‘All I’m doing, Sarah, is keeping you in the loop.’
And possibly looking for somewhere else to lay the blame, once it came to it, which it usually did. ‘Thank you, Stephen, that’s most considerate. What is it you actually want?’
‘Leave to keep going, but without involving the police. We may need to lift a few people and question them without sending any shockwaves that might alert Rolt’s friends.’
‘Are you saying Rolt is somehow complicit in the bombing of his own hostel?’
‘Not in so many words — but you’re aware of what we know about the supposed “bomber” and that’s still under wraps for now. But if we take the two incidents together, the shooting in Walthamstow and the bombing, what do they have in common? It would now seem that both were planned specifically to deceive us about who was responsible. The first outraged the Muslim community because it appeared that the police had shot an innocent man, and the second got the rest of the population very worked up — not just over Syrian returnees, but just about everybody with a Koran in the house. If anyone wanted to split the public and turn the two communities against each other this has done it, and Rolt has stepped into that divide. It’s extremely bad news.’
‘But apart from your belief that trouble always comes in threes, and a nasty feeling about Rolt, this doesn’t amount to much.’
‘Look, can I just say, re the location for the summit—’
‘Stephen, there’s no way that’s going to change. The PM has staked his reputation and, indeed, his political future on pulling off a deal with the US that should put the economy back on the rails. What’s more, moving it away from Downing Street will, he thinks, make him look weak. I don’t like you going behind the backs of the police. As it is, there’s too much friction between you lot.’
She held his gaze. They both knew what she was talking about. 9/11 might have been averted had there been better communication between the US security services. 7/7 had caught them unawares here, yet the perpetrators were found afterwards to have been on the watch lists. And with Al Qaeda urging returnees from Syria to make lone-wolf attacks on any significant targets this was no time to be fomenting disunity between MI5 and the Met.
‘How’s your man inside Invicta? Has he made any headway?’
‘It’s a little early to say, but he’s certainly got stuck in. He’s the reason I’m here basically.’
‘His name wouldn’t be Tom Buckingham, would it, by any chance?’
The blood drained from Mandler’s face. ‘Wherever did you get that idea?’
She gave him a wry look. ‘You’re aware that our mutually esteemed cabinet secretary has a soft spot for Rolt. Turns out they dined at Clements’s club and Rolt was waxing lyrical about an ex-SAS man of that name. If he’s your man, and Clements is aware of him, I fear his number may be up pretty soon.’
74
Tom walked past the SO6 cops outside Invicta’s headquarters and through the front door, held open for him by another cop with an MP5. Inside, the security guard gave him a friendly nod. No questions, no search. And the receptionist greeted him as if he’d worked there for years.
‘I’ll sign you in, Mr Buckingham. Just go straight up,’ she said, with a sunny smile.
‘Thanks. It’s Hattie, isn’t it?’
She beamed.
Phoebe was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. ‘Hello, Mr Buckingham. How nice to see you again.’
She was so convincing, he wondered for a moment if she had just had a serious attack of amnesia. ‘Good to see you too — er?’
‘Phoebe.’
‘Of course, how could I forget?’
He took her hand and gave it a discreet squeeze.
‘Good trip, I hope?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
A couple of Invicta staff came past and smiled at him.
Phoebe was staying in character. ‘We’ve lost Vernon, I’m afraid. He went off to see a group of MPs and he’s not back.’
‘No problem, I’ll wait.’
Phoebe’s eyes shifted pointedly towards the doorway of the room next to where they were standing. Inside, a woman was sitting on a chair, facing the desk: fortyish, attractive, with dark shoulder-length hair, in a dark coat and low-heeled shoes; professional, he guessed, educated. Phoebe leaned towards him. ‘Mrs al-Awati, the mother of the hostel bomber. Vernon invited her.’
If she heard them talking about her, she gave no indication of it. Instead, she stared into the middle distance, as if to avoid focusing on anything.
‘How come?’
Phoebe leaned closer. ‘He wants to show some magnanimity. He thinks it’s a good message to send out that he’s capable of forgiveness — and, of course, it’s a great photo-opportunity.’ She gestured at a photographer sitting on a bench further down the corridor, surrounded by his kit, reading the Sun. ‘Give me a sec, will you?’
Tom went into the room. ‘Mrs al-Awati, good afternoon. I’m Tom Buckingham. I work with Mr Rolt.’
She started to get up.
‘No, please.’
Her face was etched with grief, her eyes marbled with red, as if she had been crying for days. A handkerchief was balled up in her fist. Tom took her other hand as he sat down beside her. It was stone cold. He was tempted to keep hold of it just to add some warmth. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
Over the years he had had to comfort the parents of fallen comrades, but nothing like this. Her face crumpled. She lifted the handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes. ‘Thank you. Do you know you’re the first person to say that to me? I still can’t entirely believe it. Maybe I never will.’
‘That’s an understandable reaction.’
She began to cry again.
‘It’s very courageous of you to come here today.’
She said nothing to this, just stared into her lap.
‘Why don’t you tell me a bit about him? He was in Syria. For how long?’
‘Why he went — I’ll never understand. He had a good job with the Co-op, a pharmacist. Not medicine, as we’d hoped, but still — respectable, you know. Then last September I got a text. He said he’d flown to Turkey. I thought he’d gone on a last-minute holiday. He was there five months. They wanted him for his shooting skills.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Clay-pigeon shooting was his sport. He won a lot of cups for it — he was so skilled. They’re all still in his room.’
‘Did he come back to you when he returned to the UK?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what was he like, when he came back?’
‘He wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t see his old friends. He was on his phone all the time, I don’t know who to.’
‘And what happened — with the authorities?’
‘They came down on him very hard. Detention, took his passport away. Nothing excuses what he did, but I think that was the worst part, the treatment he got when he came back. He thought he had gone to do a good, courageous thing… and then that.’ She gazed up at Tom, with a look of desperation. ‘Do you know what fighting is like?’
He nodded. ‘And when he was back home, how was it?’
‘He went away for a couple of weeks, suddenly. Said he couldn’t stay there. I hoped his girlfriend would help.’
‘Did he avoid her as well?’
‘Oh, no, she was new. They only got together after he was back is my impression. I saw her just the once. He didn’t introduce me. She was very devout. I don’t know if he feared I would disapprove of that in some way, because we weren’t. But I thought it was a good sign, you know, that he had some kind of emotional stability in his life.’
‘Have you definitely not seen her since?’
‘After what’s happened? Poor thing, she can’t have realized what she was getting into.’