Revenger (33 page)

‘What did you do that for?’ Alix cried, immediately fearful that Carver would be unable to contact her.

‘Because that phone is one of the finest tracking devices ever invented. And if you’re in as much trouble as you say you are, you sure as shit don’t want the whole world knowing where you are.’

Alix glared at him furiously. Peck ignored her. ‘So what was it Carver did?’ he asked.

‘He got mixed up in something . . . completely by accident. I mean, it was a million-to-one chance. He was having a quiet drink and a riot broke out and—’

‘You have got to be friggin’ kidding me . . . Your boyfriend is the Second Man?’

Alix nodded in admission as Peck gave a long, soft whistle. ‘Jeez . . . Well, I can see why you’re confused about the rights and wrongs. But as an officer of the Senior Foreign Service, then I have to point out to you that both you and I are obliged to respect the laws of this country and . . . excuse me a minute . . .’

They were just going round Marble Arch. Peck was still driving with a controlled, expert aggression, forcing his way through the traffic as he turned down Oxford Street, before cutting across the inside lane of traffic, provoking a furious barrage of horns, and turning left, back on to his previous northbound course. He looked in the mirror, clearly concerned that he was still being followed. Then he turned his attention back to Alix and carried on as if nothing had happened, ‘I have to advise you that the best course of action for both you and me would be for me to accompany you to the nearest police station and stay with you to ensure that your
legal
rights are upheld while you give a formal statement to the Metropolitan Police.’

‘No,’ Alix said. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘And suppose I say that for the sake of my career, and because it’s my actual duty, I am going to be obliged to inform the police of our conversation over the past half hour?’

‘Then I will say that, as you know, I have many good friends in very high places who could cause even more damage to your career if you did not help me. And I will add something that you might not know. Sam is on President Lincoln Roberts’s Christmas card list . . .’

‘Him and about a hundred thousand other people.’

‘No, he gets a personal card, signed by the President – the same one who invited us to Lusterleaf at the weekend.’

‘You’re kidding . . . how come?’

‘Because he saved the President’s life and Roberts has never forgotten it.’

‘OK . . . I can see that this is going to require a little thought. Let me just ask you this, just to ease my nerves a little . . . Where were you last night, at the time of the riot?’

‘At the O2 Arena. I had an appointment to meet Mark Adams. It was a business meeting. Mr Adams, his wife and many other people could testify that I was there, and that I went to dinner with the Adamses afterwards.’

‘So, you had no knowledge of the riot as it was happening?’

‘No.’

‘And you first found out about it . . . when?’

‘When Sam told me some time after midnight.’

‘And why didn’t you report that information?’

‘Because I love him.’

‘Maybe, but that’s not what you tell the cops, when they ask. What you say is, you were frightened of him, scared shitless of what a man like that might do to you if you ever betrayed him.’

‘That’s a lie, and I’d be betraying him by telling it.’

‘It’s a lie that keeps you safe. Trust me, that’s what he would want.’

Peck kept driving the same way, making apparently random turns, racing forward whenever possible, running red lights.

‘OK,’ he said eventually. ‘As you can see, we’re taking the scenic route. The irony is, if you’re not trying to shake off a tail, it’s pretty much straight up Park Lane and Edgware Road all the way to my place. I live on Abbey Road, by the way.’

‘Like the Beatles record?’ Alix asked, happy to keep the conversation light.

‘Exactly. I can actually see the zebra crossing – the one on the cover – from the terrace of my apartment. It’s ridiculous, I know, but that’s pretty much the reason I rented the place.’

Alix smiled. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Sure.’

‘Have you had your picture taken walking across it?’

Peck laughed. ‘Guilty as charged!’

‘And can I ask another question?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Where did you learn to drive like that?’

Peck looked at her with a knowing half-smile. ‘Oh, I don’t know . . . pretty much the same kind of place, I guess, where you learned how to escape from that hotel.’

78

THE UNITED PEOPLE’S
Party headquarters was packed to bursting with the world’s media. The conference room made the Black Hole of Calcutta look spacious and underpopulated. Every other office, corridor and stairwell in the place was rammed with reporters. Screens and speakers had been set up so that they could all get a view of what was going on – the same view they would have got in much more comfort had they just stayed at home. Outside there were more news-crews sending reports back to their studios and interviewing passers-by. All the outside broadcast vans that had been in Netherton Street a few hours ago were here in the Shepherd’s Bush Road now, creating a logjam that was backing up the rush-hour traffic across a great swathe of West London.

What none of the media knew, however, was that Robbie Bell had fought like a man possessed to prevent the whole damn thing being cancelled. He’d been involved in a series of heated conversations with the police in the form of Commander Mary Stamford.

‘I must ask you not to go ahead with this event, Mr Bell,’
Stamford
had told him when civilized appeals to his better nature had failed.

‘Ask, or order?’ Bell had asked.

‘You know I cannot order you not to communicate with the media.’

‘Precisely. So that’s what we’re going to do.’

‘But I can arrest you and Mr Adams for obstructing or even perverting the course of justice if anything you or he says in this press conference hinders our investigations or makes it harder to bring legal proceedings at a later date. I would also remind you that the man you have identified to us has not yet been apprehended, interviewed, arrested or charged, still less found guilty in a court of law. If you say anything that might damage his reputation, you will leave yourself open to civil proceedings at a later date.’

‘I’m well aware of the laws of libel, Commander,’ Bell hit back. ‘But let me tell you a few laws of politics. I went public with this story because it would have leaked from your force if I hadn’t.’

‘Not if I’d had anything to do with it . . .’

‘
You
might not have done it, but somebody would. Then it would have looked like we had something to hide, and there would have been even more blood on the carpet – Mark Adams’s. Our campaign cannot afford to be anything less than totally transparent.’

‘It can’t afford to have you two carted off to Kennington nick to explain yourselves to our detective, either. Bear that in mind, Mr Bell.’

Bell put his phone away, thinking, Bollocks to that. A few hours ago, his campaign had been going down the crapper. Now he could put his man right back at the top of the news agenda and screw every other party up the arse while he did it. And if some copper thought she was going to stop him, she had another think coming.

Moments later he was striding into the conference with a confident spring in his step and taking his place behind the lectern to address the expectant crowd. ‘Before we begin, I’ll just explain what will happen. Mr Adams will read a brief statement. He will
then
answer questions. He will not, and cannot, however, give you any names, either of the suspect he has brought to the attention of the police or of anyone associated with that suspect. I’m sure you’ll understand . . .’ Bell gave a wry grin, pointed at a notoriously feisty TV newsman and got a laugh as he added, ‘. . . even you, Gerry, that this is a matter of police operational security. At this time of crisis, it is the duty of all of us to assist the police in any way we can, and we are doing everything in our power to help, rather than hinder, their inquiries. And now, without further ado, let me introduce the leader of the United People’s Party, the Right Honourable Mark Adams, MP!’

Mary Stamford did not appreciate being messed around by a jumped-up PR man. First Bell had made a nuisance of himself outside the event last night: now this. She called DI Keane, who was now back at Kennington. ‘Mara,’ she asked, ‘how far have we got with all that Berwick Street evidence?’

She listened thoughtfully to what Keane had to say, then asked, ‘Anything useful come out of the hotel room yet?

‘I see,’ she replied after Keane had given a somewhat shorter reply. ‘Well, I think it’s time we brought the public up to date with our investigation.’

‘Does that have anything to do with wanting to get your own back for this Adams press conference?’

Stamford laughed. ‘Well, just a little bit, maybe.’

‘Then I’ll get on to it right away, ma’am. Do you want me to run this through Public Affairs first?’

‘No, I’ll take care of all that. Just stick to the facts . . . and don’t be too obvious.’

‘Of course not,’ said Keane. ‘I quite understand.’

79

CARVER HAD GONE
shopping. In a Boots Opticians he bought a pair of spectacles with clear glass, choosing the frames specifically to complement his existing appearance, by making him even more pathetic-looking than he was already. When the chatty salesgirl asked him why he wanted clear glasses he explained that he had an important job interview coming up, ‘And I want to look more intelligent.’ He’d almost got to the door of the shop before she could no longer contain herself and burst out in helpless giggles.

Now he just needed to purchase the following:

The final entries on his shopping list were:

Once he’d got them all he would have a scaled-down civilian equivalent to the gear he’d once taken into battle as an officer in the SBS. The only thing missing would be the opportunity to use it. But Carver had little doubt that he would not have long to wait before that arose.

80

MARK ADAMS WALKED
up to the lectern holding a piece of paper which he carefully smoothed out in front of him as he looked around the room. He cleared his throat and began to read. ‘Last night, following a very successful political meeting, I went out to dinner with my wife, Nicki, my campaign manager, Robbie Bell, and a political consultant of impeccable personal and professional reputation, with whom I was discussing various aspects of my campaign strategy. The consultant, who is female, had mentioned to me that her partner had served in the British armed forces. As a former military man myself, I said that he was welcome to join us for dinner. She called him and he met us at the restaurant.

‘The gentleman arrived wearing a long brown suede jacket, a black quilted waistcoat and dark-blue jeans.’

Those words sent a palpable surge of energy through the room. Everyone knew immediately that this wasn’t just a publicity stunt by an unscrupulous politician. It could be a genuine, major story.

Adams felt the change in the air as he went on, ‘My guest was
about
six feet tall, slim build, with short dark hair. As you will gather, this precisely matches the police description of the so-called Second Man. During the meal, he and I had a conversation, in the course of which he mentioned that he had been having a drink earlier that evening with a former comrade who had been in the Royal Marines. I must stress that I had no knowledge at that time of the events now known as the Lion Market Massacre. As I am sure you will understand, my attention had been entirely devoted to the speech I was giving. So I did not then understand the significance of what I am now telling you.

‘As the meal wore on Mr Bell noticed small dark marks or stains on my guest’s jacket. Again, he had no reason to think that there was any significance to them. But early this morning, Mr Bell and I both saw the pictures released by the police of the man they were looking for. We immediately realized that the safety of the public and the obligation on all of us as citizens to assist the ongoing investigation both demanded that we should inform the police of our suspicions, which we then did.’

Adams folded his script up again and said, ‘I will take a few questions now.’ A forest of hands went up and he pointed at one reporter: ‘Mary . . .’ he said.

‘Can you give us some idea of what kind of a man your dinner guest was?’ asked Mary Wainright, a political commentator on the
Telegraph
. ‘Did he act in any way like a man capable of cold-bloodedly killing around forty of his fellow human beings?’

‘Not in any obvious way,’ Adam replied. ‘To be honest, he seemed like a perfectly decent bloke . . .’

There was another flurry of action as the phrase, ‘he seemed like a perfectly decent bloke’ was tweeted, texted and emailed around the world.

‘He was intelligent, articulate and had a decent sense of humour. He certainly knew about military matters. I remember we discussed the assassination attempt on me last night, and how he had known – as I had done – that the gun was firing blanks. Now I come to think of it, he actually raised the subject of the riot and its
aftermath
, but there was nothing at all in his manner to suggest that he was connected to it or to arouse our suspicions. Next question . . . the gentleman at the back there.’