He hesitates again, and I can hear the sound of a lighter sparking at the other end of the line.
‘It’s not a good idea for you to get involved in this, Ellen.’
‘I’m already involved, whether I want to be or not.’
‘You’ve seen the danger, what might happen,’ he says quietly. ‘You could have been killed today. You need to take a step back, let us do our jobs.’
‘In the last three days I’ve been followed, abducted, burgled and attacked in my own home. I don’t think taking a step back is up to me anymore. And I can’t protect myself unless I know what’s going on. So are you going to tell me, or do I have to figure it out for myself?’
I hear a deep exhalation of breath at the other end of the line as he blows smoke from his cigarette.
‘Listen,’ he says finally. ‘Can you come in? We should talk face to face.’
‘I left the car at my house, I didn’t trust myself to drive. The paramedic told me to rest.’
‘OK, all right.’ His voice goes quieter as if he’s got a hand cupped around the mobile. ‘How about I come to you?’
I give him Tara’s address in Harrow.
‘I’m on my way over,’ he says, and hangs up.
32
I go upstairs to unpack and check on Dizzy. By the time I get back downstairs, Tara has already let Gilbourne in and the detective is standing in the big parquet-floored hallway. Charlie, the youngest son, is keeping his distance, peering out at the stranger from behind Tara’s leg, but Noah and Lucas are sizing him up, staring at him with unalloyed admiration. I can see in Noah’s eyes that this is pretty much the most exciting thing ever: a catanda real-life policeman in his house on the same day.
‘Where’s your gun?’ Noah says.
Gilbourne smiles down at him. ‘I don’t have a gun, but I do have this.’ He reaches into his pocket and produces a black leather wallet, flips it open to reveal his Met Police ID. He hands it to the boy. ‘Warrant card. Much better than a gun.’
Noah stares wide-eyed at the ID, then back up at Gilbourne.
‘I’m going to be a policeman,’ he announces seriously, ‘when I’m big.’
Gilbourne ruffles the boy’s brown hair gently. ‘Good for you, son. What’s your name?’
‘Noah,’ he says. ‘I’m going to catch the bad men.’
‘Well, Noah, I think you’ll make an excellent policeman.’ He gives the boy a wink. ‘In fact, I’ll put in a word for you with the chief constable.’
Gilbourne looks a little fresher, his eyes brighter than the last time I saw him. Maybe it’s just because it’s not the middle of the night, under the anaemic fluorescent light of the police interview room, but he seems younger somehow. He’s had a shave, his dark hair is brushed back, and although the top button of his shirt is undone, the knot of his tie is only slightly below it. Maybe not a rumpled Willem Dafoe. Maybe more like a well-travelled James Franco with a few more miles on the clock.
I look past him, to his car parked at the kerb. ‘You on your own today?’
‘DS Holt is looking into a couple of other leads.’
Tara shows us through into the dining room, a pine table set with six high-backed chairs. It’s the one room that she likes to keep clear of the boys’ stuff, banishing toy cars and games, action figures and scooters.
‘Can I get some drinks?’ she says. ‘Tea, coffee? Something stronger?’
We both decline.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’
I shut the door behind her and sit down opposite Gilbourne at the dining room table.
‘You’re a big hit with Tara’s boys.’
‘They’re nice lads.’
