The Walking Dead

While the bickering complaints had played in his ears, Jools Wright had said nothing. Could have. Could have spoken of the dour detective who had driven him home, who had introduced himself curtly to Babs and nodded with bare politeness to Kathy, who had checked all the windows and door locks, paced round the back garden, then drawn a plan of his home, who had asked for each of the family's blood groups, then been on the phone for an age with a map on his knee. There had been a red pen circle round the nearest Accident and Emergency hospital…Who had called him sir and his wife ma'am, — who had said he was either Mr Banks or Detective Constable Banks. Could have told them all that the- detective had bridled sharply when referred to as a 'bodyguard': 'That's what film stars have. I am a Protection Officer. You are not some minor celebrity, you are a Principal — and in case you have the wrong idea about all this, you have been assigned this level of security after a threat assessment recognized the danger you and your family now face. We are not friends, don't forget that. A final thing, we use a jargon phrase, "dislocated expectations". It means we can plan for what we think will happen but when the opposite turns up we have to be prepared for that. So, to cover it, I require you all to obey my instructions immediately I give them. I will not entertain discussion.' Could have said that a holdall bag had been brought into the hail and unzipped. The stubby shape of a machine-gun with a magazine attached was displayed, and a big fire extinguisher — like those in his school's corridors — was laid beside the holdall. Could have said that an hour of discussion, ignoring Jools, had centred on where Mrs Wright and her daughter would stay after they abandoned their home, and that this, too, was telephoned through to his control. Could have said that after he had gone upstairs to the spare room, he had not slept and had heard the regular checks made by the detective of the ground-floor windows, and low-pitched conversations with the police-car people outside. He'd come down for a coffee after three: the detective had been reading from a weathered old notebook and had not acknowledged him. Could have said that Mr Banks had been yawning and taciturn as he had driven Jools to Snaresbrook through the rush-hour traffic, and his eyes had spent more time snapping up at the mirror than on the roads ahead.

But Jools Wright. had said nothing.

* * *

In the last hour of the afternoon, Banks still had a mountain to conquer, with an apparently endless list of tasks to be completed. He reckoned that the detective inspector, Wally, regarded him as capable and the rest as second rate — maybe third.

Twenty minutes on a phone trying to find a coach that had privacy windows. Failing…Getting a coach that had done a school run and was littered with crisps packets, supervising its cleaning, and himself Sellotaping newspaper pages over the passenger windows. Working through the drills with the motorcycle escorts, where the traffic would be blocked to allow the coach to get clear of the court without risk of it being followed. Waiting on a security check and vetting to come through on the coach driver. Finalizing the route to the destination with the driver and the escorts. Calling the destination to demand catering facilities for the jury members, the escorts and the security detail. So much to be done and the clock ticking against him. And the thought kept scratching in his mind that he was on jury protection while the Delta, Golf and Kilo teams were strutting their stuff in the capital's streets where a suicide-bomber was thought to be on the loose, where the security status had been ratcheted up to the highest level. Not David Banks's bloody concern but his mind couldn't escape it. He was out of it because he was rated inadequate — big pill to swallow with a bitter taste. Told himself he didn't care, and tried to believe it. It was time to move.

Carrying suitcases and grips, they filed from a back door into the closed yard used to load prisoners into the vans. He thought some looked curiously at the coach, and others glowered in resentment.

Banks was the last to climb the steps, carrying the holdall. He did the head count. All present, all correct. He gave the thumbs-up to Wally, who would follow in a chase car, and the driver swung the door shut. His hand, in an automatic gesture, slipped to the holster, felt the Glock's butt and the hard edges at the end of the magazine. The high yard gates opened. The coach drove through; the motorcycles gunned their engines and slipped into their stations. He went down the aisle, took the empty seat behind the key man and sat.