Lifting the Lid(44)

She picked up one of the packets of cigarettes from the small pile on the sink drainer. ‘So then, Trevor,’ she said. ‘I think there are one or two things you and I need to talk about.’





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX



Logan was sitting with his face in his hands when DC Swann came back into the interview room.

‘So what was all that about?’ she said and flopped down onto the chair opposite him. Logan’s response was muffled, so she asked him to repeat what he’d said.

He placed his palms on the table and slowly raised his head as if the effort required all of the strength he had left. ‘Spooks.’

‘What?’ Swann’s expression would have been much the same if he’d punched her on the nose.

‘Yep, MI5,’ said Logan with a sour grin and performed a brief drum roll on the edge of the table with his fingertips. ‘The very same.’

‘But what’s it got to do with them?’

‘Oh yeah, and they’re going to tell me that, aren’t they? A detective bloody sergeant.’

‘Well what did they say exactly?’

‘I haven’t spoken to them. The message just now was to phone the guv’nor, so I did. He tells me that the spooks had got wind of our little investigation and were not at all happy about it. Apparently, they’re after our friend Trevor for something a whole lot bigger, and we were getting in their way.’

‘Oh right,’ said Swann with a scowl. ‘So now he’s some kind of international terrorist?’

‘No idea. All I know is we were to release him immediately and drop the whole thing altogether – or at least till MI5 have finished with him.’

‘What do you mean, “finished with him”?’

‘I think the precise words were “satisfactorily concluded their own enquiries”.’

Swann slumped back in her seat. ‘So that’s that then, is it?’

‘Hardly.’

‘But if the guv’nor says—’

‘Sod the guv’nor. I’ve got my own “enquiries to conclude”,’ said Logan, snatching up the buff coloured folder from the table and brandishing it at her. ‘I don’t care if this guy is Osama Bin Laden’s wicked bloody uncle. I just want to know if he murdered his wife or not.’

‘But if we get found out, we’ll be lucky if we end up on traffic duty.’

Logan tossed the folder back onto the table. ‘Well we’ll just have to be discreet then, won’t we? In fact, we won’t be able to do anything at all until we know where he ends up.’

‘So we still keep a tail on him?’

‘Certainly. And as long as the plods don’t mess up, nobody’ll be any the wiser.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway, I make that about coffee time.’

‘And you’ll be wanting me to fetch it, I suppose.’

‘No, no, no. Not a bit of it,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Let’s go and see what the canteen in this fine establishment has to offer.’

‘Blimey. You feeling flush or something?’

‘I don’t remember saying I was going to pay.’

Swann rolled her eyes as he opened the door and waited for her to join him. ‘Okay, I’ll do you a deal,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the coffees, and you can buy me lunch at some quaint little country pub.’

Logan nodded at the table behind her. ‘You forgot the file.’





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN



Patterson peeled back the top slice of white bread and peered at the three thin rashers of fatty bacon, poking at each one in turn with his knife.

‘And what’s this supposed to be?’

Statham had just taken a mouthful of scrambled egg, and he washed it down with a gulp of tea from a chipped white mug before answering. ‘I’m no expert of course, but I’d say it was a bacon sandwich.’

‘You forgot, didn’t you?’

‘Forgot what?’

‘When you put in the order. You forgot to ask for crispy.’

‘No I didn’t.’

Patterson jabbed at one of the rashers. ‘So what do you call this then? It’s certainly not crispy by most commonly accepted definitions of the word.’

Statham put down his own knife and fork and leaned forward to examine the bacon more closely. ‘Oh yeah, I see what you mean. Not crispy at all. More like… fatty, I’d say.’

‘Exactly.’ Patterson slammed his knife down onto the once cream-coloured tabletop and sat back heavily in his chair. ‘I mean, I know this is hardly the Savoy Grill, but surely even a crappy little caff like this knows what crispy bloody bacon looks like.’

‘Probably more sho,’ said Statham through a piece of blackened sausage, which seemed to be burning his mouth. ‘Should almosht be a shpeshiality in a plaish like thish.’