Zero Option

'Christ, Geordie,' he said. 'That didn't take long.'

'What do you mean?'

'You've only been back in the UK about five minutes and already you've stirred the shit something wicked.'

'For fuck's sake, Boss. It's nothing I've done.'

'No — well…' He stopped, looking at me. The edge in my voice must have made him realise what a state I was in.

'This is the picture they left.' I held out the envelope.

'I've touched it once, in the corner, but otherwise it's clean.'

He went to a shelf and brought down a new file- holder with a flap of cellophane over the front. I decanted the photo carefully into it so that the picture was protected but visible, and laid it on a desk.

'Bastards!' he muttered as he looked at it. 'Let's get a brew on, anyway.' His tone had softened. 'We're going to have to do some talking. Sugar in your tea?'

'No, thanks.'

He moved off into the little annexe where there was a kettle and stufffor making hot drinks. I glanced round at the room: desks with computer terminals on them, filing cabinets with combination locks, shelves full of books… this could have been an ordinary office but for the fact that on the walls drab grey curtains were drawn over boards which carried details of the Regiment's current secret operations.

I heard the kettle coming to the boil, and after a couple of minutes' fiddling about Mac handed me a mug. As I drank it I could feel my head clearing. The Intelligence Officer, a thin, bespectacled guy called Jimmy Wells, carrying a hefty, buff-coloured file of papers; then his clerk (or gofer), who'd also been dragged out of bed, and brought a laptop computer with him. Then came Detective Sergeant Ken Bates of the local CID — prematurely grey-haired, sporting a spiky grey moustache — together with a dumpy, fair- haired detective constable called Mary.

When everyone was seated round a table the int officer led off, telling his gofer to record everything I said on the laptop. The police girl was also to take down my statement in shorthand, to save me saying everything twice.

'The trouble is, I know so little about it,' I began. 'I just got home, and they were gone.'

'Wait a.minute,' said Bates. 'I need to take your full name.' He had a blunt Northern accent — Manchester, perhaps.

'Sharp,' I told him. 'Geordie Sharp.'

'Army number?'

'24369207.'

'Rank?'

'Sergeant.'

'Age?'

'Thirty-one.'

'Where's home?'

'It's called Keeper's Cottage. Out in the country,

quite isolated — six miles from town.'

'What's the village?'

'It's not in any village. It's just off the Leominster road.'

'What time did you get there?'

'Just about two.'

'And where'd you been?'

Jesus! I thought. This guy knows nothing. But then, how could he know anything about me? I've got to explain everything from scratch.

So I took a deep breath and said, 'We've been on an operation overseas. I've been away six weeks. We landed back at RAF Brize Norton at ten — that's near Oxford — then we came on here and had a bit of a piss- up to celebrate our success. We must have got into camp about midnight.'

'But you'd tried to phone home earlier,' Mac put in.

'You mentioned that at the party.'

'That's right. I called first about half-ten, from Brize, while we were waiting for our baggage. Then again about half-one when we reached camp.

The answer phone was on both times. And listen…'

I told them about the plates with tomato sauce on them, the packet in the waste-bin, and Tim's unused bed.

'But your wife could have used the plates at lunchtime,' said Bates.

I tried not to glare at him. 'It's not my wife,' I said evenly. 'My wife was killed by a bomb in Belfast.'

'I'm sorry…'

'It's all right. We're talking about my girlfriend, Tracy Jordan. She came to live with me and look after my kid after Kath had been murdered.'

'What about Susan?' asked the int officer. 'Where was she?', Susan.

'Susan Jones, the woman who's been sharing the house with Tracy.'

'God — I'd forgotten all about her. She's away a lot of the time, travelling for a cosmetics firm. She's probably on one of her tours.'

The detective sergeant cleared his throat. 'Can you describe Tim, please?'

'Well, you can see him in the photo.' I swiveled the file cover so that- the picture faced the sergeant. 'He's four and a bit. Very fair, fine straight hair, and blue eyes.'

'How tall?'

'Jesus! I don't know. Two foot six? But he's normal for his age.'

'What about his clothes?'

'Like here: green polo shirt, grey jogging pants and trainers. That's his regular gear.'

'And can you describe Tracy?'

'She's tall and slim, with red hair.'

'How tall?'

'Five ten… Here, look.' I pointed at the photo.

'She's level with both the PIRA guys, at least.'

'And is her hair the colour it looks here?'

'No, it's not as dark or chestnutty really. It's quite a fiery red. I've got better pictures of her at home.'

'We'll'need to see them, then. What else can you say about her?'

'She's got freckles on her face and arms.'

'Anywhere else?'

I looked up sharply. Was Bates trying to take the piss?

He read my reaction correctly and said in a flat voice, 'It may be a body we're dealing with.'

I swallowed. 'All right, then. On her shoulders as well.'

'Do you recognize the clothes she's wearing?'

'Yes. That turquoise top is a loose cot*on sweater that comes down nearly to her knees. She was probably wearing dark blue.jeans and white Reebok trainers.

Those big earrings are regular fixtures too. And she always has that gold chain round her neck.'

'Tracy's how old?'

'Twenty-eight.'

'When did you last have contact with her?'

'Oh Christ, I don't know.' My mind spun as I tried to unscramble events in Bogotfi and the jungle. 'Several days ago. A week, maybe. But a mate of mine phoned her from Colombia the day we left. That was yesterday — no, two days ago. She was fine then.'

The questions fired on, one after another. What security systems did I have on the house? Only lights outside. Had I ever been followed back from camp?

Not that I knew of. Had I or Tracy ever hung out military uniform on the washing line? No, I washed all my kit at the launderette in camp. Did I ever travel home in uniform or a military vehicle? No. Had we ever seen strangers hanging about near the house? No.

Had there been any strange phone calls?

'Yes,' I said. 'There was one. When I phoned her from Colombia she told me a man had rung and asked if I was enjoying myself in the sun.'

'When was this?'

'About a week ago. I spoke to her from Bogot.'

There was a pause as my inquisitors thought things over, and I began to feel desperately tired. Our flight home had stretched out over more than twenty-four hours, with demoralising periods of waiting in between, and we'd gone through several time zones. That would have been an ordeal on its own… and now I had all this.

The ops officer knew almost everything about my background, and the int officer knew some of it; but the detective sergeant, because he was starting from scratch, needed filling in on possible motives for the kidnap.