The Whistleblower by Robert Peston

Author:Robert Peston
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bonnier Publishing Fiction

Chapter 18

T

HE ADRENALINE RUSH OF MEETING Breitner has been replaced by a sinking despondence. I’m standing outside the eighteenth-century hatters Lock and Co., on St James’s Street. I’ve been sticking my nose up against this window for as long as I can remember, never quite summoning up the courage to go inside to be measured for a Regent or Chelsea Fedora.

‘What do you think, Gil?’ Jess’s voice, down the phone, trying to draw me back. ‘I’m not sure you’re listening.’

‘Would I look the part in a pork pie?’

Jess growls in frustration. ‘For God’s sake, Gil, you’re becoming a caricature. You dragged me into this madness, at least do me the courtesy of listening.’

‘Sorry.’ I am. ‘You have my attention.’

I hear her click her tongue. From the moment she joined my team she felt like a younger sister. Siblings forgive each other.

‘Fire away.’

‘Dolly rang this morning.’ Dolly? Oh yes, the woman who was Henryk Deyna’s neighbour in Wood Green. ‘Apparently there were night-time visitors at Uncle Henryk’s house last night.’

The trilby can wait. ‘Interesting. Good old Dolly.’

‘She doesn’t miss a thing from behind that curtain. Around ten she heard a car stopping. A large, black saloon car parked, with two men and a woman inside. The woman and one of the men got out and went to Henryk’s house.’

I switch the phone to my other ear. ‘Go on.’

‘Here’s the funny thing: they rang the bell, and when no one answered they took out a key and went inside. Dolly said she heard the sound of furniture being moved. They were there for about an hour.’

‘I don’t suppose she made a note of what they looked like,’ I say hopefully.

‘She couldn’t see the man in the car. But the other two were smartly dressed. The man was stout, big belly, bald head, dark suit and white shirt unbuttoned at the top. The woman – Dolly called her “the boss lady” – was wearing a brown wool trouser suit and had brown hair cut in a bob.’

‘Dolly is bloody wonderful.’

‘She keeps ’em peeled,’ Jess agrees.

‘And the car?’

‘VW Passat. She even got the number plate.’

‘Amazing. It would be useful to know who owns it. Don’t you have a nark at the DVLA?’

‘Bribing a public official is against the law and against FC policy,’ Jess reminds me. ‘Also, it will be pricey.’

‘I’ll have a think about that. In the meantime, we should find out who owns the property. We haven’t done a Land Registry search on the house itself yet, have we?’

‘I’ll get on to it. Anything else?’

I’ve been walking while we talk, down St James’s Street towards Pall Mall, where the confidence of Queen Victoria’s imperial Britain is manifest in the serried row of overbearing gentlemen’s clubs. It’s where Sherlock met Mycroft. Which sparks a thought.

‘Do you think they could have been spooks?’

An intake of breath. ‘We’ve discussed this before, boss. Just because Kendall was Home Secretary, that is not evidence.’

‘But he worked with them for years.’

The walk, and Jess’s news, has focused my thoughts.

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