They arranged to rendezvous on Plymouth Hoe, close to the spot where Silva had sat in the rain on the day of her mother’s death. She strolled across the expanse of grass towards the red and white lighthouse where a man stood looking out at the view. Hair the colour of desert sand and just as fine swirled in light curls. There was a hint of red in the hair and a dusting of freckles on the face. If he’d been standing at the bar in a pub in Galway he could have been mistaken for an Irish poet, the type of man who always had a smile for the teenage girls, a rhyming couplet for the women, a tall tale and a pint of Guinness for his mates.
As she approached, Sean turned as if something had alerted him to her presence. He didn’t smile, simply made a shrugging motion and opened his arms and embraced her. She’d steeled herself not to get emotional, but the gesture overwhelmed her. With her mother gone, there was no one else she’d ever been as close to as Sean. She held him for a long time and neither of them said anything until she sniffed away the last of her tears.
‘I wished you’d met her,’ Silva said.
Sean nodded. ‘So do I. From what you told me and what I read she was—’
‘Stop.’ Silva raised a finger to Sean’s lips. ‘It doesn’t matter what she was or wasn’t beyond the fact she was my mother. All the media coverage, the press stories, what do I care?’
‘You must be proud of her work?’
‘I’d prefer she was still alive.’ Silva pushed free from Sean and they began to walk across the grass. ‘I never thought this could happen.’
‘There were risks in what she did.’ Sean shook his head. ‘But to be honest, these days there are risks for all of us.’
‘And you?’ Silva reached out and touched Sean’s hand. ‘Are you still in the field?’
‘I try not to be.’ That grin. A mirror of the one Silva had first seen in Afghanistan. ‘You know me, I’m no hero, but on occasion, yes.’
‘You mentioned Sudan?’
‘Yup. North Africa is the new front. Three and a half thousand miles from Mauritania to the Red Sea, two thousand miles from the Med to Somalia. Makes what we were up to in Afghanistan look like a game of hide and seek in the park. Things are pretty bad out there right now.’ Sean slumped his shoulders and looked apologetic. ‘Well, you know all about that.’
Silva nodded. ‘ISIS?’
‘ISIS, ISIL, IS, Daesh, AQIM, al-Shabaab, whatever you want to call them. These groups are something akin to a hydra. Cut off one head somewhere and another one emerges. There’s no stopping them. There seems to be an infinite number of young men deluded enough to believe the propaganda. We take out half a dozen and another six come forward. The hydra.’
‘I wish you were desk-based.’ Silva linked arms with Sean as they walked. ‘I’d feel a lot happier.’
‘What’s this, a change of plan?’
‘I still care about you, even if…’ Silva made a funny face and wrinkled her nose. ‘You know.’
‘Look, if I was desk-based, my desk would be on the other side of the Atlantic and I’d be sitting behind it and staring at a computer monitor instead of staring at you.’ Sean turned his head and looked her up and down. ‘No comparison. On the other hand, I guess I could get a screensaver with a picture of you. That might do. Something nice to look at anyway. Something to remind me of the good times we once had.’
‘Stop it, Sean. We’ve been through this before.’
‘We have, Becca. I’m like a recorded message playing on an endless loop.’
‘You said it.’
‘I worry about you.’
‘No need. I can take care of myself, remember?’
‘I’m not talking about physical danger. I mean your well-being.’
‘You sound like my dad. He’s scared I might be going mental.’ Silva turned and faced him. ‘But I’m not. You can see that.’
‘He said you’re delivering letters. You’re a mailman or something.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘I didn’t have your latest mobile number. He was very chatty. Wanted to know what I’d been doing in Africa. He seemed to be quite up on world events.’
‘Not quite so up on events concerning his own daughter.’
‘You’re still at loggerheads, then?’ Sean shook his head. ‘I thought you’d have made your peace.’
‘This is one conflict that will never end.’
‘You’re bitter at him for not backing you. I can understand, but you can’t go on hating him for that. Not now.’
‘He hasn’t been around since I was ten years old. Years later he tries to make amends and we come to some sort of amicable understanding. Then, when I really need him, he abandons me again.’
‘He was in a difficult position, Becca. He couldn’t back you over the incident in Afghanistan, at least not professionally.’
‘Well he didn’t do so personally either. In fact with my father I’m not sure there’s any difference. Strategy and tactics cover his whole life from his morning crap to his evening cocoa. Everything has to be planned out in advance or timed to the second.’
Sean shook his head once more. ‘You’re as bad as him, you know? Stubborn, obstinate, and you think your way is the only way.’
‘If I’m so awful, then why are you here?’ As she asked the question the answer came to her. Silva stopped and let go of Sean’s arm. ‘Hang on, you didn’t phone my father, did you? He phoned you.’
Sean shrugged. Didn’t say anything. They resumed walking, heading down to the Barbican area of the waterfront. When they reached the quayside they sat down at a table outside a bar and ordered drinks.
‘Look,’ Sean said once the waiter had brought the drinks over. ‘You’re right, your dad called me a couple of days ago. I just happened to have a month here in London on embassy duties, but I’d have come from anywhere if I’d thought there was a chance we might get back together.’
‘But not otherwise?’
‘No.’ Sean hung his head. He reached for his beer and took a sip. ‘Why continue to beat myself up?’
‘You’re not my friend, then?’
‘Not just your friend. I could never cope with that.’
As Sean put his beer down, Silva gave a resigned look and half smiled.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
Javed spent an hour conducting an extensive search for crimes associated with animal rights that had been committed in East Anglia. He printed out the results.
‘Here you go,’ he said, waving a dozen sheets of paper in the air, his voice tinged with triumph as if what he’d done was a major achievement. ‘The animal libbers love it up there in Suffolk. Pig units, chicken units, Huntingdon Life Sciences just over the border in Cambridgeshire. By the number of incidents it seems to be a regular hotbed.’
‘Great,’ Holm said. ‘But we’re not really looking for animal rights activists, are we?’
‘No, I guess not.’ Javed lowered the crime reports and dumped them on the table. He swivelled his chair to face Holm. ‘Pity.’
Holm reached across his desk for his old address book. The scrappy A5 booklet was full of contacts he’d made over the years, many from way back when he’d been a copper. Pre-smartphones, almost pre-mobiles, the pages were a mess of hurriedly jotted addresses and telephone numbers. Most, he realised, would be out of date, but he only needed a name or two. He flicked through the book, pausing every now and then as he tried to recall old colleagues and where they’d ended up. He was halfway through when he stopped and snapped the book closed.
‘Suffolk Constabulary, of course,’ he said. He smiled, a face coming to mind. And not just a face, a body too. Rounded and curvy and moving under the sheets like no one else ever had. ‘Billie Cornish.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘She. Billie was colleague of mine when I was on the Met. I’d completely forgotten she moved to East Anglia. If she’s still there and in the job she might be able to help.’
‘Are we talking work-related help?’ Javed was digging, a grin on his face suggesting he’d worked out Holm’s past relationship with Cornish wasn’t solely on a professional level. ‘Only we don’t need any distractions.’
‘It was a long time ago. I was younger and she was much younger.’
‘I didn’t know you had it in you, boss.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Sounds like I might have to if you’re planning to meet this woman. What are you going to tell her?’
‘I’ll tell her MI5 would appreciate some help.’ Holm looked round for his phone. ‘While I do that, you enter some of those crimes into our mock database so we have an excuse to go up to Suffolk and do some groundwork.’
‘Right, boss.’
Holm wasn’t surprised to find Billie Cornish had moved on and up. She’d been a Detective Constable fifteen years ago, wet behind the ears, wet… he felt a shiver go through him. He’d never met anyone as exciting before or since, and even though their affair had been short-lived, he still remembered every moment like yesterday. She wasn’t much more than half his age back then, mid-twenties to his early forties, but she’d made all the running. She’d ended it too, three months down the line. She was going places, she said. Too many things to do, too many people she wanted to screw. He was sweet, he was a great lover, but it was never going to be a long-term thing between them – he could see that, couldn’t he?
Yeah, he supposed he could. He’d had two kids under ten, a wife who’d made a nest without a word of complaint about the long hours he worked or the fact she’d had to sacrifice her own career to raise their children, a nice house in a decent part of London. And yet…
‘You going to actually make that call?’ Javed. The grin was now verging on subordination. ‘Only we’re supposed to be catching Taher before he retires and draws his pension.’
Holm dismissed Javed with a wave. He found a number for CID in Suffolk, but it took several calls before he was put through to Detective Chief Superintendent Billie Cornish at force HQ in Ipswich.
He found himself stumbling through a couple of minutes of casual chit-chat, embarrassed it had been so long since they’d been in touch. He congratulated Cornish on her rise through the ranks, played down his own position with JTAC and then he was on to the meat of the call.
‘We’ve had some intelligence recently about a group of animal activists planning something big, something to rival the jihadis. The fox-hunting debate has been won, animal testing is on the way out and the public have lost interest. They need a marquee event to garner a little attention.’
‘Other people taking their thunder, hey?’ Cornish said.
‘Something like that.’ Holm paused. Even though he’d worked a long time in the security services, he still found the lying difficult, and he didn’t like deceiving Cornish. ‘The way the wind is blowing they need publicity to promote their cause.’
‘We’re not talking Huntingdon again, are we?’
‘No, this is something different. It’s right on your patch so I figured you’d be willing to get your hands a little dirty in order to help us.’
‘Dirty?’ Cornish sounded wary, unconvinced. She’d emphasised the word in such a way as to imply a degree of scepticism. ‘What do you mean by that, Stephen?’
Holm sighed to himself. Cornish had always been keen on professional integrity, dead straight, and part of him was grateful her integrity hadn’t been compromised on the scrabble up the ladder to the top. On the other hand a little bending of the rules would come in handy right now.
‘Nothing dodgy.’ Holm glanced across to Javed. The young man had raised his head and was listening intently. Holm turned and faced away. ‘We just need to keep a lid on things and ensure nobody at your end gets too carried away.’ Holm coughed. ‘National security and all that.’
‘Right.’ Cornish still sounded hesitant. ‘What do you want, then?’
‘I’ll tell you when we get there. If you could clear your diary from, say, elevenish on Monday morning?’
‘Clear my diary? Stephen, that’s going to be—’
‘Lives are at stake, Billie.’ If Taher was involved then there was no deception here, Holm thought. ‘Many lives.’
There was silence for a moment before Cornish spoke again.
‘See you at eleven Monday, then.’
Holm hung up.
‘We’re off up the Yellow Brick Road, then?’ Javed said.
‘Yes,’ Holm said. ‘But if we want to get to Ipswich the A12 would probably be a better bet.’
In the evening Silva and Sean met up with Itchy and his girlfriend, Caz. Caz’s stomach bulged beneath her flimsy dress, a piece of news Itchy had been keeping from Silva. After a round of congratulations, Itchy began to open up on the joys of fatherhood.
‘Man, in four months I’m going to be a dad,’ Itchy said. ‘How does that sound?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Silva said. ‘Should I call Social Services to prewarn them?’
‘You’ll do fine,’ Sean said. ‘But kids are expensive – how’s the money?’
‘Tight.’ Itchy grimaced and reached for his pint. He glanced at Silva. ‘We were shafted, weren’t we? Cast off. No demob money, no pension to look forward to. I’ve got bits and pieces here and there, but nothing permanent. Still, I couldn’t be happier if I’d won the lottery.’
As Itchy turned to Caz and kissed her, Silva felt Sean’s hand under the table, reaching for her own hand. Squeezing.
Later, back on Silva’s boat and somewhat worse for drink, they kissed. For a few seconds Silva let herself go with the passion of the moment, but then she pulled away.
‘You don’t want this?’ Sean said.
‘I do and I don’t.’ Silva moved across to the galley area and filled the kettle. ‘I don’t want to go back to the way we were. A few days together and then weeks and months apart. It’s not good for either of us.’
‘Becca, you know how it is…’
‘Yes, I do know how it is. That kind of life ruined my parents’ marriage. Right now, considering all that’s happened, I need stability or nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘You’ll be gone tomorrow and I won’t know where you are or what you’re doing. I’ll have no idea of when I might see you again.’
Sean came over and stood next to Silva as she scraped some instant coffee from the bottom of a jar. ‘I wish things could be different.’
Silva leaned across and rested her head on Sean’s shoulder.
‘Me too,’ she said.
She took him to the train station the next morning, weaving through the traffic on her motorbike with Sean clinging on for grim death.
‘Jesus, woman,’ he said when Silva pulled up. ‘Dodging bullets in Afghanistan was preferable to that.’ Sean dismounted and took his helmet off. He handed it to Silva who put it in the rear pannier. He stood for a moment. ‘So is this goodbye or au revoir?’
‘Neither.’ Silva sighed. ‘Where’s the future in it, Sean? Being together wouldn’t be being with you. Most of the time you’d be away and that’s not what I want. Not at this point in my life at least.’
‘There’s hope, then.’ Sean said. ‘Years in the future. Decades. About the time when I’m in adult diapers and drooling.’
‘Stop it.’ Silva leaned across and hugged him. She hit the starter on the bike. ‘You’ll email this time? Phone, text, message. You know, like friends do?’
‘I might,’ Sean said. He looked as if he was about to make another quip. Then he reached out and touched Silva on the shoulder, all of a sudden serious. ‘No, I will. Promise.’
‘Good.’
She clicked the bike into gear and Sean stepped back. He turned towards the station and raised a hand as Silva rode away.