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  “But you haven’t sniffed out the culprit?”

  “No, but that isn’t our top priority, Secretary. After all, the damage caused by the leak is already done. We’re concentrating exclusively on Ruhr. When we catch him, then I can turn my attention to our internal shortcomings.”

  The Home Secretary was silent for a time. “Sound approach, Martin,” he said finally.

  This unexpected vote of confidence startled Burr. He poked his walnut cane into the weave of the Secretary’s Persian rug. He had come here expecting his own execution or, at best, a severe reprimand. The Home Secretary wasn’t famed for a kind heart. A compliment from him had been known to make otherwise sombre men light-headed for weeks. Perhaps the Secretary’s mild approval was merely a way to soften the inevitable blow. Burr braced himself.

  “Do we have any idea why this German is here?” the Secretary asked.

  Martin Burr shook his head. “There’s a list of possibilities that grows longer by the moment.”

  “Possibilities or guesses, Martin?”

  “Guesses,” Burr said.

  The Secretary was quiet for a time. “When six policemen die, when we have an atrocity of that magnitude, it’s common to look immediately for an individual to take the total blame. The obvious choice, Martin, would be you. Commissioner of Scotland Yard, the man in charge of Ruhr’s transport, the responsible commanding officer, etcetera etcetera. The great masses, who have quite a taste for the blood of fallible officials, would not be unhappy with a public hanging.”

  Burr sighed and nodded his head. A public hanging: he saw himself turned out of office, a long retirement at his house in the Sussex countryside. He saw himself stooped and ancient, pottering around in a garden whose fruits and flowers didn’t remotely interest him but were merely things one grew on the way to the grave.

  “What damn good is a scapegoat?” the Home Secretary asked. “Your record is distinguished, Martin. And I stand squarely behind you. I will say so in public at any time.”

  Surprised, Burr brightened at once. “I appreciate that.”

  “I am one of your staunchest supporters, Martin. And I am certain the Commission of Inquiry will exonerate you in due course.”

  Burr felt a surge of gratitude that rose to his head like blood. He wasn’t sure what to say. He saw the Home Secretary reach across the desk and extend his hand, which Burr shook. It was a vigorous grip between two men who have sworn to uphold the laws of a nation.

  “Go back to work with a clear mind, Martin,” the Home Secretary said. “I don’t want you to be hindered by criticism. I don’t want the Commission of Inquiry to distress you in any way. Remember this. You have an ally in me.”

  “I’m very grateful, Secretary.”

  “No need. If you were an incompetent buffoon I would have you out of office in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. But you’re not. Your record speaks for itself.”

  Burr rose from his chair. A weight had been removed from him and he felt quite spry all at once. Even the portraits appeared less uncompromising, as if Burr had passed some kind of test and his examiners were, for the moment at least, pleased with him.

  The canary cheeped bravely. The Home Secretary walked to the cage and looked inside. “Bird’s first sound in days. Perhaps it’s a good omen.” He drew a fingernail over the bars, making a dull harp-like noise. “Keep me posted daily, Martin. That’s all I ask. When anything comes up, I will expect to hear from you.”

  “Of course, Sir Frederick.”

  The Home Secretary smiled. It was the easy expression of a man who, though born into wealth, prides himself on having the common touch. For this reason he was never called Sir Frederick in the newspapers. It was always the more colloquial Sir Freddie.

  He walked Martin Burr to the door.

  “Good luck, Commissioner.”

  “We’ll need it,” Burr said.

  Still smiling, clapping Martin Burr on the back, Sir Freddie Kinnaird closed the door.

  7

  London

  By mid-afternoon on his first full day of freedom, Frank Pagan had coaxed extra help from a variety of departments. Men had been called in to do extra shifts or work their day off. A few had been summoned from the twilight world of semi-retirement and sent out into the streets, grumbling yet grudgingly pleased to be useful. Officers travelled to a score of different places, Ealing and Wembley, Poole and Ramsgate, anywhere the names of those on the computer list had been located. It was a thankless undertaking, but what alternatives were there? Ignore the twenty-nine names? No. Pagan wanted to cover as many bases as he could. Later, there might be the consolation that he’d done everything possible and hadn’t skimped. He had three officers checking private airfields in the Home Counties for any evidence of the helicopter used in Shepherd’s Bush; another bloody long shot.

  By four o’clock, Pagan had also sent two men to Cambridge to analyse potential targets in the area with the Chief Constable. Another five had been ordered to meet the security officers of military bases throughout East Anglia, from Colchester in the south to Hunstanton in the north, an area some eighty miles wide and sixty miles long. Bounded by The Wash and the North Sea, it was a region of waterways, leafy lanes, ancient churches. Villages, some of them surprisingly remote, still had timbered houses. Across this flat green landscape, Air Force jets screamed out of bases and left fading trails in the sky.

  In Golden Square two officers were employed full time taking phone calls from people who claimed to have seen Ruhr. These came from every corner of England; The Claw had been observed by a lonely old man in Hull, a young drunk in Plymouth, a very proper lady in Sevenoaks, an octogenarian in Radlett. He had also been spotted on Westminster Bridge, and in a restaurant on the Grand Parade in Eastbourne by a short-sighted French waiter who’d never forgotten the humiliation imposed on France by the Germans at the Maginot Line. Ruhr, it seemed, was as common as hedgerow, and his movements just as tangled.

  Even though officers were scurrying all over the place, and business was being conducted briskly, Pagan was still beset by a sense of having overlooked something very simple, except he wasn’t sure what. It was a flavour in his mouth he couldn’t name, a word he couldn’t get off the tip of his tongue. Too many Pethidine, too little sleep on the hideous office sofa. He had the feeling that his brain, knocked off-centre, was dealing with the German only in a peripheral way. And the deficiency of his muse had really nothing to do with insomnia or pain. Face it, Frank, he told himself in that stern inner voice he kept for self-honesty: you’ve been bollixed by the last name on the bloody list.

  The twenty-ninth name. As he looked down into the darkening afternoon in Golden Square, he was uneasy.

  He wished he could set the past aside, lock it inside a box labelled oblivion. But it was a sneaky intruder, and it came upon you with the quietness of a shadow. He thought that perhaps Foxworth hadn’t been able to track the person down, and maybe that would be a relief, but all the particles of his curiosity were wildly activated. Sometimes the urge to visit your own history was overwhelming and so you walked old neighbourhoods regardless. The reckless heart, Pagan thought. It went where it wanted to go, striding to its own timetable, and there was nothing you could do but follow, even if the journey took you into the red-light district of your memories.

  Foxworth entered the office, whistling slyly. “Has anybody mentioned your resemblance to Quasimodo?” he asked.

  Pagan shook his head. “I must be missing something.”

  “It’s how you carry yourself, Frank,” Foxie said. “Like Charlie Laughton. All you need is a fair-sized hump.”

  “I can’t think of any other way to be comfortable.” Pagan had placed all his weight on the left side of his body. His right arm hung rather uselessly, and the right shoulder was raised a little. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was an improvement on total discomfort.

  “I’ll get you a bell for Christmas.”

  “I’d settle for Gunther Ruhr.”

  Fo
xworth stopped whistling. He took out his notebook, flipped the pages. He tore out a sheet, slid it across the desk to Pagan. “I found the individual you wanted. Wasn’t easy, actually. She checked into a hotel in Victoria two days ago, then promptly settled the bill and moved without explanation in the middle of the night. Arrived in a second hotel in Knightsbridge the day before yesterday. Did the same damn thing all over again. Paid the bill, arrivederci, upped and moved to the address you now have. Strange behaviour. One might say suspicious.”

  “One might.” Pagan looked at the piece of paper, then tucked it in his pocket.

  “You’ll need a driver,” Foxie said, thinking that what Frank really needed was a nurse and three weeks in a quiet room with an ocean view.

  “And that might as well be you, Foxie.”

  “I was hoping you’d ask.”

  Pagan was silent and nervous in the car as Foxworth drove along Piccadilly and up through the clogged streets of Mayfair. Late afternoon yielded to evening. Feeble sunlight pierced the slate-coloured sky, laying a dirty amber streak across Berkeley Square. Park Lane loomed ahead, and Hyde Park beyond, where evening had already settled among the trees. Pagan folded his hands in his lap. His mouth was very dry. This visit wasn’t the most practical thing he’d ever done. He could have assigned somebody else, even Foxie, to make this call. But how could he have resisted and let the chance slip past and then have to kick himself in regret?

  The monolithic hotels of Park Lane were ahead now, great slabs of glass and concrete that overlooked Hyde Park. Foxie parked the Rover outside one of the hotels and followed Pagan through the glass doors. Pagan inquired at the desk for the room number he wanted, then shuffled over the thick-piled carpet to the lifts.

  “You go the rest of the way alone. Correct?” Foxworth asked.

  “Correct,” Pagan said. Sometimes Foxie’s face was like a kid’s; he wasn’t very accomplished in the craft of concealment. He had been very curious about Pagan’s odd reaction last night, and he was even more curious today, and now he was to be denied direct access to the secret. Bloody Frank! he thought. Furtive bastard!

  “Sit in the bar or something,” Pagan said. “I don’t expect to be very long.”

  “I’m disappointed, Frank.”

  “Those are the breaks, Foxie.” Pagan stepped inside the lift, pressed a button for the twelfth floor. When he got out in a corridor that was deserted and weirdly quiet, he had the urge to return to the lobby and leave. Empty corridors in hotels unnerved him.

  How long had it been? Twelve years? Thirteen? If it had lain dormant that length of time, why disturb it now? It had turned first to dross, and then the years had refined it further, and now there was surely nothing left but dust. Dust, my arse! If that was all, why would you be here?

  He moved along the corridor. He found room 1209 and knocked on the door. After a few moments it opened about half an inch. The gap was filled with darkness and Pagan could make out only the eyes at first, but that was all he needed to see. They were unmistakable, blacker than he’d remembered; sad and reflective and deep and lovely, they drew him down into them even as they’d done twelve, thirteen years ago. Down and down; all those years ago there had been bliss at the end of this fall. He smiled uncertainly. He was tense, knotted.

  “Frank?” The voice was the same too. Perhaps a half-tone deeper, a little throatier. It was a voice made for risqué jokes and laughter in a bar just before closing time.

  A ghost touched him. He had the overpowering desire to put his hand out and feel her – no innocent contact between his fingers and her cheek, nothing smacking of mere fondness, but a truly intimate touch, his fingers on her nipples, her belly, between her legs. This was how she’d always affected him, and time apparently hadn’t altered that. It was fascinating to find an old passion lodged in the blood still. Remembered love was the most tantalising of all, flavoured with things that might have been; small regrets, unfulfilled desires, sorrows.

  “Frank Pagan. I can’t believe it.”

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  A beat of hesitation. Then she said, “Could I stop you if I wanted to?”

  He shook his head. There was a time, he thought, when I would have done anything for you. Rational, irrational, good, bad – these terms lost all meaning when love had you dazzled. He took a few steps forward. Curtains were drawn, a TV playing, no volume. A smell of cigarette smoke and perfume lay in the air. This was something new; she hadn’t smoked in the past.

  She wore a green silk robe belted not at the waist but lower, slinking around the hips. She wore clothes like few other women. She gave them a personality entirely her own, smart, a little sluttish, conspiratorial in a way, because she wanted you, and only you, to know what soft secrets lay under the garments. She always looked as if she were about to disrobe, as if clothes fettered her natural urge to go naked, which gave her an edge of unpredictability. And Pagan, twenty-eight years of age at the time of his passion for this woman, had thrived on this brink even as it had threatened him. He’d known bottomless jealousy and terrifying insecurity; when you loved Magdalena you lived with fear of loss, but you lived gloriously just the same. She made all your nerve-endings taut and your blood never stopped singing strange and unfamiliar tunes. Siren, whore, lover, friend – she’d bewildered the young Pagan with her permutations.

  “How did you know I was in London?” she asked.

  “Your name’s on a list. Everything’s on a computer these days,” he said.

  “A list? You make it sound very grim. I take it this isn’t a social call?” She sat on the unmade double bed and glanced past him across the room. The door to the bathroom was shut. A band of light glowed in the space between floor and door.

  “Not entirely,” Pagan said. He wanted to go closer to her, but he stood some five or six feet from the bed, conscious of how his sharp remembrance of old intimacies made him feel awkward.

  She pushed a hand through her marvellously thick hair. “How long has it been?”

  “Thirteen years, give or take.”

  “Sweet Jesus. I was a child back then.”

  “You were twenty-six.”

  “And naïve.”

  “We were both naïve.”

  “Yeah, but didn’t we have a time?” She smiled, reached for the bedside lamp, switched it on. He saw now, in the light that flooded her features, small lines beneath the eyes and around the corners of the mouth. But these minor incisions of time took nothing away from her. Quite the contrary, they gave her more depth and softened the beauty that had once been too perfect. She had the kind of looks that turned heads so quickly one could almost hear the separation of vertebrae.

  Thirteen years ago Pagan’s world had been transformed by this woman. Before his marriage to Roxanne he’d played the field, but his encounter with Magdalena Torrente had reduced that field to a dried-out pasture, consisting as it did of pallid girls whose notion of passion was as thrilling as taffeta. Cups of tea in bed, biscuit crumbs, damp little flats and whining gas-fires. Magdalena Torrente, a creature from another world, had come in like a tropical storm, cutting through Pagan’s Anglo-Saxon cool with her ardour. And he’d lost control.

  “I’ve thought about you often,” Pagan said, and wondered at the banal language of reunions. Reunions and grief had that in common: a thin lexicon.

  “Likewise,” she said.

  “You look wonderful.”

  “My hair’s a mess. No make-up.”

  “When did you ever need it?”

  “You’ve still got that silver tongue, Pagan.”

  Pagan’s ribcage had begun to hurt. He had to sit down.

  “You look sick,” she said.

  He told her briefly about Ruhr, and the shooting. He sat in an armchair, swallowed a painkiller.

  “How bad is it?”

  “It comes and goes. Mostly it comes.”

  “Poor Frank,” she said.

  He liked the sympathy in her voice. For a moment he wished she’
d get up and cross the space that divided them and perhaps hold him, baby him, soothe him. And then he was glad she didn’t touch him because when it came to Magdalena he’d never quite been able to get enough of her. She resisted complete possession. Her passions were real and intense, her heart sincere, but he always felt that she kept something in reserve, something unreachable despite all the intimacy between them.

  “I behaved badly in those days, didn’t I?” he said.

  “I don’t remember that, Frank.”

  “I couldn’t take you at face value. I never quite knew how to behave around you. I wanted to own you.”

  “But I played you like a guitar,” she said quietly. “I manipulated you. I was a self-centred monster.”

  “I was just as bad. I remember we were in a restaurant, a place in Soho. I thought you were flirting with the waiter and I couldn’t stand it.”

  “You didn’t talk to me all night long,” she said. “You sat in a huff. As I recall, I slid my foot into your crotch under the table, and you pretended nothing was happening.”

  Pagan smiled at the memory. Water under the bridge, he thought. But it wasn’t swift-running; it passed under him sluggishly, giving him time to look down at reflections. “I’d never felt that kind of jealousy before. I couldn’t think straight.”

  “I felt very powerful, Frank. Control over a hot-shot young cop! What an ego trip.” She stood up, smoothing the front of her green silk robe with the palms of her fine hands. She could perform the most simple manoeuvre and change it; the striking of a match could be transmuted into an erotic gesture, the application of eye-shadow as bewitching as a high-class strip show. She was theatre, and Pagan had been her willing audience.