Twenty Twelve by Helen Black Page A

mention the fourth outstanding member?’ asked the PM.
    ‘Absolutely not,’ said Benning. ‘It would cause panic. The Games would never survive.’
    The PM tapped his bottle nervously. ‘Is that sufficient justification to withhold this information?’
    Benning licked his lips as he considered the question, then directed his gaze at Clem. ‘If alerted that we’re on to him, might the fugitive go to ground permanently?’ he asked.
    ‘Ronnie X is already underground,’ Clem answered.
    ‘So forcing him deeper still might make him impossible to catch?’
    ‘Very possibly.’
    ‘Then I would say it’s a matter of national security that we keep the existence of the fourth member top secret,’ said Benning.
    Clem almost whistled at the mental gymnastics when his phone vibrated in his hand. He never turned it off, not even during meetings at Downing Street. He scanned the number. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I think I need to take this call.’ He ignored the glare from Benning and turned his body for a semblance of privacy.
    ‘Christian Clement.’
    ‘It’s Jo Connolly here.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘Can you talk right now?’
    Clem glanced at the PM. ‘Tricky.’
    ‘Right,’ said Connolly. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I remembered something else that the dead man said to me. It might be nothing; it might not.’
    ‘Where are you?’
    ‘I’m on my way to the basketball arena. Photo op with Team GB.’
    Clem glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll meet you there in one hour.’ He hung up. Turned back to the PM. Didn’t apologise.
    ‘It’s decided, then, that for the time being we will not mention the fourth suspect,’ said the PM.
    Clem nodded. Of course it was decided.
    The PM picked up the remote control and flicked on the television. The Olympic flag fluttered in the breeze above the basketball stadium. ‘Are we sure that no one outside these walls knows this information?’ he asked.
    Clem didn’t miss a beat. ‘No one.’
    Benning narrowed his eyes. ‘Let’s make sure it stays that way.’
    I smile for the cameras in my tracksuit and trainers, basketball in hand. Number Ten sent an advance party including a make-up girl who dabbed concealer over my cuts and bruises. A day ago Benning and the PM couldn’t wait to show them off as proof of my heroism. Today we’re putting all reminders of any nasty business aside. Another reason why I could never have made a politician: I’d never have been able to keep up.
    I try to spin the ball on my finger, dropping it, causing the team to laugh.
    ‘Have a shot, Miss Connolly,’ one of the players says.
    ‘Call me Jo.’
    ‘Okay, Jo.’ He winks at me. ‘Take a shot.’
    I bounce the ball to the hoop and score. ‘Slam dunk.’ I high five each member of the team in turn.
    I spot Clem, high in the stadium and make my way towards him, taking the steps two, sometimes three at a time.
    ‘You’re fit,’ he says.
    ‘Not compared to that lot.’ I gesture to the athletes training below us, but I smile because he’s right. I feel great. My body is still stiff and sore but I feel energised and happy.
    ‘You have something to tell me,’ he says.
    I nod and pull out a sheet of paper from my pocket. ‘I’ve jotted down everything I can remember Miggs saying to me. There wasn’t much, but I’ve tried to remember it word for word.’
    Clem takes it from me, scanning my messy writing.
    ‘I think this bit is probably the most interesting.’ I tap a sentence I’ve underlined twice:
    Remember the orchard, Ronnie?
    If Clem is impressed he doesn’t show it. He remains straight faced as he folds the paper in half, then in quarters and slides it into his inside pocket.
    ‘I think I might know what it means,’ I say.
    Clem raises an eyebrow.
    ‘Miggs was Scottish, right? Glaswegian I’d say.’
    Clem doesn’t answer, so I assume I’m right.
    ‘So I googled orchards in Glasgow.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘There are a few; apples mostly, some pears.’
    Clem runs a