“An old police edict - good news on the phone, bad news in person.”

“Am I that predictable or what? Anyhow, the DCI was spot on when he said that MI5 would protect the name of their officer. I have an email from the Director who says that they are currently recalling the suspect from a distant assignment, and that they will debrief the operative in the next day or two. If the operative can possibly have been involved they will consider handing her to us for questioning, with the proviso their internal counsel is also present.”

“Great. So, she did it, and they’re going to make sure that she disappears one way or another.” Dee threw her pencil onto the desk to display her disgust.

“Dee, I think we both know DCI Coombes is cuter than that. He has an alternative plan.”

Dee looked at the DS and raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“Go on, DS Scott. Do tell.”

“Well, last year we all helped MI5 out on an operation in Cyprus. You, of course, still bear the scars of the bullet wound. The MI5 man who was responsible for letting things spiral out of control that day was Norrie Boyle, ex job.”

“I know him well,” Dee nodded. “We shared a hospital room. We both had bullet holes in us, as you so sensitively reminded me. I haven’t heard from him since he went down for surgery, except to say that I know he fully recovered.”

“Actually he didn’t fully recover. There was some internal organ damage and he is now desk bound at Thames House. DCI Coombes reckoned Boyle owed you a favour and had a brief chat with him. I’m expecting to bump into Norrie Boyle at the Wig and Pen at around noon today. Would you be interested in a spot of lunch, by any chance?”

“That’s a lawyers’ bar, isn’t it? Just opposite the Royal Courts. I thought it was members only?”

“Don’t worry. The smoke filled gentleman’s bar you remember is a nice Thai Restaurant now.”

***

Gil was trying to come to terms with her life as a woman of leisure. That morning she had awoken to an alarm clock that had not sounded for the first time in years. New owners and managers would be swarming around Celebrato Cards and organising things their own way.

By Saturday at noon she had her money, and the company she had built passed to the new owners at midnight last night. She had already cancelled her gym membership, as the Spitalfield gym was miles out of her way now and the lease on her furnished flat ran out at the end of the month.

Gil had few personal possessions, and today they were going into storage indefinitely whilst she set out on a journey she should have completed many years ago.

Chapter 28

Wig and Pen, 229/230 The Strand, London. Monday 12:05pm

As Dee and DS Paul Scott approached the Wig and Pen it looked just the same as it always had, somewhat quaint and ancient. The place was steeped in history and, being across the road from the Royal Courts of Justice on the Strand, it had survived since the seventeenth century as a favourite drinking house for judges, barristers and solicitors. Anecdotes about the place abounded in legal circles, and rumour had it that clerks had often been dispatched from chambers to rescue a tipsy barrister from the Wig and Pen to remind him he was due in court in an hour.

The ancient premises were reputed to be the only building on the Strand to have survived the Great Fire of London. Built in 1625, number 230 was the home of the Gatekeeper of Temple Bar who, it is said, unwittingly began the catering tradition at this site by offering “a penn’orth of meat and bread” to the crowds who used to gather at the Temple Gate. Even now, the Outer Temple Building is just a few metres away along the Strand in the direction of Trafalgar Square.

The last time Dee had been in the disreputable old pub it had a roaring fire and the snug feel of an old inn. It was the sort of place where you wouldn’t have been surprised if someone came and sat down opposite you wearing a frock coat and nodded a greeting with a head covered by a powdered wig.

Today, whilst some character had been retained, the Thai Square Restaurant which now occupied the old building was bright, fresh and modern; everything that the old Wig and Pen was not.

The pair sat down and ordered from the menu. The food looked good, the service was attentive and, for London, the prices were very reasonable. Whilst Dee waited for her Dim Sum and sparkling water to arrive she kept her eye on the door.

A waiter appeared with her drink and her starter. He also brought out a Tiger Beer and a Chicken Satay for her lunch companion. As they were finishing their appetisers the door opened and in walked Norris Boyle, the ex policeman who had taken a bullet last year whilst trying to save Dee. He looked thinner and there was a pained look on his face. After an apparently nonchalant perusal of the clientele, he wandered over to their table.

Dee stood and hugged the MI5 man, showing the kind of camaraderie that can only be cemented by being shot by the same gun. Boyle was taken aback by the show of affection, but nonetheless returned the hug heartily.

“Miss Conrad, you look great. The last time we met neither of us were at our best.” He smiled and then grimaced.

“Sorry. The bullet I took caused some intestinal damage and the cold weather seems to set it off. They reckon it’ll heal eventually. I bloody well hope so. I’m getting rather tired of bland food and Complan.”

Dee moved across the bench seat and Boyle slipped in beside her. He nodded to the waiter and silently mouthed ‘the usual’ before leaning over the table and taking DS Scott’s last stick of Satay Chicken. Dipping it into the peanut sauce, he added unnecessarily, “You don’t mind, do you Paul? It’s one of the few things I can eat these days.” DS Scott clearly did mind, but he smiled anyway. His ex colleague had earned a lot of brownie points with the DS when he was on the job.

***

Dee was eagerly tucking into a dish listed as ‘weeping tiger’, sirloin beef with a rich North Eastern Thai sauce on steamed rice, when Norrie interrupted his attack on the Lamb with black pepper on noodles, to speak in hushed tones.

“I don’t like murderers getting off scot free, so I’m going to give you a leg up on your investigation.” He scooped a forkful of lamb and noodles into his mouth and chewed slowly, clearly savouring the taste. Downing a good mouthful of the house red, he continued.

“Shouldn’t really, you know. Red wine is one of the worst things for my stomach. Anyway, let me tell you a story.” The MI5 man finished the last mouthful of food, set down his cutlery and placed his elbows on the table. He leaned in and spoke quietly, conspiratorially even.

“MI5 and MI6 are widely misunderstood, mainly because of the films and TV series that show spies in a very adventurous light. Not so in reality. Over ninety per cent of our people are desk bound, here or abroad. They gather information, analyse it and decide if there is any threat to us, or to our allies.

I wouldn’t say this to anyone else but it’s all a bit of a sham, really. The mystique and the fiction surrounding Five and Six help us to maintain our budgets and give the impression that our spooks have their hand on the tiller. We keep our jobs by persuading the country that we are all safe as long as the security services are keeping the terrorists at bay. I have no idea why the public believe it. We couldn’t even control the IRA during the 1970s, and there were only a handful of them just across the Irish Sea.

Truth is, we usually find out about terror threats and terrorist acts on CNN or Sky News, same as you. We had four guys, full time, running contacts in Eastern Europe, shelling out bribes to get the specifications of the Ukrainian Hand Held Rocket launchers sought after by Al Qaeda. They came up with nothing. Last August, an edition of Jane’s Defence Weekly published the full specs, capability and weaknesses. We now have an annual subscription that gives us all fifty two copies a year for a hundred and ninety six quid.