reached the point at which Vale’s video message began when Kendrick blurted: ‘I know you.’
Purkiss stopped. ‘Say again?’
The grin was back, for the first time since Kendrick had sat down. ‘You.’ He tipped his head at Rebecca. ‘We’ve met.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said pleasantly.
‘Yeah.’ Kendrick wagged his finger at her. He turned to Purkiss. ‘We have.’ He screwed up his face almost comically. ‘Where the bloody hell was it, now?’ To Rebecca: ‘You used to go out with that bloke. That squaddie. What was his name ...’
‘We’ve never met, Mr Kendrick,’ she said again.
Purkiss said, ‘Tony. Think you’ve made a mistake.’ He paused. ‘Have you been taking in what I’ve said?’
Kendrick waved an impatient hand. ‘Yeah, yeah. Your mate got killed on the plane. The black geezer. They tried to kill you.’ He slapped a palm over his forehead, where the skin graft had taken hold over the artificially reconstructed area of skull beneath. Purkiss had noticed that was a habit of his. ‘Christ, it’s going to annoy me now. Give me a clue, love. Where have I seen you?’
Purkiss said, ‘Stay focused, Tony. This next part’s important.’
This time, Kendrick seemed to be paying attention, even glancing at Purkiss as he spoke. Before Purkiss had finished, Kendrick interrupted. ‘So we’re going to Greece.’
‘Yes. I want you to come along. I need backup.’
Kendrick slapped the table with both palms. ‘Done. Could use some sunshine. Get out of this shithole for a while.’ He stood up abruptly. ‘You need guns?’
Purkiss winced inwardly. He indicated with his head. ‘Sit down. And keep your voice down. We need to make some plans.’
‘What about the guns?’ said Kendrick in a stage whisper.
‘No guns. We’re flying, remember.’
Kendrick said, ‘Pansy.’
Thirteen
––––––––
T hey returned to Kendrick’s Hackney flat so that he could collect a few things. His passport was, thankfully, still current. Purkiss kept a selection of fake passports for his own use, two of which he’d already taken from the locker at Heathrow where he stored them for emergency use.
Rebecca had booked a direct flight for them to Athens shortly after they’d landed. She included Kendrick’s name in the booking, on Purkiss’s assumption that the man would agree to join them. Rebecca drove them back to the airport in a rental car. She’d climbed behind the wheel without discussion, as if part of her role as Purkiss’s protector included chauffeur duty.
Purkiss glanced at Kendrick in the mirror from time to time. Mostly, he stared out the window, his lips moving quickly and rhythmically as if he was singing silently to himself.
Once, he lunged forward without warning, grabbed the back of Rebecca’s seat. ‘Colchester,’ he said excitedly. ‘Nineteen ninety-six, ninety-seven. Something like that. You were garrisoned there.’
‘I’ve never been in the military,’ said Rebecca. ‘And I would have been fourteen or fifteen years old at the time.’
Kendrick sagged back, his face twisting in disappointment and annoyance.
Purkiss gazed out at the M25 motorway as they headed westwards to the airport. He felt on edge, in a way that was unusual for him. He’d taken on missions with ill-defined objectives before. If he was honest with himself, he relished the challenge of solving a puzzle, of finding the kernel of focus in the haze of data and contradictions he was first presented with.
This time, it was different. He’d received his instructions from Vale, as was normally the case, but this time they’d been issued from beyond the grave. And they weren’t instructions, as such, so much as vague warnings and suggestions. He had no idea who the opposition were this time round: how many they numbered, whether they were a private outfit or had the backing of one or more governments.
And he had begun to realise that he didn’t really know who Rebecca Deacon
Purkiss stopped. ‘Say again?’
The grin was back, for the first time since Kendrick had sat down. ‘You.’ He tipped his head at Rebecca. ‘We’ve met.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said pleasantly.
‘Yeah.’ Kendrick wagged his finger at her. He turned to Purkiss. ‘We have.’ He screwed up his face almost comically. ‘Where the bloody hell was it, now?’ To Rebecca: ‘You used to go out with that bloke. That squaddie. What was his name ...’
‘We’ve never met, Mr Kendrick,’ she said again.
Purkiss said, ‘Tony. Think you’ve made a mistake.’ He paused. ‘Have you been taking in what I’ve said?’
Kendrick waved an impatient hand. ‘Yeah, yeah. Your mate got killed on the plane. The black geezer. They tried to kill you.’ He slapped a palm over his forehead, where the skin graft had taken hold over the artificially reconstructed area of skull beneath. Purkiss had noticed that was a habit of his. ‘Christ, it’s going to annoy me now. Give me a clue, love. Where have I seen you?’
Purkiss said, ‘Stay focused, Tony. This next part’s important.’
This time, Kendrick seemed to be paying attention, even glancing at Purkiss as he spoke. Before Purkiss had finished, Kendrick interrupted. ‘So we’re going to Greece.’
‘Yes. I want you to come along. I need backup.’
Kendrick slapped the table with both palms. ‘Done. Could use some sunshine. Get out of this shithole for a while.’ He stood up abruptly. ‘You need guns?’
Purkiss winced inwardly. He indicated with his head. ‘Sit down. And keep your voice down. We need to make some plans.’
‘What about the guns?’ said Kendrick in a stage whisper.
‘No guns. We’re flying, remember.’
Kendrick said, ‘Pansy.’
Thirteen
––––––––
T hey returned to Kendrick’s Hackney flat so that he could collect a few things. His passport was, thankfully, still current. Purkiss kept a selection of fake passports for his own use, two of which he’d already taken from the locker at Heathrow where he stored them for emergency use.
Rebecca had booked a direct flight for them to Athens shortly after they’d landed. She included Kendrick’s name in the booking, on Purkiss’s assumption that the man would agree to join them. Rebecca drove them back to the airport in a rental car. She’d climbed behind the wheel without discussion, as if part of her role as Purkiss’s protector included chauffeur duty.
Purkiss glanced at Kendrick in the mirror from time to time. Mostly, he stared out the window, his lips moving quickly and rhythmically as if he was singing silently to himself.
Once, he lunged forward without warning, grabbed the back of Rebecca’s seat. ‘Colchester,’ he said excitedly. ‘Nineteen ninety-six, ninety-seven. Something like that. You were garrisoned there.’
‘I’ve never been in the military,’ said Rebecca. ‘And I would have been fourteen or fifteen years old at the time.’
Kendrick sagged back, his face twisting in disappointment and annoyance.
Purkiss gazed out at the M25 motorway as they headed westwards to the airport. He felt on edge, in a way that was unusual for him. He’d taken on missions with ill-defined objectives before. If he was honest with himself, he relished the challenge of solving a puzzle, of finding the kernel of focus in the haze of data and contradictions he was first presented with.
This time, it was different. He’d received his instructions from Vale, as was normally the case, but this time they’d been issued from beyond the grave. And they weren’t instructions, as such, so much as vague warnings and suggestions. He had no idea who the opposition were this time round: how many they numbered, whether they were a private outfit or had the backing of one or more governments.
And he had begun to realise that he didn’t really know who Rebecca Deacon
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