‘It’s true,’ Vincendeau nodded. Slumped over a cappuccino, she sat opposite Grumbach; a short, dark woman, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Her SIG Pro SP2009 was clearly visible, peeking out from a shoulder-holster under her leather jacket. ‘But people in England are still not so used to seeing cops with guns.’
‘They should be by now,’ Roche shrugged. ‘We’re at airports, stations, even shopping centres. SO15 patrol the streets every day.’
‘That’s one thing I didn’t understand,’ Vincendeau said, gesturing at her prisoner. ‘Why did the Counter Terrorism Command Unit grab this one?’
‘The whole thing was a big mistake,’ Grumbach said, reaching across the table and gently punching Alain Costello on the shoulder. ‘They picked him up by accident. Funny, huh?’
Costello grunted but didn’t look up from the game – which Roche recognized as Grand Theft Auto: Liberty City Stories – that he was playing on his PSP console. In handcuffs.
Roche felt embarrassment mingle with her frustration. It was true that the whole thing had been a bit of a cock-up. If SO15 hadn’t mistaken Costello for a suspected North African terrorist by the name of Mehdi Zerdab, Roche would have had nothing to do with him. As it turned out, he was only a low-level drug dealer, albeit high on the wanted list of the Préfecture de Police. To be fair, it was a relatively easy mistake to have made. The distinction between drug smugglers and terrorists was becoming more blurred all the time. In the last month alone, SO15 had seized seven machine guns and more than a dozen automatic pistols from terror suspects with well-documented connections to the illegal drugs industry. It was a symbiotic relationship that both sides were increasingly happy to exploit: the terrorist groups gained cash and the traffickers, protection. Smugglers carrying cannabis, cocaine, ecstasy and heroin were known to transport weapons on behalf of their business partners.
Forty-eight hours earlier, following a tip-off, SO15 had picked Costello up in a raid on a Brixton flat. The place was supposed to be home to a terrorist cell. Instead of the anticipated haul of Jihadi propaganda and homemade explosives, however, the police found twelve kilos of cocaine, twenty thousand Euros in cash – and Costello. The little runt had been caught trying to flee through a bedroom window, having stopped to rescue his games console on the way.
They removed him to Stockwell Road police station for processing. Deprived of his games console, Costello refused to say a word, declining even to ask for a lawyer. However, once his fingerprints had been fed into the Interpol database, the authorities found more than enough information to be going on with. Given there were three warrants out for his arrest in France (one for attempted murder), plus two in Belgium and one in Holland, there was clearly going to be a queue of people waiting to take him off SO15’s hands.
Less than two hours later, Grumbach and Vincendeau had been dispatched from Paris to take him home to the cell waiting for him in the Maison d’Arrêt de la Santé in the 14th arrondissement.
‘Why do you let him play that?’ Roche asked, keen to change the subject.
‘Keeps him quiet,’ Vincendeau sighed. ‘Just like taking your kid on a trip.’
Bored with the conversation, Roche watched Sidney and his mother return to their place in the queue for the next train to Paris. She glanced up at the departures board above their heads. It told her that Eurostar 9042 to Gare du Nord should be boarding in about twenty minutes. Departure: 16.52. Surely it was time to be making a move.
Grumbach followed Roche’s gaze. ‘Don’t worry,’ he smiled, placing a hand on her forearm. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’
‘She’s right,’ said Vincendeau gruffly. ‘Allez! Let’s get going.’ Getting to her feet, she scanned the lines of passengers waiting to go through passport control and scowled. ‘We should never have come this way anyway. All this “hiding in plain sight” business of yours, Jean-Pierre.’ She shot Roche a knowing look and raised her eyebrows.
‘We’re not hiding,’ Grumbach objected, gesturing at his demitasse. ‘I just wanted to have a decent cup of coffee before we get on the damn train.’
FOUR
When Carlyle finally got home, Helen was in the bath, the remnants of a Big Blue seaweed ball from Lush fizzing about in the water. Giving her a kiss on the forehead, he quickly pulled off his clothes and joined her in the warm, salty water. Splashing his face, he leaned back against the taps and smiled.
Looking at her, his mind flashed back to their recent health scare. Helen had been identified as a possible carrier of a faulty gene called BRCA2, which meant an increased risk of breast and ovarian cancer. For several weeks, their lives had been turned upside down. Then the test came back negative and the whole thing disappeared in an instant. How different would life have been, if the result had been positive? He quickly shook the thought from his brain. They’d had a lucky break; it was pointless to brood on it. Life had almost instantly returned to normal, and now, it was as if the whole drama had never happened.
He shifted in the water, trying to get comfortable.
‘Hey, if you’re going to annoy me, you can get right back out again.’
‘You didn’t get my message then?’ Carlyle asked, changing the subject.
‘No. Why?’
‘Bomb scare.’ Remembering that Alice was out for the night, he felt a tiny tingle of anticipation. ‘Harry downstairs thought that Osama bin Laden was trying to take him out. He really is beginning to lose his marbles.’
Helen’s eyes widened. ‘What?’
Carlyle explained what had happened. ‘Literally, the Bomb Disposal guys ran all the way up to the tenth floor to find Harry holding a box of Jim Reeves CDs and a biography of Harold Macmillan. They were not best pleased.’
‘I bet they weren’t,’ Helen laughed, carefully getting to her feet.
He watched the water drip off her buttocks. ‘They wanted to arrest him for wasting police time.’
‘That seems a bit much,’ she said, wrapping a towel tightly around her waist.
‘I made them see sense in the end.’
‘Well done.’ Helen stepped out of the bath and reached for a second towel, draping it over her shoulders. ‘Seeing as we have some time to ourselves, I thought we might go and see a film tonight – unless you have other ideas?’
Carlyle just grinned.
She blushed slightly. ‘John!’
‘A film would be great,’ he said, pulling out the plug.
‘Come on then. There’s something on at the Renoir that I thought we could go and see. It starts in forty-five minutes. Maybe get a bite to eat afterwards.’
‘Sounds good.’ Standing up, he made a grab for her towel. ‘That gives us plenty of time for what I had in mind.’
Watching the two French officers head slowly towards the first-class barrier with their prisoner, Roche tried to shake the stiffness out of her legs, gaining only momentary relief. Sniffing her shirt, she caught a whiff of the accumulated body odour and let out a little groan. When she got home she was going to have a long, hot bath and a glass or three of chilled Sauvignon Blanc. Then she might put on one of the anti-stress DVDs that everyone in SO15 had been given by the Met’s Chief Medical Officer.
Closing her eyes for a nanosecond she pictured herself in the perfumed water. It was a reverie that was over before it had begun. First came the sound of gunfire, rapid and precise: one, two, three. It sounded like a handgun of some description.
Roche opened her eyes and tried to focus.
Then the screaming started.
People were fleeing in all directions, the panic so loud that she almost couldn’t make out the next shots: four, five, six.