uncomfortably, in Carr’s place in Primrose Hill.
With Guy de Vere, Carr’s old platoon commander from 3 Para, turned 22 SAS CO, then DSF, and now Commander Field Army.
A meeting to offer Carr a role in a new outfit being set up, strictly on the QT, by certain people at MI6, in the British Army, and various other interested parties.
For various unspecified tasks.
‘Aye,’ said Carr. ‘I remember you.’
‘I understand you’re in Marbella,’ said Nicholls. ‘I’m sorry to hear that your daughter got caught up in it.’
Carr didn’t even bother asking how he knew.
‘She’s fine,’ he said.
‘And I’ve been reading with interest of your exploits.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Yes. First thing I saw this morning. We have pretty good sources in the Spanish police. Mind you, we’re not the only ones with sources in the Spanish police.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You’re all over the Daily Mail this morning.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes. With a photo.’
‘Aye?’
They must have taken it as he left the cop shop – the place had still been crawling with media.
‘Yes,’ said Nicholls. ‘Not a very good one.’
‘Hard to take a bad photo of me, Justin.’
‘Low light,’ said Nicholls. ‘Taken from the side. You wouldn’t know it was you.’
‘What does the story say?’
‘“Hero Brit on beach of hell”,’ said Nicholls. ‘That’s the headline. You can look it up online.’
‘What does it say about me?’
‘It names you, and says you’re in your forties, and believed to be a former soldier.’
‘Does it mention the Regiment?’
‘No. It says you live in Hereford. I suppose people will work it out.’
‘Does it mention George?’
‘Who?’
‘My son. He was with me.’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
‘Anyway, I understand you may have seen one of the attackers?’
Carr chuckled – it amused him, the way the English upper classes tap-danced around things, using euphemisms and hints and never getting to the fucking point.
‘Justin, you know I saw him. I’m sure you’ve already read my statement to that effect. Why else would you be calling me?’
‘Ha,’ said Nicholls. ‘I haven’t yet seen the statement actually. Though I expect I will fairly shortly. Would you mind giving me a heads-up?’
‘Not much to tell. I saw a guy staring at the girls. Just thought he was a dirty old man at first. They pulled a picture of him off of the CCTV. Mean-looking fucker.’
‘Speaking of the girls, do you know the identities of the women who were taken?’
‘No. Should I?’
‘It’s all over social media.’
‘I don’t use social media.’
‘One of them was the daughter of the Prime Minister.’
It took a lot to shock John Carr, but that certainly knocked him back.
‘I see,’ he said, after a few moments.
‘Yes,’ said Nicholls. ‘I understand you’re booked on the one o’clock into Heathrow.’
Carr said nothing.
‘Anyway, I wondered… If anything occurs to you, if you remember something you didn’t tell the Spanish police, would you mind giving me a bell?’
‘Sure.’
‘You’ve got my number?’
‘In my head,’ said Carr.
He smiled to himself: it was actually stored in his phone under ‘James Bond’, but he wasn’t going to tell Nicholls that.
‘Great. Thanks. Look, I’d better get off. It’s chaos here, as I’m sure you can imagine.’
Carr certainly could imagine: he had a vision of the MI6 HQ teeming with headless chickens.
Chinless, clueless, headless chickens, at that.
But he just said, ‘Aye.’
The call ended and Carr turned to Alice.
‘Buckle up,’ he said.
‘Who was that?’ she said.
‘Your granny,’ he said.
‘For fuck’s sake, Dad,’ said Alice, shaking her head. ‘Why’s everything got to be secret squirrel with you?’
He chuckled.
‘I’m a leopard, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘I cannae change my spots.’
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