of a cliché,” said Lamont as he and William were driven out of Scotland Yard on their way to Pentonville. “And in our case, a five-year-old could work out which was which. Nevertheless, we need to decide what we’re trying to achieve at this meeting.”
“Surely our first priority,” said William as the traffic came to a halt in Trafalgar Square, “should be to find out whether or not The Syndics has been destroyed, and if it hasn’t, where it is now.”
“That wouldn’t be my first priority, laddie,” said Lamont, his Scottish accent even more pronounced than usual. “I want to prove the link between Leigh and Miles Faulkner, because I’d sacrifice half my pension to put that man behind bars.”
I’d give up my entire pension to have been born with Eddie Leigh’s talent, thought William, as the car drove onto Kingsway, but he didn’t express his opinion.
“So let’s discuss tactics,” said Lamont. “I’ll lead the interrogation, and if I sit back, it means you should take over. But don’t interrupt me before then, because I know the exact line of inquiry I want to pursue.”
“What happens if he goes off in a direction neither of us had anticipated?”
“That’s unlikely. Don’t forget, we’re dealing with a con who will have worked out exactly what he’s going to say long before he sees us.”
Once again, William didn’t offer an opinion.
“And if I start to bargain with him, keep schtum. The Hawk has made it clear just how far I can go.”
“What’s the worst-case scenario?” William asked as the car turned left into Grays Inn Road.
“That he refuses to answer any of our questions, in which case the interview will be over in a few minutes, and we’ll have wasted our time.”
“This will be my first prison visit,” William volunteered, after neither of them had spoken for some time.
Lamont smiled. “Mine was a jolly Irishman who made me laugh with his stories of the Emerald Isle.”
“What was he in for?”
“Robbing a post office, which turned out to be quite hard to prove, because he never even made it to the counter, and his only weapon was a cucumber. Luckily he pleaded guilty.”
“More, more,” demanded William.
“Another time,” said Lamont as they drew up outside HMP Pentonville.
“You couldn’t blame Her Majesty,” mused William, “if she decided she could do without prisons in her portfolio.”
“If she did, she might have to do without Buckingham Palace in that same portfolio,” said Lamont as the car swung into the Caledonian Road.
William stared beyond the high wall at a forbidding brick building that dominated the landscape.
The car came to a halt at the barrier, and a uniformed officer stepped forward. Lamont wound down his window and produced his warrant card.
“Mr. Langley is expecting you, sir,” said the man, after inspecting the card. “If you’ll park over there, I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”
The driver slipped into the first available space and turned off the engine.
“I can’t be sure how long we’ll be, Matt,” said Lamont to the driver, who was taking a paperback out of the glove compartment. “But when we get back, you can let me know if the latest Len Deighton is worth taking on holiday this year.”
“It’s the third in a trilogy, sir, so I recommend you start with the first, Berlin Game.”
As they got out of the car, they were approached by a senior prison officer whose name tag on the pocket of his uniform read “SO Langley.”
“How are you, Bruce?”
“Can’t complain, Reg. This is DC Warwick. Keep your eye on him. He’s after my job.”
“Good morning, sir,” said William, as they shook hands.
“Follow me,” said Langley. “I apologize for the excessive security procedures, but they’re standard in any Cat. B prison.”
They both signed the register at the gatehouse, before being issued with visitors’ passes. William counted five sets of barred gates that were locked and unlocked before they came across their first prisoner.
“Leigh’s waiting for you in the interview room, but let me warn you, Bruce, he’s been particularly uncooperative this morning. As you’ve nicked him on three occasions in the past, I don’t suppose you’re his favorite uncle.”
William noticed as they walked down a long green brick corridor that the cons either turned their backs on them, usually accompanied by an expletive, or simply ignored them. But there was one exception, a middle-aged man who stopped mopping the floor to take a closer look at the man. William thought there was something familiar about him, and wondered if he’d arrested him at some