‘Leaving us precisely where?’
‘Precision’s a luxury we don’t have. But we can see what’s happening around us, the supposedly random acts contributing to a sense of crisis, the parallels with Los Angeles …’
‘From whence our black friend came.’
Kemp tipped his head in agreement. ‘So, it’s a campaign – coordinated, resourced. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
‘Who benefits?’
‘Extremists.’
‘Both black and white. And who’s chief of the black cheerleaders arriving any day – from Los Angeles – on a fact-finding and peace-seeking mission?’
‘Reverend Al Azania, no less.’ The expression seemed unimpressed above the faded powder blue of the linen suit. ‘You really believe he’ll act as a honey-pot?’
‘He might. He’s high-profile, radical, charismatic, political. He wants in on the heartache. The kind of man who attracts hotheads or cold-blooded maniacs, disciples you wouldn’t normally see in a cluster.’
‘The very reason why the Cabinet split over whether to let him in or keep him out.’
‘What tipped it?’
‘Usual factors.’ St Clair had extracted a polka-dot handkerchief from his breast pocket and was mopping at his forehead. ‘Angst of the white liberal ruling elite, a feeling he might pacify rather than inflame prevailing black sentiment, and the earlier visit of Professor Duncan Pitt. Governments hate being tarred with a charge of bias.’
‘So, Reverend Al is coming. Camera opportunity for him, camera opportunity for us. We’ll keep things covert, rig up facial-recognition software, and sit tight. The uninvited dinner-party guest could be in the crowd.’
‘It’ll be the second mistake he’s made.’ A slight smile from St Clair as Kemp cocked his head enquiringly. The MI5 fixer enjoyed surprising. He replaced the handkerchief. ‘Ah, yes, I didn’t tell you. Ballistics have confirmed that the silenced weapon used to shoot the pair of SO10 undercover chaps was dirty, it was used to put a bullet in the head of Sophie’s husband Hugh. It’s also the same gun fired in a gangland killing up in Manchester a year ago.’
‘Careless.’
‘Exceedingly. Police narks have helped narrow the suspects list down to a handful of underworld armourers living along the M58 corridor. Probably in or around Skelmersdale.’
‘Moving in?’
‘They’ll wait until we’ve done our own investigations, send in a few snouts, develop the big picture.’
‘The big picture.’ Kemp was toying with a paper-knife. ‘That’s what worries me.’
A lot of pieces, numerous spaces, and he had yet to find the corners, the outline, the logical fit. There were whites involved: one who had directed the Germans against him during his visit to the Colonel, others distributing racist multimedia propaganda, murdering African immigrants, penetrating a crack den in Deptford to swap around the noses, scalps and ears of victims. Jigsaw puzzles, jigsaw politics. People were working in league or operating solo – but the effect was the same. Innocents still got hurt, the country polarizing, dividing into opposing camps, drawing up battle plans and skirmish lines. He wondered how far and how fast Krista had burrowed, if it had relevance, if it would lead to further contact. They were at their best when facing a common foe, their worst when facing each other.
St Clair was ruminating aloud. ‘Which all leaves us with the embarrassing, sensitive and sticky problem of being ahead of the game in one respect and behind in another.’
‘Elaborate.’
‘Simple,’ he went on. ‘We’ve got more leads, more quickly, on the black killer of whites than we have on the perpetrator or perpetrators of atrocity against blacks.’
‘Oh.’ Kemp was testing an ink stamp on a blotter.
‘Big Oh. The Home Secretary won’t like it, the PM won’t like it, the government will positively hate it, ethnic communities will rail against it, and our beloved DG will lose sleep and sailing weekends over it.’
The stamp hit the blotter hard. ‘Along that passageway a young woman’s life and face are in tatters. So, frankly, I don’t give a shit about ministers, spokesmen, the Director-General, the findings of the European Commission against Racism and Intolerance, or anyone else with a twisted fucking agenda.’
‘Thank you for that.’
‘Neither will I slow my investigation or machine-gun white families just to even the fucking PC score.’
‘Talking with your wife has hardly improved your mood,’ St Clair observed. He had the timing of a variety artiste, the guile of a confidence trickster.
‘We’re doing fine.’ For a part-timer, a freelancer, he was doing miracles.
‘I hope she and our friends are keeping you au fait with matters American.’
‘As much as they can.’
‘Might I suggest we also review the South African dimension?’ Kemp did not interrupt, aware the remark concerned events and individuals beyond any unidentified male suspect involved in his recent German scuffle. St Clair’s delivery meant trouble, the small pig-eyes meant trouble. He was studying Kemp’s face for reaction. ‘I notice from our files that the two chief imported racial headaches of late – Professor Duncan Pitt and Reverend Al Azania – share holiday destinations. They’ve both spent extended periods in that unfortunate country.’
‘So’s my aged mother.’
‘She’s less controversial, doesn’t run to as many pages in the archive.’
‘Suggesting priorities?’
‘Merely prioritizing my suggestions. Aids wouldn’t be the first unpleasantness to come from Africa.’
‘You’re not the first unpleasantness to come from Thames House.’ St Clair winced in acknowledgement. ‘But I’ll factor in Cape Town, Jo’burg or Pretoria if it makes you happy.’
‘Consider me delighted.’
