Free Then We Die by James Craig Page A

gave him a sly look, one that he interpreted as saying:
Why not? You should never rule anything out
. He felt his balls shrink up inside him. Message received and understood.
    ‘Maybe she’s found someone else.’
    ‘Mum? Nah.’ Carlyle felt funny just thinking about the possibility.
    ‘Maybe
he
’
s
found someone else.’
    ‘I got the impression that this is all her initiative,’ Carlyle said. ‘I can’t see either of them ever playing away from home. So, I suppose that she’s just decided she needs a change – or something.’
    ‘Well, anyway, you need to talk to her about it. And to your dad, as well.’
    ‘Yes, yes – in a minute.’
    Helen unmuted the television. A reporter was standing on the north side of the Thames, with MI6’s lego-like headquarters clearly identifiable on the other side. He was saying, ‘
It is very unusual for MI6 to become involved in this type of investigation. Sources have told the BBC that this is because the man killed in the Ritz Hotel . . .
’
    One of the men
, Carlyle thought sourly.
    ‘
. . . is thought to have been a certain
,’ the reporter glanced down at his notes, ‘
. . . Omid Jarragh Ajab. Now
,
Mr Ajab is believed to have been one of the founders of the military wing of the Hamas militant movement which had control of the Gaza Strip. One line of thinking is that he was visiting London in order to buy weapons for Hamas. If this information is correct . . .
’
    Not that you really have a clue whether it is true or not
, Carlyle thought.
    ‘. . .
then the prime suspects in his assassination will inevitably include Israel’s secret service, Mossad. Which, of course, is where MI6 comes in
.’
    Carlyle had heard enough. He grabbed the remote from Helen and switched over to Sky Sports News.
    ‘Hey!’ Helen complained. ‘Don’t you want to hear more?’
    ‘No, I bloody don’t,’ Carlyle grumbled, taking solace in the latest football trivia. ‘I’ve heard more than enough already.’
    ‘I thought you were going to phone your parents,’ she reminded him.
    ‘I am,’ he lied.
    ‘It’s already late.’
    ‘I know. By the way, who is the best person at your place to talk to about Gaza?’
    ‘Fucking
hell
, John.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I thought you said it was all over. There is no way that this can still be your case.’
    ‘No, no, of course not,’ he said quickly. ‘This is not even a police inquiry any more. It’s being handled by MI6.’ He recounted his meeting with Adam Hall, the youthful SIS guy, earlier in the day.
    ‘MI6?’ Helen snorted. ‘That’s great. That lot couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag.’
    ‘It doesn’t matter, anyway. If it is Mossad behind it, the guys who did this are probably safely back in Tel Aviv by now. The Israelis will tell anyone who complains to fuck right off while they smile smugly and do their usual “
We never confirm or deny anything
” routine.’
    ‘So why do you want to speak to someone at Avalon?’
    ‘You could say I’ve recently developed an interest in the subject.’
    Helen let out the longest of sighs. ‘Well, our Gaza co-ordinator is a woman called Louisa Arbillot. She’s French and worked for Médecins Sans Frontières for years. She joined us about nine months ago.’
    ‘Can you get her to give me a call?’
    ‘She’s over there at the moment,’ Helen said, the lack of enthusiasm in her voice obvious, ‘but I’ll see what I can do. It might have to wait until she gets back next week.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘I’m going for a bath,’ Helen yawned. ‘Remember to call your mother . . .’

ELEVEN
    A couple of Ibuprofen and a large glass of Jameson whiskey ensured that Carlyle slept soundly. By the time he reached the office the next day it was after eleven. Roche was sitting at Joe’s desk when he arrived, staring intently at the computer screen. Carlyle paused a moment to check her out. She was dressed in washed-out grey jeans, Gola trainers and a blue, long-sleeved T-shirt.