Fear of the Fathers (13 page)

After making sure everything was as it should be he returned to his room. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. Thoughts and visions entered his head, and then quickly left again without an imprint, as he hovered in the world between consciousness and sleep. In between the fleeting visions, one kept returning: an image of Stratton, not dead on the grass at Stonehenge, but very much alive and bright and calling his name. He was so real that Jennings found himself reaching out to touch him. But as he did, a ringing sound distracted him. The picture faded, and he started and woke.

He lazily reached for his phone and answered it. “Hello,” he said sleepily.

The voice on the other end was Stella's. “It's me,” she said. “I haven't woken you have I?”

“No, not really. I was just snoozing,” he yawned.

“I thought you were on duty.”

“I am…I was. What time is it?”

“It's quarter to seven. I just wanted to know if you fancied getting some breakfast. I need to talk to you.”

Jennings shook his head to expel the haze. “Okay, no problem. Shall I come up to yours?”

Stella paused for a moment. “Yeah, why not. I'll go out and get some stuff in.”

“Okay. I'll be round about half eight.”

Jennings hung up and reached for the glass of water on his bedside table. He took a long drink and let out a satisfied exhalation. He knew that he should probably get some more sleep, but Stella ringing at such an early hour was a rarity, and it was obvious from her voice that she genuinely needed his help. And besides, he found it extremely difficult to say no to her.

After officially handing over to Stone and Davis – who both looked tired, and didn't seem to have recovered fully from their Sunday night binge – he showered and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. He then left the building and hopped onto the tube at Westminster, taking the district line to Chiswick Park. The train was packed and Jennings struggled to maintain his composure. He hated the London Underground and made a point of using it only when necessary. As a rule, peak times were strictly off limits. The dense compaction of bodies tested his innate claustrophobia to the maximum. And the Islamic bombings of July 2005 had done nothing to help his nerves. When he eventually arrived at his destination, he jumped off and almost sprinted up the stairs to get out into the fresh air.

Outside the station he turned right and headed for Stella's flat. It was windy with a light drizzle and he hunched himself up to keep warm. His tiredness returned and exacerbated the elements. He wondered if it he might have been better served by staying in bed.

As he approached the old house that contained her flat, he saw Stella walking up the path with a couple of shopping bags. He halloed her and waved. When he caught up she was out of breath. “Heavy shopping?” he said.

“No, not really,” she said. “I've just been walking quickly. I didn't want to leave you waiting on the doorstep in this weather.”

“No. It's a bit unforgiving isn't it.” He rubbed his hands. “Anyway, less chitchat. Let's get inside.”

Stella opened the door and Jennings grabbed the shopping. As they entered the flat a welcoming blast of warm air hit Jennings full in the face. He immediately felt better.

Stella went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. “What do you want? Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please.”

He removed his jacket, settled himself down at the table and picked up Stella's
Daily Mail
. The front page was, unsurprisingly, still devoted to the assassination attempt. A large photofit of the suspect dominated, with the inevitable headline: ‘FACE OF TERROR'. Jennings was pleased with the likeness, but still uncomfortable with the media's stubborn refusal to consider the shooting anything but Islamic violence. Although, it had to be said, the police and security services were not trying to disabuse them of the fact. He gave the article no more than a perfunctory glance and carried on to the rest of the news.

Stella returned from the kitchen bearing two cups of tea. “There you go,” she said, handing him one of them. “Strong with milk and two sugars.”

“Thanks.”

“Any more news on the assassin?” she asked.

Jennings put down the newspaper. “No. Absolutely nothing. Not even the briefest sighting.”

“Surely MI5 must have something concrete by now.”

“You would think so, wouldn't you?” said Jennings. “But if they have, I certainly don't know about it. Just because I'm stationed at Downing Street doesn't mean that I know any more than anyone else. You should know that.”

Stella went back into the kitchen to start breakfast and Jennings returned to the newspaper. Nothing much seemed to be happening in the outside world, well nothing good anyway. The recession continued to bite; kids continued to knife other kids; and celebrities continued to bounce in and out of rehab. The only ray of hope was a story about a man who had given his life to save two children from drowning off the coast of Cornwall. But one selfless act wasn't going to stop mankind's slippery descent into soulless oblivion, was it?

The back-page splash was about the Prime Minister's horse Jumping Jon and how it was going to take its chance in the Grand National. Jennings hoped that he would be on leave that particular day. He'd gone right off horseracing.

Breakfast was varied and plentiful. As well as eggs, bacon, sausage and beans, Stella had fried up some hash browns and mushrooms. She had also gone to the trouble of juicing fresh oranges. Jennings tucked in hungrily, suddenly realizing how famished he was.

“I'm not going to steal it you know,” said Stella.

Jennings finished a mouthful of bacon. “Sorry,” he said. “It's just really nice. I haven't had a proper fry-up for ages. I never usually have the time for it at home. Anyway, why don't you tell me what's so important. You said you needed to speak to me about something.”

“I'm being followed,” she said.

“Oh. Are you sure?”

“Pretty much.” She went on to describe the events of Sunday and Monday.

“Did you get the registration number?” Jennings asked.

“Yeah. I've written it down for you. I thought you might be able to get it traced for me.”

“No problem,” he said. He paused for thought, his fork laden with a slice of sausage. “No offence, but who would want to follow you?”

Stella shook her head. “I was wondering the same thing. It's been going through my head all night. I just have absolutely no idea.”

“What about this Cronin bloke? Maybe it's got something to do with him?”

“Don't be silly. He's a priest.”

“So you say,” said Jennings. “But how much do you really know about him? I mean, he's just suddenly turned up in your life and befriended you. You don't know what his motives are.”

Stella tutted. “You're so suspicious of people. He's just a priest who's helping someone out. Maybe it's fate. Maybe he was sent to help me. He's certainly not expecting anything in return.”

Jennings wondered if this was a pointed comment, but decided that he was being paranoid and ignored it. “No, of course not,” he said. “I'm sorry, I'm just naturally suspicious. But if our situations were reversed then you'd be saying the same thing. As a rule you're just as untrusting as I am.”

“Good point,” she laughed in agreement. “But you should know by now that I'm not stupid. If there was something suspicious about him then I would have sensed it.”

“I know,” said Jennings. “I shall defer to your judgement.” He dropped the subject and continued to eat, even though he still had misgivings.

After they had both finished Stella lit up a cigarette. Jennings gulped down the last of his tea and sat back in his chair. His stomach weighed heavily and started to send messages of sleep to his brain. He shook his head and opened his eyes.

“Sorry,” said Stella. “You must be knackered. You can have a kip on my bed if you want.”

“Thanks, but I'll be alright. I'm back on days tomorrow, and if I sleep now I'll never get my head down later.”

“That's a bit of a quick turnaround.”

“Yes it is,” yawned Jennings. “But everything seems up in the air at the moment. Last week's put us all out of kilter. It seems like a perpetual state of emergency.”

Stella finished her cigarette and cleared the plates. Jennings moved to the sofa and switched on the TV. His head started to nod. Voices from the television began to mingle with those in his own mind, so much so that he became disoriented. He floated into a comfortable blanket of unconsciousness. Then someone was calling his name, over and over. It was a male voice and it sounded distant. It echoed though his body. Then he saw a brief image.

“Jennings…Jennings,” said a soft voice.

Jennings twitched and opened his eyes. Stella was sitting in the armchair to his left calling his name.

“Sorry,” he said. “I must have drifted off.”

“Don't worry about it,” said Stella. “You're quite welcome. I was just going to ask if you wanted some more tea. I was just going to do one for myself.”

Jennings sat up straight. “Yes, I think I'd better if I want to keep awake.”

Stella went to make the teas. Jennings stared aimlessly at the television. He wondered what was going on. For the second time that morning Stratton had come to him.

The rain continued to hammer down as it had done for most of the day. Over the high, slatted fence of 27 Bletchingdon Avenue, Greenwich, Kamal slipped noiselessly into the back garden. He was dressed in black with a balaclava covering his face. After staking the street all morning he had come to the conclusion that the close neigh-bours were not in, and it would be safe to enter without being noticed. He gave one last furtive look to the adjoining houses and crept to the back door.

There had been no sign of movement in the house, but that didn't mean that nobody was in. The kidnappers of Annie's son would not have left the place unguarded or unwatched, he thought.

The lock was a simple Chubb and he wasted no time in picking it. Opening the door slowly, he peered into the kitchen. A pile of dirty dishes sat next to the sink, and there was a casserole dish on top of the hob. There was no sign of life. He removed his gun from his waistband, sidled in, and closed the door behind him.

With his gun at the ready he left the kitchen and entered the hallway. Everything seemed to be in place. The living room was the same – there were no outward signs of a struggle. He looked out of the front window to see if he was being watched, but the street was quiet and apparently empty.

With an increasing sense of foreboding he climbed the stairs. The house and the street were uncomfortably silent. He didn't like it at all. His body tensed as one of the stairs creaked underneath him. He looked around the landing but nobody was there.

There were four doors upstairs and he checked each one in turn. The first was the bathroom and it was clear. The second was obviously a child's room, with
Toy Story
wallpaper and a racing-car bed. The third was a junk room, with boxes of bric-a-brac and bin liners full of clothes.

As he stood outside the last door, unease began to swallow him. Unlike the others, which had been fully open, this one was only slightly ajar. All he could make out was the edge of a bed. There was no way of knowing what else was in there. His only option was to assume the worst.

Quickly, and instinctively, he kicked open the door and forward-rolled for cover at the side of the bed. He heard a whistle and a small thud as something hit the mattress. In one swift movement he broke out of his roll and turned around on his knees to face the door. He fired twice, rapidly, hitting the man once in each shoulder. The man dropped his gun and slid to the ground.

Kamal got up and returned the Browning to his waistband. He walked over to the man and knelt beside him. He was still alive but his breathing was laboured.

“Where is the boy?” asked Kamal.

The man stared blankly at his hooded attacker and said nothing.

“Where is the boy?” Kamal repeated, this time with more urgency.

The man shook his head. “I don't know,” he whispered.

Kamal punched one of the wounds with a sharp accuracy. The man howled with pain.

“Listen,” said Kamal with authority. “It is not wise to fuck about with me. All I want is the whereabouts of the boy. Tell me, and you live.”

The man smiled and shook his head again.

Kamal rifled through his pockets but found nothing except a mobile phone. He checked the log and found that a call had been made five minutes before. Chances were that someone else had been alerted to his presence. It was time to leave. There was no need to kill the man, he hadn't seen his face.

Kamal slipped the mobile phone into his trouser pocket. “I want the boy,” he said, and left.

Back at the motel Annie was still gagged and bound. Kamal had left the TV on for her, but it was all that she could do to concentrate. With every hour that passed she became more and more troubled. There was no way of knowing whether her son, David, was still alive. In her heart she felt that he was, but at the same time she doubted her instincts, and wondered if perhaps it was just wishful thinking. She was, however, grateful to be alive herself. For whatever reason Kamal's pistol had jammed once more, and in that instant everything had changed.