Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [34]
Bulman took out a notebook.
“You were away for the first time last April. You were also away at the end of last year. That would have been at exactly the same time that a teenage boy dropped in on an oil rig in the Timor Sea, fighting alongside the Australian SAS. And who was that kid at Heathrow Airport when Damian Cray had a nasty accident in a jumbo jet? Now there’s a funny thing, isn’t it? An international pop singer one minute—a multimillionaire—and the next minute the papers are announcing that he’s had a heart attack. Well, I suppose I’d have a heart attack too if someone pushed me into the turbine of a plane.” Bulman snapped the notebook shut. “Nobody’s been allowed to write anything about any of this. National security and all the rest of it. But I’ve spoken to people who were at the Science Museum, at Heathrow, and in Australia.” He fixed his eyes on Alex. “And they’ve all described you to a T.”
There was a long silence. Jack’s fish pie had gone cold. Alex was stunned. He had always supposed MI6 would protect him from publicity. He had never expected a journalist to turn up at his own home.
Jack was the first to speak. “You’ve got it all wrong,” she said. “Alex took a bit of time off last term because he was sick. You can’t possibly think—”
“Please don’t treat me like an idiot, Miss Starbright,” Bulman cut in, and suddenly there was steel in his voice. “I’ve done my homework. I know everything. So why don’t you stop wasting my time and face up to the facts?” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a bunch of photographs. Alex winced. He guessed what was coming even before the journalist spread them on the table. And he was right. The pictures had been taken just a few hours before in Brompton Cemetery. They showed Alex in action against the three men who had attacked him, kicking out in one frame, spinning over the gravestone in another.
“When were these taken?” Jack asked. She was obviously shaken.
“This afternoon,” Alex replied. “They followed me from school and came up to me in the cemetery.” He looked accusingly at Bulman. “You set it all up.”
The journalist nodded. “Believe me, Alex. They weren’t going to hurt you. But I had to be one hundred percent certain. I wanted to see you in action for myself. And I have to say, you more than lived up to your reputation. In fact, I’m going to have to pay my people double what I promised them. You put two of them into the hospital! Oh . . . and there’s something else you should know about.”
Bulman produced a miniature tape recorder and pressed a button. At once, Alex heard his own voice, a little tinny and distant, but definitely him.
“Major Yu is dead.”
“You killed him.”
“No. The last time I saw him, he was running away. . . .”
“All three of them were wired up for sound.” Bulman flicked the tape off. “You knew all about the snakehead, so don’t play innocent with me. By the way, I never found out how Major Yu died. I’d be interested to know how it happened.”
Alex glanced at Jack. They both knew there was no point denying it anymore. “What exactly do you want?” he demanded.
“Well, we could start with that beer I was talking about.”
Jack stiffened. Then she stood up, went to the fridge, and took out a can of beer. She gave it to the journalist without a glass, but he didn’t seem to mind. He cracked it open and drank.
“Thank you, Jack,” he said, all pretense of formality gone. “Look . . . I can tell you’re both a bit thrown by this, and I can understand that, but you’ve got to remember what I said when I first came in. I’m on your side. In fact, I want to help you.”
“Help me . . . how?”
“By telling your story.” Bulman held a hand up before Alex could interrupt. “Wait a minute. Just hear me out.” He had obviously rehearsed what he was about to say. “First of all, I think what’s happened to you is an outrage. It’s more than that. It