&n
bsp; ‘Who’s your friend?’
‘Not the police,’ replied Dominic quickly.
He wasn’t looking at her and she couldn’t detect any emotion in his voice.
‘I was wrong to say not to call them. I was just scared. I don’t care if the group has to be shut down. Brian is dangerous and he has to be stopped.’
Dominic turned his full gaze on her in the soft light.
‘I don’t care about the Direct Action Group or about Brian, but I care about you,’ he said finally. ‘If the police get involved, you will be investigated. Probably arrested and even charged.’
It was a possibility that Ros hadn’t considered.
‘But I’ve done nothing. I knew nothing about this.’
‘In your line of business, I expect you’ve been in trouble with the police before,’ he said quietly.
‘There was a police caution last year . . .’
She didn’t need to finish her sentence.
‘We should let my friend deal with it.’
There was a noise at the door. Ros turned and saw two men in dark overcoats coming in. Dominic seemed to recognise them immediately and asked her to go and wait on the street while he spoke to them.
She nodded and went to sit in the doorway of the building. She stubbed her cigarette out on the pavement and closed her eyes.
A parcel bomb, she thought with a shudder.
It wasn’t possible. Brian was angry at the establishment. Angry about everything if truth be told. But she hadn’t suspected for one moment that he had been radicalised. That he was capable of hurting – of killing – someone for his beliefs.
She shivered in the cold and pulled her collar around her neck. The cut on her head was throbbing and she wished she had some aspirin to quash the pain.
Finally she heard footsteps behind her.
Standing up, she turned round, and as Dominic extended his arms, she allowed herself to be enveloped by them.
She closed her eyes, feeling safe, as if everything for that one moment was all right.
‘I didn’t know,’ she whispered.
‘I know,’ he said, and she felt his arms squeeze her just a little more tightly.
‘Your head is cut,’ he said, pulling back in concern.
‘It’s okay,’ she shrugged.
‘We should go back to mine, it’s only round the corner. We’ll have a look at it, clean it up. You might even need a stitch in there.’
‘I’m not going to hospital.’ She flinched.
‘You might not have to,’ he said, putting his arm tenderly around her shoulder.
His flat on Tavistock Square was just a few minutes’ drive away.
It had a red front door, and they went up a flight of stairs to the first-floor apartment.