The Crocodile Hunter by Gerald Seymour (best summer reads of all time txt) 📕

She thought they both grinned but sheepishly, as if babies weren’t part of the world of security. They went into the kitchen and sat themselves at the table.

The guy, who was not “John”, admired a print on the wall, a view of an old bridge and the river – given them by her mother-in-law. Personally, Vicky would have binned it. She assumed that was a chat-up line for whatever level of spooks they were. She disliked the pair of them, had not taken long to form her opinion. She did not ask if they would like coffee or tea, anything.

“So? Yes? How can I help?”

The girl who was not “Betty” said, “Don’t want to waste your time, Victoria. You used to know a boy called Cameron, Cameron Jilkes . . .?”

She did not answer, did not have to. Nor would she help them.

“You used to be friends with Cameron Jilkes? An item? Boyfriend, girlfriend?”

No response, stared back at them. And remembered.

“Then he went away . . . Counter Terrorism Command interviewed you once it was known that he’d travelled to Syria. I’ve read the transcript . . . you said that you had no warning that he was leaving the UK, let alone that he intended to enlist in a terrorist army. Correct?”

She supposed them to be Cammy’s enemy. Smoother than the mob that had turned up before, had treated her like shit and had reduced her mother to tears and her dad had gone into the garden because otherwise he might have taken a crowbar to them. Then, supercilious and loading contempt on her . . . Now, more polish and more apparent manners, except that it was plain they were dealing in low-life and she’d be just the “totty” they’d have expected him to be sniffing after. She wondered why they’d called Cammy by the name of Gustave – would not ask.

“I understand also, Victoria, that you were visited a year or so after he went. By the way, he was not a stretcher-bearer, was not helping bombed-out refugees, was not driving a taxi. He was a signed up fighting man. In a combat unit. He may be alive and on the run out there; he may be dead – we haven’t heard but it’s possible because the war area is chaotic. But it is also possible he is alive and coming home. May already have returned to the UK. Whatever your feelings for him in the past, Victoria, I should tell you that he is now regarded as a particularly dangerous individual . . . If he has survived. Is that clear to you?”

Like a game of chicken. What the kids did on the dual carriageway going out to the village from the Leisure Centre. Chicken games between the pavements and the central reservation and drivers going berserk. She stared at them. They stared at her. Neither looked away. She would have been poker-faced but they’d assumed the expressions of those shop assistants who have pulled out a dress in a pricey boutique and were now bored half out of their minds, going through the motions, just needed answers from the customer. They were the enemy.

“I am assuming, Victoria, that you have had no contact with him since he left the UK . . . We’d like an answer though, Victoria . . . Any contact with Cameron Jilkes since he left the UK? Or, Victoria, I can escort you down to the central police station in the city and put you in the cell block and then bring you into an interview room, and can ask you again: ‘Any contact with that little fucking animal, Cameron Jilkes?’ Which?”

Hated them. Hated their confidence, hated them being in her home, hated the sneer in “Betty’s” voice, hated the lies. Imagined having to ring her mother-in-law and ask for emergency baby-minding favours because “Well, I’m being carted off to the slammer for interrogation about Cammy who used to shag me before your son, limp dick Gavin, came on the scene.” Spat it through her mind . . . Still the smiles but hard eyes. She supposed it was a code-name they had for him, Gustave. Their eyes bored into her, and then the girl who was not Betty started, ever so gently, to ease her chair back as if playtime were over.

Vicky said, “I’ve heard nothing from him. No contact. Nothing.”

“He may have left Syria a year ago. He’s been on the run, if he’s still alive, since then. No contact? I am being very serious, Victoria, because an untruth now would involve a criminal offence and probably a prison sentence. Have you heard from Cameron Jilkes in the last fifteen hours, since early this morning?”

She shook her head, was crying quietly. A card was passed her. It showed a crown, and the Latin words Defendere Regnum, and she’d no idea what that meant and the guy wrote their names on the card above a printed phone number with a London code. If he did call, if, then she should ring that number.

They stood, made their way to the front door and let themselves out. She heard the car engine start, then its radio starting up, some sort of jazz . . . She took the card off the table, tore it into small pieces and binned it, then made that cup of coffee.

Jonas caught the train at the King’s Cross/St Pancras terminal, had never started or finished a journey there before.

The train was a Javelin. Comfortable, clean, fast, and full. A schoolgirl had looked hard at him as he’d stood in the corridor as the carriages lurched out of the station and must have thought him either in poor health or decrepit, had given up her seat . . . had shamed him. They went out past the Olympic site – he had put heavy hours in before and during the competitions, but had not watched any events: had no interest. A quick stop at Stratford International and then at Ebbsfleet, and they were nearing Ashford. He was shamed because he had never – not once – given up his seat on the run to or from