The pub was filling up, Sunday lunchtime in full swing. Noisy chatter and the tempting smell of roasting meat wafting from the kitchens. Collingworth found his way to the bar, ordered a tonic water. As the barmaid fixed his drink, his eye strayed to the corner table. There he was, dressed as smartly as before. No dress-down Sunday for this guy. Collingworth admired that. Keep up standards, look the part. Nice.
He paid for his drink, excuse-me’d his way across the busy saloon bar.
The guy looked at his wristwatch. Expensive, Collingworth noted. Of course it was expensive.
‘Right on time. I like that,’ the smartly dressed young man said. He didn’t get up or offer a handshake, so Collingworth drew up a stool and set his glass on the table.
‘How can I help?’ Collingworth sipped his tonic water.
‘You’ve provided a valuable service. I thought you might wish to witness the fruits of your labours.’
‘That sounds … appealing,’ Collingworth replied. ‘Do I get a name this time, by the way?’
A smile. ‘You can call me Alan, if you wish.’
‘So, Alan,’ Collingworth leaned closer, kept his voice low. ‘How about you tell me the whole story? So I have a little context.’
‘It’s a story from long ago, before your time – and mine, to be fair. It was during the Irish … ah, let’s call them difficulties. They don’t like the other word. Your man was young, tempted off the straight and narrow. Got himself involved with undesirables – undesirable to some, I mean. To the powers-that-be, at least. To others, less so, depending on your political persuasion. Long story short, it involved an ambush, several murders.’
Collingworth drank it all in. This was meaty stuff. ‘And you have proof, of course?’
Alan sipped his soda water. ‘All the proof we need. He’s on his way back from Rotterdam as we speak, with a known terrorist in tow.’
‘Rotterdam? But what–’
‘Ah, ah.’ Alan wagged his forefinger. ‘I can’t tell you too much.’
‘Right. Of course.’ Collingworth nodded.
‘I wanted to give you the opportunity to witness the fish being reeled in.’
‘I appreciate that. Very much.’
‘Not at all,’ Alan said smoothly. ‘Least we could do.’
‘This terrorist. The woman, the name on the card?’
Alan drew his finger across his lips. ‘Sorry. But you’re on the right lines.’
‘Just tell me when and where.’
‘Tonight. Port of London, eight-thirty. A container ship – the Rotterdam Comet. Dock number 12b.’
Collingworth scribbled the details on his notepad. A thought occurred to him. ‘Anything I can do? I mean, I’m a policeman, and–’
‘Won’t hear of it,’ Alan said, draining his glass. ‘Just keep a low profile, and keep your eyes peeled.’
‘I will, don’t worry. Another drink?’
‘Well, if you’re offering, why not?’ Alan held out his empty glass.
The bar was busy, but Collingworth was in no hurry. Plenty of time to get to London. As he waited for service he allowed himself a little fantasising. DS Chris Collingworth, then DI Chris Collingworth, and then … maybe an opening with the security services. Wait – how about sooner rather than later?
‘What’ll it be, love?’
Collingworth placed his order. Yes, why not? Why not cut through the dead-mens’-shoes promotion prospects altogether? Alan would put in a word, surely? He’d proved himself to be an effective covert operator. He’d completed his mission. Small fry, sure, but that wasn’t the point. Why had they approached him in the first instance? Because they’d checked him out, obviously. They’d figured out that he was the right stuff.
‘Here we go. Four pounds twenty-five please, love.’
As Collingworth grabbed the drinks, he became aware of some small commotion in the corner. Had someone fainted? Head were turning. He couldn’t see. He craned his neck. Where the hell was his change? Here she came.
‘Seventy-five pence, love. Thanking you.’
Collingworth pocketed the coins, shouldered his way towards the corner table. The double doors nearby swung shut. The crowd parted and Collingworth did a double take. Someone else was sitting at the corner table. An older man, casual shirt open at the neck, half pint of lager in front of him. Where was Alan?
‘Excuse me. My friend and I were sitting–’
‘Park your behind on the stool, shut up, and listen,’ the man told him.
Collingworth felt his mouth open and close. He sat as instructed, put the drinks down carefully. ‘Who are you? What’s going on?’
The man leaned forward. ‘I said shut up and listen.’
Collingworth felt a cocktail of confusion and anger rise deep in the pit of his stomach, but there was something about the way the stool usurper spoke that made him hold his tongue. He stole a glance to wards the double doors.
‘Your buddy won’t be coming back. Now, I want you to tell me everything he told you.’
‘You’re–’
‘–someone acting in the interest of this country. Here–’ The man in the open-neck flashed an ID card.
Collingworth read it. It looked official, but now he didn’t know what or whom to trust.
The man’s tone was tinged with exasperation and not a little urgency. ‘I haven’t got time for this, but if you need to double check, the address and phone number is right here.’
Collingworth read again. Thames House, Millbank.
‘Your buddy is a Russian KGB agent. Educated at Eton, if you were wondering.’
‘KGB? But I–’
‘Just tell me what he asked you to do, what you did. What he wanted today.’
Collingworth cleared his throat. Five minutes later, he was finished.
‘Thank you, DC Collingworth. Now, if I were you, I’d go home and stay home. And here, take these. Someone will be over in the morning to collect them.’
‘What is it?’
‘Official Secrets Act. Two copies. Sign both, please, and seal the envelope.’
Collingworth took the envelope without a word.
‘And in future, try to avoid talking to strange men in pubs.’
‘I thought–’
‘We know what you thought. And if we hadn’t stepped in, you wouldn’t be thinking anything at all this time tomorrow.’
‘You mean they were going to–?’ Collingworth felt the blood drain from his face.
‘Two birds with one stone. Nice and neat.’
Another guy appeared at the double doors, gestured urgently.
‘Have a nice day, DC Collingworth.’
Collingworth didn’t move for a long time, nursed his tonic water. He felt sick.
Half an hour later, his mobile rang. He had half a mind to ignore it, but it was insistent.
‘DC Chris Collingworth.’
George McConnell’s irate tones filled his ear. ‘Don’t you look at any of your messages? Briefing. Urgent. Started fifteen minutes ago. Get in here. That’d be now. Are you there?’
‘I heard you.’ Collingworth slammed his empty glass down, banged through the double doors.
Patronising little…