‘I’ve read up on Fernley’s trial,’ Simon said. ‘He wasn’t giving an inch.’
‘He’s a bloody mute. Except when he’s talking about anything else under the sun and then he’s quite chatty – full of charm, looks you in the eye. Mind you, that was then. Five years banged up has probably changed all that.’
Simon set down his fork and leaned forward slightly. They were surrounded by men and women in the same line of work, no one would be eavesdropping, but his instinct always told him to play safe.
‘Listen, Jed – I’m doing this because you have drawn a blank on everyone connected with Fernley in this Internet ring. You’ve chased every lead, then every shadow until you’ve started chasing yourselves. And as this building we are in houses all the people in the country capable of breaking into just about any of these set-ups, you will have thrown every bit of expertise you’ve got at it. I’m your last resort.’
‘Pretty much says it all.’
They left the canteen and headed out for a walk along the Embankment.
‘Fernley stayed shtum – no names, no places, no admissions – helped get himself a long term as a result.’
‘How has he been inside?’
‘OK. Keeps his head down, polite, affable but he watches out. Nonces have to. Plays a top game of table tennis. Reads a lot – he orders up psychology and philosophy books via the library. We’ve got as much inf as we can but you’ll find out more, hopefully. Whether you’ll get close enough to have him open up further I have my doubts, to be honest. But as you said, last resort.’ Jed stopped. They leaned on the wall and looked out over the river. The tide was low, water dark, litter and driftwood spoiling the sand and shingle edges like a rash.
‘We’re working on your legend this afternoon. Harry’s coming in on that. The one you used last time you did a covert ops won’t do because that was very different circs.’
‘Firearms.’
‘Right.’ Jed looked down. ‘Dirty old river,’ he hummed. ‘I’d have given my back teeth to have written that song.’
‘You do that? Music?’
‘Gigs. Clubs. Out of town mostly. I sing my own stuff.’
‘Play anything?’
‘Sax. I try to go to New Orleans every year – play in the bars, join up with whatever jazz is out on the street. One day I might not be back.’ He held open the door for Simon. ‘One day – when we’ve cleared the rats out of all these sewers.’
It was after seven before the three of them had thrashed out his full identity and legend – the man he would become for his time at Stitchford Therapeutic Community Prison.
‘You know how it goes. From the moment you’re picked up – you are no longer Simon Serrailler, no longer a detective chief superintendent, no longer a copper. You are Johnno Miles. Anything catch you out the last time?’
‘Yes – when someone calls out your real name, and you automatically respond. Harder than forgetting to reply to your new one.’
‘No use saying there probably won’t be any other Simons because there could be four. You’ll be aware. It’s a decent legend I think – we’ve got a good blend of true and false, and as much of the true as we dare keep. OK, last thing. This.’
A small padded mailing envelope. From it Jed took a cheap black plastic watch.
‘Snoopy!’
‘Yeah, sure you’ve used one before. But this is state of the art as of about three months ago.’
‘Three years at least since I had one.’
‘Long time in surveillance terms. Right … this works on GPS, like they all do now. These pretend-fancy knobs? Three are recorded messages. The first is “A-OK”. This knob starts the recorder and you can speak up to eight words, it holds and relays them to my receiver which will be backed up by my deputy, Al Morris. When I’m off he’s on and vice versa. Four of these pressed in quick succession …’
‘Red emergency.’
‘Same as before, yup. Then all hell gets let loose. It also tracks you constantly and it’s pretty tough but it’s not completely indestructible. Other signals from similar devices could conceivably interfere with it but there aren’t likely to be any of those in your nick. It’s showerproof but it won’t cope with submersion.’ He handed it over. ‘It looks cheap, like you got it with a tank of petrol, so not worth nicking, and they don’t have much of a thieving problem in Stitchford, interestingly.’
Harry stood up.
‘And that’s it, Johnno Miles. Best of luck. Next time we meet you’ll be yourself again.’
At six o’clock the following morning, ‘Johnno Miles’ was sitting on the hotel bed, holdall beside him. At five past, the call came telling him a taxi was waiting and by half past, he was in a safe house in another London backstreet, handing over his bag to a monosyllabic young plain-clothes officer and getting another in exchange. He changed into a pair of dark blue jeans, denim shirt, black fleece, navy-and-white trainers. In the bedroom he checked the contents of the bag. Clean set of underwear, two T-shirts, grey jogging pants, four pairs of socks, two navy cotton handkerchiefs, one pair of sports shorts. Shaving kit. Toothbrush and comb. Lee Child paperback. A pack of ibuprofen tablets for backache. Watch on his wrist.
The second cab picked him up and he was away down the street on a pearly morning with a mist floating over the surface of the river. There was already a build-up of traffic and the runners and joggers were out two-deep. Simon watched them as the traffic lights turned to red and had an urge to leap out, throw his new kit over the wall and set off with them, running away, following the tide. The next few weeks would be hard. Freedom was precious and he was no longer free, the system had picked him up and was conveying him along. He had to go with it.
He wondered what Rachel was doing – in bed, hair tucked into her neck, arm outstretched, breathing quietly, or standing at the window of the flat with her first mug of coffee, looking at the sunlight touching the flying angels on the cathedral tower. Or somewhere else. He had no idea and could not find out. A sense of complete isolation hit him, as he realised that very few people in the world knew where he was and where he would be for the next weeks and even months. The Chief would be too busy with other things to spare him a thought, the prison governor would be fretting, wondering if he should have authorised this undercover operation at all. But Jed would be concerned, thinking about him, silently wishing him luck. Jed was his contact, listening ear, safety net, minder, overseer. His only contact with Jed, though, was a minute electronic device which communicated the minimum of urgent or significant information.
They had left the Embankment and were heading into the tightly knotted streets of the City. He was in the hands of the driver and the plan now. He knew where he would be by the end of the day. That was all. How he would get there, let alone what it would be like, he had no idea.