In the Red Corner - Volume III of the Operation Jigsaw Trilogy

by Hayden, Mark

  Tom hated doing it, but he had flashed his warrant card and said he couldn’t be in the waiting room. The receptionist agreed to call him when his turn came, so they sat in the multi-faith room. It was the only quiet place.

  ‘It doesn’t bother you being here?’ asked Tom.

  ‘No. It’s only a room. God is with us everywhere we go.’

  ‘Fair enough. What do you reckon? Is there somewhere we can go with our enquiry, or should I just pack it in now?’

  ‘Could you just leave it and walk away?’

  Tom considered her question. His eyes wandered round the various sacred objects in the room: all dedicated to an absolute truth about the world, and all mutually contradictory. What they had in common, however, was faith.

  ‘Yes. Because I’ve done it before. When we found two dead bodies in Essex, and I put the first pieces of the jigsaw together, I knew they’d be back, and they were. I’ve put another piece together here. You could call it the grass if you want – it’s green after all the Irish connections. If I walk away now, they’ll drop another piece of the jigsaw into my lap sooner or later. I don’t want to waste your time if there’s nowhere to go right now … so, yes: I would walk away.’

  Hayes was looking at the cross on the table at the end. She turned to face him. ‘What puzzles me is this: both our prime suspects are very senior officers, right? So what’s in it for them? Griffin was ordered to go to that Goods Yard. He was in the pub enjoying himself, so whoever made that call was the senior one in the relationship. How do they gain from all this? There can’t have been that much money sloshing around.’

  ‘That’s a very good question. I suppose they might have other DS Griffins dotted about the MCPS area, and other crooks like Patrick Lynch. But then again, when they switched the counterfeiting racket to Earlsbury, they chose Lynch to do it. He must have been their top man.’

  ‘They’ve been very, very careful. I know that much.’

  ‘They have,’ said Tom.

  They had been very careful indeed. So careful that he couldn’t find a single thing that would implicate Khan over Nechells or Nechells over Khan. His phone went off. He was wanted in triage.

  When the doctor made him look in the mirror, he winced. That was the first time he had been forced to confront the reality of his injuries. There was scarring in several places on his back, and the skin graft at the top of his arm was inflamed. The doctor pointed to where his skin was a bright red and said, ‘The plastic surgeon worked hard to get that join right. If you don’t look after it, it will be a terrible waste.’

  That was one way of looking at it, he supposed. From his perspective, unless he looked after the graft, he’d have a huge scar and a tight arm.

  ‘We’ve caught it in time,’ said the medic. ‘It should respond to antibiotics, but only if it gets some TLC. Have you got any dressings?’

  ‘Yes. Too many, because I haven’t changed them enough.’

  ‘Get these from the pharmacy and take the full course.’

  The doctor wrote out a script and passed it to him. He stuffed it in his pocket and thanked them for their time. Outside, he signalled to Hayes that he needed to make some calls. When he’d finished, he threw her the keys to his car, and they climbed in. Hayes enjoyed the feel of the driver’s seat and then got them going.

  ‘If you promise not to crash it, you can hang on to it for the weekend.’

  ‘Can I take it to the match tomorrow? We’re playing away on an all-weather pitch.’

  ‘If you want to. I’m sure it will impress your teammates.’

  ‘Maybe. It’ll certainly hold a lot of them. And the kit. Will you want a lift to the station?’

  ‘Yes, please: but I’m not going to London. I’m going to impose myself on my other sister near Liverpool so she can look after me. She can fill this prescription as well.’

  ‘Nice to have relatives in the trade. Are we back to business on Monday?’

  ‘We are. I had an idea in the chapel…’

  ‘You mean the multi-faith room.’

  ‘… I do. It’s about Niall Brewer. He was dropped into it from a great height by someone. Why?’

  ‘To make him a suspect.’

  ‘But it did the opposite. Yes, he’s guilty of Misconduct in Public Office, but he’s not part of the Jigsaw gang. He wouldn’t be grubbing for money like that if he was part of a big criminal network, would he?’

  Hayes thought for a moment. ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Then why did we get that anonymous email? Who wanted Brewer out of the picture? Assume for the moment that Khan is guilty.’

  ‘Easily done.’

  ‘Then why would he want Brewer cleared of suspicion? It would make more sense if all three of them were suspects. Less chance of us finding the real villain.’

  ‘I like that. It’s good. So how do we find out who’s got it in for Brewer?’

  ‘When Juliet Porterhouse emailed me that information, she didn’t send all of it, I’m sure. She’s going to be up north this weekend, so I’m seeing her on Sunday evening for a drink.’

  Hayes turned her eyes off the road for a second. ‘Is she your type?’

  ‘Knock it off, Constable. Not every encounter with members of the opposite sex is about, well, sex.’

  ‘It’s funny you should say that, sir … because I’ve usually found exactly the reverse.’

  Clarke pulled up outside a house in west London and knocked on the door. It was large by London standards, but not so large that the owners had been forced to convert it into flats. He understood that the occupants were on a massive flat-sharing arrangement. It took quite a bit of hammering on the door before a bleary-eyed young woman answered in her dressing gown.

  He did a double-take and supposed that, for most people, it was early. For most young people, it was very early on Saturday morning, especially if they’d had a good Friday night. I’ve gone native, he thought, I’m keeping farmer’s hours and going to bed early. Still, it meant that the roads had been empty. His new van was actually faster on the motorway than the Land Rover.

  The young woman raised an eyebrow through the crack in the door. ‘Can I ’elp you?’

  ‘Je cherche Alain,’ said Clarke in what he knew was a terrible French accent. The woman tutted and opened the door wide.

  ‘Upstairs on the right,’ she said, and disappeared back into her room.

  Clarke took the stairs slowly after the long drive and tried to ease the pain in his leg. Instead of waking any more of the residents, he knocked lightly on the door (helpfully labelled Alain Dupont) and went in.

  Alain was alone. If he had a girlfriend, she hadn’t stopped the night. The man himself was sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘Oh! I thought I heard the door. You must be Georges.’

  ‘George, yes. George Baxter. Do you want me to wait outside while you get dressed?’

  ‘If you go downstairs, there is a lounge and kitchen on the left. Put on the kettle.’

  Clarke limped back down and found a communal sitting room filled with bottles, pizza boxes, and two ashtrays. That was good. He put the kettle on and started to make coffee.

  ‘Non! Not that one. Amélie will kill me if her coffee is gone. You must use that one,’ said Alain from the doorway.

  Clarke did as he was bid and served them two disgusting cups of coffee (Amélie must have taste, he thought). He offered Alain a cigarette, and the young Frenchman accepted.

  ‘I was not expecting you until later.’

  ‘Sorry to wake you up, but I had a good journey and thought I’d see you first. If it works out, I can go away and pick you up later. When you’ve packed and had a shower.’

  ‘Okay. When you offered me the job, you said that I had to pass a final test.’

  Clarke nodded and started looking in his pockets for the test paper.

  At the end of his meeting with Tanya Sheriden at Praed’s bank, she had given him an idea. One of her final questions had been about whether he needed foreign currency
facilities for his business, and Clarke, thinking of his impending foreign exchange mission, had said that access to a French translator would be good.

  ‘Try social media.’

  Clarke was allergic to social media. Anything which required him to put his name online was anathema to a man like him, but Tanya had shown him, in seconds, how to contact some of the huge French expat community in London.

  He gave it some thought and, from an internet café, he had created a profile for George Baxter, and had found four students willing to do a weekend’s work for a healthy cash reward. Clarke wanted a native French speaker, but he had to be sure that his new resource could speak idiomatic English. Hence the final test.

  ‘Translate these for me,’ said Clarke.

  Alain looked at the phrases. ‘Where are we going? Most of these words are what you call obscene.’

  ‘Are they? Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Do you know what they all mean? Because I have no idea. Someone must be playing a trick on me.’

  ‘I know them all, but I’ve never used them in English. Well, only once, at a football match.’

  ‘Good man. You’ve got the job.’

  Clarke stood up and took out some of the Euros he’d been delivered. They would count as expenses. ‘As promised, here is half the fee in advance. I’ll cover your hotel bills as well, of course. Right. I’ll see you at twelve o’clock.’

  The student looked at the money. When it was in his hand, a small shadow of doubt crossed Alain’s unlined face. Clarke stuck out his hand, and the shadow disappeared. Alain would be learning several lessons on this trip. One of them was that online profiles are very easy to fabricate. If only it were as easy to produce a passport in the name of George Baxter as it had been to create the man’s profile. Clarke went back to the van and started searching for brunch.

  On the way down to the Channel Tunnel, he tried to make as much conversation as possible. He quite enjoyed creating Baxter as he went along. The more Alain believed he was talking to a genuine (if shady) character, the more likely he would be to do as he asked. The only questions he wouldn’t answer related to the job Alain believed he was doing. At one point, Clarke even told the truth.

  ‘Did you never learn French at school?’ asked Alain. ‘Most English people can speak it a little, even if they are too embarrassed to do it in public.’

  ‘I did German. I thought it would be more useful for my career.’

  ‘And was it?’

  ‘Yes. Up to a point.’

  When he was a teenager, Clarke’s mother had told him that most British servicemen spent long periods stationed in Germany, waiting for the Russians to invade. Either that or in Northern Ireland. By the time Clarke’s GCSEs were approaching, the Berlin Wall came tumbling down. He had still spent a lot of time in Germany, though. Until Iraq, of course.

  ‘So why are we going to France if your career is in Germany?’

  ‘I was made redundant in the credit crunch. I’ve got to take work where I can get it.’

  ‘Okay.’

  When they got through Kent, Clarke said, ‘It would be better for you if you travelled alone. I’ll drop you in Ashford and pick you up at Fréthun station in Calais.’

  Alain was surprised, but his question was encouraging. ‘Better for me?’

  ‘Yes. For you. Here’s the fare, and here’s a mobile phone. I’ll call you as soon as I’m near.’

  Alain said nothing after that but simply got out and disappeared at the station. There was a small chance that he might alert the authorities, but that was a much bigger risk than Clarke approaching the French dealers on his own. Not that Alain would be going anywhere near them. Clarke had promised Ganesha that M Dupont’s life would never be at risk.

  There were no police at Fréthun to intercept him, and Alain climbed into the van as if nothing had happened. ‘It’s good to smoke again,’ was his only comment.

  Clarke drove to Boulogne and dropped his passenger at a motel. He gave him another hundred euros and said, ‘I’ll see you at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon by the Stade de la Libération. On the cemetery side; you’ll find it easily. Enjoy yourself.’

  Another reason for choosing Alain was that he was from the south of France. He might take in a movie or go to a bar, but he wouldn’t be visiting any friends tonight.

  Clarke had researched the area and, if Google Earth was to be believed, he knew where he might find the right spot. He drove past tomorrow’s meeting place and parked half a mile beyond. It was getting dark and very damp underfoot as he climbed over a fence into a small wood. Once inside, he pushed through to the far end. Perfect. He watched the target for a while and then retraced his steps.

  Kate was almost the only passenger on the Sunday morning flight from Dublin. Her head was throbbing by the time they landed, as she sobered up from last night’s celebrations, and she vowed to steer clear of whiskey chasers the next time she drank Guinness. The cold air of England blasted away the Celtic cobwebs, and she turned the heater up on the drive to Hampshire.

  Her father gave her a bigger hug than normal, and barely gave her time to put her bag away before he hustled her down the road to his local pub for Sunday lunch. He had even reserved a table. She examined him closely when they met and decided that he looked healthier than she had seen him in years. If he was having chemotherapy, there was no sign of it. Nor were there any shakes, spasms or uncertainty in his movement. She had to lengthen her stride to keep up with him, as she’d been doing all her life.

  ‘It’s very Christmas-y in here,’ she said. ‘Much more festive than Dublin.’

  ‘It’s the landlord. Two years ago he bought a load of stock when the other pub in the village closed down. He’s the sort of man who never lets anything go to waste. Mind you, there’s a good reason why the other place went bust and this one is still thriving. He knows his market, and he gives us what we want. Shall I get us a bottle of wine?’

  ‘Go on.’

  While they waited for their food to arrive, her father asked a lot of questions about her work for Anthony Skinner. She left a few names out, but told him most of what had happened.

  ‘You’re asking a lot of questions for a change,’ she said.

  ‘Didn’t need to before: I know the CO of Military Intelligence very well. He always told me what you were up to.’

  That figured. Her father was a lecturer at Sandhurst and still very much part of the military establishment.

  He rearranged the cutlery on his place setting and asked her if she thought she would make a go of what she was doing.

  ‘I think it’s too early to tell. I enjoyed the work in Dublin, but there may not be an indefinite supply of that. You know me, Dad. I enjoy a challenge, but I like the security of a place to fall back on.’

  ‘Me, too. If I hadn’t got this job at the Royal Military College, I don’t know what I would have done. That’s the best and worst thing about the Army.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be alright.’

  ‘I know you will.’

  The food arrived, and her father waited until they were nearly finished before coming back to the subject. ‘There was another reason for me asking how you were getting on, you know. A selfish one.’

  She put her knife and fork down. Her father was staring at his roast beef. She put her hand out and said, ‘Dad, is everything alright? You’re not ill or anything?’

  He laughed. ‘God, no. Just the opposite, in a way.’ He put his cutlery down too, but still couldn’t meet her eye. ‘The thing is, Kate … I wanted to be certain you’d made the transition away from the regular Army before I said anything to you, and now I know you’ll find your way, I want to tell you about some changes in my life.’

  He finally looked up and said, ‘They’re going to be big ones. I’m retiring from the RMC, I’m leaving Hampshire, and I’ve met someone.’

  If she had been holding her cutlery she would have dropped it. Instead, she sat with her mouth open.

  ‘C
ome on, girl. Spit it out,’ said her father.

  ‘Dad! I don’t know what to say. Well, I’m thrilled for a start. Really thrilled. But I’m shocked too. Here, give me a kiss.’

  To her father’s utter mortification, she stood up and leaned over the remains of their food to give him a big kiss on the head.

  ‘First things first. What’s she like? How did you meet? How long have you been at it, and where are you going to live?’

  Her father chose to finish his meal rather than answer her questions. Like the landlord of the pub, he never let anything go to waste. Whoever he was seeing, she must have the patience of a saint. Kate pushed her plate aside and waited.

  He dabbed his mouth with the napkin and leaned towards her. ‘If you look at the bar, you’ll see two women talking to an idiot with a moustache. Janet is the one with the brown hair. If you’re happy to meet her, she can join us for dessert, and you can ask her those questions yourself.’

  Kate topped up her glass and drained half of it in one go. Janet had her back to where they were sitting (deliberately, she guessed), and all she could tell was that her father’s new woman was neither too old for him nor too young, neither too fat nor too thin.

  ‘I’d love that. Are you sure she won’t mind getting the third degree in public?’

  ‘She’s been pressing me to introduce you almost since our first date. She’s divorced with two children of her own. She can look after herself.’

  ‘Then bring her on. I’d love to meet her. But can I ask you something else first?’

  It was his turn to frown with concern. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s Tom.’

  The frown disappeared to be replaced with her father’s default expression of … well, nothing. It was how he navigated any situation with emotional implications. He admitted that he had abandoned her to the Mortons when she was a child, but he wasn’t sure whether they had been an entirely good influence on her. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘That bomb was a serious business. Raised a fair few eyebrows in the mess.’

  ‘He’s made a good recovery, but he’s out of the loop on the investigation. Did you read the piece in the Sunday Examiner?’ He nodded. ‘It’s true about the Irish connection. I want to do some digging, and I wondered if you could point me in the direction of someone with a background in Northern Ireland. Someone who’s not connected to Anthony Skinner’s outfit.’