Page 7 of End Game
William had accepted long ago that he didn’t have enough trained officers to cover the nine venues that littered the Olympic Park. The support of seventy-thousand volunteers was welcome, but their enthusiasm would not make up for their lack of experience. Last week, the Prime Minister had agreed to assign an additional 3,500 members of the military to Olympic security for the summer, which would be a huge help, but William was still concerned.
He tried to put such problems out of his mind as he backed into a residents-only parking space a few yards from his home. He was looking forward to celebrating his fiftieth birthday with Beth at his favourite restaurant. No persistently ringing phones, exhausted police officers with endless questions, not to mention the Hawk barking orders at everyone in sight. Tonight, the only orders would come when he selected his meal and handed the menu back to the head waiter.
He locked the car, strolled up the path, put his key in the lock and opened the front door.
‘I’m home, darling,’ he announced, as he closed the door. There was no reply, so he went in search of his wife. He first checked the front room, then the kitchen, and finally her study, but there was no sign of Beth. His chance to tease her about being late for a change.
As he walked back into the corridor, he saw Artemisia coming down the stairs. He could scarcely believe the twins were now twenty-five – partly because it seemed like only yesterday they were crawling around the house, and partlybecause Peter still lived at home. He was saving every penny while training to be a barrister. Artemisia, who was trying to break into journalism, had recently moved in with her boyfriend, Robert. He missed her.
‘What a nice surprise,’ said William.
‘Just wanted to wish you a happy birthday,’ she said, giving him a hug.
‘Have you seen Mum?’
Artemisia shook her head. ‘No, but Peter said she might be late tonight. Something has come up at the gallery.’
‘How unlike her to forget,’ said William.
‘Forget what?’ asked Arte.
‘We’re meant to be going out for dinner,’ said William, only to be interrupted by the dog barking. ‘At least Peel hasn’t forgotten it’s my birthday,’ he grumbled, as he headed for the garden.
He opened the back door – and found himself confronted not by the dog but by a large crowd of friendly faces. He barely had time to express his surprise before an untutored choir, conducted by the Hawk, began a raucous rendering of ‘Happy Birthday, dear William’.
A drink was thrust into William’s hand by Beth. He looked around their pocket handkerchief garden, which was currently packed with fifty guests and a tail-wagging Peel, who had all come to celebrate William’s fiftieth birthday. He spotted family and friends amongst the group, along with most of his team from the Yard. The garden was noisy with chatter and laughter, and he had the feeling that the drink had been flowing freely long before he arrived.
‘Who organized this deception, dare I ask?’ William whispered to Beth.
‘Guilty as charged,’ she replied.
‘And your accomplices?’ demanded William, as he took his wife in his arms.
‘Artemisia and Peter, assisted by Ross, who specializes in deception,’ she added, as his oldest friend strolled across to join them.
‘You’re a devious man, Sergeant Hogan.’
‘What do you have in mind as a reprimand, guv?’ asked Ross.
‘I’m putting you back on the beat,’ said William.
Ross laughed. ‘Lambeth, where we both started?’
‘No,’ replied William. ‘Underground, where you belong.’ He lowered his voice, stepping back from Beth. ‘I’m serious, Ross. The Hawk’s going to pull rank and get you out from under Commander Sinclair’s watchful eye. Say goodbye to traffic, because we’ve got more important work for you to do.’
Ross made no attempt to hide his surprise and delight at the news. ‘The Olympics?’ he ventured.
William would have briefed him, if he hadn’t been interrupted by Artemisia, who came weaving through the crowd to join them.
‘Happy birthday again, Dad,’ she said, with a grin. ‘Glad we all had you fooled. But if you don’t mind, I need to steal my godfather for a minute.’ William nodded.
‘I need your advice,’ Artemisia explained to Ross, as soon as they were out of earshot.
‘And what is it you clearly don’t want your father to know about?’ enquired Ross.
‘I’ve been offered a job at theDaily Mailas a trainee reporter,’ said Artemisia.
Ross beamed. ‘Congratulations. I know how hard you’ve been trying to get a job in Fleet Street. But surely your parents must know about the offer?’
