notice the small envelope that had slipped into the gap between the cushion and the arm. He was about to drop it into the shredder by the desk, when he paused. It was the letter he had brought in that morning, from the girl who was her constituent, the one with the brother trying to get back from Syria. He weighed it in his hand, opened it again, reread the contents and put it back into its envelope.
Then he slipped it into his pocket and left the room.
18
14.30
Invicta Campus, Basingstoke
A fresh fall of snow and thick grey cloud glowering overhead gave the Invicta campus more than a hint of Siberian gulag. A heavier-than-usual security presence at the gate made the atmosphere all the more oppressive. Tom waited in the Range Rover while two guards in the booth examined his pass. It was designed for only one occupant, so the other had to come out while they handed the document back and forth.
Do I look like a suicide bomber? Tom wondered, but then he reminded himself of Randall’s own suicidal mission.
‘Can’t be too careful these days, sir. Extra checking ’cos of all the trouble.’ The guard gave back his pass and signalled to the men on the gate to open up.
Tom nodded at him. ‘Yep, you never know what’s coming round the corner.’
Inside the gate, the drives and paths had all been cleared of snow and the sense of order that had impressed Tom on his first visit still prevailed. Apparently Rolt had ploughed the best part of the fortune he had made from his software businesses into creating this place out of an old army base, a haven for ex-service people to get cleaned up and prepare to re-enter civilian life. But a large number had grown to like life on the campus so much that they had managed to prolong their stay, like perpetual students. Perhaps some had even relapsed on purpose to avoid facing the outside world. Rolt hadn’t objected: he had told Tom he liked the idea of his men being housed together in one place, enjoying the support of each other’s camaraderie, even though it had stretched resources and put pressure on his seemingly limitless funds.
Tom left his car by the admin block and went into Reception. There was no one at the desk so he walked down the corridor towards the senior management offices.
The warden’s office was empty, as were those of the field directors. He reached the last room and peered through the glass. Carter, the bursar, was at his desk, hunched over a screen. Tom knocked.
‘Fuck off, I’m busy.’ Carter, a paraplegic Basra veteran, was famously miserable.
He didn’t look up as Tom stepped into the room. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’
‘Well, don’t then.’ Carter glared at him briefly then returned to the screen.
Tom knew it wasn’t personal. And in a world of false courtesy and meaningless ‘Have a nice day’ platitudes, the brusqueness came as a relief. And there were no favourites where Carter was concerned: he treated everyone with the same contempt. He was good at the job and his memory for fine detail was legendary. When Tom had sat in on board meetings in Rolt’s absence, he had watched with amusement as Carter tore into everyone round the table over various financial misdemeanours, all of which he seemed to recite without notes and with terrifying, surgical accuracy. You might have survived the insurgents, his tone seemed to say, but woe betide you if you can’t produce a receipt for that new pen.
Tom gestured at an empty desk. ‘Could I log on to one of these? Need to look something up.’
‘You can try. Only the whole fucking mainframe’s down.’
A wasted journey. He’d wanted to give Randall’s personal file a really good going-over.
‘Where is everybody?’
‘Hanson’s taken them all off to Dartmoor.’
Hanson was the chief warden, a former Marine and one of the few Ruperts to have joined Invicta.
‘What’s that in aid of?’
Carter rolled his eyes. ‘He’s been giving them all hell about keeping in shape.’
‘What
Then he slipped it into his pocket and left the room.
18
14.30
Invicta Campus, Basingstoke
A fresh fall of snow and thick grey cloud glowering overhead gave the Invicta campus more than a hint of Siberian gulag. A heavier-than-usual security presence at the gate made the atmosphere all the more oppressive. Tom waited in the Range Rover while two guards in the booth examined his pass. It was designed for only one occupant, so the other had to come out while they handed the document back and forth.
Do I look like a suicide bomber? Tom wondered, but then he reminded himself of Randall’s own suicidal mission.
‘Can’t be too careful these days, sir. Extra checking ’cos of all the trouble.’ The guard gave back his pass and signalled to the men on the gate to open up.
Tom nodded at him. ‘Yep, you never know what’s coming round the corner.’
Inside the gate, the drives and paths had all been cleared of snow and the sense of order that had impressed Tom on his first visit still prevailed. Apparently Rolt had ploughed the best part of the fortune he had made from his software businesses into creating this place out of an old army base, a haven for ex-service people to get cleaned up and prepare to re-enter civilian life. But a large number had grown to like life on the campus so much that they had managed to prolong their stay, like perpetual students. Perhaps some had even relapsed on purpose to avoid facing the outside world. Rolt hadn’t objected: he had told Tom he liked the idea of his men being housed together in one place, enjoying the support of each other’s camaraderie, even though it had stretched resources and put pressure on his seemingly limitless funds.
Tom left his car by the admin block and went into Reception. There was no one at the desk so he walked down the corridor towards the senior management offices.
The warden’s office was empty, as were those of the field directors. He reached the last room and peered through the glass. Carter, the bursar, was at his desk, hunched over a screen. Tom knocked.
‘Fuck off, I’m busy.’ Carter, a paraplegic Basra veteran, was famously miserable.
He didn’t look up as Tom stepped into the room. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’
‘Well, don’t then.’ Carter glared at him briefly then returned to the screen.
Tom knew it wasn’t personal. And in a world of false courtesy and meaningless ‘Have a nice day’ platitudes, the brusqueness came as a relief. And there were no favourites where Carter was concerned: he treated everyone with the same contempt. He was good at the job and his memory for fine detail was legendary. When Tom had sat in on board meetings in Rolt’s absence, he had watched with amusement as Carter tore into everyone round the table over various financial misdemeanours, all of which he seemed to recite without notes and with terrifying, surgical accuracy. You might have survived the insurgents, his tone seemed to say, but woe betide you if you can’t produce a receipt for that new pen.
Tom gestured at an empty desk. ‘Could I log on to one of these? Need to look something up.’
‘You can try. Only the whole fucking mainframe’s down.’
A wasted journey. He’d wanted to give Randall’s personal file a really good going-over.
‘Where is everybody?’
‘Hanson’s taken them all off to Dartmoor.’
Hanson was the chief warden, a former Marine and one of the few Ruperts to have joined Invicta.
‘What’s that in aid of?’
Carter rolled his eyes. ‘He’s been giving them all hell about keeping in shape.’
‘What
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