Chapter Thirteen

Joe declined the call, but it rang again. Wendy was in a persistent mood, as usual, it seemed.

“Sorry, I should take this. Won’t be long.” Joe went into the lounge, closing the door behind him. “Wendy? Sorry, I’ve got to be quick.”

“Someone’s been in the house.” Her voice was filled with panic. “I don’t know—overnight, I was away.”

Joe was used to other people being the victim of crime, and he was the one who swung in to save the day. What sort of person broke into a copper’s house? “Burgled? Shit, have they taken anything? You’re at home now?”

Leviticus. Leviticus did this.

“That’s the thing”—she took a ragged breath—“I don’t think they’ve done anything, but they’ve been in!”

Joe slid easily into his training. “Okay, Wendy, nice and calm, can you tell me why you think someone’s been in? Did they break the lock?”

“The alarm was going off for starters and nobody bothered to actually call it in,” Wendy told him. “God knows what time. They’ve smashed through the French windows into the orangery.”

“Have you called the police? Other than me, that is?” Joe ran upstairs to his room and grabbed his overcoat. “And don’t touch anything! Don’t get the Hoover out or anything.”

“I’m not a bloody idiot,” she snapped. “Of course I’ve called the police. I went straight— I’ll tell you when you get here.”

“As soon as I can get cover, I’ll come over.” Joe was back downstairs again, heading into the kitchen. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

His commander and his principal were still at the table, chatting surprisingly amiably. Both looked up as he entered, each as intrigued as the other.

“There’s been a break-in. At home. Commander, can we get someone to cover me for a few hours? I don’t want Wendy to have to deal with this alone.” Joe glanced at Alejandro. He didn’t want to leave his side, but what choice did he have?

Alejandro’s eyes grew saucer-like and he started from his seat. Patrick stood too, already telling him, “I’ll stay here, Joe. Do you need anything? Take my car, of course.”

“Thank you, sir. I think I’ll only need your car. Are you sure you can—” Joe forced himself not to look at Patrick’s stick. “I can wait until another officer’s able to come.”

“Not out to pasture just yet, Sergeant.” He patted Joe’s shoulder. “Give Wendy my best. Now get along home.”

“Goodbye, Commander. Mr Fuente.” Joe couldn’t say anything more to Alejandro with Patrick there. So he turned and left.

 

* * * *

 

Two police cars were parked in the driveway when Joe arrived home. He showed his warrant card to the uniformed officers and went inside.

“Wendy?” he called. “You okay?”

She emerged from their gleaming kitchen, Barnaby close behind. “Fine. Nothing’s been taken, the alarm must’ve frightened them off.”

Joe nodded to Barnaby. Konichiwa, Barnaby-san. But Joe wasn’t going to say that out loud.

“Let’s hope so.” Joe glanced around the pristine walls of their home. The paintings and mirrors on the walls weren’t even wonky. Joe wandered into the lounge. Their enormous flatscreen television was unscathed, although how a thief could nick it without a forklift truck, Joe didn’t know. So maybe it hadn’t been Leviticus at all. Just coincidence. A failed burglary.

But when Joe scanned the room, he finally saw it.

“Our wedding photo! What’s happened to it?” Joe headed across the room to the side table next to the fireplace. It wasn’t the thin layer of dust that Joe was concerned about, but the broken glass and the shoe.

Joe got as near as he could without touching it. Paloma’s shoe, the snapped heel smashed through the glass.

How had Wendy not noticed?

“What about the pho—” That was enough to silence even Wendy as she came to stand beside him. “What the hell is that? That’s not one of mine!”

“No, it’s not.” Joe couldn’t remember ever seeing Wendy wearing heels like that.

Standing side by side with Wendy as they stared at the smashed photo, they were a parody of the happy couple smiling back through the bullseye of smashed glass. Joe had been happy that day, determined to make a go of their marriage despite every reservation he had.

He looked over his shoulder at Barnaby. “Can you grab one of those officers, Barnaby? We need to get this bagged up.”

“Will do,” Barnaby called. Joe watched him go, thin as a whip, a mop of blond hair atop his head. He wouldn’t have thought he was Wendy’s type but then, he didn’t really know what Wendy’s type was. Ambitious, probably. As the thought entered his head she turned, fixing him with a shrewd look.

“Do you know what I think’s really odd?”

It was nasty and personal, and if he hadn’t already thought that Leviticus was Zak, then this would’ve suggested it. Revenge for Joe dangling him out of the window. But that much was confidential and Joe couldn’t tell her. So he shrugged. “No?”

“You haven’t asked me where I was last night.”

“I thought you were working. Or out with friends? Or let’s address the elephant in the room, Wendy. I’m not going to get angry, because if you’re set on going to Japan, our marriage, well, it’s not what it was.” Joe combed his hand through his hair, then held Wendy’s gaze, waiting for her reaction. “Were you with Barnaby?”

“Barnaby?” She was looking at him with utter incredulity. “Where did you get Barnaby from in all this? Bloody hell, Joe, really? He’s a good friend and a hell of a lawyer but… God, that’d be funny if it wasn’t so tragic.”

“My copper instincts tell me that he likes you, though!” Joe whispered. “Sorry. He was at lunch the other day, he gets here before I do, anyone might assume… Sorry.”

But there’s definitely someone.

“Anyone might assume that we’re professional colleagues going into partnership and we’re working closely to make that partnership a world-beater.” She nudged Joe as the police officers entered, nodding him through to the kitchen. “That shoe has a suspiciously drag queen look to it, Joe. Either that or you’ve pissed someone off from the Moulin Rouge. Any chance your little princess has been in here? Have you upset it?”

It.

“Mr Fuente wouldn’t come here. He wouldn’t do something like that. But I have my suspicions who it might have been.” Joe took out his phone. “I’ll have to ring Commander Holloway and let him know. Can I go upstairs? I need to do this in private.”

“It’s your house too, Joe, you don’t have to ask.” She turned as though to leave, then spun back on her own far more sensible heel. “Look, we need to get us sorted once and for all, I know. But…just so we’re on the same page, it’s nobody’s fault. It’s just what happened.”

Joe ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. “So… There’s someone else, isn’t there? Just so I know. I won’t be angry, I won’t dangle him, or her, even, out of a window. But please just tell me, Wendy.”

“There’s been a couple of people.” Her gaze fell away from his, settling somewhere on the carpet between them. “Long term—Japan—whatever isn’t over will have to be over then, won’t it?”

‘A couple of people.’ That stolen kiss with Paloma didn’t seem like such a betrayal after all.

“We never see much of each other. I’m not surprised you’ve… I’m sorry I’ve been a pretty crap husband to you.” Joe rested his hand on her shoulder. “I think it’s best if we go our separate ways.”

“I really do wish you the best, Joe, you know?” Wendy smiled. A little weakly perhaps, but a smile. “I suspect somewhere there’s just the right person for you, but she’s not me, is she?”

“And I’m not the right man for you, am I?” Joe dropped his hand. “Right, better ring the commander.”

“When you do…” She brushed her fingers against his sleeve. “Will you ask him if I’m all right? I want to be sure I’m safe, Joe, I don’t have any operatives looking out for me.”

“Of course I’ll ask. Don’t worry. Our marriage hasn’t worked out, but I won’t see you put in danger, Wends. I promise.”

She nodded and took a step backwards, towards the shoe and the police and a life without him in it. “Go and ring the boss.”

Joe headed upstairs, to the bedroom he hadn’t seen much of as he’d been so frequently sent to sleep on the sofa. But he still felt sad. Five years of trying and pretending, and she’d been seeing other men. If only she’d said. If only he’d known that she had been that unhappy, he would’ve suggested a divorce a while ago. Or would he have done?

No, because their marriage was a comfort blanket that he hadn’t wanted to lose because it disguised who he really was. And now that he wasn’t afraid anymore of accepting himself, divorce didn’t frighten him anymore.

Joe shut the bedroom door behind him and perched on the edge of the antique blanket box. He dialled Patrick’s number but it went straight through to voicemail.

“Patrick, it’s really important that I speak to you. I think this burglary was Leviticus’ work. I’m going to keep trying to get hold of you.”

Joe retrieved his large suitcase from the spare room and opened the wardrobe, deciding what to take with him as he called Patrick again.

He got the voicemail once more, so he sent a text. Then he heaved shoes and shirts, tops and jumpers, and a small bear who he’d had since he was a week old into his suitcase. And tried to ring Patrick for a third time.

When it went through to voicemail again, Joe grabbed all of his suits hanging in their bags in the wardrobe, and put them in a pile. His tux was among them somewhere. Divorce, or burglary, or whatever beset him next, Joe would need that tux for the party at Windsor.

Joe tried Alejandro’s number. He’d left the two men in the same room. If Patrick wouldn’t answer, then Alejandro surely would.

But when Alejandro’s phone went straight to voicemail too, Joe began to panic.

Don’t overreact, Sergeant Wenlock!

Joe zipped up his suitcase and headed downstairs. He piled up his luggage and was about to ring Control when heard the sound of urgent knocking on the front door and the driver’s voice calling, “Sergeant Wenlock, sir!”

His heart pounding, Joe wrenched the door open. “What is it?”

“If you’ll come with me, sir.” The driver was already walking down their broad drive, past Wendy’s silver soft-top Mercedes, between the neatly trimmed lawns. He opened the boot of Patrick’s car for the luggage and urged, “Quickly, please.”

Joe grabbed everything he needed and darted out of the house after the driver. Without any effort, he lifted the luggage into the boot and sprinted for the passenger seat. Once he’d got his seatbelt on, he asked, “What’s happened?”

“There’s been an incident at your ops centre.” From somewhere the sounds of police sirens sounded and the car pulled out of the driveway, flanked by two police motorcycles that had seemingly appeared out of the ether.

“What sort of incident? I can’t get hold of Commander Holloway. Or my principal. What’s happened?”

Visions of Zak forcing himself into Alejandro’s house revisited Joe. What had he done, shoved a firework around the edge of the door?

No, you’re overreacting, calm down.

But that bastard, that shit, that red-faced coke-headed prick had broken into Joe’s house. He was going to—

“Are they okay? Are Holloway and Peanut okay?”

“Commander Holloway’s on the speaker, sir, I’ll connect you.” A screen of smoky glass hummed up to close the space between the rear seat and the front and Joe heard the faint click of a phone before Patrick’s voice could be heard.

“Joe, where are you?”

“In the car, on the way back to Highgate. What’s happened, sir?”

“You’re on your way to the Greenhouse.” He heard a burst of sirens behind Patrick too, travelling at great speed. Something serious had happened, he was sure of it. “Peanut’s fine. I’ll see you there.”

“Tell me what’s happened!” Joe began to focus on his breathing. He was frantic and he needed to be calm. He’d been trained on how to deal with it. Why couldn’t he douse his panic?

“Sergeant Wenlock, get a hold of yourself!” Patrick commanded sternly. “This is an unsecured line. We’ll speak at the Greenhouse, not before.”

“Yes, sir.” Joe ended the call and shoved the phone back into his pocket. He stared out at the streets, going past more quickly than London traffic would usually allow.

Zak was a clever sod. Got rid of Joe with that infantile trick, then went to Alejandro’s house and— But Patrick had been there. What if Joe had stayed? Then maybe he could’ve got rid of Zak again. Patrick wasn’t front line anymore. He stayed behind a desk. He should never have allowed Patrick to stand in for him.

Especially not after what happened last time. The bomb that had maimed Patrick should’ve blown up in front of Joe.

But Patrick was alive. And Alejandro was fine. Whatever that meant. Was he in hospital, was that what he meant? Or was Patrick fibbing because he couldn’t say—

Calm down, Sergeant Wenlock.

He’d find out soon enough. It wouldn’t be long until they got to the Greenhouse.

Alejandro’s fine. He’s fine. Don’t think of him with a tube down his throat and bandages on his arms, don’t think of him in a hospital gown, breathing through a machine. He’s fine. He’s fine.

But his mind swam with images of hospital rooms, of nurses coming in and out of focus, of his own injuries, of glassy eyes behind a windscreen as he sprawled up onto a cold bonnet. Joe blinked but instead he saw only Patrick in his own hospital bed years earlier, his body held in a fearsome metal cage that was knitting together his snapped spine. He stayed behind a desk because of Joe. And now this, whatever it was.

Because of Joe.

He pressed a button and the window whirred down just an inch, the cold wind ruffling Joe’s hair and filling the car with the smell of vehicle fumes. Of London.

I should never have left Alejandro’s side.

There was no space outside the Greenhouse for this car. Instead they cruised down into the underground parking bays where a uniformed officer was already waiting beside the lifts. The doors of one were already open, its interior glaring and sterile as any hospital.

As soon as Joe sprang from the car the officer addressed him, gesturing towards the lift. “This way, sir.”

Joe hurried after him. His panic had subsided now, turning instead into a dull ache lurking in his stomach. He couldn’t change what had happened. He had to find the strength to accept it.

Whatever the hell it is.

There was no serene office scene behind the glass partition of Patrick’s office suite now, but a bustle of energy and urgency, with Joe catching sight of several sombre-faced figures disappearing into the briefing room, some uniformed, some besuited. Even Trudy looked drawn as she tapped at her keyboard, though she managed a grin for Joe and his escort.

“Thank you, constable.” She dismissed the escorting officer with a polite nod and rose to her feet and gestured to the seats that were arranged around a coffee table on the far side of the room. “Sergeant Wenlock, would you take a seat? Commander Holloway will be with you very soon.”

“Thanks, Trudy.” Joe glanced at her over his shoulder. “Is Peanut—?” Okay?

“Safe and well,” she said. “And noisy, according to the commander. Can I get you anything, sergeant?”

“A hot chocolate.” Joe sat down, the weight on his heart now vanished.

“I think we can manage that,” Trudy said gently. Then she turned away and disappeared through another door, leaving him alone. She was gone for just a minute or so, not long enough to prepare Alejandro’s luxuriant version of the drink, but still she managed to conjure up a mug of something instant. It was drinkable, which was something.

While he waited, Joe looked through the divisional magazine on the coffee table. Patrick was usually in every issue somewhere, and this one was no different. There he was, photographed with his confident smile, talking about facing challenges. Joe put the magazine down again. It was his fault that Patrick had ended up behind a desk in the first place. The chocolate tasted suddenly bitter, but he held onto it anyway, mindful that Trudy may have pulled a string or two even for this apparent deviation from the norm.

“Sergeant.” Patrick’s voice woke him from his reverie. “Shall we go in?”

“Yes, sir.” Joe left his cup on the table and followed. Patrick wasn’t his usual neat self. A strand of hair had dropped forwards onto his forehead, and were there—?

There were smudges of soot on his clothes and on his face.

What the hell?

Every head turned to him as they entered the briefing room, then, seeing he was nobody particularly noteworthy, every head turned away again. He slipped into a seat at the far end of the long table, taking in chiefs of staff, senior police officers, a couple of palace officials and there, playing silently at the top of the room, a TV. On it was an image of Alejandro’s home in Highgate, surrounded by police tape. Vans from the Met blocked the cameras from getting a good look at the scene but text ran along the bottom of the screen and as Joe read it, his throat constricted further.

 

Reports of an explosion at the Highgate home of Alejandro Fuente-Sastre, son of the Duchess of Albany, step-grandson of the Queen. Security services confirm no injuries.

 

“Right, this is news as news comes in.” Patrick was speaking before he reached the top of the table, leaning on his stick now more than ever. He looked older, drawn, Joe realised. What memories this must have brought back. “I was with Mr Fuente this morning and we received a courier with a package for Sergeant Wenlock, Mr Fuente’s CPO. Security checked it over and all was well. Package received, safely stowed.”

Patrick paused and took a deep breath, as though gathering himself.

A package addressed to me. Was that it? But Patrick looked like he had more to tell them.

He’d never looked so rattled, despite his matter-of-fact reporting of the facts.

“Fifteen minutes or so later we receive another couriered parcel, this time containing shoes for Mr Fuente.” The mermaids, Joe realised. “Again, all well. At just after eleven hundred hours, a third parcel arrived via a motorcycle courier firm. I was called by the attending officers on duty to report an article of a suspicious nature. We called the team in but unfortunately this is a residential area and evacuation proved problematic. The parcel detonated before evacuation could be completed. Luckily, I was the only one caught in what proved to be a very low-key blast. I seem to be something of a magnet for explosives.”

Gallows humour. Very British.

Thank God Alejandro is safe.

Despite the important people sitting around the table, Joe spoke up. “So Leviticus has gone up a gear from fireworks? Commander, I think Leviticus was behind the break-in at my home, too. Maybe even broke in to get me out of Alejandro’s house so that I wasn’t there when the bomb arrived. And what they did in my house reinforces my suspicion that Leviticus is Zak Smythe-Unwin.”

“Sergeant, the floor’s yours.” Patrick nodded him on, already pulling out a chair for himself. “Tell us your thoughts.”

Joe described the break-in and the discovery of the smashed wedding photo. He saw several people around the table wince at that, officers who’d dealt with horrifying attacks who evidently saw the spite in that solitary act of vandalism. Joe told them about Zak’s violence and drug use and heads began to nod around the table.

“But can I just emphasise that we may yet find out that Leviticus is someone other than Zak, but at the moment, he’s my main suspect,” Joe finished and passed back to Patrick.

“We’re currently drawing together our intelligence on Mr Smythe-Unwin but I’m sure you can all appreciate, this is a very delicate matter indeed,” Patrick told them. “We need to be sure that these are all the work of Leviticus, not an angry lover using that as cover for his own malice. For now, though, Mr Fuente is in a safe place and decisions are being taken on his security going forward. We’ll meet here again at fifteen hundred hours after I’ve spoken to the Prime Minister. Are there any questions?”

There were, of course, but Patrick couldn’t answer any of them in anything more than the most generic terms. He couldn’t go into details on the device, the courier, the safe place, anything. It was a fluid situation, he explained smoothly, and it was developing even as they sat here.

Finally, the attendees filed out and Patrick looked to Joe after the low murmur of conversation. “Sergeant Wenlock, would you wait behind, please?”

Here it was, then. He’d be reassigned. And without knowing where the heck Alejandro was… Joe swallowed. Was he lost to him?

Joe steeled himself, hiding all trace of trepidation.

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

As the door closed on the last military man at the table, Patrick closed his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose and admitted, “One or two memories today, Joe, between you and me. I don’t know what the devil I was thinking, getting that close. I of all people. There was something about it though, something I can’t put my finger on.”

Joe shook his head. “I shouldn’t have gone home. I should’ve stayed. Once again, there you are, bomb goes off on my watch and I’m not there.”

“Your house was burgled, Joe, hardly a pleasure trip.” He took a long breath and opened his eyes. “Mr Fuente was uninjured but extremely rattled. And that translates as loud. Since he was due to travel to Windsor this weekend anyway, I think it best if we send him there today with no fanfare. Several of the family are in attendance already, security is watertight.”

Joe could imagine exactly how Alejandro had been. He’d seen it for himself after the firework had gone off, furious as he held up his broken shoe.

The shoe which was even now being spirited to the forensics lab.

“Yeah, you can’t get safer than a castle, after all!” Joe clicked the pen that lay on the table in front of him. Click-click, click-click. And here comes the next piece of bad news. “So I suppose I’m being reassigned?”

“Good Lord, no. Why on earth— Mr Fuente is a hard chap to bring on side but he clearly trusts you. I want you to go to Windsor this evening and don’t let him out of your sight.” Patrick knitted his fingers on the tabletop. “I have a shopping list of essentials Mr Fuente requires from his home for his charity event. Would you be able to gather them for him, once the house is cleared to enter? It’s enough for a fortnight’s holiday for four.”

“That’s fine, I can do that. I’d be happy to.” Joe wondered if the fringed turquoise shorts had made it onto the list, and the thought of Patrick’s eyebrows shooting up in surprise at their appearance almost made Joe laugh. But he had something serious to relate. “By the way, I need to tell you about a change in personal circumstances. It’s me and Wendy. Looks like we’re splitting up. Permanently.”

“Oh, Joe, I’m so sorry to hear that.” Patrick stood, one hand on the tabletop helping him lever himself to his feet. Then he walked the length of the table, the cane tapping with every pained step until he could take the seat nearest to Joe. “This job has its pressures, doesn’t it? I think we’ve all felt its lash in our time.”

“I’ve spent more time with my principals than with my wife. And when I have been at home, she’s been working late or flying round the world.” Or seeing other men. But Joe wasn’t going to air that particular piece of information in front of his boss. “How can a marriage survive that?”

“The days of wives keeping the home fires burning are long gone,” the commander said. Joe wondered if there was a Mrs Holloway somewhere, or if there ever had been. Did she keep the home fires burning? He’d never heard mention of her if so, never seen her at the hospital during Patrick’s long recovery. “One admires those who can keep the scales balanced, but—this job can engulf a person. It’s not an easy one to be married to.”

“I sometimes think I shouldn’t have—” Married Wendy. “Even so, Patrick, is there any chance that Wendy— She’s at home on her own, and she’s worried. It’s not surprising, after someone’s been in your house, and that business with the wedding photo is twisted. Can we send a patrol car past? Put her mind at rest? We might be splitting up, but I don’t want her to be frightened.”

“I think we can do a little better than a patrol car, don’t you worry about that,” he said. “I was reminded this morning of life without the desk. I envy you, sergeant, being out there keeping our royal houses safe, even when you’re facing personal difficulties. It’s very British, isn’t it?”

“Possibly not with Mr Fuente, but I like being his CPO. I’m glad you and the duchess wanted me to stay on with him.”

“I’ll brief you on arrangements for Windsor before I leave for Downing Street.” Patrick slipped his fingers into the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “Mr Fuente’s list. He was in rather a panic so this seemed like a project he could focus on. I hope you can decipher his handwriting better than I could!”

Joe took the list. He’d seen scribbles of Alejandro’s writing on scraps of paper around the house and in his sketchbooks at the studio. But a list, written in a panic, was something else. “I’ll do my best!”

“Mr Fuente’s phone was on the kitchen table the last time I saw it. Could you add it to the list?” Patrick quirked his eyebrow. “I imagine there might be one or two missed calls on there now this has gone public.”