Witness X

by Mark Dawson

  “I have a question too,” Duffy said. “What does any of this have to do with Tamsin Bell?”

  “More than you think, Twelve,” Control replied.

  12

  “How well do you know your ex-girlfriend’s husband?” Bloom asked Duffy.

  “About as well as I’d know any man I’d only seen the one time, from a quarter of a mile away, through binoculars,” Duffy replied.

  Control jabbed at his console again. The centre wall screen lit up with a new image, and Duffy was treated to a giant hi-def photo of the man for whom Tamsin had left him.

  “Dr Bell is employed by a firm called Rush Laboratories Ltd,” Control said, “a subsidiary of the multinational Koestler Group, which attracts massive science and technology contracts from all over the world. Rush Labs are a fairly small but thriving specialist applied physics and engineering outfit, with a staff of just twenty-two. Based here in London, with offices and a lab complex in Epping Forest. Lately the bulk of their work has been R&D on a Koestler Group initiative called the LightWing II, a new suborbital hypersonic passenger spaceplane. The space tourism industry is set to be the next big craze for silly rich people. The Koestler Group are determined to grab a large chunk of the cake. A working prototype of LightWing II is just a few months away, and the team at Rush are working to meet their deadline.”

  “What about Bell?”

  “He’s held his current position as senior project manager for the last three years, promoted from assistant project manager. He does all right: seventy-five thousand pounds a year. A decent salary, by all accounts, but hardly enough to keep the lovely Mrs Bell in the manner to which she has become accustomed of late.”

  Bloom leaned back in his chair with his fingers laced and a sardonic smirk forming on his lips. “The Bells have started living considerably beyond their means. They bought themselves a fancy house in Highgate. And there’s the cottage in the Cotswolds, too, and the brand-new Jaguar he’s driving. Not to mention the luxury restaurants they eat in most nights, the Caribbean beach hideaway they rented for two weeks in August, the exclusive country club membership, the new Arab thoroughbred Mrs Bell got for her birthday… Need I go on?”

  Control shrugged. “Where all of this sudden wealth came from is a mystery. There’s been no lottery windfall, no family inheritance. Bell’s father is a retired teacher, and his mother worked as a child-minder. Before the recent incident, Tamsin had only just started a new part-time job after having not worked for some time. At this moment she has exactly £12,857.36 in a savings account with very little traffic in or out. So the money’s not coming from her end.”

  “So you think Bell’s dirty?”

  Cheetham didn’t answer the question directly. “We also happen to know that his postdoctoral research dissertation, before he joined the team at Rush, was something called… ah, let me see…” She rustled some papers in front of her and slipped on a pair of small rectangular reading glasses. “High-ratio telescoping nozzle designs for use with polyurethane-bound aluminium-APCP composite propellants. In other words, solid rocket fuel. The same stuff that was created for the Polaris missile. Still used in the US Minutemen range. The very same propulsion system that’s being used for the Rush Laboratories LightWing II spaceplane prototype. And surprise, surprise––here are the warmongers in Pyongyang getting all hot under the collar about introducing it into their weapons program. God help us if they get their grasping little paws on that kind of technology.”

  “Seems circumstantial,” Duffy said, even though his mind was spinning to make sense of all this. He didn’t want to believe it, yet the truth was looming large.

  “You would say so; I agree,” Control said. But let me play you a recording of a call placed to Scotland Yard. It was made two days prior to the assault on Tamsin Bell from a payphone at a pub in Epping Forest, a quarter of a mile from Rush Laboratories. As you’ll note, the caller did not identify himself and didn’t get past speaking to the reception desk. You’ll also notice that he sounded slightly inebriated.”

  Control pressed a button, and Duffy listened as the edited call recording played over hidden speakers.

  A female voice: “Could you please give me your name, sir?”

  A male voice: “I… no, I’d rather not. At least, not until I speak to someone higher up. I really need… I’m sorry.”

  “And what is your query regarding?”

  “I… uh… ah… you see, I may be in some trouble. In fact, I am, definitely, in a great deal of trouble. I’ve done a stupid, stupid thing. Oh God, I don’t know what possessed me… It’s about secrets. Weapons secrets. I’ve passed them some of the information, but they’ve paid for more, much more. I… I only did it for the money. I’m not a terrorist, honestly. I… they were offering so much. Now I want out, but I’m afraid of what they’ll do to me if I tell them… I thought if I could talk to someone, someone senior, they might help me to… Christ, this is a terrible mistake. Forget it. Forget all of it. Goodbye.”

  The caller hung up with an abrupt click. The recording ended.

  Duffy’s gaze met the eyes that were watching him from all around the table. “Bell?”

  “We have a description from the bar staff of the somewhat bibulous and obviously very agitated gentleman who asked to use their payphone that day,” Control said. “Late thirties, spectacles, receding sandy hair, slight build, well dressed. Fits Bell to a T. He stayed long enough to gulp down a last pint, then sped off in a red sports car. They didn’t get the registration.”

  “Seems as though our boy has been selling his technical expertise to certain parties,” Bloom said, “only to get cold feet once he was already in too deep. What made him change his mind, we may never know. A crisis of conscience while he was living it up on the beach in St Lucia? Did it suddenly occur to him what these lunatics might actually do with the information he was selling them? Whatever the case, it’s clear he flew into a panic. On impulse he decided to come clean to the authorities, then changed his mind again when he thought about what trouble he was landing himself in. We can surmise that, after making this call, he went back to his handlers and told them he wanted out of the deal.”

  “The silly bugger probably thought they’d let him off the hook,” Cheetham said. “That they’d understand, play fair, maybe even let him hold onto the money. But then, a man naïve enough to use a public bloody payphone to make a call like that is capable of any degree of stupidity.”

  “Whereupon they sent him a little warning message,” Control said. “To let him know that a deal’s a deal, so to speak. And to apprise him of their disappointment, should he fail to honour his end of the bargain.”

  “Tamsin,” Duffy muttered.

  Cheetham cocked her head. “Can you think of any other reason why a North Korean hit man would have singled her out for such a vicious attack, if not to pressure her husband into playing ball?”

  “Not really,” Duffy said. “So why haven’t you already jumped on him? Grab him, whisk him off the street, press him, break him. That’s what the Group does best. You don’t need me for that. Give it to Number Two—she’d break him in five minutes.”

  “Oh, we could break him all right,” Control said. “The mouse is already in the trap and we could spring it at any time. But spring it too soon, and Bell’s new business associates might simply slip between our fingers and disappear back off to their little hermit kingdom, along with all the information he’s already passed. The phone recording makes it clear that Bell hasn’t delivered all the goods. If he’s got more to offer them, they’re likely still in the country. And if that’s the case, we want to catch the whole gang of them in the same net. Wouldn’t you relish the chance to meet up with them, Twelve?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Control offered a glacial smile. “We want you to pay our friend Dr Bell a little social call. As a former friend of the family coming to pay your condolences.”

  “I don’t have friends.”

 
“Then make-believe,” Control said. “Now, here’s the plan. Today is Sunday. The one day of the week Bell’s not at work. I suggest you visit him at home late morning, early afternoon. That’ll give you a chance to grab some sleep first.”

  Duffy said, “I don’t really sleep.”

  “After breakfast, then.”

  Duffy shook his head. “Don’t really eat breakfast, ma’am.”

  Eliza Cheetham looked at him curiously. “You don’t have friends, you don’t sleep, and you don’t eat. What do you do, Duffy?”

  Duffy was silent for a long time, his restless mind filled with images. He didn’t need to picture Tamsin’s ravaged face in his head, because it was already there and would stay there forever, day and night, for the rest of his life.

  Another face was in his mind’s eye, too. The stony, impassive, assassin’s face of Kang Kum-Sok.

  Duffy looked back at Eliza Cheetham, and his expression made her blink.

  I kill.

  “Tell me where I need to go.”

  HIGHGATE

  13

  Tony Bell looked haggard and edgy when he answered the doorbell. He was still in his pyjamas, a rumpled dressing gown hurriedly thrown on as if he’d not long ago got out of bed. The unmistakable bloodshot eyes of a man suffering from a serious hangover opened wide at the sight of Bryan Duffy standing there on the leaf-strewn doorstep. The driveway and the bonnet and roof of the red Jaguar were covered with copper and gold from the shedding oak trees. Duffy’s car was parked in the street outside the gate, a slightly worn but significantly souped-up Opel Omega selected for him from the Group Fifteen pool.

  “Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday morning,” Duffy said. “I was passing and, well…” He let his words trail off.

  “You’re—”

  “Bryan,” Duffy interrupted. “Tamsin’s old friend. I only just heard what happened. Came to offer my condolences and ask how she’s doing.”

  Recovering from his surprise, Bell narrowed his eyes and asked, “How did you know where she lives now?”

  “Anna told me you’d moved,” Duffy said.

  Bell’s frown deepened. “Anna?”

  Anna was fictitious, so Duffy kept it deliberately vague. “Mm-hmm. You must know her? She and Tamsin went way back, from college. I kept in touch from time to time.”

  “Oh. Right. That Anna.”

  “So? How is she?”

  The chilly October wind was swirling dead leaves around inside the hallway. Bell pulled his dressing gown tighter and looked uncomfortable. “Er, I was just making some coffee. I suppose you’d better come inside.”

  “Just for a minute, then,” Duffy said, stepping in the door.

  As Bell led him through the big house, Duffy noticed the slight zigzag to the guy’s step and caught the scent of gin trailing in his wake. Bell must have already been at the bottle this morning. Duffy followed him into a spacious white kitchen, where a big espresso machine was burbling away on a marble top. There was a half-finished bottle of Old Tom nearby, and a glass with ice melting in it.

  Looking around, Duffy thought how meticulously tidy everything else in the kitchen was. The Tamsin he’d known wasn’t the neatest of people and had always felt more comfortable with a bit of clutter around her. This place looked like a display home.

  “So how is she?” Duffy repeated as Bell prepared the coffee.

  Bell’s shoulders sagged. A cup rattled on its saucer as his hands trembled. “Not good,” he replied in a tight voice.

  “I’m so sorry, Tony. Do they know who—?”

  “No idea,” Bell said quickly, shaking his head. “Do you want to come into the lounge? It’s more comfortable. I need to sit down.”

  I’ll bet you do, Duffy thought. Not nine thirty in the morning and you look half-cut already. “I won’t stay long,” he said. “Just wanted, you know…”

  “Yeah.”

  The lounge was as neat as the kitchen. Duffy sipped his coffee and decided that the unreal level of tidiness was the hallmark of Tony Bell. Here was a man so uptight about order that he kept his music CDs in perfectly alphabetised rows, arranged by genre and artist, like a library. It was the same with the books on the shelves, the perfect angles of the expensive furniture and Persian rugs, everything in the room. Tamsin must have changed a lot if she could handle living with someone so different from her. Or else her husband’s personality held sway in the household. Duffy already had him pegged as the passive-aggressive type.

  Duffy’s eyes were drawn to a half-open door leading off the big lounge. It led through to what looked like a study all decked out in wood panelling and sturdy mahogany and red leather. Through the gap in the doorway, he could see the edge of a Chesterfield desk with a computer sitting on it. Draped on the back of the desk chair was a tweed jacket, neatly folded, perfectly symmetrical.

  Duffy looked back to see that Bell was staring at him. He was still on his feet, though not all that steady. His expression was so strained with tension that he looked ready to crack.

  “We’ve never met, have we?” Bell said. “I know your face, though. Recognised you right away from all the photos she used to keep of you.”

  Duffy said nothing.

  “Bryan Duffy,” Bell said. “The soldier boy.” His tone was becoming a little more challenging.

  “Was,” Duffy said, staying cool. “Not any more.”

  “So what do you do now, Duffy?”

  “Play the guitar.”

  Bell nodded, as though he wasn’t really listening. “First three years of our marriage, that was all she ever did—sit and gawp at your pictures.”

  “She did?”

  “Caused a lot of problems, actually. Issues.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Until I burned the photo album. That was the end of it. But I know she still thinks about you. Thinks about you a lot.”

  Definitely about to crack. Duffy took another sip of the espresso, then set down his cup. He took a step towards Bell, who flinched as though he thought Duffy was going to hit him.

  Instead, Duffy hugged him tightly. Body odour and gin. Not a good combination.

  “Like I said, Tony, those things are all in the past. I really am sorry. Now, why don’t you go and fix us both a glass of whatever it is you’ve been drinking?”

  “What? I—”

  “Come on. You smell like a distillery. And I don’t blame you. I could use one, too.”

  Disarmed and thrown off balance by Duffy’s candid display of friendship, Bell swayed out of the room to fetch the drinks. On his way towards the doorway, he almost tripped over a slightly rumpled corner of the Persian rug. Cursing, he stooped awkwardly to straighten it out. Duffy watched him. Evidently, Mr Neatness just couldn’t help himself, even at a moment like this.

  While Bell was out of the room, Duffy slipped into the adjoining study. He took the miniature keystroke logger from his pocket, stepped around the back of the desk and clipped it carefully into place where, unnoticed, it would record and transmit every keystroke Bell made at his computer.

  Duffy was back in the lounge, nonchalantly looking at the book collection, when Bell returned from the kitchen with the Old Tom gin and two glasses. They sat in silence. Duffy uncapped the bottle and poured out two large measures. His own would remain virtually untouched. Bell couldn’t choke it down fast enough and was soon ready for more.

  “I love her, you know,” Bell said as Duffy refilled his glass for him.

  “Of course you do.”

  “Have you been to see her in the hospital?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Don’t,” Bell said. “Really—you mustn’t. Not if you want to remember her the way she was.”

  Two glasses later, Bell broke down and wept.

  Duffy left soon afterwards.

  THE COTSWOLDS

  14

  Duffy drove fast out of the city, hammered the Omega north-westwards up the M40 to Oxford and then veered off the ring road to carve h
is way out into the sticks. The Cotswolds offered all kinds of scenic routes through pretty little villages, but he hadn’t come out this way for a pleasant day trip. Just over an hour after leaving London, the Omega rolled up at the edge of the hamlet where Tony and Tamsin Bell had their occasional weekend hideaway.

  The thatched cottage was straight off a picture postcard, nestling in a secluded third of an acre away from the prying eyes of neighbours, which suited Duffy just fine. For his visit to Bell’s London home, he’d worn fashionably faded blue jeans and a sports jacket, the right touch of smart-casual. For this job he’d changed into black combat trousers, black polo neck, black jacket. He pulled on a pair of tight-fitting gloves, then popped the boot lid of the Omega and, from a NATO-issue deployment bag, took a nine-millimetre Glock 17 in a clip-on holster that he attached to his belt under the jacket. He didn’t expect to need it, but not wearing a weapon on the job made him feel strangely naked, like being without a watch. And he was dealing with dangerous operators.

  Duffy favoured the Glock because he felt it reflected his own nature. Like him, it had no safety catch. It existed in a constant state of latent violence, always ready for action. He trusted nobody else to load or clean his firearms. He’d spent an hour early that morning stripping it, oiling it, then doing it all over again until the action was butter smooth. He’d filled the magazine with the Hydra-Shok hollow-point rounds that he favoured for velocity and expansion.

  It took him only a few minutes to slip inside the cottage and disable the alarm system. His purpose here was the same as his earlier visit to the house in Highgate: to install some simple but effective surveillance. In a small black shoulder bag, he was carrying a variety of highly specialised, very expensive miniature cameras and bugs, as well as a keystroke logger identical to the one that he’d already fitted to Bell’s London computer.