The Angry Sea. James Deegan

sky above; it was a perfect blue, with a single fluffy cloud hanging overhead.

      ‘Gorgeous,’ she said, absently. ‘I remember my mother telling me that I was going to be Prime Minister one day. You know what she was like.’

      Justin nodded and smiled, despite the situation.

      ‘We were down by the stables,’ said Penelope. ‘She said to me, “You’ll be the Prime Minister one day. Ten years at the Bar, then fifteen years of politics, then you mark my words, my girl, you’ll be the head honcho!” And here I am. I achieved her dream. Would have made her proud.’ She sniffed, fighting her emotions. ‘But I wish to God I’d married Dicky Coates and become a bloody farmer’s wife. When was the last time anyone kidnapped a farmer’s daughter?’

      Nicholls said nothing.

      The air was filled with late evening birdsong, and the muted sounds of London traffic.

      Somewhere inside No. 10, a phone was ringing off the hook.

      He said, ‘Have you told Paddy and the other kids yet?’

      ‘Paddy’s in the States on business,’ said Penelope Morgan. ‘He’s cutting it short and flying back tonight. Sophie was at her boyfriend’s house and is on her way up to town. Joff’s upstairs in the flat. He’s in a terrible state. It’s his big sister.’

      She looked at Nicholls.

      ‘One thing does occur to me, Justin,’ she said. ‘How did they know where Charlotte was?’

      ‘Yes, that has occurred to us, too,’ he said, drily. ‘It’s something else we don’t yet know. We’ll look at the airlines and the hotel and all that, but someone probably told someone they shouldn’t have. It’s usually loose lips.’

      Morgan nodded.

      She thought for a moment.

      Then she said, ‘I’ll stop at nothing to get them back, Justin. Whatever it takes. She comes home. They all come home. Is that clear?’

      ‘Well, we’ll…’

      ‘I’m serious. Never mind the courts. Those girls are in this position because I am who I am. And there’s no point being who I am if you can’t use what little power you have.’

      Nicholls nodded.

      Perhaps the rules had changed.

33.

      FIFTEEN HUNDRED MILES south, at 20:00hrs local time, John Carr was sitting in an interview room in the main Policía Nacional station in Marbella.

      He was nursing a few bumps and bruises, and a split lip, and looking across a grey melamine table at a pair of Spanish detectives.

      They’d just come back to the room after a while spent checking out his story.

      Now the older of the two pushed a sweaty, Clingfilm-wrapped cheese-and-tomato roll across the table, along with a Styrofoam cup of weak Lipton’s tea, the yellow tag showing that the bag was still in it.

      ‘I’m formally telling you now that you are no longer a suspect,’ said the younger man, Inspector-Jefe Javier de Padilla. He spoke in Spanish, since Carr was fluent – he’d spent a lot of time in South America on Regimental operations targeted against the coke barons of Colombia and Mexico.

      ‘I hope you can see why we were not sure. Everyone else had run away, except for you and your son…’

      He tailed off.

      ‘Yeah,’ said Carr. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

      He’d had plenty of experience of terrorist situations, and he knew the deal: everyone’s hostile until proven otherwise.

      In fact, he’d been surprised at the professionalism of the guys who had arrested him and George.

      They’d got them face down in the sand, hands on heads, and then he’d felt the muzzle of his No1’s weapon pressed hard into the back of his skull, no room for ambiguity, while the No. 2 conducted a good search.

      True, once he’d been cuffed they’d stuck a few punches and kicks in – a lawyer wouldn’t like it, but lawyers operated in quiet, air-conditioned rooms, not with the air filled with gunsmoke and the groans of dying, blood-spattered children.

      As far as Carr was concerned, they’d shown good drills.

      ‘If you feel the treatment was too rough…’

      ‘Nah,’ he said, with a slight grin. ‘I’ve had worse off my ex-wife. Like I said, don’t worry about it. All I’m interested in is any news on my daughter.’

      ‘I have good news, there, Mr Carr,’ said de Padilla. ‘I just heard from the officers we sent to your villa. Both she and the other member of your party are safe and well, and at the villa.’

      ‘I need to go,’ said Carr, pushing back his chair. ‘She’ll be worried to death.’

      ‘Please, Mr Carr,’ said the policeman, holding up a hand. ‘I told my officers to stay with her, and to tell her that both you and your son are fine, and are helping us.’

      Carr sat back in his chair.

      ‘One hour,’ he said. ‘Then I have to go.’

      ‘I understand.’ De Padilla picked up a pen. ‘So, I would like to take a statement. Is this okay?’

      ‘Sure.’

      ‘Do you want a lawyer?’

      ‘Do I need one?’

      ‘As I say, you’re not a suspect. We have broadly the same laws of self-defence as in the UK.’ He smiled. ‘To me, the only question is which of our civilian gallantry awards you and your son will receive.’

      Carr thought for a moment. ‘What about the two police officers and their pistols?’

      The officer shrugged. ‘You did what you had to do. I am more concerned that you don’t tell people that our guys were running away. They’ll finish their careers in a small town somewhere far away, believe me.’

      ‘My lips are sealed.’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

      ‘Okay,’ said de Padilla. ‘So, I really want to see if you can help us identify any members of the gang.’

      ‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Carr.

      ‘So, we start from the beginning. You went to the beach with your son and the two ladies at what time?’

      ‘Before we get into that,’ said Carr. ‘I think I saw one of them.’

      ‘One of the terrorists?’ said de Padilla. ‘I don’t understand.’

      Carr sipped his tea.

      It was hot and weak.

      ‘You know my background,’ he said. ‘I’ve done a lot of surveillance work. There was a guy on the beach. Dark hair, dark eyes, white clothing. Carrying flip-flops in his hand. He was trying to act like a normal tourist – playing the grey man, we call it – but he didn’t quite pull it off. There was a group of young Brits, including four girls. Twenties, good-looking. One in a shocking pink bikini, one in a black bikini. A couple of others. I just thought he was scoping them out. I didn’t blame him, to be fair. But given that the girls he was looking at were later taken away… He obviously had other things on his mind.’

      ‘Did he see you?’

      ‘No. He was so busy trying to disassociate himself from his target that he forgot about third-party. Most basic mistake in surveillance.’

      ‘What’s third party?’

      ‘Me.