tunnels and sinking concrete shafts. It’s probably only the rain that’s been delaying them. These are people who need our help.’
‘We could lose everything over this,’ May warned.
‘But we could get them out.’
‘I don’t suppose it would be difficult. We’d just have to call the security officer to another location for a few minutes. That’s not the question, Arthur. It’s whether we have a moral obligation to do so. We work for the State. Suppose we let them go free, and the first thing they do is rob someone? How would you justify that?’
‘I wouldn’t,’ Bryant agreed. ‘But if you hang around in King’s Cross long enough you’re going to get mugged anyway, and besides, they’d be stupid to stay here where the police are watching out for them. They’d have to split up and head off into other parts of the country.’
May looked nervously at the expectant group. ‘You’re sure there’s no other way?’
‘Of course there are other ways, but they’d result in more human misery. If you want a moral obligation, consider that our imperative to protect life should override all regulations set in place by passing politicians. Everyone needs a place they can call home. It should be as fundamental a right as freedom of speech.’
‘You cannot act against the law, Arthur.’
‘You can when the law is an ass. Time will prove us right. Qui vivra verra.’
‘Do you honestly believe that?’ asked May.
‘I have to believe it.’
May sighed. ‘Then let’s do it.’
They used a couple of Indian lads from the Drummond Street gang who sometimes acted as informants for the unit. Creating the diversion was easy enough, but the detectives had to be sure that the site security guard could be cajoled into lending a hand in what appeared to be a gang confrontation. Amir insisted that they could get everyone out within five minutes, but would need extra time to disperse from the torn-up backstreets of the Cross.
May watched as they gathered up plastic-wrapped bundles of belongings containing their only possessions—photographs, religious artefacts, a few items of clothing—and milled around the fractured iron staircase at the far end of the basin. The need to hold out hope made them trusting; for all they knew, unscrupulous traffickers could have been rounding them up for mass execution. Amir spoke to each man as he passed, explaining something about the detectives. Several came over and grabbed their hands, murmuring thanks. May shot his partner a disapproving look.
One old man was wrapped in yards of chequered scarfing. He looked like an Arabic version of Bryant. Shuffling to a stop before them, he held out a Sainsbury’s shopping bag in his arms.
‘He says you are kind men,’ Amir translated. ‘He wishes to give you a gift.’
The old man grinned back, revealing thin pink gums. The boy by his side could have been a son or a grandson; denied a healthy diet, he had already lost the immunity of youth. Bryant could only accept the bag and bow his head in thanks. He watched as they filed to the ladder, patiently awaiting their turn to reach the surface, and saw why such people accepted their fate: they were too weary to do anything else.
‘Wait,’ Bryant called, summoning Amir. He held out a small blue card. ‘I almost forgot. Tell your friends to call this number when they reach Birmingham.’ The card read: Division of St James the Elder: Birmingham Coven—Prop. Betty Wagstaff. ‘She’s the daughter of a very old friend. She can get you medical help if you need it.’
The detectives watched as the last of the immigrants climbed toward the patch of liverish light that was the sky above King’s Cross.
‘Twenty minutes,’ said May, checking his watch. ‘That should be long enough for them to get a head start. If this ever gets back—’
‘Oh, don’t make such a fuss about helping people. You should be glad it’s not you going out there. It could have been, you know. You’re a quarter foreign, after all.’
‘My grandfather was Welsh, Arthur, not East European.’
‘That’s worse. They wanted home rule once. They could have invaded us. They might have put checkpoints along Hadrian’s Wall.’
Bryant sniffed and peered into the Sainsbury’s bag. ‘Pass the torch, would you?’ He shone it inside, then carefully pulled the plastic away to reveal a chipped white vase, six inches high and covered with patches of dried mud.
‘What is that?’ asked May suspiciously. ‘It looks . . .’
They studied the heads of Horus and Anubis painted in black and gold around