The Mephisto Threat. E.V. Seymour
was only afterwards he remembered that he hadn’t asked Asim about Dan.
10
TALLIS had never been able to lie to his mother. ‘I simply don’t think it’s possible.’
He was back at home in Herefordshire. They’d spent the morning sitting in the little room they called the snug, going through the funeral arrangements. Hannah was forced to return home to Bristol for the kids. Her husband, a nice enough bloke in Tallis’s opinion, wasn’t a very handson dad. She promised to return with the rest of the family for the big send-off.
‘Take care of each other,’ Hannah said, tipping up on her toes to kiss them both. She didn’t really look like either of her parents. Small, with chestnut hair, she resembled more the photographs he’d seen of his grandmother as a young woman. As soon as Hannah left, his mother collared him.
‘Did you try?’ Her blue-grey eyes looked up into his brown.
‘Not yet.’ Shame made his neck flush. She’d been through so much, watching his father’s slow and lingering death. Then there’d been Dan and Belle. He didn’t want to let her down. And what was he really afraid of? That Dan would be allowed to come? That Dan would act in loco parentis? That all the fear and intimidation his father had visited on him would be transmitted through his evil elder brother? Or was he more frightened of his own reaction to seeing Dan again? He patted her hand gently. ‘But I will.’
After they’d eaten, she insisted on washing up the dishes immediately. He offered to help.
‘No need. Won’t take more than a few minutes.’
And so he went out into his mother’s garden, walked along the carefully created paths with the little bridge over the lily pond and, crossing to the far end, took out his mobile phone. As he looked back at the house, he remembered summer evenings watching the bats burst out, as in a hail of machine-gun fire, from underneath the eaves, dozens and dozens of baby horseshoes and pipistrelles.
Asim was sympathetic but not hopeful.
‘I’m not asking for me, but for my mum,’ Tallis pleaded. ‘You’re the only person who can swing it.’
Asim sounded doubtful about that, too. ‘When’s the funeral?’
‘Friday.’
‘I’ll get back to you,’ Asim promised.
Tallis spent the rest of the day with his mum. They talked of old times, laughing a little, avoiding the bad, which was easy. When two people remembered an event they generally viewed it in the context of their own personal narrative and prejudice. Staying the night was more taxing. He slept in the old room he’d shared with his brother, the same room in which he’d received taunts and beatings from his dad.
The next morning his mother announced that she wanted to go into town. Tallis offered to drive but she declined. ‘Time you went home.’
‘But I’ve only just arrived.’
‘Don’t you have work to go to?’ His parents had always had a strong work ethic, something they’d imbued into their kids. Tallis had led her to believe that he was some kind of private investigator, an occupation of which she disapproved. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she insisted.
‘But, Mum…’
She broke into a radiant smile, almost girlish. ‘I’d actually like to be alone.’
Hannah wouldn’t approve, he thought, standing there like a dumb animal.
‘Go,’ she said, giving him a gentle push in the middle of his chest.
Tallis looked into her face and found her impossible to read. He’d always worried that she’d go under when his father died, but he saw something else emergent, something strong. He thought it was hope, and envied her.
After picking up some basic supplies, Tallis got back home around noon. Jimmy next-door was still asleep. Apart from the fact the lad’s bedroom curtains were closed, neither property was being pulverised by sound.
Once inside, he picked up his mail, chucked it on a side table for later, stowed milk in the fridge, bread in the bread bin and made himself a pot of coffee. After that, he called Stu. They’d worked together as part of an elite group of undercover firearms officers. Stu had stayed on with the force after Tallis left, but after hitting the bottle had been returned to basic duties. Last time they’d spoken Stu had been in the process of kicking his addiction. He wasn’t finding it easy.
‘Hi, Stu, how are you doing?’
‘One hundred and twenty-one days and counting,’ Stu said morosely, his Glaswegian accent less pronounced since he’d packed in the booze.
‘That’s terrific.’
‘Fucking boring.’
Tallis let out a laugh. ‘You’ll just have to find some other addiction to float your boat.’
‘Yeah, but will it be legal?’
This was better. Even if everything was tits up, he could always rely on his mates to get him through. A sense of humour was essential to survival—especially in their line of work. ‘So what’s new on the old bush telegraph?’
‘Same old. Why?’
‘Ever have any contacts with the Serious and Organised Crime Agency?’
‘Must be joking. Wouldn’t sully themselves with the likes of us.’
‘So you’ve never come across a guy called Kevin Napier?’
‘Can’t say I have. Is he with SOCA?’
‘Recently promoted.’
‘No, it’s the Organised Crime lot SOCA have most contact with and even that’s carried out in darkened corridors.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘SOCA is extremely secretive. Have to be. They’re working against organised crime at the highest level. Most of us wouldn’t be able to get beyond a phone call to their press office.’
‘But I thought they worked closely with police on intelligence and operations at local level.’
‘They do. Every so often one of their officers swoop on Organised Crime, mix it up a bit then swoop back out again. We call them the free-range chickens of law enforcement agencies.’ Stu gave a low chuckle. ‘As you might imagine, their input isn’t always appreciated.’
An age-old problem, Tallis thought. Oh, he knew how it worked in theory: counter-terrorism was an amalgamation of police and security services, working side by side in a spirit of joint co-operation against a common foe, sharing intelligence, indivisible, one for all and all for one. However, the powers that be took little or no account of the frailty of human nature. When push came to shove, everyone ruthlessly guarded his or her own patch.
Stu was still banging on. ‘SOCA works at national level. They have the big picture. They know best, allegedly, patronising bastards.’
Add to that too many newly formed government agencies, too many new initiatives, way too many analysts, and nobody knowing what the hell they were doing, Tallis thought. More cynically, Tallis suspected the constant round of name changes was entirely deliberate. It was impossible to pinpoint who was running what. ‘So it’s a one-way street. SOCA gives the benefit of their expertise and fuck off. That right?’
Stu let out a raucous laugh. Tallis had no doubt that he’d pass that one on to a receptive ear. ‘I don’t suppose SOCA see it that way,’ Stu said, serious again. ‘I think they genuinely feel they’re doing their bit. In spite of some recent bad press, they are trying to get their act together. Problem was they were disadvantaged from the start.’
‘Because everyone had such high expectations?’ Tallis said.
‘That and because it takes time to build