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theory, any of the three might have used it, depending on who found Scray first. A sort of “rally round the flag” summons.’
    â€˜Like in
The Red Badge of Courage
,’ Iles said.
    â€˜True,’ Harpur said.
    â€˜It looks a very credible, clever scheme, doesn’t it?’ Maud said.
    â€˜Looks?’ Harpur replied.
    â€˜Supposedly, they knew the approximate area where Scray functions, but this is, in fact, quite a spread. They need to pinpoint. So they split up, and each focuses on an allegedly likely spot – the arcades, the square, the mall.’
    â€˜Allegedly?’ Harpur asked.
    â€˜The lucky one summons the other two, and we’re required to believe here that Abidan was the lucky one,’ she said.
    Harpur had another of his pernickety, echo queries ready – ‘Required to believe?’ Or, perhaps: ‘
Required
to believe?’ – but he held back. He wondered why Iles hadn’t picked up on any of these doubt-tinged words and phrases, the way the glitteringly well-read sod had responded to the tattooed dragon, or whatever it was, and flourished that red badge. Despite his possible annoyance at the way she delivered her observations, did the Assistant Chief sense what prompted the quibbles in Maud’s commentary? Had he detected traces of some other narrative paralleling, running alongside, the obvious one and disputing its accuracy? Hell, what was happening here?
    Seated next to Iles, Harpur saw only his profile as the ACC watched and listened to Maud. Harpur couldn’t tell whether Iles full-phiz looked relaxed and understanding as Maud repeatedly inserted these strange riffs of scepticism. Did he intuit what the fucking First in fucking
Literae
fucking
Humaniores
, whatever
they
might be, was fucking hinting at? Harpur felt his own plodding series of spoken carps and pleas for clarity might show him to be dull, naive, cumbersomely unsuave. Occasionally, he fancied becoming suave. He thought the children would like it. But he realized he had quite a way to go yet. Hazel had said one of his two suits looked as if he’d worn it when crawling through the Libyan drain pipe where they found Gaddafi.
    â€˜Here comes Ivor Wolsey, the reluctant marksman,’ Maud said as the film showed a slight man of around thirty to thirty-five entering the Square from a side street. ‘He coughed the whole project under interrogation, as far as he knew it.’ Wolsey wore a denim blouson, light trousers and blue baseball cap. He moved quickly up towards the computer store, though was obviously all-round vigilant, an arm folded across his midriff, right hand probably closed ready on the butt of a waist-holstered pistol. The camera followed Wolsey for a while, but Maud didn’t bother to install a loop around him.
    He was still crossing the Square when the film left Wolsey and came up with a picture of the opening to another minor street. ‘Tom Parry, as we must call him, should have arrived in the Square at this junction, short-cutting from the Rinton mall via a building site,’ Maud said. ‘Of course, he never did. It’s why you’re here and are going there. No CCTV at the building site, naturally. It’s going to be an extension for one of the mall businesses, plus a lot of housing, but on pause then because of a money-trouble freeze on development.’
    Harpur said: ‘And talking of CCTV, is there any from that night showing Scray?’
    â€˜If you’ve read the transcripts, you’ll know there isn’t,’ Maud said.
    â€˜But I haven’t read all the transcripts. I don’t know whether the ACC has,’ Harpur said. ‘We’re at a fairly far-back start. Until now, we didn’t know what the job was. Still don’t fully know.’ Harpur felt he had to show he wasn’t just workmanlike and unsubtle. His mind could jump ahead, couldn’t it. Couldn’t it? ‘Maud, are you