The balance disappears, and then new text appears over the top in jerky type: ACC BALANCE: TOMATOES. HELLO CHARLI.
‘What thefuckhave you done?’
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘But our friend Jonny might have created a spoof version of the portal that only works on Davy’s laptop.’
‘So when you logged in with the correct details, it looked like it was letting you in, but actually you got bounced to a site he created,’ says Em.
‘One that activates the computer’s webcam and microphone,’ adds Elle.
‘And because you showed us how much was on the screen in the real account, I was able to read it out loud, meaning he could listen in and replicate it exactly in the few seconds it took you to log in,’ I explain.
‘He’s very clever, our friend Jonny,’ says Em.
‘And,’ I say, as I hear footsteps crunching on gravel, and the shouts of enthusiastic armed response teams running towards the room from either side, and the crackles of Tasers itching to bite someone, ‘he has a great sense of timing, too.’
47
Alfie’s fine, FYI. I knew you’d be concerned, so just to reassure you, he’s definitely going to live. Turns out Charli was about as good a shot as her ex-husband.
He suffered a little light lung-puncturing, of course, and lost about a gallon of blood, but I think that’s only fair after what he put us through. Even so, Charli managed not to hit anything essential, and luckily for Alf, the police who charged the building within a minute of hearing the gunshot had brought some paramedics as backup. I feel like he’s going to grow as a person when all this is done.
Sorry, that’s not the relevant bit.
They arrested Charli first. That was good. She had thrown the gun away from her as the police ran into the room, but it didn’t do her much good, because a) her prints were all overit, b) the three of us were sitting on the sofa and clearly hadn’t just shot anyone, and c) Davy’s webcam had captured the entire scene in glorious 4K.
They arrested us too, of course. Kate McAdams, our police friend from the restaurant, was in the second wave through the door, and was very happy to see us again. When I asked what the charges were, she said they’d think of something, and in due course, they did.
There was a great moment when they were wrestling Charli off to the van and she screamed, ‘You’re going to believe a bunch of fuckingsquattersover me?’
Em heard it and shouted back, ‘We’re not squatters. We’re interlopers.’ I could have kissed her. If it wasn’t for the officer grinding my head into the Axminster, I would have done.
Elle had masterminded the police side of things. The first person she’d phoned was their sister Claudia, the super-recogniser, who had been trying to trace the girls without success ever since their last contact. Then Claudia pulled a few levers and got the police involved, including Kate McAdams. It was quite a multidisciplinary operation and a proud example of modern global Britain punching above its weight.
Not that I was aware of any of that at the time. For me it was all a bit of a blur – separation from the others, wrenched shoulder, hot van, interview room, badly made tea. Annoyingly, I didn’t get to tell anyone that I wasn’t going to say shit without a lawyer present, because they provided a lawyer immediately. He’s called Richard, he’s even younger than me, and he’s spent most of his time since he qualified defendingreally grim cases and keeps telling me this one is going to be ‘super-fun’ by comparison. I’m just glad to be spreading a bit of happiness around.
There are heaps of charges, but none of them are for murder or money-laundering or espionage, so all in all I don’t feel too hard done by. And one of the ones they are apparently determined to make stick is unlawful entry of the home belonging to … Mr Paul Lethbridge. Remember him? Captain Coaster. I freely admit, that is funny.
Nobody bailed me, of course. I didn’t want to ring Freddy and bother him again; he’d made it clear he wasn’t interested.
And now here I am, in the Visitors’ Room, waiting to see who turns up. Whoever was visiting didn’t fill in the form properly, so I’m just waiting without knowing who I’ll meet.
After fifteen minutes of sitting listening to the low buzz of inmates all around me chatting to their families, I see Richard, the legal beagle, through the porthole window, being escorted in by the guard. He puffs over, ditches a few files on the floor by his chair, and flaps his jacket around a bit, trying to get some fresh air.
‘I have some news.’ He’s trying to put a brave face on it, but I can tell he’s seriously perturbed.
‘OK. What?’ This doesn’t sound great. He’s sighing and rolling his eyes like he’d rather be anywhere else than here.
He mutters something.
‘What was that, Rich?’
‘I said,’ and he’s almost got tears in his eyes, ‘they’re dropping the charges.’
‘All of them?’
‘All of them. Apparently this is such a sensitive case they’re just going to sweep you under the rug. They think they have more than enough evidence on Charli Harcourt without dragging you into it. And they’d rather not admit all that awkward stuff about the, er …’
‘The British agents who were sent to kill us? Very wise.’
