The Lucifer Network (14 page)

‘No. Woodbridge. I'm about to catch a train,' she said, her voice brightening. ‘Could we make it eight o'clock?'

‘Where? At your flat?' he suggested, optimistically.

‘No. There's an Italian café in the Chiswick High Road. Corner of Turnham Green Terrace? D'you know that area?'

‘A little.' It was five minutes away. ‘At eight, you said?'

‘Yes.'

‘All right, then.'

‘Thanks Simo––'

The battery died before she could finish. He replaced the phone on the charger then returned to the window. Down below him, the tide was out, exposing stony banks on each side of the river.

He told himself that it
was
okay to see her. He was off the case now, so it wasn't business any more. Nothing to stop them getting acquainted personally if that's what they both wanted. No rush. He would play it by ear.

Then for some reason he thought of Steph. She
wouldn't have minced her words if she knew what he was planning.

‘You're thinking with your dick, Sam. It'll end in tears.'

At fifteen minutes to eight, showered and in clean clothes, he took the lift to the garage.

He drove eastwards under the M4 flyover and down the Chiswick High Road. Traffic was heavy. The sky was purpling with dusk and the rain had stopped again. Restaurants and pizza houses were doing a good trade. He saw the café Julie had mentioned and drove past it, catching a glimpse of a lone figure at a table. A couple of others were also occupied. He turned right into a side street and parked, then walked back, pausing for a few moments in a bus shelter opposite the café to make sure it
was
her and that she was alone. He waited for a lorry to pass then crossed the road.

Julie wore a grey rollneck pullover which accentuated her slenderness. Sam noted her lack of spectacles and that she'd tarted herself up with a bit of eye make-up. She screwed up her eyes as he approached, checking it was him. When she saw that it was, she became flustered. He liked her shyness.

He sat down opposite her. ‘Hello.'

‘I . . . I wasn't sure you would come,' she whispered, with a tight, rubber-band smile.

‘Well . . . damsel in distress and all that.'

She looked down at her hands, then surprised him by grimacing.

‘A little nervous,' she murmured. ‘I . . . I don't really know what I'm doing here . . .' She seemed to be waiting for him to take control.

He felt a compelling desire to touch her, to break
through the invisible barrier separating them. He was considering how to do it without seeming too presumptuous, when he became vaguely conscious of chairs being scraped back and some of the other occupants of the café getting to their feet. Julie lifted her head again, but this time it wasn't him she was looking at. Someone had taken up a position immediately behind his chair.

‘Mr Foster?' The voice was male.

Sam's insides dissolved. As he turned to see who it was, a flashgun went off in his face.

‘Fuck . . .'

‘
Daily
Chronicle,
Mr Foster. We'd like to ask you a few questions about the death of Harry Jackman.'

Sam glared at Julie. There was an expression on her face that he'd seen once before. On a woman attending a bullfight. A knowledge that although she'd paid to see a killing, she wasn't sure she could stomach it.

He still wanted to touch that lovely neck of Julie's, but this time with both hands and to squeeze them together with all his strength.

Some men die early, he found himself thinking. People like Harry Jackman went quickly in a hail of bullets. But others – men who were really, really, unbelievably stupid – did it slowly and painfully, in an act of professional suicide.

SAM CRANED ROUND
to see how many of them had ambushed him.

‘You work for MI6, Mr Foster.' The reporter spoke with a well-bred accent and stood close to the back of the chair to make it hard for Sam to stand up.

‘I most certainly do not,' he fumed. ‘Who on earth told you that?'

‘Harry Jackman, actually,' the reporter yapped. The camera continued to flash. ‘In a letter posted to my paper after his death. He also described how you paid him $250,000 of British taxpayers' money to supply arms to the rebels in Bodanga.'

All there. Everything. Harry Jackman's revenge had been total. The chasm opened beneath his feet.

‘Pretty appalling piece of ethical foreign policy, don't you think, Mr Foster? How many was it who died under the guns that the British government paid for? Two and a half thousand. Most of them women and children.'

Sam shook his head. ‘Got your wires crossed, sonny. No idea what you're talking about.' It amazed him how calm he sounded. ‘I've done business with Harry Jackman, yes. But I don't deal in arms. And I don't work for the Intelligence Service. Now if you'll excuse
me . . .' He shoved the chair back against the reporter's stomach.

The journalist winced but stood his ground.

‘Did you kill Harry Jackman, Mr Foster?'

The skin crept on the back of his neck. He shot a glance at Julie. Was
that
what she believed? The thought that she had so misjudged him cut deeper than the betrayal itself.

‘I most certainly did not.'

‘You were there.'

‘Tragically, yes. He was shot by a man in Zambian army uniform. You can check that with the Zambian police. There was nothing I could do to save him.' He stared fixedly at the girl, his face as expressionless as he could make it. ‘And I came here this evening because in a misguided moment I felt sorry for his daughter.' Her instant embarrassment gave him a jot of satisfaction.

He swung his elbow back into the reporter's stomach and stood up.

‘So sorry, old chap. Have to go. Do try to get your facts straight. Okay?'

He barged his way to the door, counting the opposition again. Four – two scribblers and two snappers, one dressed in leathers. The other photographer blocked his path.

‘Excuse me.' Sam brought his knee up.

‘Oof! Bastard!'

Outside on the street, Sam sucked in air and marched. A bus drove past. Throwing himself under it seemed an attractive option. He couldn't go back to the car. They'd trace him from it.

The winded cameraman caught up and did that perilous backwards walk which photographers do, snapping wildly. Sam put a hand over his face, with half an eye on the road, praying for a taxi.

‘The public has a right to know, Mr Foster . . .'

‘They also have the right not to be hounded by the likes of you.'

Suddenly Sam saw what he'd been looking for and dived towards the kerb, his arm reaching out into the road. The taxi tucked into the side and stopped. As he wrenched open the door Sam heard a motorbike start up.

‘135 Clapham Common South Side,' he ordered. The reporter tried to get in too. ‘Do you mind?' Sam pushed him back with his foot and slammed the door. He noted the journo scribble down the address he'd just shouted out then leaned forward to the sliding glass. ‘Just drive, chum!'

‘Clapham Common, you said?'

‘Never mind that. Just get me away from these reptiles.'

The driver jerked in the gear and accelerated away, stealing glances in his mirror to see if he'd got some celeb in the back.

‘I had that Nicole Kidman in my cab the other week,' he announced stoically.

They make it up, Sam decided. He twisted round. The motorbike was catching up, the photographer with the leathers astride it.

‘Can you lose that bike?'

The driver looked in his mirror.

‘Naah. No chance, mate. Sorry. They've got two wheels, see? Go anywhere I can and more.'

‘Then take me to a tube station.' Sam racked his brains. ‘Acton Town. You know it?'

‘Course I bloody do,' the driver bitched, annoyed his fare would be smaller than he'd anticipated.

The bike was right behind. If it came to hide-and-seek in a train station it'd be him and the photographer. One on one. Odds he was used to.

In four minutes they were at Acton Town tube. The meter showed £3.20, but Sam thrust a fiver through the gap.

‘Keep it.'

‘Thanks very much, guv. Hopes you wins.'

Sam sprinted into the station. An inspector held out his hand for a ticket. Sam held up his membership card to a south coast yacht club.

‘Police. Special Branch,' he snapped, running straight past. ‘Stop that guy in the leathers, okay?'

‘Hang on a min––'

Sam knew this station. There were two main platforms and several staircases. He clattered down the first, praying a train would be waiting. But the tracks were empty.

He sprinted along the platform, using billboards as a screen. At the far end he risked a look back. No sign of his pursuer. He'd been forced to buy a ticket. Sam reached the stairs at the far end and climbed. The landing above was deserted.

He waited, chest pounding. God, what a mess. What a stupid, fucking mess. How the hell had he fallen for Julie's ‘please help me' act? In the distance, he heard the snick of wheels on track as a train approached. Heading west.

The snapper would expect Sam to get on the first train that came in, right? So, he would wait for the second . . . And pray a little.

As the westbound tube came in he heard the hum of an eastbound train sliding into the platform below him. He thanked God for this undeserved blessing, then started down the steps, pausing near the bottom out of sight of those on the platform, waiting for the bleeper warning of the train doors closing. When it came he darted across and squeezed through.

A handful of occupants in the carriage. Backpackers from a late flight into Heathrow and some Asian manual
workers heading into town for a night shift. Through the glass he saw that the westbound tube had pulled out already. As his own train accelerated, he spotted the photographer on the other platform glaring at him. He resisted the temptation to wave.

The next stop was Hammersmith and he got out, willingly coughing up the £10 fine for travelling without a ticket. A row of phones lined one side of the station lobby. He punched in a number.

It rang out. Went on ringing. He'd dialled on instinct, needing a clear head to talk to, someone to get sympathy from before the big guns opened up on him. And she wasn't there.

‘Hello!' An angry voice suddenly, out of breath.

‘Steph?'

‘Sam?'

‘Yes.'

‘God! You don't half choose your moment. I was in the bathroom.'

‘Got to see you, Steph. Now.'

‘Too late for a curry, mate. I've eaten already. Cooked myself a nice little stir fry. Should've rung earlier.'

‘That's not it. Got to talk, Steph. I'm in deep, deep doo-doo.'

She heard his anguish. ‘What's happened?'

Sam glanced over his shoulder. There were people in earshot. ‘Can't talk here. Can I come round?' Steph's flat was in Shepherd's Bush, a short bus ride away.

‘Umm . . .' He could hear the cogs turning and knew what it was about. She'd told him that Gerry was the jealous type and had made her promise not to let other men come to the flat. Despite his suspicions yesterday they were clearly still an item. ‘Problem with that,' she declared. ‘Better to meet in a pub.'

‘So long as it's got a quiet corner where nobody'll see me cry.'

‘Christ! You are in a state.'

‘I've fucked up, Steph. Fucked up really badly.'

‘Where are you?'

‘Hammersmith.'

‘Okay.' She thought for a moment. ‘There's a place called the Green Dragon halfway up the road that'd bring you to Shepherd's Bush. If we both start walking now we should meet there in about ten minutes. Okay?'

‘Okay. And Steph . . .'

‘What?'

‘I think you're wonderful.'

It was nearer twenty minutes before she joined him at the pub. He'd taken his pint to a table, which if not in a corner was at least reasonably secluded. Stephanie offered him her cheek to kiss, then he went to the bar to get her a gin-and-tonic. She had broad shoulders and a bright, attractive face. She wore black trousers and a dark blue sleeveless fleece over a white cotton shirt. Her straight, brown, collar-length hair was still damp from the hurried shower she'd had before coming out.

When he returned to the table he let out a long sigh. ‘You're looking at an idiot, Steph.'

‘Yeah, but I've always known that. A lovable idiot, though.' She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. ‘Are you going to tell me what's happened or do I have to guess?'

‘I walked into an ambush. Straight in there like a rookie.'

She made a point of looking him up and down. ‘No bullet holes.'

‘Flashguns, not rifles,' he told her.

‘Oh Lord. Don't tell me. The bait for this ambush had boobs like a Barbie doll and legs up to her armpits.'

Sam grimaced, embarrassed at being so predictable. Steph inclined her head sympathetically.

‘I think you'd better start from the beginning if you want me to do a counselling job.'

Sam told her everything, almost. Steph was one of the few people in the world he felt he could really trust.

‘About five foot four, this Julie woman? Quite petite?' she asked when he'd finished.

He looked away, detecting a touch of jealousy. He'd always suspected Steph's interest in him was not as platonic as his in her.

‘I mean I'm not blaming you,' she went on, unable to resist the gibe. ‘A feller who's as bad at relationships as you are needs to take his chances whenever they come along.'

‘Thanks, Steph. That's just what I needed.' He downed the remains of his pint. ‘What the hell do I do, that's the question?'

‘Do your lords and masters know about it yet?'

‘No. It only happened an hour ago.'

‘Well tell 'em fast before they find out from somebody else,' she scolded. ‘God almighty, Sam, you're behaving like a ten-year-old.'