Private London (Private 4)

‘They knew you’d been arrested?’

‘Yup.’

‘Sophisticated operation, then?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Which is a good thing, I guess.’

‘I guess so too,’ I agreed. Thinking that Hannah Shapiro already knew only too well how messy things could get with amateurs.

A short while later Sam pulled the car to a stop in the car park of one of the CUL sports grounds. It was based off the city centre and had a brick-built single-storey clubhouse and two rugby pitches. One of them was being used by the CUL squad who were running training exercises.

We walked over to the sidelines and watched for a while. Suzy had learned that they would be playing later that afternoon, in the annual grudge match between them and UCL. Just like the annual boat race between Oxford and Cambridge. If you added the victories up, then Chancellors would be slightly ahead, but UCL had beaten them in the last two encounters and they were keen to redress the balance, as I explained to Sam.

‘They’re so keen to redress the balance,’ replied Sam, ‘you’d think they wouldn’t be out partying the night before.’

I looked at him and grinned. ‘College boys. They have a quicker recovery time. You’re getting old, is all.’

‘Old nothing. I could give those silver-spoon-eating bookworms a two-minute start and still beat them over a mile.’

He probably could have, too.

‘You ever play rugby?’

‘Rugby? Are you out of your Caucasian mind?’ Sam said, laying it on thick. ‘I went to the college of hard knocks, my friend. We don’t got no rugby in that particular school.’

I smiled. I knew for a fact that he had gone to a Catholic grammar school, could have gone to a university of his choice. He’d chosen Hendon Police College instead. Something about growing up on an estate with limited life expectancy, I reckon. Where he’d watched two of his brothers getting themselves killed. Like I said earlier, he could have gone either way. Lucky for us he chose as he did.

The practice session finished and the young men started walking towards the clubhouse. I jogged across to join them.

‘Hold up a minute.’

They stopped and looked at me curiously. One of them, a tall guy – taller than me at least, but not as tall as Sam – stepped forward. He was about twenty-three had corkscrew-curly hair cut short, and a jagged scar on his forehead. Made him look like Harry Potter’s barbarian cousin. The guy who had been paying a lot of attention to the girls as they left the bar last night. Ashleigh Roughton, according to the details that Lucy had forwarded to my BlackBerry.

‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, giving me an unimpressed look. ‘You’re scouting for the Saracens and want to sign us up.’

‘No. I want to talk to you about the three girls from your university who were attacked last night.’

‘You the filth?’

I smiled. Hard not to. He was trying to sound tough and down with it. But his accent was preppier than an Abercrombie and Fitch crew-neck sweater – in pastel.

‘In a manner of speaking, Ashleigh. In the private sector.’

‘You know who I am?’

‘We know who all of you are. We’re not here without sanction.’

‘You’re not the police, then we got nothing to say to you! We’ve already told the proper authorities all that we know. Which is nothing.’

He turned his shoulder and nodded to his teammates. I stepped up quickly, put my hand on his shoulder and turned him back.

‘Hang on, I’m not done here.’

‘Get your hands off me,’ he said, brushing my hand away.

‘Like I said, I’ve got a couple of questions,’ I replied, stepping forward, getting into his face.