Detective Superintendent Peter Vorland is one of the good guys. Snowy headed, thinning on top, he has a powerful handshake and an Afrikaans accent. He came to the UK in the late seventies, escaping apartheid. Thirty-five years later and he’s never been back-not even for a holiday.
Ruiz once asked him why, but Vorland wouldn’t talk about it. Later, when they got drunk after a Twickenham test match, Vorland said he couldn’t forgive Mandela for the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.
“It’s not in my nature to exonerate torturers and murderers,” he said.
A few years back Vorland had a heart attack. Thought he was dying. He told Ruiz he saw fireworks exploding above Table Mountain and heard a black gospel choir singing. The crash cart and 300 volts brought him back.
Everyone thought Vorland should have retired but he wanted to come back. After six months recuperating, he was leaner, fitter, no longer drinking. Ten years younger and twice as miserable.
His office is on the fourteenth floor with a view across the rooftops of Whitehall to Westminster Cathedral.
“You want some crap coffee?”
“I’m good.”
They spend the first few minutes talking about rugby, more out of habit than need. Finally Ruiz elaborates on a phone call he made earlier, telling the DS about “a friend” who was robbed after playing the Good Samaritan.
“Why didn’t your friend report this crime?” asks Vorland.
“He thinks his wife might misinterpret what happened.”
“Where did your friend meet this girl?”
“The Coach amp; Horses in Greek Street.”
Vorland glances down at a yellow legal pad by his elbow. “I did a computer search and came up with five robberies in the past six months, same MO, two perps, one female, one male.”
“Descriptions?”
“The girl is eighteen to twenty-five, Caucasian, five-five, blue eyes, dark hair, cut short, but it could be a wig. She’s also been a blonde and a redhead. The boyfriend is six foot, close cropped hair and a northern accent.”
Vorland taps a fountain pen on the pad. “I also checked out that phone number. The SIM card is registered to a fake address in Wimbledon. Pay-as-you-go. The police won’t track the handset unless your friend reports the crime…” He raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you could convince him…”
Ruiz gives a non-committal shrug. “I’ll have a word.”
Vorland remembers something else.
“You could talk to the CCTV Control Centre at Westminster Council. They’ve got a hundred and sixty cameras in the West End.”
“Big Brother is watching.”
“They do a job.”
“I preferred the cowardly old world to the brave new one.”
Ruiz rises slowly and makes his way downstairs, dropping his visitor’s badge at the security desk. When he steps outside the revolving door he exhales as though he’s been holding his breath this entire time. Sometimes he needs a reminder that retirement was the right decision.
City Watch Security is in Coventry Street, up a narrow stairway from street level without any signage on the door. The reception area is a small windowless room with posters on the wall urging people to be eternally vigilant. The control centre is registered as a charitable trust, funded by Westminster City Council, the Metropolitan Police and private businesses.
The woman in charge, Helen Carlson, has white-grey hair and a head that looks slightly too large for her body, giving her a doll-like quality. Ruiz follows her to a separate building, around the corner in Wardour Street, where they enter a dark sub-basement with industrial bins and a caged lift. Ms. Carlson taps a number into a panel. The door opens. They wait for it to close behind them. Another panel, a different code and a second door opens into a large room where dozens of men and women watch the streets of London on vast screens, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, every day of the year.
There are images of pedestrians in Oxford Street, couples embracing on a park bench in Leicester Square, a bicycle courier weaving between buses at Piccadilly Circus, a tramp going through bins in Green Park, a delivery van blocking a street in Soho, three teenagers kicking a can outside Euston Station. Snapshots of London, viewed from swivel chairs in a darkened room-Orwell’s imaginary world, twenty-five years later than expected.
Ms. Carlson taps a keyboard. Her pink nail polish stands out brightly against the keys.
“What time?”
“Between eight p.m. and ten p.m.”
She swivels a joystick control. Fast forwards through archival footage. There are four views of Greek Street. One of them shows the Coach amp; Horses. The screen has a red square box in the top right corner.
“That signifies the street is an area of suspicion,” explains Ms. Carlson. “We focus on hotels, nightclubs and alleyways.”
“Must be riveting.”
“If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.”
“Did Stalin write that?”
The time code is running along the bottom of the screen. It slows as the footage decelerates. Ruiz sees the boyfriend walking towards the camera carrying two motorcycle helmets. He must have stashed them somewhere.
Fast-forwarding again, the time code says 21.24. Ruiz sees himself emerging from the pub and shoving the boyfriend into a parked car. The barman appears. The boyfriend walks away from the camera. At 22.08 Ruiz leaves the pub and hails a cab. The actress is wearing her red coat. The door closes and the cab pulls into the traffic. Moments later a motorbike passes the camera. The number plate has been obscured.
“Did you get what you wanted?” asks Ms. Carlson, clearly proud of the technology.
“Tell me something,” asks Ruiz. “If your cameras see a crime being committed, what do you do?”
“We alert the police.”
“And you keep filming?”
“Of course.”
Ruiz grunts dismissively.
“We’re fighting crime,” she says defensively.
“No, you’re recording crime. Your cameras can’t intervene to stop a rape or a murder or a robbery, which makes you just another bystander, sitting on the sidelines, watching it happen.”
The Coach amp; Horses is busy with a lunchtime crowd. Ruiz recognizes the Aussie barman. His name is Craig and he has freckles on his eyelids.
“You remember me?”
He nods and keeps stacking drinks.
“The girl who was in here last night, the one who wore a fist from her boyfriend; ever seen her before?”
“Nope.”
“What about her charming fella?”
“You should have hit him harder.”
“She was reading a copy of The Stage. You must get a lot of actors in here.”
Craig grins. “You want to see my show-reel?”
“Maybe never.”
Ruiz orders a steak-and-Guinness pie and a pint of ale. While he’s waiting he ducks outside to a newsstand and buys a copy of The Stage. Turning to the listings, he runs a finger down the page. Most are by appointment only. She was looking for an open casting. His finger stops. Taps the page.
Speed Dating, a romantic comedy.
Alasdair has been dumped by his girlfriend and is convinced to go to a speed dating night. Rehearsals begin September 18.
We are looking for:
– Alasdair 25-35. Northerner. Slim, a little clumsy around women.
– Jenny 20-30. Confident and sassy with a bruised heart.
– Felicity 20-30. Jenny’s best friend.
– Chris 25-35. Jenny’s fiance.
Casting at Trafalgar Studios in Whitehall, 3 p.m. to 5 p.m.
(Please bring headshots and a brief resume.)
Ruiz looks at his watch. It’s almost two now. Lunch first and then a look-see.
7
The helicopters are flying close tonight. Luca can hear the whump whump of the propellers concussing the air as they pass overhead. American troops are patrolling, searching for weapons and insurgents and “wanted” faces on playing cards.