'Alex Derby?' The very smart, blonde woman of medium-height, probably in her late-thirties, put her head round the door of the office. She was dressed in an expensively-tailored, short, fire-engine red suit, cut perhaps four inches above the knee. Underneath was a cream silk shirt, contrasting dark stockings and high-heeled black patent shoes. The heels and toes of the shoes could not be described in any way as sensible. 'Can anybody tell me, where I can find Alex Derby?'

'Who should I say wants her?' A scruffy, bearded man in black jeans and a black tee-shirt emblazoned with Micros**t in white, seated in a high-tech wheel-chair, turned from his computer screen and before the interloper could reply, indicated a comfortably-padded office chair at a spare desk. 'Would you like to sit there? Tea? Coffee? Biscuits? Banana?'

'Do you always ask lots of questions?' She sat down making no attempt to stop her skirt rising up and crossed one trim and fit leg over the other.

'It's my job! And her's here!' He pointed at his impressive computer, with one of the largest screens she had ever seen. 'I'm John Deacon and you're Detective Chief Superintendent Daisy May of the Met's Anti-Terrorist Branch.' The visitor seemed more pleased at the efficiency than surprised. 'I spoke to your sergeant yesterday, when he phoned to ask if you could see Alex today.'

'How much else do you know?'

'You're thirty-nine, have a degree in Physics from the proper Liverpool University, not the trumped-up poly, are married to a GP at Southgate in North London, and you've three boys of fifteen, seventeen and eighteen.' He looked across at her, approvingly. 'You don't dress like a policeman.' He had used the male form deliberately. 'For a start you're probably wearing stockings, if the gossip is correct!' She blushed back. 'You've modelled clothes for charity! And not just ones that are discrete and only suitable for old maids!'

'I'll admit to it all!' She was curious. 'I'm even wearing stockings!' She flirted by peeling her skirt back a few inches. 'Satisfied?'

John changed the subject. 'Oh! And you've a George Medal!' He smiled across at her. 'Do you want to know more, or would you like that tea? Truth has it, that you don't drink coffee!' She smiled back this time, impressed at his knowledge.

Expertly and very quickly, he propelled his chair to the end of the office and flicked the kettle to on. A minute or so later and he had poured water over two tea-bags and squeezed them, before adding fresh milk from a litre plastic bottle. He added no sugar, as he knew she did not use it.

'How come you know so much about me?' The Chief Superintendent was both impressed and intrigued. She also wondered how much if any, of her all-important security, had been breached. But then, she was visiting a group of people at a world-class telecommunications Research Centre, whose job was to find out as much as you could about anybody, everybody and everything to do with the global telephone network. Perhaps, they had some very impressive information to search.

'It's not that difficult!' He turned to the computer, clicked the mouse and typed a few words. Within seconds, the screen had become filled, with images of press cuttings and references to Detective Chief Superintendent Daisy May, possibly the Met's first famous female detective. He had even found the infamous topless photos on the beach at Antibes, that had made the front and third pages of The Sun, just after her promotion to the Anti-Terrorist Branch. 'You must get fed up with these photos?'

'Why should I?' She stood and walked over to the screen. 'Look, it's a well-taken photo of a woman in her prime, doing what every presentable and a good many not-so presentable ladies do in the South of France. No long lens beloved of the papparatsi or the gutter press. Just an old and very reliable Olympus OM-1N, with a 35-105 mm zoom lens and very boring Kodak Ultra 400 colour film. None of your new-fangled digital gadgets!'

'How do you know all those details?' John didn't have those in the computer.

'My eldest took it with my camera!'

'Oh!' He laughed.

'And look at the body!' She pointed a finger aggressively at the image. 'No fat! No breasts like razor strops! A flat stomach! Proper muscles! I've worked very hard for that in the gym and on the tennis court. It's fit, hard and can you see anything in the wrong place?'

He looked hard at the screen, scanning and cheekily indicating the various parts of her body with the pointer of the mouse. 'No!'

The detective reached into her handbag and took out a photo. 'Here! Have a signed copy!'

***

'It's funny, but I had got the impression, that Alex wasn't female!'

'Strange, isn't it! But that might be John!' Alex had held out her hand to greet the detective. 'On the other hand, I had taken that Daisy was a nickname and that you were a man.'

'Daisy is a nickname. Partly because my husband's surname is May, but mainly because I got christened Marguerite.' They both laughed. 'My mother claims, it was because my father fancied a famous cookery writer. Judging by my mother's cooking, I can understand the infatuation!'

***

'Why come and see us?' Business now had to be done and Alex had passed all the formalities, as quickly as possible. 'Surely, you've all the resources you need in London?'

Daisy avoided the question. 'You've signed all the tiresome Acts and can I be assured that nothing that is said here will ever get out of these four walls and embarrass the Government.' The detective had changed to a formal tone.

'I can agree that for myself!' Alex looked rather firmly at her colleague. 'John!'

'I may look like an anarchist! And behave live one sometimes!' John pulled himself upright in his chair. 'But! To me there is only one God! Truth! So long as we're all honest, I'm on board.'

'How do you mean?' Daisy interrupted. 'Would you lie to protect the Government?'

'No! Never!' John was firm.

'Good! Neither would I!' Daisy approved of his statement.

'But I would lie to protect people that I respected! So long as it was in pursuit of the truth!' He looked at Alex! 'I'd lie for my boss. She's worth it!'

'Good!' Daisy again approved. 'What would you do to save life?'

'Everything I could!'

***

Daisy then unclipped one of those small, ubiquitous plug-in drives from her keyring. 'Can you handle one of these?' She immediately realised the inanity of the question. 'I suspect you can!'

John took the small piece of plastic and wheeled himself back towards his computer. He plugged it in and waited for the computer to recognise the new source of information. 'What am I looking for?' John now had all the files it contained displayed in a new window on the screen.

'There's only one audio file!' Daisy had walked over and was pointing at the screen. 'Can you recognise it?'

'Yes!' He clicked the mouse. 'There's only this one!'

What came next was a surprise to Alex and John as from speakers all around the office, Margaret Thatcher started to give a speech as only she could in that distinctive voice.

But this was not the Margaret Thatcher beloved by the Tories! Or even the one hated by the left! It was her voice but not any words she would have said. It was also her voice of the mid-80's and not the one which had last been heard at the funeral of Ronald Reagan.

'I am speaking on behalf of my new friends, the Special Council of the IRA. The situation in Ireland is intolerable. No progress has been made to fulfil the Good Friday agreement between President Clinton and Prime Minister Blair. Something needs to be done! But I do not think it will ever be without a small amount of persuasion!' She paused as if waiting for applause. None came! 'I demand that the British return the six counties to Eire now! Not in three years or even six months! But now!' If no action is forthcoming, I am not a lady to be ignored. Today is April the first and on June the first in London at precisely eight forty-five a bomb will explode. This will be followed by other bombs in different, cities, towns and major places where people congregate until the transfer is made. Failure to comply by August will result in a sizeable nuclear explosion centred on a very high value target. Loss of life and property will be extensive but necessary. I hope this is all clear as there will be no further communications.'

'Fuck! Is it genuine?' John spoke to break a long silence. 'So who knows about this message?'

'I do, my boss does and the Prime Minister does!' Daisy seemed to have a very pale face. 'You're the only others, who've heard it. A few others know there has been a bomb threat, but not what it is about.'

'Why us?' Alex asked the obvious question.

'Well!' Daisy crossed and uncrossed her legs uncomfortably. 'Since Iraq things have changed. MI5 and MI6 seem to tell Governments what they want to hear. WMD? They'd say this message was that of a crank!'

'Perhaps it is!' Alex answered the question. 'But why us?'

'Your department did my ex-boss an enormous favour!' Daisy was providing the explanation. 'The work you did for him in that paedophile murder nine months ago put a man in jail for life. It also meant he was caught very quickly. But it saved his bacon, his job and his career.' She paused and looked at them both. 'I've come to hope you can perform another miracle!'

'It was before you took charge, Alex!' John was explaining what had happened. 'We just took a lot of phone calls, analysed them and gave the name of the bloke what we thought had done it!'

'Had he?' Alex hadn't had details of the case.

'No!' John smiled. 'But the guy who shared his house had! It was almost Timothy Evans and Christie all over again!'

***

'Do you think it's a genuine message?' John repeated his original question. Daisy obviously had her view, but she hadn't disclosed it. 'I suspect, it's not very difficult to buy plenty of recordings of her speeches.'

'We think we've already identified where some of the message comes from.' The detective produced a video-tape from her brief case. 'But there must be at least fifty to sixty thousand copies in circulation. Given too, that the BBC repeated their series on her, late last year, I don't think that obtaining enough of the right words of Mrs. T. would have been very difficult.'

'I asked if you think it's genuine and not some morbid April Fool joke.' John had noticed the date.

'I think it's genuine!' She paused. 'But my boss doesn't! Although it doesn't have the usual IRA codeword and the Special Council tag has never been used before.'

'But, why do you think it's genuine.' John was almost admiring the crafting of the message, as he replayed it quietly to himself. 'I've put tapes together like this. Not I hasten to add for anything other than a bit of fun.' One had scared Alex to death. 'And not like this!'

'It was phoned through to the private mobile phone of my boss, the Commander of the Anti-Terrorist Branch, and picked up on his message service.' She shrugged her head in some sort of disgust. 'Very few people know that number.'

'So it must be a joke then!'

'Except that after the Omagh bomb, we released the number to the IRA, in the hope that we might obtain some better information!'

'What is the number?' John had brought up a dialog on his computer. 'Let's find out how well it's known! Just type his number in here!' He indicated where.

Slowly Daisy typed one of the most secret numbers in the UK. John followed it with the Enter key.

Within seconds, references from all over the Internet, message boards and chat rooms appeared. 'It's always the same! Just one breach and the number's everywhere!' He turned to her. 'Do you still think it is genuine?'

Daisy bit her lip and said nothing.

Copyright 2004 by Ewart Higgins