22
Eddie Moyes had ordered breakfast. The Big One. Double eggs, bacon, two sausages, beans, mushrooms, fried bread and three rounds of bread and butter. He preferred bread and butter to toast. It made mopping up the egg yolk, beans and tomato sauce that much easier.
He was working while he waited. A half-drunk mug of tea stood on a table next to the pay phone in one corner of the café. Eddie's 1997 notebook rested on the shelf beneath the phone, and he was writing as he spoke. He was using the remaining pages of the notebook he'd used on the original stories so that he could refer back quickly and easily if necessary.
Eddie Moyes was no fool, he'd been around far too long for that. He was trying to track down Fergus Watts and he knew he wasn't alone in that. The others, whoever they were – and he suspected MI5 or MI6 – might well know by now that he was also on the hunt. Nothing escaped the security services for very long.
So just in case, Eddie was being careful. This call was important: better to make it from a public box than use his home phone or mobile. And Eddie had struck lucky – not quite the result he wanted, but he was making definite progress. He was writing quickly. 'Sailing? . . . No, you wouldn't even get me on a rowing boat in the park . . . Yes, I've got that, the morning tide . . . You've been very helpful, Mrs Meacher, thank you . . . The day after tomorrow, then . . . Yes, I'll call first . . . Goodbye.'
He replaced the receiver with a satisfied smile. And then his breakfast arrived. He was chewing slowly on his favourite combination of egg yolk and sausage when the door opened and a young woman walked in. Eddie noticed the cuts and bruises on her face but paid her little more attention. It was a busy café, used by all sorts of people, and they usually had a story to tell if anyone was prepared to listen. All the tables were in use, so it was no surprise when Eddie glanced up from his plate a few minutes later and saw the young woman standing there with a mug of tea in one hand.
She smiled. 'You look as though you're enjoying that.'
Eddie swallowed the final mouthful of sausage. 'Always get a good breakfast here.'
'D'you mind if I sit down?'
'Be my guest,' said Eddie, picking up the last slice of bread and butter and commencing the mopping-up operation. It didn't take long, and the young woman was polite enough not to look until it was all over.
Eddie had enjoyed his meal. He was full – replete, as he liked to call it. He picked up his mug and drained the last of the tea. As he put it down he saw that the young woman was looking at him. He smiled. 'You not eating?'
The young woman returned the smile and gently touched her face. 'Bit difficult at the moment.'
'Oh, yeah, sorry, I, er . . . well, I couldn't help noticing the bruises. Accident, was it?'
'Mmm, I walked into a door.'
Of course you did, thought Eddie. I've heard that one a thousand times. But it was nothing to do with him. If she had an abusive boyfriend – Eddie had already clocked that there was no wedding ring – and chose to let him get away with it, that was up to her.
'Actually,' said the woman softly, 'it was my boyfriend. I dunno why I should protect him.'
Oh no, thought Eddie, a talker. Still, he was in a good mood and in no great rush. If she had something she needed to say, Eddie was prepared to sit and listen. 'You shouldn't stay with him, love. In my line of work I've seen this sort of thing happen too many times.'
'Really? What, are you a social worker or something?'
Eddie smiled. 'Hardly. I'm a reporter.'
The young woman was wide-eyed. 'Honest? Oh, that must be so exciting. D'you do murders and things?'
'Well, I don't actually do them,' said Eddie with a laugh. 'I report them. I report all sorts of things.'
The notebook Eddie had been using was on the table-top and the young woman glanced towards it. 'Do you know, I wondered why you had a notebook with you.'
Eddie picked up the notebook and slipped it into his coat pocket. 'You're very observant,' he said with a smile. 'Make a good reporter yourself.'
Forty minutes later the woman was sitting in her car, dialling a number on her mobile. It rang three times.
'Yes?'
'You were right, he's got the missing notebook with him. It's got July '97 – SAS Traitor Watts written on the front.'
'Well done, Fran. Good work. Where is he now?'
'Back at his flat with all the dailies. Looks like he's settled in for a while.'
'And how are the bruises, and the nose?'
'Painful. I can't wait to meet up with our friend Watts again. Did Mick call in?'
'Yes. He'll join you later, once the swelling goes down a bit.'
Fran smiled. 'It's his own fault – should have kept his legs together. How about the governor? Has he got over us losing Watts for a second time?'
'He's not happy, Fran, but this should convince him that last night's CTR wasn't a complete waste of time. Wait out and I'll come back to you.'
She hung up. It was true, George Fincham wasn't happy, and wouldn't be until Fergus Watts had been eliminated.
Marcie Deveraux, on the other hand, was not unhappy with the way the operation was progressing.