Jokerman (15 page)

Thirty-one

After Vale had left, Purkiss phoned the hospital and spoke to the registrar on duty in the Intensive Care Unit. Kendrick was still comatose and being ventilated. Brain oedema was still there, but under control. There was otherwise no change in his condition.

Purkiss rang Hannah.

‘Where are you?’

‘Home,’ she said. ‘Marble Arch.’

‘Come round here,’ he said. ‘I’ll update you, and we can go through Morrow’s paperwork together again.’

He gave her directions, not insulting her by advising her to employ countersurveillance methods
en route
. While he was waiting for her he ordered Chinese takeaway food.

Hannah arrived half an hour later, just after the food. She’d changed into casual trousers and a lightweight sweater which accentuated her slimness.

Over their meal, Purkiss brought her up to speed.

‘You’re going to speak to this Rossiter yourself?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Kasabian’s going to try and arrange it for tomorrow morning.’

‘So what do we do till then?’

‘We wait,’ said Purkiss. ‘As I said, it would be useful if you went through Morrow’s files with me. You might spot something I didn’t.’

They spent a couple of hours sprawled on the uncomfortably new sofas around a low table in the small living room, going over the paperwork again, looking to see if Arkwright’s name came up the way it had in the notebook Hannah had found. There was no mention of the man. Nor was there any hint of a connection with Rossiter.

‘Maybe the notebook was more up to date than any of this stuff,’ Hannah suggested. ‘Charlie might have only discovered the Arkwright link recently.’

‘Possibly. But the most recent memos and email transcripts here are from a couple of days before his death.’

‘Still doesn’t mean much. He wouldn’t necessarily mention Arkwright in every single piece of correspondence.’

Purkiss filled and refilled the coffee. At last he glanced up at the clock, his head swimming, and saw it was almost midnight.

‘We’re not going to find anything here,’ he said. ‘At least not tonight.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Damn it.’

‘You drive here?’

‘Caught the tube.’

‘They’ll still be running, but I can call a cab –’

She watched Purkiss, her gaze frank.

He felt a slow warmth spread from his chest, upwards through his throat and face, and downwards as well.

Wordlessly he shifted over on the sofa. She rose from hers and sat beside him, leaning in towards him.

For a moment she rested her head in the crook of his arm. He laid his hand along her side, feeling the dip of her ribcage towards her narrow waist. Her hair smelled warm and freshly washed, a spicy scent he couldn’t easily identify.

Purkiss pressed his lips against her hair, let them linger.

Hannah slipped a hand up his chest, stroking lightly. She tilted her head and his lips found her forehead. The fingers of his own hand ran down the smooth softness of her cheek.

Purkiss moved, turning towards her, and she slid her arms around his neck. Their mouths met, probed, her tongue slick against his. He wound his arms around her waist and pulled her hard against him.

Quickly, awkwardly they grappled with their clothes, fumbling and kicking. Hannah frowned as his left arm was exposed, swathed in its bandage. Purkiss’s hands roved over her bottom, her thighs, their smoothness marred only by the dressing on her own wound.

She straddled him and he entered her, groaning. Her feet were on the floor in front of the sofa and provided leverage as she rocked up and down. She flung her head back, her glossy hair writhing, her breasts thrust out. As they approached their peak, Hannah swung forwards, her hair shrouding Purkiss’s face, her mouth seeking his again.

Afterwards she lay slumped across him on the sofa, her breathing synching with his. Purkiss touched the sweat-slick groove of her spine with his fingertips, inhaled her hair once more.

She seemed to sense he was about to say something because she half-lifted her head and said, ‘No talk. Is that all right? No murmurings. Just…
it
.’

He nodded. Grasping her waist with both hands, he lifted her off him and sat up.

She peered into his eyes. ‘You’re not offended, are you? I didn’t mean to –’

‘Shh.’ Rising, he took her hand, led her to the bedroom.

Thirty-two

Lying to Brian over the phone on Friday, when she’d called him to say she had to attend Sir Guy and wouldn’t be home till later that evening, had been relatively easy because Emma hadn’t had to see his face. This time it was more difficult.

It was Sunday morning, and the breakfast dishes were piled up ready for scraping and then the dishwasher. Brian had made one of his epic breakfasts for the two of them and the children, and they’d lingered over it, making it last nearly two hours. Niamh and Jack were in the garden, yelling in carefree delight. Their shrieks intensified when Ulyana the nanny arrived.

Emma bustled about the kitchen, stealing glances at her husband’s profile. His face was always utterly relaxed, even when he was concentrating on a task, in this case getting dried egg yolk off a plate. His hair was tousled still, even his moustache a little ungroomed. As usual he was in cargo trousers and a rugby sweatshirt.

After the kids had returned yesterday, Emma had had little time to think about the object she’d found in the lining of her handbag. But its presence in her pocket, where she’d stowed it, nagged at her for the rest of the day. She’d listened to the children’s account of their misadventures at the Finches’ last night, had taken them shopping into Wimbledon that afternoon and spoilt them with treats – something she felt guilty about, because it felt like compensation for her betrayal of her family – and had undergone the protracted process that evening of feeding and bathing them.

Brian arrived home from cricket coaching a little after eight. She’d forgotten there was a match on after the coaching, and he’d bustled in, looking tired but happy.

‘My lot won,’ he said. ‘And just as well, too, considering how much work I’ve put into them.’

She kissed him, made an effort to ask him about his day, apologised once again for missing their evening together the night before. By no means everything she said was insincere. She had a genuine affection for this man, which had never waned even as the physical attraction, the excitement, had. He’d make a good friend, and an occasional confidante, in another life. Some of Emma’s friends had gay male friends, and she thought Brian would fit that particular bill rather well. If he was gay, which he wasn’t.

And if he wasn’t already her husband.

They’d had an enjoyable evening together, watching some rubbish on the television after Jack and Niamh were in bed, and it was only later, in bed, with Brian’s breathing deepening into the rhythms of sleep beside her, that Emma began to think about what she’d found in her handbag.

Like many doctors, she was a mixture of the logical and the irrational. Her job taught her to consider facts and evidence, and to avoid wild conjecture. The fact that she was a human being, with an atavistic inclination towards the superstitious and the fantastical, caused her imagination to spin off into flights of fancy.

The sensible side of her said: it’s a lump of metal in the lining of a handbag. That probably means it isn’t a genuine Louis Vuitton at all, but a tawdry knockoff from some sweatshop in Thailand.

The imaginative part said: it’s a bug. A transmitting device of some kind.

Just putting the thought into words in her mind made Emma realise how stupid, how childish it sounded. And yet… wasn’t there some common ground between the logical and irrational positions? She was, after all, sleeping with a member of the British Security Service. An intelligence agent, and bodyguard to the head of the organisation. And she did, after all, have a premium job as the personal physician to that head.

Sleep claimed her surprisingly quickly, and when she woke in the morning she understood that her mind had wanted her to slip under, to leave the solving of the problem to its unconscious side. For her immediate thought on waking was
: I need to ask James about it directly
.

That was the straightforward, no-nonsense approach. Bring the issue out into the open, clear the air. She’d show him what she’d found, and ask his opinion.

And if he was the one who’d put it in the lining of the handbag – something she couldn’t help but consider, given that she’d noticed it only after returning home for her most recent tryst with him – then so be it. He might admit it, might confess that it was a security measure, something he was obliged to do to all employees who had close contact with his boss, Sir Guy. She wouldn’t like it… but she could understand, sort of. On the other hand, if he had put it there but didn’t admit it – well, there was nothing she could do about that, but then again she’d never know.

Dimly aware that there was something shaky about her reasoning, Emma rose, stretched, peered across at a still-sleeping Brian, and went into the kitchen to make coffee.

While waiting for it to brew, she considered her options. She was going to meet James tomorrow afternoon; they’d planned it already. But she didn’t want to wait that long, or the handbag problem would gnaw at her, driving her round the bend.

She’d always been reluctant to call James at unscheduled times, however much she craved the sound of his voice. He was a busy man, in an incredibly responsible position, and the last thing she wanted to do was disrupt him at work. She didn’t need him thinking she was a clingy, needy woman; it would drive him away.

On the other hand, he might understand her concerns in this case.

She retrieved her phone from where it had been charging and thumbed in a text message:
Sorry to bother you and on a Sunday especially. But I need to talk to you urgently. It might be a security issue
.

Emma reread the last sentence. It was unbelievably manipulative, but it was the kind of thing that would get James’s attention.

She hesitated for a few seconds, her thumb over the
Send
key. Then she pressed it. Immediately afterwards she deleted the message from her
Sent
folder.

Breakfast passed slowly, a riot of laughter and spilled food and mock recriminations. Emma joined in heartily, stealing glances every thirty seconds or so at the display on her phone. It remained unlit.

Only afterwards, with the dishes piled and Brian hauling a sack of refuse to the outside bins, did her phone chime once. Emma snatched it up, read the message.

Meet me 2 pm outside main entrance of Tate Modern.

She read it several times, as if there might be some coded message underlying the straightforward instruction. Then she replied –
Okay
– and deleted both James’s text and her response. She looked up and saw Brian amble back in. He gave her a smile. Emma felt her heart hammering, her throat tight.

She sighed, as normally as she could. ‘Lousy news.’ She held up her phone. ‘I’m wanted again.’

The chest pains Sir Guy had been experiencing on Friday, Emma explained, were recurring. This time she was going to insist that the stubborn so-and-so went into hospital, and she didn’t care how busy he was. Brian smiled at her exasperation, but she could see the hurt underneath. Sunday was traditionally a family day, when they’d go to the Common or for a drive, and today they’d been planning to take a trip up to Hyde Park and Kensington Palace Gardens.

‘You and Ulyana take Jack and Niamh,’ Emma suggested. ‘I can meet you there.’

Brian agreed it was an idea.

Emma realised suddenly that she’d made a mistake. She said, suppressing the flame of panic in her, ‘Oh, and I’ve got to take the car. They’re not sending a driver for me today. Short supply on a Sunday, apparently.’

If Brian was surprised, he didn’t show it.

He hurried the children into their clothes while Ulyana prepared a picnic lunch, and Emma made a show of changing into work clothes – nothing fancy, just a blouse and skirt – and checking her medical bag. She kept the metal object from her handbag in her jacket pocket.

The family and nanny hustled into the station wagon, and Emma drove them to the tube station before heading towards the Thames. She could have taken the Underground herself, but it looked better for the show she was putting on if she seemed to be driving there.

Dear God
, she thought,
how complex these webs of deceit end up becoming
.

Emma crossed the river and reached Victoria Station, where she parked. It was a little after one o’clock, an hour before her scheduled meeting with James. She walked the rest of the way, enjoying the sunshine on her upturned face. The South Bank was crowded as ever on a Sunday, the mimes and living statues at the base of Waterloo Bridge appearing suddenly vaguely sinister to Emma, as though they’d been placed there to monitor her progress.

Looming ahead she saw the shape of the old Bankside Power Station which housed the Tate Modern. It was just the sort of venue James would choose, she thought. Emma had dragged Brian along to the gallery once, to a cocktail party hosted by one of her artist friends, and although he’d gamely smiled and feigned interest in the chatter around him, she could see his heart wasn’t in it. James, on the other hand, could hold his own on the subject of modern art, and offer an intelligent opinion on the most obscure and difficult piece even after viewing it only once.

She scanned the throng outside the gallery for signs of James, but any number of dark, good-looking young men turned out not to be him. Emma checked her watch. Ten past two. She was wondering whether to go inside and get a coffee when she felt a hand on her elbow. Before she could turn, James’s low voice murmured in her ear.

‘It’s me. Keep walking in the direction you were going.’

Startled, she complied. He muttered beside her, so quietly she couldn’t hear what he said, but she realised it was for show: they were a couple strolling along, in intimate conversation, so she responded with aimless patter of her own. As he directed her into the building, its cavernous lobby cool and echoing, Emma felt the thrill of his closeness, the warm maleness of his arm against hers, his breath on her cheek.

And she acknowledged the smallest frisson of fear.