It’s a big ship with only a small outside area set aside for the passengers. Even that’s out of bounds because of the rough weather, but we surreptitiously dart through a couple of doors marked ‘No Entry’ and find ourselves on the outer port deck. Out here, the strong, biting winds are inescapable and the driving rain feels icy cold. Stacey miraculously manages to light a cigarette and I cling to the railings with one hand and find Jeremy Simmonds hip flask with the other. I’d topped it up with Glenlivet before leaving the hotel and I’m glad of it now.
Stacey joins me. ‘So, go on. How do we find this ghosty?’
I take a mouthful of the whisky and relish the burn.
‘We utilise the information we do have. We know Fenton “defected” and we know when. I imagine the defection boiled down to him telling Vauxhall Cross what he knew about the Russian networks he worked with. They’ll have set him up with a new identity and off he goes.’
‘And that helps us – how?’
‘Well, there are a fair few intelligence watch lists out there. Some for criminals, drug dealers, sex offenders and the like. But there’s also the protection list that Special Branch runs.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘It’s a list the Security Services provides them with. So, the most obvious example is, I don’t know . . . Say a member of British Intelligence has their house burgled and a neighbour alerts the police. The address will trigger a notification with the coppers, who will automatically refer the incident to Special Branch, who will, in turn, alert Thames House or Vauxhall Cross to see what action they should take. There’s all sorts of weird and wonderful people on the list.’
I take another measure of the whisky, simply to stave off the chill. Stacey says, ‘Giz a draw.’
‘A draw?’
‘The hip flask!’
‘Oh . . .’ I hand it to her and she knocks back a mouthful of the Glenlivet.
‘Nae bad stuff. You can’t beat a Scottish single malt.’ She takes another swig. ‘So, I’m guessing one of these lists contains the names of people like Fenton?’
‘Exactly! If anything happened to him, the Service would want to know about it PDQ. I also think that for the first few months after his resettlement the local bobbies would have been asked to do the occasional drive-by, just checking everything was in order and to make sure there were no cars in the area that had been reported missing, or strangers loitering that could be part of an obs team. That kind of thing.’
Stacey tries to take a drag on her cigarette, but the driving rain hasn’t been kind to it. She tuts, then says, ‘That kind of list must be top secret, though.’
‘Not really. Don’t forget the police wouldn’t be informed why they’re keeping tabs on certain addresses or why they’ve been asked to refer an individual to Special Branch. For all they know, it could be because he or she has just started work as a PA to a backbencher. Might be as innocent as that. Could be for anything.’
Stacey looks down at her beleaguered cigarette, accepts it’s a lost cause and flicks it overboard. ‘I meant more that the list itself would be top secret.’
‘Well, that’s the funny thing. You’d think so, but it would be available to anyone with access to the PNC network.’
‘The Police National Computer network?’
‘One and the same. And, believe me, that’s abused by coppers on a daily basis, whether it’s to check out potential new girlfriends or pull pranks on colleagues and register their cars as having been stolen. In other words, it’s not some sacred cow that’s difficult to peek into.’
‘So you plan to access the list and see what new addresses or names were added to it, shortly after Fenton defected?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Smart.’
‘Well, the idea just came to me in a flash of genius.’
She shakes her head, gives me back the hip flask and rams her hands deep into her pockets for warmth. ‘One problem. I’m guessing it’s a constantly expanding list, and we only have rough dates. There might be dozens and dozens of potential names.’
‘We can narrow the list down, though. I mean, let’s look at the area Fenton will have been relocated to. London’s out of the question. Too much of a chance he’d randomly bump into someone he knows. And if I was a betting man—’ I break off as the ship lurches wildly. Stacey’s hands shoot from her pockets to grip the rail and I continue, ‘. . . I’d say it would be somewhere in England. His accent would make him stand out in Wales, Scotland or Ireland. I mean, not massively stand out, but just enough to make those places unsuitable.’
‘And the house our lot gave him would be decent, but not exactly a mansion. We can use that.’
‘Bravo, Miss Smith.’
‘So we get a list of the addresses that fit our parameters, then go into housing records – tax records, the electoral register, and so on – and find out the names of the people at that address.’
I nod. ‘Once we’ve got that shortlist, we discount any female names. Finally, we look at the names we’re left with. Any of them with history, we can lose. I can’t imagine we’ll be left with many contenders.’
‘That’s brilliant, Novak.’
‘Not really.’
I’m hoping she’ll disagree with me, but instead she asks, ‘So what’s the risky part?’
‘I’ve got lots of friends in the force who’d access the PNC network for me. But we’ll be drilling down for this search. It’s not just an in-and-out job. That makes it more serious. And the higher clearance we can get, the better. So, ideally, we’d need a Special Branch colleague. Those two issues combined make it a problem.’
‘You’ve no contacts in Special Branch?’
I bristle slightly, but it’s so cold out here that Stacey probably mistakes it for shivering. ‘One or two, but they’d think twice about all the drilling down they’d have to do. What they do is monitored. If they start moonlighting, they’re for the high jump.’ I realise my left hand is virtually frozen to the railing and I’m pretty much soaked to the skin. ‘Any chance we can go somewhere with a temperature above minus five? My whole body’s turning cornflower blue and it’s not a great look.’
Stacey scoffs, ‘This isn’t cold!’
‘Oh, I’m toasty warm,’ I reply, prising my fingers off the railing one by one. ‘But I’m out of whisky and could do with a top-up.’
She laughs and we make our way back to the bar, where, a couple of Scotches later, I feel like I’m starting to thaw. Stacey buys a bottle of the Pinot precisely because I know it won’t be chilled, and as she pours us both a large glass, she says, ‘You never answered my question. What’s the risky part?’
‘The risky part is, I only know one person with a good enough contact within Special Branch. And my friend is not someone I want to involve in this.’
‘Oh aye? Who is she?’
‘How do you know it’s a she?’
‘Because you’re always more protective of women. You’re an old-fashioned sod.’
I mumble, ‘It could be a bloke.’
‘Is it a bloke?’
‘No.’
Stacey laughs again. ‘So, come on then! Who is this delicate wee lay-dee who couldn’t possibly be involved in the world of Novak because she’s far too fragile?’
It’s time to tell Stacey about one of the most innocent, naïve and peaceful people I’ve ever met. ‘Her name,’ I begin, ‘is Sophie Grace.’