A cad, Ross had wanted to add, but thought better of it.
‘In fact, he still hasn’t paid the final invoice for the Sesame Safe we installed for him a couple of years back. However, given time he’ll need to replace the batteries in the watch, and then he’ll have to pay up, because they’re also unique.’
‘How much is his outstanding mess bill?’ asked Ross, expecting to be court-martialled for even raising the subject.
‘A bit out of your league, I’m afraid, old chap.’
‘Try me.’
‘Five thousand pounds would settle the account.’
Ross took out his chequebook, picked up a Biro from the counter and began writing.
‘Won the pools, have we?’ ventured the colonel.
‘No, sir. Lost a wife,’ said Ross, as he handed over the cheque.
‘I apologize,’ said Parker, genuinely contrite. He turned around, entered a code that unlocked a small safe in the wall, extracted a watch with a blank face and tapped it. The dial immediately lit up and flashed the time in bold numerals for a few seconds, before the light went out. He handed the watch to his former comrade in arms.
‘This isn’t much use to me,’ said Ross, ‘if I don’t know the code.’
‘What time is it, corporal?’
‘Twenty past three,’ said Ross, glancing at a clock on the wall behind the counter.
‘Think like a soldier!’ barked the colonel.
‘Fifteen twenty,’ replied Ross.
‘Month and year.’
‘Nine eighty-eight.’
‘Correct. 15 20 09 88.’
‘The time, date and year,’ said Ross. ‘It couldn’t be simpler.’
‘And the beauty of it is that the time changes every minute, which means the code does as well. But corporal, don’t forget that although your adversary may be neither an officer nor a gentleman, you’ll still need to get up very early in the morning to catch him asleep.’
‘That’s exactly what I plan to do,’ said Ross, as he strapped on the watch.
? ? ?
DC Pankhurst was seated at a table by the window of a wine bar overlooking Wardour Street. She had selected the spot carefully. The little bar, on the first floor above a restaurant, was packed with young people enjoying a night out, although she was still on duty. From her vantage point she had an uninterrupted view of Darren Carter as he went about his work. After fourteen days of surveillance, she not only knew his routine, but also his job description （unwritten）。 Carter was first and foremost the Eve Club’s gatekeeper. He, and he alone, decided who should be allowed to enter the club, and his prejudices had become only too obvious to Rebecca over the past fortnight.
He welcomed stray middle-aged foreigners who looked as if they had money and could be seduced into parting with it. If they’d had a little too much to drink, that was a bonus. ‘Undesirables’ – tattooed youths wearing jeans, especially if they were in groups – were politely rejected, and occasionally not so politely. ‘Sorry sir, this is a private members’ club’ was usually enough for them to move on, and if they didn’t, the suggestion of what might happen next persuaded the more determined. One or two didn’t give up quite so easily, which was met with a menacing look, and if they were still stupid enough to push their luck, a firm shove followed, although Rebecca hadn’t yet witnessed anything that could have been described as GBH, and therefore warranted an arrest.
Rebecca accepted she would have to be like a patient angler, prepared to wait for hours in the hope of landing a catch. At least she was sitting in a warm bar enjoying a drink, and not perched on a river bank in the pouring rain. But she was painfully aware her written reports were becoming shorter and shorter by the day. In fact, lately, only the date changed. She wondered how much longer it would be before the chief moved her on to another assignment.
At least she had plenty of time to think about Archie. She loved her job and being part of a highly trained elite team, but she knew she would soon have to make a decision about her future. Archie had started talking about their life together as a shared partnership. He was currently doing a spell in Northern Ireland, and she was well aware that, as a young army officer, he could expect to be regularly posted abroad. ‘Goes with the territory, old thing,’ he’d once told her, making it clear in his own sweet way that he assumed she would want to resign from the Met, as she obviously couldn’t be in two places at once.
If she were to marry him, it would mean giving up the job she loved to become an army officer’s wife, produce the regulation 2.2 children, while her greatest thrill would be helping the CO’s wife organize cocktail parties for visiting ‘bigwigs’ （Archie’s word）。 As she was musing on this vision of her future, she became distracted by a lively bunch of theatregoers pouring out of the Queen’s Theatre to begin wending their way home. The usual reminder that she should also be thinking about calling it a day.