanimous.

“I couldn’t disagree more fervently,” Ivo, Lord Redcastle said loudly, casting his pencil down on his blotter where it bounced, impressively, twice and then skittered off the blotter to the floor with a thin wooden clatter, less impressively.

“Ivo, please,” Ingram said, managing a patronising smile but feeling all the same a surge of heartburn warm his oesophagus.

“Just let the police do their job, Ingram,” Ivo said, pleadingly. “This only muddies the water. We offer this kind of sum and every money-grubbing loser will be deluging the police with spurious information. It’s a terrible error.”

Ingram kept his smile in place, reflecting that it was rather rich for one money-grubbing loser to so denigrate his tribe.

“Your objection is noted, Ivo,” Ingram said. “Will you note it, Pippa?” Pippa Deere was keeping the minutes. “Lord Redcastle disagrees with the Chairman’s proposal…Good, duly noted. Shall we vote on it? All those in favour of the reward…”

Eleven hands went up, including Keegan’s and de Freitas’s, Ingram noted.

“Against?”

Ivo raised his hand slowly, a look of disgust on his face.

“Carried.” Ingram basked in his insignificant triumph for a few seconds, knowing full well that this small revolution on Ivo’s part was a misguided act of revenge for the hair-dyeing accusation — clearly it still rankled. Ingram wound up the meeting and everyone dispersed.

“Nothing personal,” Ivo said, as they left the room. “I just think that rewards are iniquitous, corrupting. Why not hire a bounty hunter?”

Ingram paused and tried to look Ivo in the eye but he was too tall.

“One of your close colleagues has been horrifically murdered. You’ve just voted against the one thing we as a company, as his friends, can do to help bring his murderer to justice. Shame on you, Ivo.” He turned and walked into his dining set ready for his brandy. “Have a nice day,” he said as he closed the door.

AS SERGEANT DUKE HOMED in for a farewell kiss, Rita took last-second avoiding action and ensured his lips did not meet hers — he would be allowed to kiss her cheek like everyone else at the station.

“Going to miss you, Nashe,” he said. “Where we going to get our glamour, now?”

She knew he fancied her — Duke being a married man with three children — and he was very aware that she and Gary had split up: his commiserations had been both heartfelt and eager. She would have to watch him later, at the farewell party. Sergeant Duke, off duty, drink taken…She felt her heart heavy, all of a sudden: she didn’t like goodbyes.

Duke was still talking. “But you’ll be back for the inquest, of course. And the trial.”

“What’s that, Sarge?”

“The Wang murder. The limelight has sought you out, Rita. Chelsea, brutal death, eminent foreign doctor. The beautiful WPC Nashe gives her evidence at the Old Bailey. Press’ll go ape.”

“Yeah. Well, let’s catch Kindred first,” she said, dryly. “Or there won’t be a trial at all. See you at The Duchess.”

“I’ll be there, Rita,” he said, his voice heavy with lustful implications. “Wouldn’t miss it, love, not for the world.”

Shit, she thought as she picked up her bag and left the station, regretting the party idea already. Vikram was waiting at the main door, affecting coincidence badly.

“Going to miss you, Nashy.”

“Don’t call me Nashy, Vik.”

He gave her a peck on the cheek. “Sorry. Anyway, thanks for everything. Couldn’t have done it without you.” Vikram had just been confirmed as a full-time police constable, his days as a special — a hobby-bobby — over.

“See you at The Duchess, eight o’clock.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Rita stepped out of Chelsea Police Station for the last time and decided to take a taxi home to Nine Elms. This move was a triumph, even though of small order — maybe not in the ‘dream-come-true’ category but it was going to be a key change in her life, and one for the better, she hoped — so a small indulgence was called for and justified.

The taxi dropped her at the boatyard and she walked down the metal gangway towards TS Bellerophon with a light heart. The tide was rising and the sun was shining through the lime trees above her on the river bank, turning their leaves almost unbearably green and fresh — and she suddenly had the feeling that this change in her life was going to be a successful one. To her vague surprise she acknowledged what she was experiencing: she was happy.

Then she saw her father on the foredeck leaning on his arm-crutches. She climbed up the steps to join him.

“Hi, Dad.”

“I hate you coming home in uniform, you know that.”

“Too bad.”

“It freaks me out.”

“What a shame.” She stopped and put her bag down. “What’s wrong with you, then?”