Free Jokerman by Tim Stevens Page B

good that way; he respected Purkiss’s decision to withhold information where necessary. Within reason.
    Purkiss said, ‘You might need to do a little damage control later, though.’
    ‘When people start complaining that a nonexistent Met officer turned up and started throwing his weight around, you mean?’ Vale’s tone was as dry as the tobacco leaves he used to rustle between his fingers before lighting up.
     
    ‘Something like that,’ said Purkiss.
    At the door, with the box containing Abby’s forgeries in his arms, Vale said, ‘Might I make a suggestion?’
    Purkiss waited.
    ‘You don’t look like a detective, far less a DI. You might want to kit yourself out.’
    ‘I know,’ said Purkiss.
    He left ten minutes after Vale and headed towards the nearest men’s outfitters on Charing Cross Road. There he bought a charcoal suit, priced slightly above the bottom of the range, a pale blue shirt with button-down collar, and a nondescript striped tie.
    Purkiss caught the underground to Kennington. The Saturday morning crowds pressed against him and once again he felt himself tense, and forced himself to relax. He’d known of agents, both friendly and hostile, who’d been despatched here on the Tube. It was in many ways an ideal setting, bodies packed so tightly together that one’s hand actions could pass unnoticed as the knife went in.
    The office of Iraqi Thunder Fist was a short walk from Kennington Station, through streets already baking in the morning heat. The city smells and the shouts of market traders ranged around Purkiss as he strode towards the address he’d found in Morrow’s records.
    Arriving outside a greengrocer’s, Purkiss peered upwards. The office must be above the shop. Beside the grocer’s was a door with an unadorned bell. He pressed the button and waited.
    A moment later a voice came over the intercom, a woman’s voice, in a language he didn’t understand. Arabic, it sounded like.
    Purkiss said, ‘I need to speak to Mr Mohammed Al-Bayati, please.’
    ‘He’s not here,’ the woman answered in accented English.
    ‘This is Detective Inspector Cullen of the Metropolitan Police,’ said Purkiss. ‘May I come in.’ His tone suggested a command, not a question.
    ‘You have a warrant?’ The woman sounded as if she’d asked it before.
    ‘I’m not here to search the premises. I just need to talk to Mr Al-Bayati. Or somebody else senior. Just an enquiry.’
    There was a long silence. Just when Purkiss was about to press the bell again, and was considering his options if they decided not to let him in, the door buzzed. He opened it and went in.
    At the top of a narrow flight of stairs that doubled back upon itself, he found a door with an opaque glass panel, like the entrance to a private eye’s office in a noir film. Cheap lettering had been scratched off the panel, leaving a ghostly trace. Beyond, dark and blurred shapes shifted.
    He rapped on the door. It opened and a small woman of about thirty opened it. Her eyes were wary, almost hostile. Not frightened. Purkiss produced the warrant card, held it up so that she could read it.
    Wordlessly she stepped aside, holding the door, her eyes roving over Purkiss. In a small reception area stood three young men, also of Middle Eastern origin. They appeared to be waiting for Purkiss. In hooded jackets and jeans or combat trousers, they glared at him from beneath lowered brows, their feet apart, their arms hanging by their sides, fingers curled. Their body language exuded anger and menace.
    Purkiss glanced around. The walls of the reception were festooned with garish posters displaying clenched fists, rifles, the crescent symbol. One giant chart showed a screaming woman standing in a pile of rubble and clutching a child shape, and listed figures for the dead, the maimed, the homelss in Iraq since 2003. Another poster consisted of a Photoshopped image of a mushroom cloud rising over the White House.
    ‘Where’s the other?’ the woman