18

Liz could hardly sit still. Tom Dartmouth had been talking on and on about Marzipan, but after the first few minutes she’d stopped listening. He had nothing to tell her. Anyway, why was he talking to her? He hadn’t known Sohail. Marzipan was her agent—she’d recruited him, she’d run him, and almost as soon as she’d handed him over, they’d got him killed. He’d trusted her. She’d promised to look after him and she hadn’t. She needed to talk to Charles. Why wasn’t he here? Why had he given Marzipan to Dave? Not that she blamed Dave. He was her friend and he was good at his job. But somehow, somebody hadn’t looked after Sohail. And now he was dead.

All these thoughts were going round and round and Tom was still talking, sitting behind his desk in an expensive blue suit. He was talking in a calm, reasonable voice that Liz was finding more and more infuriating. “I can’t answer all your questions,” he said. “Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t know the answers myself.” He looked at her directly, almost coolly, though his eyes were not unfriendly.

“But why wasn’t there counter-surveillance on him? Especially after the three men didn’t show.” She clenched her left hand tightly on her lap.

“We certainly thought of it,” said Dartmouth, “but there was no reason to think that there was any link between their failure to show and Marzipan. Believe me, Dave went through it with him very carefully the next day.”

Liz conceded the logic of this. Protecting Marzipan with counter-surveillance might have increased rather than reduced the risk, since there was always the danger of it being spotted.

But then what had they missed? Or was he suggesting there was nothing there to miss? She asked, trying not to sound annoyed, “Are you telling me you believe this was a race murder?”

“No, of course not. And we’ve made it clear to the Met that we have an interest in this. Special Branch have arranged for all the CCTV within a square mile of the murder site to be collected. The local Underground stations are being checked—all the ticket collectors and the stationmasters are being questioned. Ditto the drivers on the bus routes. If any of those three was in the area, I hope we’ll spot them.”

Liz nodded. “Did Sohail look at the Dutch pictures before he was killed?”

Tom shook his head. “No. Dave was going to meet him at the safe house tonight.”

“Oh God,” said Liz, not far from tears.

         

Liz had to get out of the building. The death of Marzipan had affected her more than anything in her working life, but it wouldn’t do her or anyone else any good at all to show how upset she was. She walked along Millbank, her mood matched by the sodden pavements and the gutters where water had collected in long oil-streaked puddles which passing cars were spraying everywhere.

Sohail Din’s murder was such a personal blow to Liz that it was only as the shock subsided that she saw the extent of the disaster. His death had effectively cut their one link to the bookshop three, and unless they could be found, many more people than Sohail might be destined to die. It was hard to separate her upset about Sohail Din from her worry about the catastrophe which might now ensue. Finding Sohail’s killers was essential to help them unravel whatever was being planned.

At the Tate’s vast front steps, she turned around to walk back to Thames House. The ice-cream van had reopened after the rain, and the vendor smiled at her. He wore a white shirt and red scarf, and looked transported from a Venetian gondola. “Just one Cornetto,” he sang out to Liz, in a voice that was Puccini via Stepney, but Liz just scowled at him.

Back in the building she stopped by the corner conference room, hoping it would be empty, and found Peggy working on her laptop. “Oh Liz,” she said. “Dave Armstrong is looking for you.”

“Thanks,” said Liz with a sigh. “I can guess why.” Then trying to pull herself together she asked, “How are you getting on?”

“I’ve just come back from Oxford.”

She seemed to hesitate, so Liz asked, “Did you find anything?”

“I don’t know yet—I’m waiting to hear from Technical Ted.”

“Okay,” said Liz. “I’ll go and find Dave.”

Oxford and IRA moles seemed inconsequential.