Jigsaw by Campbell Armstrong Page A

and thought: I am going back to a world where everything that moves does so in shadow.
    LONDON
    Foxworth was waiting at Heathrow when Pagan’s plane arrived before noon. He’d been Frank’s assistant for years, give or take those times when he’d been shuffled off into other areas of criminal investigation. He’d been in Art Fraud, that cut-price basement of police activities, for a while. Once, briefly, he’d worked in Internal Affairs, an unhappy interlude in his life: he didn’t make a good spook. He belonged with Pagan in counter-terrorism, that nebulous zone populated by spurious little groups who bestowed acronyms upon themselves as if these might impart dignity to motives that were often grubby. He also enjoyed working with Pagan who, like God, sometimes moved in mysterious ways.
    â€˜It’s great to see you, Frank.’ He shook Pagan’s hand and thought Frank looked fatigued, rather pale and sunken, although you could never quite douse the little light of determination in his grey eyes.
    â€˜Here. Make yourself useful. Take my bag.’
    â€˜Always one to oblige,’ Foxie said. He grabbed Pagan’s suitcase. ‘You travel light.’
    â€˜What’s the point of excess baggage? God knows, I carry enough of that as it is.’ He walked ahead of Foxie in the direction of the exit. The wintry sun over London was cold, drained of colour, assailed by clouds.
    â€˜I have a car waiting,’ Foxie said.
    They went toward the car park. Pagan said, ‘You look different, Foxie. I can’t quite put my finger on it.’
    Foxie remarked that he’d had his hair cut, but Pagan saw only the usual gingery brush effect.
    â€˜Perhaps the new threads,’ Foxie said. He was wearing a pinstriped suit similar to all the other suits he owned. He favoured the Savile Row thing, three-piecers, old-school tie, a clubby appearance. Pagan liked more casual gear, jeans, bright shirts, linen suits he had made up for him by a tailor with basement premises in Greek Street. The Youthful Look. Keeping time at bay on a strict budget. Foxie at least had the benefit of income from a generous trust fund.
    The car was a black Rover. Foxie stashed the suitcase on the back seat and got behind the wheel.
    â€˜Bloody cold,’ Pagan said.
    Foxie turned the heater on. ‘It’s been the worst winter in twenty-five years, they say.’
    The weather, Pagan thought. Those poor bastards in the Tube were beyond any weather. ‘Tell me what you know about the explosion, Foxie.’
    Straight to business, Foxie thought. Characteristic of the man. Small talk made him irritable. ‘What we know is that somebody put a bomb in the Tube. We don’t know yet what kind of device. The lab will come up with that information. The usual time-consuming reconstruction. I’ll say this – I haven’t seen anything quite like it in my life. The bodies are burned beyond recognition. It’s an unholy mess down there.’
    â€˜I can imagine.’ He thought of a tunnel, people trapped in fiery steel, the terrible claustrophobia of death.
    â€˜The truly puzzling thing is we haven’t had any of the usual phone calls. If it was the IRA, they’d have made one of their coded phone calls beforehand, which gives us a few minutes to evacuate people. But this is different. This isn’t quite their style. It doesn’t seem to be anybody’s style, actually.’
    â€˜I want to see the scene, Foxie.’
    â€˜I’m under strict orders to deliver you to Nimmo before you do anything else. He wants to brief you himself.’
    Pagan looked from the window. The Rover was on the motorway to central London. ‘Tell me, Foxie. Why am I being resurrected?’
    â€˜Nimmo needs your experience.’
    â€˜Suddenly.’ Pagan shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat. He was still cold, despite the heater.
    Foxie said, ‘I suspect he’s out of