He returned the cursory greeting and gripped his bunch of carnations more tightly. As usual they were red.
Like blood?
It had been her favourite colour. He always brought red flowers.
There was a slight rise ahead and Doyle gritted his teeth as he walked up the incline, the wind cutting into him as he reached the top.
The grave lay to his right at the base of the reverse slope.
He swallowed hard and dug in his jacket pocket as he approached the headstone.
The plinth was dirty. There were dead leaves and withered petals lying on it.
Some bird shit on the stone itself. Doyle pulled the cloth from his pocket to clean the headstone.
Before he began he stood motionless by the grave and read the inscription: GEORGINA WILLIS AT PEACE
She had been just twenty-eight when she died.
He closed his eyes for fleeting seconds and her image danced before him.
The blond hair. The finely chiselled features.
Was it really more than ten years since her death?
So much pain.
Had time passed so quickly? So meaninglessly?
What was it people said? That you should let go of the past? Fuck that. Why let go of the past when there was nothing in the future?
He ran a hand through his hair and looked again at the stone.
‘Hello, babe,’ he murmured.
Doyle knelt and began cleaning, spitting on the cloth. He did the same with the metal vase that stood on the plinth, and then he placed the carnations carefully inside and set it back in position. He balled up the cellophane and stuffed it into his pocket.
For what seemed an eternity, the counter terrorist stood beside the grave, the cold wind gusting around him. His eyes were fixed on the stone and its gold letters.
You should be in there with her.
‘I’ve got to go,’ he said finally.
You should be the one who’s dead. Not her.
He kissed his index finger and touched it to the headstone.
‘I’ll see you soon.’
Doyle turned and headed back up the gently sloping path.
He didn’t look back.
The building in Hill Street was a magnificent edifice. A three-storey monument with a walled garden to the rear. It had once been the town house of millionaire John Paul Getty.
Doyle drove past the dark, brick structure once, searching for a parking space. There were half a dozen large, black cars already nestled around the building like huge, black beetles around carrion. He could see chauffeurs seated inside. Two of the uniformed men were outside their vehicles, chatting in the warm early morning sunlight.
Doyle reversed then spotted an empty space right in front of the imposing oak doors of the building.
Fuck the double yellow lines.
He guided the Astra into the gap then fumbled in his glove compartment for the orange disabled sticker. He pressed it to the windscreen and swung himself out of the car, still clutching the remains of an Egg McMuffin in one hand. He quickly swallowed the last mouthful.
Doyle walked up to the door and pressed the buzzer beside it. The intercom hissed.
‘Can I help you?’ said a metallic-sounding female voice.
‘Doyle, 23958,’ he said into the grille. ‘I’ve got an appointment with Parker at ten.’
There was a loud buzz and the door opened.
Doyle stepped inside, his footsteps immediately muffled by the thick carpet that covered the reception area of the London headquarters of the Counter Terrorist Unit.
The woman who’d buzzed him in was in her late twenties. Short, dark hair. Of slight build. She was wearing a dark-blue two-piece and a white blouse and looked the epitome of efficiency. Probably hand-picked by Parker, Doyle thought. He liked his staff to be immaculate at all times. The counter terrorist glanced down at his own battered leather jacket and worn jeans and
smiled to himself.
A large reproduction of Pietro Annigoni’s portrait of the Queen hung on the wall behind the receptionist. It regarded Doyle balefully.
‘Can you tell Parker I’m here, please,’ Doyle said, reaching for a cigarette and lighting it.
‘It’s a no-smoking building,’ the receptionist told him reproachfully.
‘I’ll try to remember that,’ Doyle smiled.
He looked around the reception area and saw three men seated at various places around it.AH were dressed in dark suits and all three never allowed their gaze to leave him the entire time he remained at the reception desk.
Doyle took a long drag on his cigarette.
Security?
The portrait of the Queen was giving nothing away.
‘Mr Doyle is here,’ he heard the receptionist say.
‘Send him in,’ Jonathan Parker instructed.
Doyle hesitated a moment, still inspecting the three besuited individuals seated nearby.
‘If you go up the stairs, Mr Parker’s office—’
Doyle cut her short.‘l know where it is,’ he informed her, and she watched him as he headed for the staircase at the rear of the reception area. He occasionally winced as he felt the stiffness in his left leg.
The counter terrorist reached the landing and headed for the second door on his right.
Two more of the suited men were standing outside. They weren’t CTU, he was sure of that. One took a step towards him as he approached the door. . ‘I’ve got business in there,’ Doyle said, fixing the man in an unblinking stare. ‘If I was you I’d move.’
The man hesitated a second then backed off.
Doyle knocked on the door once then walked in. He recognised Jonathan Parker immediately.
The Commander of the Counter Terrorist Unit was seated behind his antique desk sipping from a bone-china tea cup. Only his eyes moved in Doyle’s direction as the younger man entered the room.
‘Have a seat, Doyle,’ said Parker, setting down his cup.
Doyle did as he was instructed, his attention now drawn to the other individual in the room who was sitting on a large, leather sofa to the right of Parker’s desk. He was holding a manilla file on his knee.
There was something familiar about him.
Parker nodded in the other man’s direction.
‘Doyle, I’d like you to meet Sir Anthony Pressman, the Home Secretary.’
That’s what the pricks in the suits were here for.
Pressman ran appraising eyes over the counter terrorist but his expression remained indifferent.
‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’ Doyle said to his superior.
Parker took a deep breath.
It’s about what happened in Belfast,’ Parker said quietly.
‘Which is where I should be now, not here discussing it,’ snapped Doyle.
‘I know how good you are at your job, Doyle. That’s why I’ve overlooked certain aspects of your behaviour over the years. You’re the best we’ve got and I don’t mind saying it.’
Doyle waved a hand in front of him. ‘Did you pull me off a fucking case to give me a testimonial?’ he said, ‘Because if you did, thanks a lot but put it in writing and let me get back to work.’
‘What you did in Belfast was unacceptable.’
Doyle turned slightly in his seat. The words had come from Pressman who was flicking through the file before him.
‘What I did in Belfast was unavoidable,’ the counter terrorist said sharply.
‘Have you any idea the damage you caused? The cost of your actions?’ Pressman continued.
Doyle smiled humourlessiy and shook his head. ‘I couldn’t give a fuck about
the cost,’ he said.‘l was trying to neutralise two known terrorists, in case you hadn’t
noticed, they’ve already killed ten people in the past three months.’
‘“Neutralise”,’ Pressman mused.‘What a quaint term. The problem is, Mr Doyle, that your actions caused more than a million pounds’ worth of damage to property and endangered countless innocent lives, not including those of the men you were attempting to “neutralise”. One of whom, I hasten to add, is now dead. Killed by you.’