‘Yes, of course.’ He studied the photo. ‘What’s his name, this fellow?’
‘Darian Wallace. He spent two years in prison for the robbery and has just been released.’ Pym swilled the whisky round her glass. ‘That’s why I called you. I expect he’ll be heading straight for the buried treasure. Perhaps he’ll take you to it. There’s a mobile number on there, too, someone you can call in the Met if you need a steer on their progress. A friend of mine. They’ll need paying, of course, but you can tell them to expense me for any services they supply.’
Patey nodded, carefully re-folded the photograph and began tucking it into an inside pocket.
‘There’s one other thing,’ she said. ‘He’s wanted on suspicion of murder.’
He froze, hand still inside his jacket. Raised his eyes to her. ‘I don’t think that’ll trouble the chap I’m sending after him. He’s dealt with far worse.’
Pym finished her drink. ‘I don’t want to know.’ In her experience, it was preferable to keep above the details. You never knew when they might come back to bite you in the arse.
Patey didn’t respond. She imagined his view was much the same when it came to politicians and details. The less they knew, the better.
* * *
The Bucket of Blood.
So much of the stuff had been spilled here, the patrons gave the Lamb and Flag pub a new name. Two hundred years ago, blokes beat the shit out of each other most nights, bare-knuckle boxing for cash. A hundred and fifty years before then, a famous poet got done in by hired muscle in the pub’s alleyway. The irony wasn’t lost on him. For all our modern ‘progress’, people were still paying for violence. Employing others to fight and take down their enemies. Normally that was why the gaffer needed him. He assumed this job would be no different. At least it gave him an honest wage: day’s work for a day’s pay. Spike grunted a laugh and took a big mouthful of Guinness.
The pub was lively: usual mixture of Covent Garden tourists, office drones out on the piss and a few awkward dates all crowded in under the low ceilings. He’d arrived first. In the army they told squaddies to get wherever they needed to be five minutes early. Some lads always turned up five minutes before that. ‘Five minutes before the five minutes before,’ they called it. Spike favoured five minutes before that. Bagged the corner table and sat facing the door, avoiding the ‘dead man’s chair’ opposite. Old habits.
He was halfway down his pint when the gaffer came in, holding a lager. Patey still looked weird in a suit. He was more used to seeing the boss in his Hereford ‘uniform’ of polo shirt, jeans and Timberlands: exactly what Spike was in now. Suppose if you run a business you’ve got to look the part.
‘Spike.’ Patey sat and glanced around, evidently uncomfortable with his back to the door.
‘Colonel.’
‘You look well.’
‘Just done a week BASE jumping in Norway.’
‘Christ. Do you have a death wish, man?’
He sipped his Guinness. ‘One geezer did croak actually. Cocked up his own chute rigging. Fair play to him though, he died doing what he loved. That’s how I wanna go.’
‘Well don’t go anywhere just yet. I’ve got a job for you.’ Patey produced the photograph, slid it across to Spike. Outlined the brief. Didn’t name his client.
Spike pocketed the photo. ‘Find Darian Wallace. Get this emerald pendant back,’ he confirmed. ‘And whatever’s inside it.’
Patey rested his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers. ‘Correct.’
‘What do you want me to do with Wallace? Thames drop-off?’ Spike had picked up the phrase in Iraq, where bodies turned up in the river all the time. Made death sound like a form of transport.
His boss recoiled. ‘God, no. The client doesn’t want any mess, neither do I. Wallace is a murder suspect. If you can see your way to alerting the authorities on his whereabouts once you’ve retrieved the item, you’ll be doing the public a favour.’ Patey gave a mock salute. ‘Dyb dyb.’
‘Sod off.’ They both laughed. That was one reason he’d loved the regiment – still did. There was nowhere else you could’ve said that to a commanding officer. ‘Murder suspect?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Should I be worried?’
‘Are you ever?’
‘No.’ Spike sniffed. ‘And suppose he doesn’t want to tell me where the stuff is?’
‘Then get creative. Baghdad rules. Standard comms, updates as and when.’
‘Colonel.’
Patey stood, buttoned his jacket, shook hands and left. His pint was untouched. Spike finished off his Guinness then helped himself to the lager. Waste not want not, especially when he’d be off the beer for a few days now.
Old habits.
Chapter Ten
Tuesday, 20 June 2017
‘I’m not hungry.’ Zac placed a hand over his belly, then took a swig of coffee.
‘Eggs?’ Etta arched her eyebrows, tipping the pan to show him.
‘Gotta leave soon.’ It was quarter past seven. He would’ve happily scoffed a plate of scrambled eggs before work on any other day. This morning, though, he’d woken early with a nausea that hadn’t yet shifted. Anticipation. Drinking coffee probably wasn’t a great idea, but he had to have something.
‘Your loss.’
‘I’ve done his lunch,’ he added, nodding to the Batman tin on the granite counter.
Kofi followed his gesture to the lunchbox. ‘Batman fights the criminals like you, Dad,’ he said, mouth full. ‘Except he does it at night so no one sees him.’
‘That’s right.’ Zac stepped over to his son and ruffled his hair, the tight curls soft on his palm.
‘You’re a caped crusader!’ he exclaimed, still chewing.
‘Don’t know about that,’ said Zac quietly.
Etta turned, coughed theatrically, eyes wide. ‘What have I told you about speaking with your mouth full, young man?’
‘Sorry, Mum.’
Zac winked at him. ‘See you later on, mate.’ He kissed Kofi on top of his head, hugged him close.
The boy stuck out his tongue in disgust. ‘Get off, Dad!’ he laughed.
‘You’re very precious to me.’ Zac stood back, studied his son. Kofi looked up from his cornflakes, confused by his father’s unusual show of emotion at the breakfast table. Mornings were normally all business: get up and out. Cuddling was for the evenings, bedtime, weekends. Zac realised Etta was watching him too.
‘Hope your meeting goes well, love.’ She reached out a hand to him and he briefly squeezed it.
‘Yeah, thanks. I should go.’
Zac could still feel Etta’s gaze on him as he hurried through the front door.
* * *
Night Vision had been easy to find. Or more accurately, his parents had made him easy to find through their choice of name. There was only one Clarence Jeremiah Thompson in the whole of Britain. The Experian database search had confirmed that yesterday, with matching date of birth, and provided a new address near Kennington Oval. Thompson had moved house since 2012, but he hadn’t changed his name. That suggested he’d got away from informing for Trident unscathed. Despite this positive sign, Boateng counted many more unknowns. Anything could have happened in the last five years. He’d not been able to check if Thompson was still on the books for the Met or if he’d been discontinued. A source could be dropped for all sorts of reasons, including the risk they posed to the officers running them. Boateng was unarmed; had to rely on his bare wits. If this developed, he might need to think about some personal protection. Just in case anything went pear-shaped.