The Tightrope Men / The Enemy

by Desmond Bagley

  ‘It’s a small world,’ said Kidder predictably. ‘I was only saying that to Lucy the other day when we bumped into the Williamsons in Stockholm. You remember the Williamsons?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Denison.

  ‘I guess we’re all on the same Scandinavian round, eh? I wouldn’t be surprised if the Williamsons don’t turn up here, too. Wouldn’t it be great if they did?’

  ‘Great!’ said Denison.

  Lucy Kidder popped out from behind her husband. ‘Why, Harry; how nice to see you. Did Jack tell you we saw the Williamsons in Stockholm?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘It’s a small world,’ said Lucy Kidder.

  ‘It sure is,’ said Jack. ‘If the Williamsons get here—and that nice friend of yours, Diana Hansen—we could get down to some poker. That gal is a mean player.’

  Lyn said, ‘Diana Hansen? Why, she’s here.’

  Surprise and pleasure beamed from Kidder’s face. ‘Now, isn’t that just great? Maybe I’ll be able to win some of my dough back, Lucy.’

  ‘Lose it, more likely,’ she said tartly. ‘Jack really believes he can play poker.’

  ‘Now then, Momma,’ he said good-humouredly. ‘Don’t knock the old man.’ He looked down at Lyn. ‘And who’s the little lady?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Denison. ‘Jack Kidder—my daughter, Lyn—Lucy Kidder.’

  They shook hands and Kidder said, ‘You didn’t tell me you had a daughter, Harry. You certainly didn’t tell me you had a beautiful daughter. Where you been hiding her?’

  ‘Lyn’s been at University,’ said Denison. ‘She’s now on vacation.’

  Lucy said, ‘I don’t want to break things up, Jack, but I guess we gotta register. The desk clerk’s waiting.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Kidder. ‘I’ll be seeing you around, Harry. Tell Diana to break out that deck of cards—we’ll be playing poker.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Denison and, taking Lyn by the arm, he steered her out of the hotel. Under his breath he said, ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Lyn.

  ‘The biggest bore from the North American continent,’ said Denison. ‘With his long-suffering wife.’

  NINETEEN

  Carey and McCready were being violently seasick. They clung to the rail of the small boat as it pitched in the summer gale which had blown up from the south and whistled up the narrow channel between the Swedish mainland and the island of Oland. There was but one significant difference between them—while Carey thought he was dying McCready knew he was dying.

  They both felt better when they set foot ashore at Borgholm. There a car awaited them, and a police officer who introduced himself with a jerky bow as ‘Hoglund, Olof.’

  ‘I’m Carey and this is McCready.’ The wind blew off the sea and riffled his short grey hair. ‘Shall we get on with it?’

  ‘Certainly. This way.’ As Hoglund ushered them to the car he said, ‘Your Mr Thornton arrived an hour ago.’

  Carey stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Has he, indeed?’ He glanced sideways at McCready, and muttered, ‘What the hell does he want?’

  They were silent as they drove through the streets of Borgholm. It was not the time yet for talk; that would come later after they had seen what they had come to see. Carey’s mind was busy with speculations arising from the presence of Thornton, and even if he wanted to discuss it with McCready he could not do so in the presence of Hoglund.

  The car pulled up in front of a two-storey building and they went inside, Hoglund leading the way. He took them into a back room where there was a trestle table set up. On the table was a long shape covered with a white cloth. Behind the table stood a short young man with a neat vandyke beard, who wore a white coat. Hoglund introduced him as Dr Carlson. ‘You already know Mr Thornton.’

  Thornton was a tall, dark man of cadaverous features, smooth unlined skin and indecipherable expression. He was a young-looking sixty or an aged forty—it was hard to determine which and Thornton was not going to tell anybody. It was not his habit to tell anyone anything that did not concern him and he was chary of doing even that. He could have been Carey’s boss but he was not; Carey was proud and pleased to be in another department.

  He lifted yellowed, dyspeptic eyes as Carey and McCready entered the room. Carey nodded to him curtly, and turned to Carlson. ‘Good afternoon, Doctor,’ he said in a weary voice. He was very tired. ‘May I see it?’

  Carlson nodded without speaking and drew back the cloth. Carey loked down with an expressionless face and motioned for the cloth to be drawn back farther. ‘This is how he was found?’

  ‘The body has been cleaned externally,’ said Carlson. ‘It was covered with oil. And the manacles have been removed, of course.’

  Carey nodded. ‘Of course. There was no clothing?’

  ‘The man was naked.’

  McCready looked at Carey and raised his eyebrows. ‘The same as…’

  Carey was unaccountably clumsy. He turned and trod heavily on McCready’s foot. ‘Sorry, George.’ He turned to Carlson. ‘What was the cause of death, Doctor?’

  Carlson frowned. ‘That will have to await the autopsy,’ he said cautiously. ‘At the moment it is a question of whether he was drowned or poisoned.’

  Thornton stepped forward. ‘Did you say poisoned?’ Carey analysed the tone of voice. In spite of Thornton’s habitual flatness of expression he thought he detected a note of genuine surprise.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ said Carlson. He opened the jaws of the corpse and took a long spatula and thrust it down the throat. McCready winced and turned away. Carlson withdrew the spatula and held it out. ‘A scraping from the inside of the throat.’

  Carey inspected the blackened end of the spatula. ‘Oil?’

  When Carlson nodded Thornton said, ‘I don’t think it really matters if he drowned in oil or if it poisoned him.’ His attitude was relaxed.

  ‘I agree,’ said Hoglund. ‘Do you make the identification, Mr Carey?’

  Carey hesitated. ‘At this moment—no.’ He nodded at Thornton. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ve never seen the man before in my life,’ said Thornton.

  A grim expression settled on Carey’s face. ‘The body will have to be…preserved. Do you have facilities?’

  ‘Not on Oland,’ said Carlson.

  ‘We can take it to the mainland as soon as Dr Carlson has completed the autopsy,’ said Hoglund.

  ‘No,’ said Carey forcibly. ‘I need a positive identification before the body is touched. That means the body must go to England or someone must come to Sweden. In any case, I want one of our own pathologists to assist at the autopsy.’

  ‘This comes within our jurisdiction,’ said Hoglund sharply.

  Carey rubbed his eyes tiredly; the inside of his eyelids seemed to be covered in sand. This would have to be handled carefully considering the Swedish tradition of neutrality. He said slowly, ‘As far as we are concerned this has now become a matter of State. I am going to push the question upstairs, and I suggest you also consult your superiors. Let our masters argue the question of jurisdiction, my friend; it will be safer for both of us.’ As Hoglund considered the suggestion Carey added, ‘In any case, the incident took place in international waters.’

  ‘Perhaps that would be best,’ said Hoglund. His manner was stiff. ‘I will do as you suggest. Would you like to see the manacles?’ When Carey nodded he strode to a shelf and took down a pair of handcuffs.

  Carey examined them. ‘British,’ he commented. He handed them to Thornton. ‘Wouldn’t you think so?’

  Thornton shrugged. ‘It means little.’ He turned to Hoglund. ‘Is it established he did not come from the tanker?’

  ‘The crew of the tanker are all accounted for,’ said Hoglund. ‘One man was killed but the body was recovered.’ Carlson was replacing the sheet over the body as Hoglund gestured at it. ‘This man probably came from the other boat. The captain of the tanker says it must have been running without lights
.’

  ‘He would say that,’ said Carey cynically. ‘He could be right, though. It has not been identified yet?’

  ‘Not yet. No boat has been reported missing; no insurance claim has been made. We are making inquiries, naturally.’ Hoglund frowned. ‘Apart from the body there is the matter of the oil. It will cost a lot to clean the coasts of Gotland and someone must pay.’

  ‘That’s something I don’t understand,’ said McCready. ‘If the oil is drifting on to Gotland how is it that the body turned up here on Oland? They are a long way apart.’

  ‘The body was taken from the sea south of Gotland,’ said Hoglund. ‘But the ship was coming here.’

  Carey cleared his throat. ‘What have you got to go on in your inquiries?’

  ‘Not a great deal. The captain of the tanker was not on the bridge at the time, and the boat sank within minutes. The captain estimated it as something between three hundred and four hundred tons. He derives this figure from the damage done to the bows of the tanker and its speed at the time of impact.’

  ‘A small coaster,’ said Carey thoughtfully. ‘Or a biggish fisherman.’

  Hoglund shrugged. ‘We will soon find out.’

  I wouldn’t hold your breath, my friend, thought Carey. He turned to Carlson. ‘There is no reflection on your ability as a pathologist, Dr Carlson. I hope you understand that. Will you begin preparations for the preservation of the body?’

  Carlson looked warily at Hoglund, who nodded. ‘I understand. I will do as you ask.’

  ‘Then there’s nothing more we can do here,’ said Carey. ‘Unless Mr Thornton has anything further to add.’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Thornton. ‘I’ll leave the details of the identification to you.’

  They left the room. At the entrance of the building Carey paused to button up his coat, and turned to Thornton. ‘Your arrival was unexpected. What brought you here?’

  ‘I happened to be at the Embassy in Stockholm,’ said Thornton easily. ‘About another matter, of course. They’re a bit short-handed so when this thing blew up I volunteered to come here and look after the British interest.’

  Carey turned up his collar. ‘How did you know there was a British interest?’ he asked blandly.

  Thornton was equally bland. ‘The handcuffs, of course.’ He nodded back towards the room they had come from. ‘Who was he?’

  ‘We’ll know that when he’s been identified.’

  Thornton smiled. ‘Your department has a vested interest in mysteries, I know—but you shouldn’t let it become an obsession.’ He pointed. ‘Hoglund is waiting for you at the car.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  ‘I came by helicopter,’ said Thornton. ‘Sorry I can’t offer you a lift back, but I don’t know where you came from, do I?’ His smile was malicious.

  Carey grunted and walked towards the car. Again there was silence in the car because Hoglund was there but, as they drew up to the quay side, Carey said abruptly, ‘Was the British Embassy informed of the country of origin of those handcuffs?’

  Hoglund furrowed his brow. ‘I don’t think so. Not by me.’

  ‘I see. Thank you.’

  The wind had moderated and the passage back to the mainland of Sweden was easier. Carey and McCready stayed on deck where it was possible to talk with some privacy. ‘I didn’t expect to see Thornton,’ said McCready. ‘What’s he up to?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Carey broodingly. ‘He tried to spin me a yarn. Can you imagine a Whitehall mandarin like Thornton volunteering for an errand boy’s job which any Embassy whippersnapper could do? The mind boggles.’ He thumped the rail with his fist. ‘Damn these interdepartmental rivalries! We’re all supposed to be on the same side, but I spend more time guarding my back against people like Thornton than I do on my job.’

  ‘Do you suppose he knows about the switch on Meyrick?’

  ‘I don’t know. According to what he said back there he doesn’t even know Meyrick.’ Carey looked down at the grey sea. ‘Somebody’s luck ran out.’

  ‘Meyrick’s certainly did.’

  ‘I was thinking of the people who snatched him. They got him to Copenhagen and put him on a boat to take him…where? And the boat was run down by a tanker travelling westwards.’

  ‘So it was probably going east,’ said McCready. ‘Suggestive—to say the least.’

  ‘Let’s not jump to any fast conclusions,’ said Carey irritably.

  ‘I agree,’ said McCready. ‘Especially let’s not jump to the conclusion that this oil-poisoned stiff is Meyrick. We’ve been had before.’

  Carey gave him a withering look, and said abruptly, ‘I want Iredale present at the autopsy to check for any signs of plastic surgery. I want the fingerprints of the corpse taken and a check made at Meyrick’s home for matching prints. For legal identification I suggest one of Meyrick’s ex-wives.’

  ‘What’s wrong with his daughter?’

  ‘I’m trying to work that one out,’ said Carey with a sigh. ‘If I can do it before we get to the plane then maybe I can get some sleep on the flight back to Helsinki.’ He did not sound too sanguine.

  TWENTY

  Carey sat in the Café Hildén on Aleksanterinkatu and sank a beer while waiting for Harding. After twelve hours’ sleep he felt refreshed and no longer as depressed as he had been. He knew his depression had been caused by tiredness. All the same, rested and clear-headed though he was, the coming decision was not going to be easy to make.

  He saw Harding come around the corner so he held up his hand. When Harding came over, he asked, ‘You’ve seen Denison?’ On Harding’s nod, he said, ‘Have a beer.’

  Harding sat down. ‘That’ll be welcome. I didn’t think it got as hot as this in the frozen north.’

  Carey went to the counter and returned with two more beers. ‘What’s the verdict?’

  Harding had his head on one side, apparently watching the foam rise in his glass. ‘Oddly enough, he’s improved since I last saw him. He’s better integrated. What are his drinking habits like now?’

  Carey tapped the side of his glass. ‘He just has the odd beer.’

  ‘In an odd sort of way this experience might have been therapeutic for him.’ Harding smiled wryly. ‘Although I wouldn’t recommend it as a well-judged treatment. Now that we know more of his past history I’m better equipped to assess his present state.’ He took a notebook from his pocket. ‘Denison was something of a car enthusiast and ran a Lotus Elan. Three years ago he was driving with his wife, there was an accident for which he was partly—and only partly—to blame, and his wife was killed. They had been married eighteen months. She was pregnant at the time.’

  ‘That’s bad,’ said Carey.

  ‘He took all the blame on himself,’ said Harding. ‘And one thing led to another. He began to drink heavily and was on the verge of alcoholism when he lost his job for incompetence.’

  ‘That baffles me,’ said Carey. ‘Because he’s bloody competent at what he’s doing now.’ He grinned. ‘I’m thinking of offering him a permanent job.’

  Harding sampled his beer. ‘He can’t remember his wife in any meaningful way because of what’s been done to him. He remembers her and he remembers her death but it’s as though it happened to someone else. Of course, that’s just as it should be after three years. In a normal person the sharpness of grief is blunted by the passage of time and, in that respect, Denison is now normal.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Carey.

  Harding gave him a sharp look. He mistrusted Carey’s reasons for being glad. He said, ‘Consequently he has lost his irrational guilt feelings and has no need to anaesthetize himself with booze. Hence the return to competency. I rather think that, with a little expert treatment, he can be made into a much better man than he was immediately prior to his kidnapping.’

  ‘How long would that take?’

  ‘Three to six months—that’s just a guess.’

  Carey shook his head. ‘Too long; I want him now. Is
he fit to carry on?’

  Harding pondered for a moment. ‘You know, I think he’s actually enjoying himself right now. He likes the cut and thrust of this business—the opportunity to exercise his wits seems to be good for him.’

  ‘So he’s fit,’ said Carey in satisfaction.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ said Harding testily. ‘I’m not thinking of your damned operation—I’m thinking of Denison.’ He thought for a while. ‘The present pressures don’t seem to worry him. I’d say the only danger is if his past is revealed to him in a traumatic manner.’

  ‘That won’t happen,’ said Carey definitely. ‘Not where I’m sending him.’

  ‘All right,’ said Harding. ‘Then he’s as fit as a man in his position can be—which isn’t saying a hell of a lot.’

  ‘Which brings me to another problem,’ said Carey. ‘Meyrick is dead.’ He inspected that statement, found it wanting, and amended it. ‘Probably dead. We have a body but once bitten, twice shy.’

  ‘I see your difficulty,’ said Harding with a half smile.

  ‘I can’t tell the girl her father’s dead—not with Denison around. She’d blow up like a volcano and bang goes his cover as Meyrick—and I need him as Meyrick. The point is—do I tell Denison?’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Harding. ‘Handling Lyn Meyrick is tricky enough for him as it is. If he knows her father is dead it might put him into a moral dilemma, assuming he’s a moral man which I think he is.’ He sighed. ‘God knows we’re not.’

  ‘We represent the higher morality,’ said Carey sardonically. ‘The greatest good for the greatest number. I’ve always been a Benthamite at heart; it’s the only way to keep my job bearable.’ He drained his glass. ‘That’s it, then. Where is Denison now.’

  ‘Sightseeing,’ said Harding. ‘He took his daughter to see the Sibelius Memorial.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘It looks like an organ,’ said Lyn judiciously. ‘If it had a keyboard you could play it. A bit funny, that, come to think of it. Sibelius was an orchestra man, wasn’t he?’