The guy who’d spoken to me picked up an empty can from the ground, tossed it in the air, and headed it into a bush.
“Going to make us?” he said.
One of the others climbed on the back of the bench and started to tight-rope-walk from one end to the other. The third stood up and looked a little lost for a moment. Then he pulled a flat, half-size bottle of generic supermarket whisky from his inside pocket, twisted off the lid, and took a long swig.
“I’ve warned you,” the guard said, after staring at each one in turn. “I’ve given you a chance. Be gone in five minutes or I’ll be back with the police.”
“He won’t,” the tallest one said in my direction as the guard slunk away. “He always threatens us. But he never comes back.”
I sat in the garden for another twenty minutes, and saw that the lout was right. The guard didn’t return. I was wondering whether he’d ever intended to, if this was such a frequent occurrence. Or whether he always tried, but could never get the police to show any interest. They must have bigger fish to fry than a trio of half-hearted vandals. And the more I thought about it, the more I began to suspect the threat was just an excuse to walk away.
Two minutes later a pair of nurses opened the door the guard had used. They paused for a moment while they took in the way the group was behaving, then backed away. That meant no fresh air for them, after all, which didn’t seem right. It made me wonder whether I should have given the guard a hand, earlier. I could have shown him a more practical approach to the problem. I was still mulling this over, debating whether to have a little word with the lads before heading upstairs to see if the MI5 agent was back in her room, when the door opened again. And, as if she’d known I was thinking about her, the agent appeared.
She wheeled straight out onto the path. It seemed like she was looking in my direction, but I knew her peripheral vision would be locked onto the yobs. The residual twigs and broken branches made it hard for her to move, and as she struggled forwards the three lads stopped what they were doing and stared at her. She drew level with them, and the tall one reached into the bush to retrieve the can he’d headed there earlier. She kept going, apparently oblivious, until she was fifteen feet beyond their bench. Then the guy threw the can. It looped up in the air, in a big lazy arc, and crashed down against her right shoulder. She stopped. I held my breath. I guessed it would be too much to ask for her to stand up, draw her Sig, and scare the life out of them, but I was sure she’d do something to bring them into line.
She stayed still, and did nothing.
Then it dawned on me. She wouldn’t want to blow her cover. I didn’t have to worry, though, so I shot her a look:
Want me to care of this?
She shook her head, and started moving again. So did the hooligans. Two of them caught up with her before she’d traveled three more yards, and the third - the one with the whisky bottle - was only a couple of paces behind them. They shadowed her for a moment, looming over her from behind, leering at their prey, then the tall one took hold of the chair’s hand grips. He pushed down and the chair tipped, its front wheels leaving the ground. The agent let out a little scream and the idiots around her grinned. The one holding the chair spun her round in a complete circle and then let go, leaving her to crash down and roll diagonally until her wheels became snagged with debris once again. She glanced round, checking on their positions, then looked straight at me.
Stay where you are. Don’t interfere, her eyes were saying.
I didn’t understand. I assumed she was getting ready to make some kind of move, but she showed no sign of responding. And I couldn’t help thinking that if she gave them much more rope, it wouldn’t be themselves they’d be trying to hang.
The guy who’d been standing on the bench moved around behind the agent’s chair and pushed down on her shoulders, pinning her in place. Then the taller one stepped across in front of her and began to unzip what remained of his jeans. The agent’s eyes registered nothing until she realised I was moving. The yob noticed me coming towards him a moment later. He glanced at the wall behind me, then took a large step to his left. I adjusted my course to follow him, but as I drew close he didn’t make an attempt to defend himself. Or even to argue with me. He just threw himself backwards, going down like he’d been shot and almost burying the side of his head into the ground.
Chapter Seven
The two yobs that were still on their feet converged on their friend, then together they hauled the idiot up off the ground. The three of them stood still for a moment, arms around each other like exhausted runners at the end of a marathon. Then the tallest one broke free and started for the exit at the far end of the garden. Little pieces of gravel were still sticking out of his scalp and blood was oozing over the folds of his neck onto his T-shirt. The others followed him without a word. I watched until the door closed behind them, then became aware of the agent maneuvering her chair past me as she wheeled towards the nearest bench.
I walked across and sat next to her, expecting her to say something, but she seemed content to wait in silence.
“What was that all about?” I said, eventually.
“A couple of things,” she said.
“The guy just threw himself on the floor.”
“I know. He was playing to the camera. But don’t worry. It won’t do him any good.”
“What do you mean, ‘playing to the camera?’”
“You saw where it was mounted on the wall, right? Over there, behind the bench you were sitting on?”
“I saw it.”
“And you saw how he lined himself up, with you between it and him? He was trying to make it look like you assaulted him. Probably looking for compensation, from somewhere. But he won’t get any.”
“Of course he won’t. I didn’t touch him.”
“Ha. That’s not the reason. It’s because the camera’s not working. I had cause to check it, very recently.”
“I thought those cameras were to protect innocent people.”
“They are.”
“But now the criminals are using them to their advantage? That’s crazy.”
The agent shrugged.
“Criminals have rights, too,” she said.
“You know what they call us, in the States?” I said. “One nation, under CCTV. I used to think they were joking. Now I can see why.”
“They do a lot of good, too,” she said, after a moment. “The cameras. When they’re working. Did the boots arrive yet, by the way?” I told them to put a rush on the delivery.”
“So you are M,” I said. “I thought so.”
“You were right. I am.”
“Is that the whole of your name?”
“No. It’s Melissa. Melissa Wainwright.”
“Pleased to meet you, Melissa. I’m David Trevellyan. But you already knew that. You knew a lot about me, in fact. Including my shoe size, it seems. Unless that was a lucky guess.”
“I saw the notes that Jackson had made after your meeting. Our pencil-pushing friend is very thorough. He’d written down the size. The brand. The colour. Everything.”