Chapter 4
The Gent paced around his conservatory eating extra-strong peppermints as he pondered what could be behind Jenny’s outburst yesterday. He stared intently into the garden, not even noticing the antics of squirrels as they scurried about finding nuts, something he normally would have found amusing. Still emotionally bruised from his divorce, he was arrogant but not conceited, and realized that he was quite excited at the prospect of spending time with Jenny – and not just for the opportunity of helping her with her dilemma.
At quarter past twelve, he picked up the phone. The salutations were a little awkward at first.
‘I wasn’t sure you would call,’ she said.
‘No problem,’ he replied. ‘Have you come up with any more ideas as to what could be going on? I mean, it did seem rather strange and farfetched as you described it yesterday, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
There was a pause before Jenny responded, ‘I know you think I’m imagining things, and he does seem much more relaxed now that we’ve come back, but I still think there is something going on. I haven’t imagined it all – the text messages and strange calls and everything.’
‘Right, OK, then, what about if we meet face to face and see if we can make more sense of it between us? Can you get up to the golf club later, say five thirty?’
‘Oh yes, sure, that would be great. I’ll see you there then.’ With that Jenny was gone, leaving the Gent still pacing and pondering.
He arrived at Forest View Golf Club at twenty-five past five to find Jenny sitting at a table by the window, wearing a smart cream Arran sweater with blue jeans and black casual shoes, nursing a gin and tonic. Raising a hand in greeting, he went up to the bar and ordered the same. There was no hint of understanding as the barman respectfully performed his task but a knowing smile touched his lips as the Gent sat down and poured his tonic into Bombay Sapphire gin over ice and lime.
The place was otherwise empty so to an observant barman the smiles from the only occupied table could have been those of lovers rather than co-conspirators. They sipped their gins and it was Jenny who broke the silence first.
‘Thank you for coming and treating me as normal. I know it must seem silly.’
‘Not at all, I’m delighted that you chose to confide in me,’ the Gent responded. ‘You’ve told me about strange calls and text messages, but not what you think they are all about. Do you have any inkling about what it is that may be getting Samir so uptight?’
Jenny looked thoughtful for a moment and then went into full flight.
‘Well, he is a bit of a playboy – knows all the right clubs and that, and could have any girl he fancied, really – but I don’t think he’s bad in any great sense, perhaps just easily led. Over the last few weeks he seems to meet with his Muslim friends more and more, and when I ask him what they talk about he just clams up. But I’ve seen some of the texts, and they say things like, “Where is it going to be? And what exactly are we going to do?” At first they just seemed to be trying to save the world, but then they are younger than him – about twenty – and he’s now twenty-four. Only four years younger than me, so you’d think he would have grown out of all that idealism by now. He did say that a few weeks ago a new visiting imam had been preaching at the mosque, and since then he has become more moody and withdrawn.’
As Jenny paused for breath, the Gent took the opportunity to speak. ‘It definitely seems to me that there’s been an escalation in events, what with the visit to London. Why did Samir have to go not the others?’
Jenny came straight back with, ‘That’s interesting. I caught something about that when he was off-guard after... well, we’d had a drink or two... and it seems that the other two wouldn’t look right and of course they don’t have Samir’s money, or dare I say it, me, to take along.’
‘Yes, that does kind of fit together when you consider it all, and from what you’ve told me he certainly doesn’t look like a terrorist. What I can’t understand, though, is why this preacher or whoever would send a group from Manchester to London. And why target the British Museum, which displays Islam in a good light, I think? Can I chew this over for a while and perhaps have an off-the-record chat with an old friend of mine, an inspector in the Greater Manchester Police.’
A bit rattled, Jenny added, ‘You will be careful, though?’
‘Yes, of course I will – no names mentioned all hypothetical. And I’ve just had an idea: would it be useful if I could meet Samir when I just happen to bump into you both at Bannerman’s or somewhere?’
‘Yes, OK, that sounds good. I’ll let you know when we will be there next.’
With that the conversation passed into golf-speak as they finished their drinks.
The next day, the Gent was back at Forest View Golf Club perusing the competitions board. He did not play competitions regularly, which was unfortunate as he had a mid-range handicap and would inevitably improve with a little more practice. He found the name he was looking for: Bill Lambert, the self-same inspector in the GMP. The competition on the following Wednesday 18th April, a week later, was an eighteen-hole Stableford competition, with groups of three players. The names were entered in pencil, and he rubbed two names out and inserted them in a blank line above, hoping no one would notice. Stupid! This was a golf club, and there would be uproar, but he would just have to ride it out if discovered.
On the 18th, the inspector arrived in good time, and the pleasantries continued for a few minutes. The inspector asked him about his divorce and his success in the romance game – answer: sweet FA, which he freely admitted was more to do with himself as his potential lovers. He enquired after the inspector’s family and how the eldest son Denis was doing on his first tour in Iraq. The reply was chastening in that having survived a car bomb whilst on patrol two months before, Denis was still in hospital.
There was a period of silence whilst putting the first hole and driving off the second, except of course for the obligatory ‘good shot’, and ‘robbed’ etc. The real business began on the long fairway to the fourth hole.
The Gent began hesitantly, ‘Bill, if I were to ask you a hypothetical question, off the record, would you be able to give me a hypothetical answer? For example, if there were an Islamic terrorist cell operating in Manchester, why would they be sent down to London, and why do you think the target would be a great institution of the arts given that this is Olympic year?’
The inspector paused for thought in order to craft his reply. ‘I can see that although it is fifteen years since we were at Sandhurst together, studying military strategy, you’ve lost none of your guile in boxing with the enemy whilst allowing a little wiggle room for negotiation... Well! As it’s off the record and even if it is two questions, here goes: firstly, as you would expect in Olympic year, there is a great deal of security in place with half our armed forces in or around London and warships sailing up the Thames. This is just the headline-grabbing overt stuff, never mind the covert stuff going on behind the scenes. The straight answer to the first question is that all known potential types are being monitored very closely, and hopefully wouldn’t even get close to a target with a sparkler right now. This would explain why a group from up North would stand a much better chance of remaining undetected. In answer to the second question, they would be looking for some kind of high-profile target to maximise media exposure, but security at the Olympics should be tighter than a drum.’
The Gent waited patiently whilst the inspector took a drop from a water hazard on the sixth, deciding not to comment when he used his extra two-inch length custom-made driver (he was six feet four inches tall) to measure the two club lengths allowed, away from the hazard to make the drop. ‘Thanks for that, Bill. It all seems quite logical when you put it that way. Let’s just hope hypothesis never moves to action.’
‘I’m sure I don’t need to need to remind you of my hotline number just in case.’
In the nineteenth hole, three and a half hours later over a pint of Speckled Hen, the mood was jolly with the usual banter with other golfers who all claimed they were playing great until the eighteenth hole. The inspector was in especially good spirits, as he had beaten the Gent by five clear points, something he had never come close to achieving before.
Three days later, on Saturday 21st, the Gent was pacing his conservatory, and pondering again how to smooth his way into the in-crowd at Bannerman’s without appearing out of place. He needed a companion. Amelia, his ex-wife’s younger sister, looked no older than Jenny, and although their relationship was purely platonic she had been his partner before in situations where an escort was a distinct advantage. A startling redhead, she was a lesbian with a live-in partner, but the opposite of obvious, and would be the ideal choice for the mission in hand. Still getting to grips with his new BlackBerry, he was pleased when his call proved successful at the first attempt, and was amused by her good-humored greeting. He was just about to speak when he realised it was actually a recorded message. Amelia should consider voice-overs; she was a natural. She called back later that day and was not surprised that it was another covert mission. He explained that the aim was to suss out Jenny’s boyfriend Samir, and she agreed immediately, confirming that she was free both Friday and Saturday of the following weekend. Once he knew which day, he would call round for a drink first and explain the situation in more detai