Flashman moved his large bulk towards me, a big man who was accustomed to getting his way.
The woman from MI5 held up a hand to stop him.
‘Because we can’t watch all of them, DC Wolfe,’ she said in a voice full of reason. ‘Because there are too many of them, especially now that so many are coming home. Because our resources are not limitless. There are a few thousand of them and there are a few thousand of us. These men were on our radar but not under the microscope. Surveillance is highly labour-intensive and we simply do not have the manpower or the resources to put every returnee under twenty-four-hour surveillance for the rest of their lives.’ She looked at Flashman. ‘What is it now?’
‘Thirty officers per subject for twenty-four-hour surveillance,’ he said. ‘Plus multiple vehicles, including at least a couple of motorbikes.’ He watched me under his belligerent, hooded eyes. ‘And that’s only if they never have a day off for weekends and Christmas.’
‘I know that’s no consolation after what happened today,’ she said. ‘And I am truly sorry for the loss of your colleague.’
I nodded.
And now it was Flashman who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
‘You’re right out of order, Wolfe. You shouldn’t be talking to a CTC suspect. And you shouldn’t be opening your disrespectful cakehole to us as if you’re running this show.’
‘We gave them to you,’ I told him. ‘Information from my CI about the weapons dealer handed you the Khan brothers after they bought two grenades from him.’
He sneered at me.
‘That was a false lead.’
‘What?’
I was genuinely shocked.
‘The grenades. They didn’t buy any grenades. We have had a Specialist Search Team in Borodino Street tearing that house apart. And guess what, Wolfe? No grenades. All we found in the way of weapons was that old assault rifle that killed DS Stone. Your information was wrong. And the Khans were edging back on our radar anyway, before we got the nod from you. So don’t pat yourself on the back too hard.’
Flashman nodded to the custody sergeant and he unlocked the door. The two big coppers stood in the open doorway for a moment, considering Ahmed ‘Arnold’ Khan with real loathing. Then they went inside, roughly cuffed his hands behind his back and brought him out. Flashman narrowed his eyes at the sky-blue ribbon on Ahmed Khan’s London Transport uniform, then nodded briefly and they took Khan away.
Flashman turned to me.
‘Now why don’t you go back up to the top floor and get to work on some domestic that went a bit too far?’
‘And why don’t you catch some real terrorists?’ I took a step towards him. ‘Where were you when we were on Borodino Street, Flashman? Washing your hair?’
He made a move towards me but the custody sergeant stepped between us.
I shook my head at Flashman, nodded to the woman from MI5 and walked to the lift.
Edie was already back in MIR-1.
‘The gang’s all here,’ she said. ‘A social worker and a translator. The social worker is for the girl – that Layla, she’s such a sweet kid – and the translator is for the old lady, Mrs Khan, who apparently only speaks Urdu.’
‘But her husband told me they’ve been here since the Seventies.’
And hadn’t she spoken to me in English in the kitchen, if only to ask me not to kill her?
Edie grinned. ‘Early days then. Give her time. She’ll get the hang of it yet. Maybe she only speaks English when it suits her. What’s the drill now?’
‘They will eventually cut Mrs Khan loose but the local authority will almost certainly take the girl into temporary care,’ I said. ‘Which could last forever, or at least until she’s eighteen.’
Edie’s smile fell away.
‘The poor little cow. Where does Mrs Khan go?’
‘Anywhere she likes.’ I nodded at the TV. ‘But not home.’
The Specialist Search Team looked as though they had begun to dismantle the property in Borodino Street. Floorboards and piles of bricks were stacking up in the front garden. And I saw that Flashman was right. If those two grenades had been inside, our people would surely have found them by now.
‘Excuse me?’
A tall young black woman hovered uncertainly in the doorway of MIR-1.
‘I’m looking for DCI Whitestone,’ she said. ‘I’m TDC Joy Adams.’
Edie and I looked at each other. Our team had been undermanned since the death of our colleague Billy Greene. This must be Billy’s replacement.
‘DCI Whitestone’s on leave,’ I said.
‘Leave? What – like a holiday?’
Her accent was South London mixed with a distant touch of Jamaica.
‘Yes, exactly like a holiday. Even Homicide cops get some leave every once in a while.’
Trainee Detective Constable Joy Adams nodded and looked around the deserted MIR-1. She was wearing a black trouser suit and her hair was in tight cornrow braids that were pulled into a short ponytail at the back. I could tell she had thought carefully about how she should look on her first day in Homicide and Serious Crime Command.
And I could also tell this large empty office was not what she had dreamed about during her training at Hendon.
‘It’s usually a lot livelier than this,’ Edie said.
TDC Adams nodded, her eyes drifting across the empty workstations to the scene in Borodino Street on the TV screen. The blacked-out silhouette was still in the bottom right-hand corner.
‘That isn’t our investigation?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Edie said. ‘It’s somebody else’s job. But don’t worry – there’s always another murder along soon.’
But TDC Adams was ready to go to work now. The noise drifting up from the street was getting louder. The crowd was growing.
‘Come here,’ I said, and she followed me to the window. ‘You see all those people out there?’ I said. ‘They’re too close to our front door. And there are too many of them. And they could get angry. And that would be bad news for everyone.’
Adams’ bright eyes were waiting.
‘So you get as many uniformed officers as you can find and go out there,’ I told her. ‘You’re in charge, not the uniforms. But you stick with them. Don’t get separated, OK? Be polite but firm with the people, but you move them back to the end of the street.’
‘Burlington Gardens?’
‘No, the other end. Conduit Street. I don’t want them milling around in Piccadilly, wandering around the Ritz. Then you set up a perimeter so that nobody enters Savile Row who doesn’t need to be here. Can you do all that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
She headed for the door.
I stayed at the window and a few minutes later TDC Joy Adams appeared down on the street accompanied by half a dozen uniforms. I watched as – gently but firmly – she ushered the crowd to the far end of the street. She was going to do all right.
‘Max,’ Edie said. ‘Look.’
She was staring at the TV where the blacked-out silhouette had finally been replaced by the face of DS Alice Stone.
It was some kind of official portrait but Alice Stone still was smiling that big, good smile that she had.
I felt something choke up inside me.
‘Looks like they reached her next of kin,’ Edie said.
6
It was the end of the long day and Fred’s gym was almost empty now.
Down on a yoga mat, a woman in her fifties who looked maybe thirty silently moved and breathed her way through Surya Namaskara, the Sun Salutation, bending and unfolding and stretching her body so that the series of graceful asanas looked like just one long fluid movement. One of Fred’s shaven-headed regulars in a frayed London Marathon T-shirt wearily banged the heavy bag with eighteen-ounce Lonsdale gloves. Someone turned off the treadmill, caught their breath and headed for the showers. And Fred stood before me, his long silver hair pulled up in a topknot, looking like a pirate who was about to go for a serious run.