Collusion: Chapter 7

The threat grows near the centre of British democracy

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I’ll publish a section from the novel. Chapters 1 2 3 4 5 6 are here for those who missed them. The story so far: Right-wing groups are threatening an investigative journalist and an anti-Brexit Tory MP. Westminster becomes dangerous for them both

Chapter 7: Depths of fear

Once again the police were unhelpful. They seemed to think that Ashton was not the target and suggested it was some of the wanabee gangsters from the estate showing off and things had gone awry. After they left, Titch paced the floor. “Your friend Mo,” he said bitterly. “I misjudged him. I should have been more careful. I should have just assumed he had made a note of the number and would call it for more cash.” He went and rapped on the neighbour’s door but there was no answer. “He’ll be lying low waiting to see what’s happened, I expect,” Titch said.

“Are you sure it’s him?” Ashton had always found the man next door trustworthy. “They might have come and watched the place and seen me.”

“It’s almost always the most obvious solution to any question,” Titch said. “The finger points at Mo. Pack up. If that bolt had hit you… We need to get to the bottom of this before you come back here, I’m afraid.”

“Might they follow us back to your place?”

“I can’t imagine they’re still lurking around. Anyway, we’ll take measures. I’ve got someone working on finding information that can help us.”

Titch had a theory about the attack. Ranelagh Street, which ran south from the main road at 90 degrees from Ashton’s residence, was blocked off from Johnson’s Place by a set of bollards and a gate. A double yellow line in front of the flats meant there was a clear view of Ashton’s front door. “I would back a van up against the dead end,” Titch said. “When you appeared, it would be easy to open the rear doors, fire off a shot and be on the move again within seconds.” He looked around. “It’s a CCTV blackspot, too.”

It was a return to the ground-floor room in the mews for Ashton. The routine was similar to his previous visit. Titch nipped out to the pub for a few beers late on and returned with ale for his guest. They had reached the point where there was little to say. It was the most morose Friday night Ashton had spent for some time – especially when compared to his outing the previous evening.

Titch had to go out on Saturday afternoon but did not explain why so Ashton watched Leicester against Crystal Palace on television just for something to do. At the final whistle he switched to Sky News and the rolling story across the bottom of the screen was about a man arrested outside an MP’s surgery for carrying a sword and making threats. As soon as the O came into view he knew who the parliamentarian was. He rang Orlanda’s phone. It went to message immediately.

Titch returned home an hour later in a jovial mood with two bags of Indian takeaway. He was unaware of the incident but calmed Ashton down and persuaded him to eat. “The man was clearly apprehended before getting anywhere near the lovely lady,” Titch said. “She is probably overwhelmed. She’ll be in contact when she’s ready.”

At 10pm she rang. “I’m fine,” she said in a chirpy tone. “I heard the commotion but never actually saw anything happen. I could hear the concern in your message. Thank you. But really, don’t worry. I’m well protected. This madness will pass.”

“I was attacked, too, yesterday,” he said, declining to go into specifics. “Things are worse than you think, Orlanda. Far worse.”

“Look,” she said. “Why don’t you come and see me tomorrow night. We can get some supper delivered and you can tell me all about it. I’ll be back in town early evening.” He looked at Titch, who was sipping a Rochefort 10 out of an unusual schooner-style brewery-branded glass that dated back to the 1970s.

“Tomorrow at your place?” Ashton’s host nodded to indicate that it was an acceptable excursion. “Yes, that would be lovely.”

He hung up. “You think it’s a good idea?” he asked.

“Yes. We can’t have you hanging around the house like a lovesick teenager. We can make sure you get across there unnoticed. I should imagine Ms York’s protection detail will be strengthened anyway. When you leave her flat – if you leave – I’ll come and meet you. Let’s have some cheese sprinkled with celery salt, Belgian style, with our beer. A snack will do you good. You may need all your strength this time tomorrow.”

They sat and watched Match of the Day, sipping good beers. Ashton could not imagine a scene of more cliched, heterosexual masculinity. “Boys night in,” Titch said, as if reading his thoughts.

It was just after seven on Sunday when Orlanda texted Ashton. He took a great deal of care to appear casual. He wore his most expensive polo shirt, Levis and a pair of New Balance running shoes that he never actually ran in. His jacket was a thin windcheater. She could not complain he was overdressed tonight.

Titch was keen to drop him off on the bike again – or at least escort him to Orlanda’s door – but Ashton did not want either option. As a compromise, the big man went out half an hour earlier and did a sweep of the area around the mews. “Nothing remotely suspicious, dear boy,” he said after returning.

Nevertheless, out of what was becoming a habit, Ashton took a circuitous route from the mews, heading eastwards first towards Vauxhall Bridge Road before looping back and approaching the Square from the river side. There was plenty of traffic on the embankment but very few pedestrians.

One of the complex’s security men, in a dark blue suit, was talking to a tough-looking man outside Orlanda’s block as Ashton approached. The pair glanced across, aiming unpleasant looks in his direction but he nodded and got into the lift.

He went up to the seventh floor as instructed and stepped into the silent corridor. It was unnerving. There was no sign that the level was occupied. It was windowless and dark. There were two sets of stairs and Ashton went and looked up and down each one. In the stairwell, he took a second to compose himself. “Stop being paranoid,” he said. “She’ll think you’re insane.”

Orlanda welcomed him with a big smile. She looked relaxed. He could see, however, that she had taken as much care over her appearance as he had of his. Her hair was in a ponytail, she wore a baggy blue sweatshirt and grey sweatpants and was barefooted. But she looked like she had stepped out of a catalogue shoot. “I haven’t had time to change,” she said. Ashton thought she had cultivated exactly the image that she wanted to project. It was impossible to look so glamorous without any effort, he reckoned. Either that or she was the sort of woman who wanted to be judged on her own terms.

He was ushered into the living room. It was a cosy, squarish area with a big window overlooking the fountain and the gardens. He could hear the water tinkling down below.

“It’s very quiet,” he said.

“Yes, a lot of people use these flats as Pied-a-terres. I hardly see any neighbours. There is an ancient Duchess next door and a man who snores very loudly up above. Aside from that, it’s usually silent. I’m the loudest person in the block.”

She took his jacket and put it on a coathanger in the small hall. “There are bigger places in the complex,” Orlanda said. “There are, I believe, six and seven bedroom flats with roof terraces but I’m happy with this two-bedder. I was in a bigger place when I first came into the Square. I didn’t need the space.”

There was no television in the room but there were three substantial bookcases. Files were piled high on a small dining table but the living area was tidy, if bare. There were framed photographs of her parents and some relatives obscuring the titles of books but no pictures of the resident herself. It was an unsentimental space, geared towards work and not a home.

“I know you prefer beer to wine,” she said, “so I’ve got some in the fridge. Go look.” He went into the narrow, galley kitchen and opened the door to the cooling compartment with trepidation. Ashton had lost count of the number of times he had turned up at people’s houses or parties and been proudly presented with Fosters or Stella. In Orlanda’s fridge there was a small selection of cans: two each of Beavertown’s Neck Oil, Gamma Ray and Smog Rocket. The brewery was past its peak but still pumped out produce that was more than acceptable. He was really impressed by her effort. “You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble,” he said but she could see he was delighted. “I asked someone what was good,” she admitted. “They are probably not up to your standard but…”

“They are absolutely perfect,” he said.

They decided on pizza but sat chatting happily for a while before ordering, Ashton in the armchair and Orlanda on the couch. They realised that they had a shared love of running and agreed, when things got better, to jog together. Conversation was light. They talked about Pierce, laughing at his antics.

“I’ve known him since I was a child,” Orlanda said. “I can remember him celebrating with my father when the Berlin Wall came down. He was rabidly anti-Communist. You two are a strange couple. How did you get to know him?”

Ashton groaned but only for effect. “He was involved in some big football takeovers when I was doing sports news. Ironically, in one case dealing with Russians. I was introduced to him by a business reporter at one of my old jobs. The main legacy is that whenever he’s drunk with a Liverpool fan he wants to impress, he phones me, puts the stranger on and demands I tell the fella what’s going on at the club.

“No, to be fair, he’s helped me on a lot of stories over the years. But you’d have to be suicidal to drink with him on a regular basis. That makes sense about his being anti-Communist. Did he ever tell you about his trip to Leningrad?”

She shook her head. “It was when he was at university in the 1970s. He went there and made contact with a bunch of dissidents. They passed him some microfiche. Anyway, he put them…” Ashton hesitated but was too far into the story to retreat. “Up his, er, back passage.”

Orlanda laughed, as much at the delicacy of Ashton’s approach as the image of Pierce. “The Soviets detained him at the airport and kept him in a cell, naked, for five hours. Then, for no reason he could understand, released him. He said he was sure they knew what he was carrying and he was clenching like mad until the plane took off for home. He suspected they wanted to scare him and make a point to the people he was involved with but did not want to escalate it into an international incident.

“He told me about this when he was very drunk so, of course, I don’t know how much is true. But he often hints that he has contacts in the intelligence world.”

They turned to more palatable subjects. Both had seen the Globe’s production of Othello the previous summer and they discussed the interpretation of the play. Then they moved on to Hamilton. She was more clued up on this side of popular culture than he had imagined and expounded on why it was appropriate to portray Thomas Jefferson – one of the greatest geniuses in western culture, she averred – in the style of Prince. The night was going well.

He was also very amused by the gaps in her knowledge. The mention of Prince reminded Ashton of Pimlico’s pop heritage. “There’s a great picture of The Clash playing football in the cage at Causton Street, just across Vauxhall Bridge Road,” he said. “They were rehearsing across the street.”

Orlanda nodded but in a manner that made Ashton do a double take. “You don’t know The Clash?” he gasped.

“I’ve heard of them,” she countered, defensively but dubiously.

“London Calling?” He sang a few bars. “Oh, them,” she said. “Yes, but I’m not familiar with their oeuvre.”

Grasping the advantage, he laughed and continued. “And Paul Weller’s first flat in London was at the bottom of Denbigh Street, just opposite the statue of Thomas Cubitt.”

Now she had to admit she was nonplussed. “Paul who?”

“Weller! The Jam! The Modfather!” He pretended to be appalled. “Going Underground? A Town Called Malice? Eton Rifles?”

“I take it,” she said, with faux loftiness, “that this is a pop band of some description?” She emphasised ‘pop’ and lifted her eyebrows to underline the mock disapproval. “And when were they active?”

“The late 1970s and early 80s.”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t even born then, grandpa.”

“You are so out of touch,” he laughed. “If your constituents find out they’ll demand a by-election. I’ll bet you don’t even know about The Small Faces and their party house?”

She didn’t. “On Westmoreland Terrace. You must have heard Lazy Sunday Afternoon?” He sang the opening lines.”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I do know that.”

“It’s the house it was written about. Mick Jagger was a regular visitor. Brian Epstein took LSD for the first time there…”

“I must say, if I was a neighbour, I wouldn’t have room for ravers, either.” He was winning the gentle teasing competition but now she launched her counter-attack. “Do you know where Sir Lawrence Olivier performed for the first time?”

He had to admit he did not. “Saint Saviour Church. As a choirboy. His father was the Vicar. And you know that famous picture of Diana, before she became Princess of Wales? The one where the backlight of the sun turned her skirt see-through so it exposed the outline of her legs? That was taken in the gardens outside Young England kindergarten where she worked, next to the church.”

He did know that but decided to let her have that one. “And, of course, I’m sure you know that a true British great lived in the area.”

“Go on,” he said, bracing himself for the words ‘Winston Churchill.’ “Wilfrid Brambell,” she said with great seriousness, outflanking him in the popular culture stakes. “Old man Steptoe lived on Moreton Place.”

That was unexpected and he spat out beer involuntarily as he guffawed at her deadpan delivery.

“We do have very different cultural touchstones,” she said. “But they cross over at points. Like political perspectives.”

That made it inevitable that the conversation would return to the events of the previous few days. “Have you ever thought of stepping back from politics? Especially after yesterday?”

She sighed. “That would be cowardly. More than ever, this nation needs people with conviction. Most MPs know that the country is going down the wrong path but are afraid to go against ‘the will of the people.’ I think the public have been misled. When the British electorate has full access to the truth and the potential consequences of this route, I have every faith that they will reject this course of action. We are better than this. I don’t believe this is a land of xenophobes and bigots. At the moment, the loudest voices are coming from those people. Anyway, we should order the food.”

They did. After Orlanda hung up the phone, Ashton asked: “Are you comfortable with your protection?”

“Very,” she said, calling back from the kitchen as she collected two plates. “Especially now I no longer need it.”

He gawped a little.

“Don’t worry,” she continued lightly. “They have the source of the threat. I’ll get protection as and when I need it. A car takes me to and from the House and I’m given an escort if I go across to College Green to do a TV interview. I’m happy with that. I didn’t enjoy being followed around.”

“I thought there was security? There were men downstairs who looked like… I thought they were there for you?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “The Square has its own patrols. They are very visible. That’s who you’ve probably seen.”

Something did not feel right to Ashton. The doorbell rang and he jumped. “I’ll get it,” he said and went to the door.

“Was there anyone in the hall by the lift downstairs when you came in?” he asked the delivery man. The teenager shrugged and pocketed his tip without interest. Orlanda came and took the pizzas but Ashton’s obsession had gone into overdrive.

He opened the door again and called out to his host. “I forgot to give him a tip, Orlanda. I’ll catch him before he gets in the lift.”

In the corridor he hissed at the youth. “Want to make £20?” The boy made a dubious expression. “It’s easy,” Ashton said. “Go down to the ground floor, see if there’s anyone there. If there is, take a quick look at them, leave and then come back and pretend you’ve forgotten something. I’ll give you this.” He brandished the note.

“That’s all you want me to do?” the young man asked.

“Yes. Tell me what they look like and whether there’s anything noticeable about them. That’s if anyone’s even there. That’s all.”

He went back in. Orlanda was pouring wine and beer. She smiled and sat down. Ashton joined her but ate mechanically. He could not even taste the pizza.

“You OK? You seem strange all of a sudden.” She wondered whether she had said something to upset him. The uncomfortable silence was broken by the bell. He shot up and got to the door first.

The delivery man was grinning. “Two men. Big guys.” Ashton handed over the £20.

“Anything else you can tell me about them?”

The youth shook his head and walked to the lift. Then he turned back. “One has a scar,” he said. Ashton held his breath but his brain was screaming “please no!”

“Where?” he said, dreading the inevitable answer.

The pizza man stroked his finger down the right side of his face. “See ya!”

Orlanda was still sitting down but the atmosphere was tense. “Is there something wrong?” she asked.

“Are you sure there’s no protection?”

“Absolutely.”

“Put your shoes on. We might be in danger. We need to get out of here.”

He quickly explained and she laughed reassuringly. “I’ll call the Square’s security and get them to check it. And the police. This can easily be sorted out.”

“No,” he said. “Please. I saw a security man talking to one of them. Ex-army men go into the security business, the police. We can’t be sure who’s on our side.”

“This,” she said in party conference-speech mode, “is silly. We can go down there now and we’ll surely find it’s either a misunderstanding or a coincidence.”

Ashton was frantic. “No, no, no,” he said. “Please listen to me. I met this man. He’s part of ExSat. I saw him with John Armstrong and since then he’s been trying to get me. He chased me halfway across Belgium. His friends brutalised me. On Friday someone tried to kill me with a crossbow.”

She picked up the phone. “Don’t,” he said, stopping her. “Please listen to me. Something very dangerous is happening and I don’t know whether we can trust the people who are supposed to be protecting you. We need to get out of here.”

His fear was palpable. Orlanda did not want to believe him but could see he was convinced that the threat was real.

“I couldn’t forgive myself if I let anything happen to you,” he pleaded. “If I’m wrong, we can deal with it tomorrow. Please. I want to make sure there is a tomorrow. We’re wasting time.”

There was doubt on her face. “If I do as you say,” she said very slowly, “where do we go? And how can I be sure it’s safe.”

“It’s a friend of mine,” he said. “He saved me. He lives in a mews near the tube. He’s some sort of spy… intelligence type.” He gave up trying to explain. “I don’t really know what he does but he’s got connections and I trust him. His house is like a fortress and has high-end security. It’s equipped like a,” he groped for words, “safe house.”

Orlanda looked sceptical. “We should call the police. They are the first people to turn to in times of trouble.”

“I don’t trust them,” he said. “They have ignored two attacks on me. And anyway, this guy with the scar could neutralise a couple of coppers in no time…” It was unthinkable. “Please. We have to go.”

He was clearly terrified, she thought, but rational. But so was she. “No,” she said. “Let’s call the police. This is ridiculous.”

Ashton spoke in a low, composed voice. “You’re probably right,” he said. “After all, no one has ever assassinated a female MP. Or tried to get to you.”

Orlanda looked him in the eye. “OK,” she said. “What are we going to do?”

“There are two sets of stairs, right?” She nodded. “Is there any other way out?”

“No,” she said. “Only the lift.”

“Can we get into any of the other blocks.”

“No. They are all self-contained.”

“So the only way out is to walk past this man?”

“No. You can go to the underground car park. You can walk around the whole building in the basement.”

“You know the way?”

“Yes.”

“Shoes on.”

Against her better instincts Orlanda put on a pair of running trainers. She followed Ashton to the door as he looked along the corridor. “You had better be right,” she said and clicked the door behind her shut. It sounded horribly loud.

The main staircase was behind the lift. Its ground-floor exit was into the hall. The other set of stairs faced the elevator. This street-level stairwell exit was at a right angle to the area where the lurking men were probably waiting and behind two heavy wooden doors with wired, frosted glass. It was possible to go underground without being seen but the slightest noise would alert anyone hanging around the hall that someone was on the stairs.

Ashton held the entrance open for Orlanda and followed her into the staircase. He tried to close the door quietly but the crack of it shutting echoed down the concrete shaft. Every step would resound. He could hear her trainers squeaking. “Shoes off,” he mouthed to her. Orlanda grimaced but followed the instruction. They crept downwards, flight by flight, the icy concrete chilling their feet.

When they reached the third floor they heard someone come into the stairwell and slowly walk up two flights. They stood with their backs against the wall hoping that it was not a resident from a higher floor keeping fit by using the stairs instead of the lift. In the silence of the Square, any conversation or greeting would reverberate throughout the block.

A door on what sounded like the ground floor opened. The noise was so loud it made the couple jump. It appeared that someone had come up from the car park. They could hear a muted conversation between two men. It went on for a minute or so and then ended. There was silence again.

At the first floor they waited. Ashton was hoping someone would use the lift and the sound of the antiquated elevator moving would cover any noise they would make passing from the stairs into the basement corridor. They could be waiting all night. His feet were going numb. They had to move.

There was absolute quiet as they passed the doorway to ground level. They were almost safe. Then Ashton saw the only route to the subterranean corridor.

It was a huge, heavy fire door. They had heard the racket it made when they were four flights higher. Orlanda held up her hand and sat down on the third lowest stair and put her shoes on. She gestured for Ashton to do the same. While he tied his laces she tapped out a message on the notes app on her phone. “Hold it open wide, so it will take a few seconds to slam. When you let it go, follow me. There are black skips for rubbish and recycling at this end of the car park. We can hide there if anyone comes down.”

The sound of a car passing in the laneway outside the building encouraged Ashton to open the door wide. He held it and his breath. He directed Orlanda to tiptoe into the corridor and gingerly followed her, holding the door until the last moment before moving cautiously away. They got about 10 yards before the door boomed shut. It sounded like an explosion and the thundering echo shook the block. Orlanda sprinted, turned right and then left in short order and skidded down a small set of steps into the car park. She ran straight for 15 yards before turning eastward up a ramp to where a couple of dozen black skips were clustered. Next to them were a clutch of discarded wardrobes and fridges. Orlanda went behind them and squatted down. Ashton followed suit. They waited. He had not noticed that they had triggered a light with their movement and jumped when things went dark after some 30 seconds.

It was silent. Then they heard slow, deliberate steps approaching the car park. Whoever it was came into the open area. Ashton’s heart was thumping but, crouched in the cold amid stacks of discarded rubbish, doubts began to form in his mind. What if he had overreacted? He tried to find an angle where he could see the man without being noticed. It could be the Square’s own people and he was being stupid. If he was wrong, he would admit it and return upstairs with Orlanda and accept the humiliation. But the man remained out of sight.

Then he heard it. The voice. “Something strange is going on,” a Geordie accent said. “You take a look outside. I’ll check here.”

Ashton squeezed the MP’s hand. It was Killer.

There were more than a hundred parking bays down here but barely a dozen cars were scattered across the space. Many of them looked like they had been sitting there for a long time. A black Ferrari was caked in dust. Killer walked across to it and ran a finger over the boot. Glancing around, he moved back towards where the couple were hiding. Something caught his eye. He walked across to where the black wheelie bins were located, packed with household waste and recycling after the weekend. If he checked behind the skips there was a chance he would be able to see the pair.

Ten yards away he stopped. Ashton did not dare look but he knew Killer was alert. Everything was still. Until something moved.

The light flashed on behind them. Orlanda did well not to shriek. Ashton did even better not to faint. A cat dashed past them. A feline sneaking away after rummaging through the rubbish had triggered the lamp. Killer snorted audibly and walked back towards the corridor. He took out a phone and made a call. “Only cats. OK there?” His voice moved back into the corridor. “Make sure he doesn’t come down. We don’t want him slipping past us again.”

The footsteps stopped. Orlanda’s phone buzzed. The noise seemed like it was bouncing off the low ceiling but she quickly sent the caller to answerphone. Ashton nearly cried with relief that her handset was on silent. Horrified, he realised that his own phone was still on. He could not imagine anyone phoning him after 10pm on Sunday night but he turned the ringer down. It was just as well because within a minute Pierce called. He liked to make salacious innuendos whenever he knew Ashton was seeing Orlanda and was probably checking whether the get-together had finished.

The Geordie voice spoke again in the corridor. “Call her on the internal phone? If no answer, go up there and have a look around and listen at the door. I’ll stay by the lift.”

The big door slammed again. They waited for 30 seconds and moved out. Ashton headed towards the ramp leading to the opposite, west side of the Square but Orlanda stopped him. “No, this is safer,” she whispered.

She led him into a corridor on the south side of the building. It was narrow and sinister. Bunches of wires hung from the ceiling and a light flickered and strobed. A series of five open fire doors punctuated the passage and there were locked rooms and open stairways every few yards. Orlanda showed her quick thinking by flicking the double doors shut behind them. The bangs were loud but it meant they could not be seen.

Suddenly a man stepped in front of them. Ashton, instinctively, punched him hard but only clipped his cheek. Orlanda gasped. The stranger was even more shocked. “What the hell?” he shouted and bolted towards the car park. “Help,” he shrieked. “Security!”

“He was just using the laundrette,” Orlanda said, dragging Ashton around the corner to head westward. “Run.”

Behind them there was the sound of commotion.

Suddenly the MP stopped. “Back here, here,” she hissed. “Mike! Here!.” He could hear the fire doors banging against the wall as pursuers charged down the corridor. She turned to a door marked 88 – a bad sign, Ashton thought – and typed a four-digit number into the keypad attached to the handle. The door opened and she dragged him inside and shut it quickly. “Lockers,” she murmured. “I’ve got one. I lived in this house when I first arrived in Parliament and never bothered to change the locker when I switched blocks after I had problems in the first apartment. You can only get inside with the code.”

A light had come on automatically when they entered the room. Ashton looked for a switch to turn it off. There was none. Orlanda, improvising, indicated that he should lift her up. He obliged and she uncoupled the bulb. She slid back down through his arms and they stood together in the dark, his hands still hooked around her. Their bodies and faces were close, like lovers, while they waited.

The noise of banging doors came nearer. They heard the footfall of someone running hard. The steps passed but they waited in silence. After a minute or so someone came back. They could hear doorknobs being tried and, Ashton thought, someone checking staircases. Their lock was rattled and they squeezed each other tight. The steps moved on.

The voice spoke again. “Nothing,” the Geordie said. “The guy said a man and a woman attacked him. It must be them. She’s definitely not in her flat? OK. They could be anywhere. There are flights of stairs everywhere. It’s like a rabbit warren. They could have got up into any house.”

There was silence while whoever he was communicating with spoke. “Ring the flat’s phone again. Hang up if she answers. I’ll meet you at the lift. Security will be all over the place in a minute. The guy was screaming blue murder when I passed him.”

There was no point moving. They remained in the dark for another five minutes and heard the radios of the Square’s patrolmen cackling and the braying voice of an irate upper-class victim of violence. “I’d just put my clothes on to wash,” he said. “It’s normally quiet on a Sunday night. I was just leaving and he charged and punched me. There was a woman with him. I’m sure I’ve seen her before.”

The security men made reassuring sounds and diffused the situation. “I’ll walk you back to your flat, Sir,” one said. “It was probably some of the local homeless trying to find somewhere warm to sleep. We get a lot of them down here.”

“Bloody well dressed for homeless,” the resident grumbled as he passed the room where the couple were hiding. “Got enough money to buy good clothes.”

They waited another 15 minutes. It was still far from safe. Eventually, Orlanda spoke, breathlessly. “We can’t stay here all night.”

“And we can’t go back to your flat.”

“We need to get out but there may still be security around. Come on.”

She opened the door, looked up and down the corridor and motioned Ashton out. “Come on,” she said. They strode to where the walkway turned north and Orlanda led them up a flight of stairs to the ground floor. They emerged by a lift, opposite an exit that opened onto Grosvenor Road and faced the river.

Ashton nodded and walked towards the double doors but Orlanda quickly scooped her arm through his and swung him at a right angle away from the most obvious route out. “The exits leading to the embankment are locked at night,” she said. “Let’s go up here.”

Behind them a voice called out. “Sir, Madam.” It was polite. “Do you mind if I have a quick word.” It was one of the Square’s guards.

Orlanda did not turn or even pause. She took off running and Ashton charged after her, following the lead. The first available exit was only about 15 yards away and they emerged in the east carriageway, some 40 yards from the main road.

Neither even looked up to see if there was anyone around. They ran for their lives. Ashton moved to the front. “This way,” he said, turning in the direction of Chelsea Bridge. “We can go into the estate. I know how to get around there. If they’re following us I can lose them.”

But as they ran across Claverton Street he had a better idea. The 24 bus was coming along Grosvenor Road. “Have you got your Oyster card?” he asked. Orlanda looked at him like he was stupid. “Come on,” he said, racing to the stop. They jumped on and Ashton handed her his contactless bank card while he used the Oyster. It was only the second stop on the route so they were the sole passengers. They went upstairs and kept their heads low until they passed the Square. Then Ashton phoned Titch.

“Where are you?”

“In the pub, dear boy. Good date?”

“Killer was there. There were no bodyguards.”

“Where are you?”

“On the 24 just about to turn into Belgrave Road. I was about to get off.”

“Stay on to the next stop and come to the pub. There’s only staff here and it’s after last orders. Once you’re in they’ll lock the doors. Then we’ll call a cab back to mine. I’ll make sure it’s safe.”

Titch paused. “You haven’t left Orlanda there on her own?”

“No, she’s with me. On the bus.”

“I’ll meet you at the stop.” It was 100 yards from the pub. “Thank God you’re both OK.”

*

As promised, the doors were locked as soon as the trio entered. They were given a drink to calm them down. Ashton introduced Orlanda to Titch and the staff, who were both amused by the drama and starstuck over a woman they’d seen on TV over recent weeks. After about 15 minutes a taxi arrived at the side door driven by a woman and they took the short journey to the mews.

Titch got out at the tube station end and directed the driver – who he clearly knew well – to go down the street and enter the lane at the river side. He would give a signal if everything was OK. It was. They all got out in front of the house.

“This is Cathy, an old friend of mine,” Titch said, ushering the group through the door. “She is a very discreet lady,” he said. “And very capable in the event of unpleasantness.”

The woman was dark-haired, ageless in a middle-aged way, short, wiry and nondescript. She clearly knew her way around the mews.

To reassure Orlanda, Titch showed her the security features of the house. “Tomorrow, first thing, a colleague will come around who will ensure you are completely safe, young lady. Don’t worry. He is a very senior anti-terrorism operative.”

“Who is it?” Orlanda asked.

Titch exchanged looks with Cathy. “He’s not the sort of person you’d know,” he said casually but not dismissively. “His role is not in the public eye. Or even in the parliamentary gaze. And he would not approve of me telling even you who he is.”

They spent an hour retelling the story of the night, responding to their host’s questions. Titch took a list of everyone who knew the pair were meeting and went through the timeline of events in sometimes annoying – at least to Ashton – detail.

Cathy sat slightly behind Titch at the table and seemed to glaze over. Ashton studied her bored face and wondered what a taxi driver could contribute to the discourse. When he was finished, Titch turned to the woman and said: “Any thoughts?”

“You’ve been lax,” Cathy said. “I should have been sent over to check once Mike was in Orlanda’s flat.” Titch nodded.

“Why don’t l take a look now,” Cathy continued. “Back in an hour.” She left without a goodbye.

Titch then produced an unexpectedly fine wine for Orlanda to sip and showed her with pride some of his beer and glass collection. “Rightio,” he said after they finished a couple of drinks. “The lady occupies the en suite, I will take downstairs and Mike gets the couch.”

“What about Cathy?” Ashton asked.

“She’ll be busy making sure there is no threat.”

They saw Orlanda to the bedroom and then Titch unlocked the small office. He went into a tiny safe hidden inside what seemed to be yet another beer fridge and produced a Browning HP pistol. Ashton’s eyes opened wide but the big man shrugged. “Better safe than sorry,” he said. “Last resort. Come and get your toiletries and some covers.”

Ashton was rattled. When Titch called, “Sleep well,” up the stairs, he was not reassured. He jumped at every noise and was in a nervous doze when he heard a scuffling sound. He sat up and swung his legs ready to leap up.

“Ssshhhh,” Orlanda said. “I couldn’t leave you on that uncomfortable couch. Your friend has a huge bed. Come and share it.”

“I couldn’t,” he said.

“I’ll be scared if you’re not there,” she lied. He knew it and thought, ‘I’m more frightened than you.’ But he went anyway.

They lay side by side. “It’s a bit too early for, for… well, you know,” she said, but there was a humorous edge to her voice.

“Not in Titch’s bed!” Ashton blurted out. “You don’t have to worry, anyway,” he said. “I’m not ready.”

“Really?” She was amused.

“No, I don’t mean like that. I mean, I got pretty badly injured downstairs and, well, things are not working properly yet.”

“Downstairs?”

He realised she thought it was a euphemism. He chuckled. “No, literally downstairs. In the kitchen. One of them kicked me full force, er, downstairs. Twice.”

“Let’s hope you’re soon back in full working order,” she said and laughed loudly enough for Titch to hear. He raised his eyebrows and looked at Cathy, who was sitting on the end of his bed. “This mess will take a bit of cleaning up,” she said. “They had a lucky escape last night, I reckon.”

*

A man arrived at the mews just before 7am and greeted Titch and Cathy warmly. They were both deferential.

Dressed in a pinstriped suit, the anti-terror operative displayed no sign of military bearing but was clearly used to being in charge. “Give us 10 minutes,” Titch said and the trio disappeared into the tiny office leaving Ashton and Orlanda in the sitting room.

They came back and sat around the table. The anonymous man was introduced as “someone who deals with domestic terrorism.”

“We’ve very concerned about ExSat,” the man said. “We think they represent a greater danger than home-grown Jihadis. There are relatively few former soldiers who are real threats but those who are have been highly trained and know how to do damage. The man with the scar. Is this him?”

He produced a grainy fresh-faced photograph taken, Ashton imagined, in either Iraq or Afghanistan. “Yup,” he said.

“Scott Wilson,” the man said. “I’m sure that name has long been consigned to the past. Parachute Regiment. He has been fighting with the Azov Battalion in eastern Ukraine against Russian separatists. He was implicated in a massacre in the Donbass.

“This,” he produced another photo, “is from Facebook. The Azov are active on social media, recruiting white supremacists. There are plenty of photographs of them online wearing Nazi paraphernalia. Wilson appears to have gone to some lengths to avoid being pictured. This is the only one of him in Ukraine and it was only briefly online.

“There are a number of foreign fighters involved. The Azov was an irregular unit that contained quite a few Metalist Kharkiv and Shakhtar Donetsk ultras but now it has been incorporated into the Ukrainian National Guard.

“You’ll see the scar on this one. This was taken off CCTV in Belfast recently. They call Wilson ‘The Beast’ in Northern Ireland.”

None of this sounded reassuring. “We’re very keen to get our hands on him. You,” he turned to Titch, “were in the Balkans at the same time as him, I think.”

“Yes.”

“He may have contacts in the region from back then. There are also fighters from anti-Serb factions involved with the Asov. There is much to untangle here.

“Ms York,” he continued. “There has been a breakdown in your protection system but it will not happen again. From what I gather there was a request from your office to end the personal security on the grounds that the source of the threat had been apprehended on Saturday. We will get to the bottom of it.”

“Could it have been a misunderstanding?” Orlanda asked. “I was told that the individual was in custody and protection was no longer necessary. I was happy to believe it.”

“I see,” he said. “I will liaise with the police and various security agencies to ensure you will not face any danger going forward. I would like you to drop out of the public eye for a few weeks but I understand that is impossible at the moment. It would be preferable if this incident does not receive publicity. That might interfere with our investigations. Your security detail will be expanded significantly for the foreseeable future and, if you don’t mind, we will rehouse you with live-in bodyguards until the threat level drops.”

It was not ideal but Orlanda agreed. The man turned to Ashton.

“I can’t imagine it was Wilson that made the attempt on your life with the crossbow,” he said. “If it was, you’d be dead. Although they might have been trying to scare you.”

“They’ve damn well terrified the life out of me,” Ashton said with feeling.

“And you saw him with Frank Joseph?”

“Yes, last month.”

“It’s all in my report,” Titch added.

“Well,” the man said, gathering his papers to leave. “We’ll be having a word with Mr Joseph.”

“We saw him with Sir John Armstrong, too,” Ashton said.

“Yes. We’ve spoken to Sir John. Wilson was asking for fundraising support for the veterans’ charity that ExSat have set up. The organisation attempts to find accommodation for homeless former soldiers. Apparently, he cut the meeting short for reasons that bemused Sir John.”

It did not quite add up and Ashton and Titch exchanged a suspicious glance.

“You might want to spend a couple of months in Spain, Sher,” the man continued. “This house needs detoxifying for a while. Go and enjoy the sun. You should take a break, too, Mr Ashton. It shouldn’t take too long to clean up.” He left with Cathy.

A detail arrived half an hour later to take Orlanda back to the Square to pick up what she needed. She kissed Titch on each cheek but extended a hand to the man who had shared a bed with her the previous night. “Goodbye Mr Ashton,” she said. He was a little hurt but held out his palm. She grabbed it, pulled him towards her and hugged him. “You’re so easy to fool, Mike,” she said and held him tight. She nuzzled his cheek and then withdrew and, with a peck on the lips, skipped down the steps to her car, saying, “Call me.”

“Well,” Titch said.

“Nothing. Say nothing.”

Once alone, the two men sat in silence. Ashton spoke first. “Your mate. MI5? MI6?”

“Neither,” Titch said.

“So you’re off to Spain.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Today. I will be in Al-Andalus by early evening.”

“What should I do?”

“If I was you, I’d get on a flight to Malaga asap.”

“I’d rather stay here and make sure that this gets sorted out.”

‘Oh, don’t you worry,” Titch said. “We’ll be working on it in Spain. I’ve just picked up a job. It’s to keep you safe and find out what you know. Come on. Let’s get moving.”

• Chapter 8: Casa Grande

• My other novel, Good Guys Lost, a very different story of gangsterism, the music industry and working-class Liverpool, is available here