Conflict of Interest

He shook his head. ‘Didn’t have to,’ his own expression was weary, ‘Judith was the one who told me about Jacob Strauss. I didn’t believe her, so I had it double-checked. You’re right about Merlin de Vere. He’d found out the same stuff.’

‘Jesus!’

For a while they stood, staring out at where the rain pummelled the pavement, before Kate turned to him and said, ‘Chris, please be careful. Until we get shot of the Starwear account you’re in very serious danger.’

They held each other’s eyes for a while until he asked her, ‘What should I do?’

She shook her head. ‘Nothing. Just watch yourself. Don’t do anything to arouse suspicion.’

He couldn’t help reflecting on the irony of her advice; the same advice he’d given Judith; the advice he’d been living by ever since discovering he was being followed.

‘But whatever else you do,’ Kate was grave, ‘don’t have anything to do with Judith Laing.’

He’d carefully planned his route to see Judith. Instead of going home by car, as he nearly always did, he left the building among a group of other Lombard consultants who were making their way to a nearby pub for a Friday evening drink. He reckoned that whoever was trailing him would be expecting to drive. And sure enough, no sooner had the Lombard gang set off along the pavement than he caught sight of a figure in a dark coat emerging from a car parked conveniently close to the Lombard basement exit.

He didn’t follow the gang to the pub; instead, as they passed the nearby Underground station, he darted down the stairs, making his way briskly among the rush-hour crowds, through the barriers, on to the escalator, and along a corridor to the Central Line. It was impossible to tell how far his pursuer was behind him. At that time of night the place was bedlam. Passing a newspaper stall, he thrust some coins in the vendor’s hand and grabbed an Evening Standard. It came in useful once he’d got on to the platform and edged his way right along it, to a strategic spot amongst the crowd.

Shielding himself among a group of large brokers wearing loud ties, he opened the paper and buried himself in its business pages. As he waited for the first train, he kept a sharp eye on movement down the platform. Of course, he didn’t know what the guy looked like. But, moments after taking cover, he spotted a figure bursting through the platform entrance, hurriedly glancing up and down the packed crowds in each direction. In just an instant Chris took in a dark coat and swarthy features, a close crew cut and heavy eyebrows. Behind his newspaper, he had no idea if his pursuer would home in on him, though it was less than twenty seconds before a blast of acrid air heralded the arrival of the next train.

Heading west on the Central Line at rush hour on a Friday meant jostling and shoving your way into a carriage already way past capacity – or quite possibly having to wait for the next train, or the one after that. But waiting wasn’t an option. Chris crammed himself into a doorway so bulging with bodies he was hanging outside the carriage – which was when he caught a glimpse of the other. Same carriage. One door along. Following his every move.

When the doors slid shut, Chris had to cram his way into the train and the pin-striped forest of disgruntled commuters. Pressed to the side of the carriage, neck bent against the door, there was no evading his pursuer just a few yards away. At the next station, when a large exodus of passengers was replaced by a frenetic inward surge, he positioned himself behind a group, so that he was at least out of direct view. This would all be about timing, he knew. Timing and bluff.

When he got to Chancery Lane he moved further into the carriage, all the while following his pursuer out of the corner of his eye. The dark figure was matching his every step, and now moved deeper into the carriage too – which was precisely Chris’s intention. At the next station, Holborn, he made his break, moving stealthily back to the door behind the jostling passengers – just as it was sliding shut. He jammed it open with his elbow, wrestling with all his strength to keep it open just long enough to jump. Then he was out of the carriage and walking down the platform. The train was grinding away, his pursuer trapped on board.

So far, so good. Though it wasn’t over – not by a long shot. Now he made his way to the Piccadilly Line, which would take him to South Kensington, the nearest station to the Oyster Bar. Crushed on to yet another overcrowded platform, he glanced again at the newspaper and this time his attention was suddenly seized by a photograph. Front page. It was of Dale Nesbitt. ‘Police Search for Missing St Stephen’s Boy’, blazed the headline. He quickly read the three-paragraph article. Dale Nesbitt had been reported missing two days before. He’d disappeared during the middle of the day, and when last seen was wearing his school uniform. None of the staff or pupils had any idea where he’d gone and he had no living relatives. Police were appealing to members of the public to come forward if they could help.

The article went on to link Dale’s disappearance with that of another St Stephen’s boy eighteen months earlier. He’d been missing for three weeks before his body was found in the undergrowth near Virginia Water railway station in Surrey. He had died of asphyxiation, and a coroner’s report indicated that sexual assault had taken place.

Chris forgot he was on a packed platform during Friday’s rush hour. For a few minutes he stood there lost in thought, heart pounding and mouth dry. He remembered standing in the deserted porch at St Stephen’s, Dale frozen to the spot, terror on his face and a puddle at his feet. In the distance was the priest with his black robes and white face. Chris could hardly believe he was living with such evil.

He’d chosen the Oyster Bar, in the Bibendum building, because he knew Judith would be arriving by tube, and there was only one street she could use to get there from the Underground. A long, straight road, ideal for observation. By the time she emerged from South Kensington station, just before eight, his plans were set. Concealed in the entrance to a block of flats, he watched as she started out towards Fulham Road. He wasn’t scrutinising her so much as the fellow passengers making thei

r way down the pavement behind her. His actions were less a precaution than a confirmation of what he half suspected. And after a minute or so, when she crossed the road, his fears were confirmed. Ten yards behind her, a dark-suited man crossed the road too, his eyes fixed on her.

Things moved quickly after that. Arriving at the Oyster Bar, Judith glanced about for Chris, before sitting at an empty table. A waitress came to take her order, and asked Judith her name before handing her the note Chris had left. Moments later, Judith emerged from the side entrance of the bar, where a taxi was waiting, door open, with Chris sitting in the back seat.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Just get in. Quickly.’ Then, as she climbed up, ‘I came alone. You didn’t.’

‘What d’you mean?’

The cab had already pulled away and was heading round the corner past the main entrance to the Oyster Bar. Chris seized Judith by the shoulder and pulled her down as he ducked to window level.

‘There’s someone on your tail. I watched him follow you from the tube. Just a couple of moments ago he was standing right there,’ he jerked a thumb in the direction of the Bibendum building.

As they sat up again, he tried to fathom the look in her eyes. He couldn’t avoid seeing that she still doubted his motives.

‘And while we’re on the painful subject, it might be an idea to have your flat swept for bugs. They found twenty-five listening devices in my house.’

She was shaking her head, the edge to her expression only heightened by this latest revelation.

‘Look, Judith …’ he knew he had to win her over, ‘I don’t blame you for being suspicious of me. But, for God’s sake, d’you think I’d be putting myself on the line if I wasn’t serious?’

‘Last time we met—’

‘I know. I didn’t believe a word you said.’ He glanced up at the open window to the driver’s cabin before leaning over to slide it shut. ‘But, like I told you on the phone,’ he lowered his voice, ‘a lot has happened in a very short while. They’ve connected the two of us. They’re convinced we’re working up a story that’ll blast Strauss out of the sky. That’s why they’ve got both of us monitored twenty-four hours a day.’