Nobeca

by Lloyd Nesling

  “Not Europol?”

  “Europol only covers European Member States. Besides, I have personal contacts in Interpol. It could be useful.”

  “All right, Wallace, but keep me up to speed. I’ll discuss it with the Chief Constable at the Police Authority meeting. What about the body on the riverbank?”

  “We haven’t had the post mortem results yet.”

  Payne glanced at his watch, waved Wallace out, and bellowed into the outer Office.

  “Miss Clancy! Tell my driver to get the car round here as fast as possible. I’d better not be late for this meeting!”

  He glared at her, grabbed his hat, and stormed down the stairs towards a waiting police car. Wallace smirked as the car shot off with a squeal of tyres.

  “Vain sod!” he muttered as Crew Cut Charlie disappeared from sight, still patting his brush-head into place.

  Downstairs the incident room was jam-packed. Extra computers, cables taped to the floor, boxes and files everywhere. A line of grizzly photographs pinned on a board with a map indicating the crime scenes; the usual paraphernalia of a murder investigation. Half-eaten sandwiches lay next to what passed for coffee congealing in a white plastic cup. Three detectives sat with mobile phones glued to their ears.

  Valens hadn’t turned up anything since his last conversation with Butler. Wallace bit into his dried-up cheese and ham sandwich. Ignoring the shrilling telephone he slurped a mouthful of hot coffee. After the sixth ring he angrily picked up the receiver. It was Chief Superintendent Payne. What did the prat want now?

  “I’ve had a word with the Chief Constable,” Payne said. “There’s to be no further investigation into the body washed up in Portsmouth – orders from the top. Draw a line under it. It never happened. Is that clear?”

  Before Wallace could protest Payne slammed down the receiver. Thoughtfully, he tapped a pencil against his bottom teeth. There was a nasty smell to it all. What was so special about the stiff on the beach? Why was he being warned off? Crew Cut Charlie hadn’t said anything about cooling his own investigation. A little call to his old pal in Switzerland wouldn’t go amiss.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Berlin, Germany

  Jack Conrad flung his long legs over the side of the bed. Unsteadily he stood up clinging to the bedside table. A wave of dizziness hit him, sending him sprawling backwards. His head was full of cotton wool, his mouth so dry he could hardly swallow. Gingerly, he sat up rubbing the tender spot on his temples, trying to stop the hammering in his head. He took a long swig from a glass of water on the bedside table and slowly eased himself off the solid mattress.

  Fluent in German, he had served in Military Intelligence in Berlin in the eighties. Now he worked for the International Military Investigation Corp, a covert branch of military intelligence, answerable only to the head of MI6 and the Prime Minister. His brief was to infiltrate a Neo-Nazi group that had sprung up in the city. Linked with similar groups in Britain it was taking advantage of the unsettled economic climate and mass immigration to recruit jobless ex-servicemen.

  Mixing business with pleasure he had met Claus, his old military intelligence contact, the night before. Business finished, they went on a real bender ending up in Tiergarten Quelle, their favourite bierkeller. “Never again,” he vowed as he stepped into the shower. What he needed now was some food in his stomach.

  Jack squinted against the harsh sunlight as he emerged from the Kempinski Adlon on Unter den Linden and walked across Pariser Platz towards Brandenberg Gate. No Grepos or the watchful eyes of the Stasi. Young men, dressed in imitation Soviet and American uniforms, posed for photographs with tourists. The defunct Soviet Sector had changed significantly since the fall of the Berlin Wall, particularly in Mitte. His thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of his mobile phone.

  “Get the next flight back to London,” a familiar voice said. “Report in immediately you get back.”

  The line went dead. Conrad groaned and pocketed the phone. He would have to postpone his planned lunch with Claus in the Machiavelli on Albrechtstrasse. He hurried back to the Adlon, ordered a taxi and raced up to his room to fetch his suitcase. Ten minutes later he was hurtling towards Tegel Airport. With any luck he could get the midday flight.

  *

  London, England

  The pilot banked the aircraft gently to starboard before starting his descent. At the front of the cabin the green sign turned warning-red as the steward moved down the aisle checking on safety belts. Conrad picked up his whisky and drained the plastic beaker. It must be something big for Pearce to contact him when he was on official leave. Suddenly, they emerged from grey cloud cover into driving rain onto their final approach. They hit the tarmac and hurtled down the rain-slicked runway towards the terminal buildings. Safety belt already unbuckled, he was the first out of his seat into the tunnel.

  When he got to Paddington an intercity train had just arrived. He pushed through the crowd of passengers heading towards the new taxi rank.

  “Where to, guv?” asked the burly driver sporting a shaved head.

  “Whitehall,” Conrad instructed, “and take the quickest route.”

  Skilfully, the taxi driver negotiated the traffic through the city streets into Trafalgar Square and exited on Northumberland Avenue. A few minutes later he nosed right into Whitehall Place and pulled up outside an imposing Victorian building. A brass plate identified it as ‘Trentor Enterprises Global Computer Systems’. The ground and first floor were used for ‘legitimate’ business. An international computer systems’ company set up as a front for their operations. The others housed the nerve centre of IMIC, a highly covert branch of military intelligence.

  Conrad paid the driver and mounted the wide steps. He pressed a buzzer on the brass name board. A loud click as the lock disengaged and the heavy door swung open. He ignored the lift in the foyer. Instead he inserted his electronic key card into a door to the left of the reception desk. Silently, the door swung open revealing a narrow corridor. No other entrances or exits except for a steel door sealing the corridor at the far end. He stared at the brass plaque warning ‘Executive Staff’ and waited for the retinal scan. With a barely audible swish the door slid back and he stepped into the lift. Impatiently, he jabbed the button and quickly ascended to the fourth floor.

  In the outer office an attractive woman, in her early forties, sat peering into a computer screen. She looked up expectantly when he entered the room.

  “Jack!”

  “Isobel, you look ravishing, as usual,” Conrad smiled.

  She lowered her eyes and stared into her lap. Her heart beat like a sledgehammer whenever he was close to her.

  “Flatterer!” she grinned. “Go on in, he’s waiting for you.”

  Clive Pearce, codename ‘Breakdancer’, moved as though his lanky limbs had been strung with elastic and would collapse into a heap at any given moment. Salt and pepper hair swept straight back: intelligent eyes set in an elongated face dark with five o’clock shadow.

  “Glad to see you Jack,” he said, offering a bony hand, “take a pew.” Jack listened intently as Pearce unfolded the story. “A naked body was found washed up on the beach near Portsmouth. It had a mass of gunshot wounds to the back, probably from a machine gun pistol. By sheer coincidence the pathologist who conducted the post mortem recognized the victim.”

  Pearce sat back and swung his chair from side to side, his hands steepled under his chin.

  “Apparently, six months ago she attended a dinner in Conningwell Barracks to celebrate the Medical Officer’s promotion to Colonel. She was dating him at the time. The murder victim was at the dinner. All she could remember was that the MO called him Mac and he had a slight Scottish accent. It turned out to be a Major Robert Macaleer, British Army Intelligence.”

  “I met him a couple of times. A decent chap. Was he on an assignment?”

  “Apparently, he’d gone to the Bernese Oberland on the pretext of a walking holiday in the Swiss Alps. His real aim was to in
vestigate the disappearance of a fellow officer who had overstayed his leave. Alarm bells started ringing when Macaleer failed to make contact at the appointed time.”

  Conrad’s face creased into a frown. He knew Macaleer as a seasoned professional. What could he have discovered that led to his death? It must have been something big.

  “I’ve arranged a meeting with Colonel Bowler, Macaleer’s senior officer in military intelligence. Tomorrow morning,” Pearce said. “I’ll meet you there 08:00 hours sharp.”

  *

  Hampshire, England

  Conrad slowed down at the barrier as a guard emerged from a wooden sentry hut.

  “State your business, sir.”

  “Major Conrad. I’m here to see Colonel Bowler.”

  The soldier consulted a millboard and raised the barrier. He pointed to a stone building on the other side of the parade ground. An NCO was waiting outside. He led him to a small anteroom where a young private was jabbing at a computer keyboard. Immediately, he jumped up and opened the half-glass door behind him. Conrad stepped inside. Pearce was already there, sipping steaming coffee from a large mug.

  “Colonel Bowler, I think you already know Major Jack Conrad – military intelligence.”

  Bowler nodded, handed Conrad a mug of coffee, and settled down behind his desk.

  “Rob Macaleer went off to Switzerland to track down Captain Bruce Foley who had been AWOL since late July,” he said. He was a decent sort of chap by all accounts. A career officer, fair with the men, enjoyed a joke. For the last two years he was assigned to GCHQ.”

  “Was there anything strange about Foley’s behaviour before he disappeared?”

  “He became very short-tempered and withdrawn.” Bowler stood up and paced the room, a worried look on his face. “His colleagues said he looked under the weather a lot of the time. The two men were lifelong friends. They went to Sandhurst together straight out of the sixth form. When Foley contacted Macaleer from Switzerland, sounding very agitated, he used some overdue leave to go after him. There’s been no word from him since.”

  “So he wasn’t on an official assignment?”

  “No, and there’s nothing on Foley either. I’m worried. It’s not like Macaleer. Damned peculiar if you ask me.”

  “Thank you Colonel Bowler,” Pearce interjected. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that this must be kept under wraps.”

  Back at IMIC headquarters Conrad stood up and paced the room, hands thrust deep into his pockets. Pearce sat sprawled in his swivel chair, long legs resting on his desk. He had put out the word to their agents in Europe, but there was no trace of Foley or Macaleer. He would have to send someone into the field. He had only just returned from an assignment in the Middle East before his truncated vacation in Berlin, but Pearce had no choice. It had to be Conrad.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Wales, United Kingdom

  The dark-suited man smiled at the attractive blonde woman sitting in the window seat. Momentarily, she returned his gaze then turned to stare out of the window. Stowing his briefcase and trench coat in the overhead locker, he dropped into the seat beside her.

  “Weather’s not too bad. With any luck we’ll have a good flight,” he commented cheerfully.

  He was acutely aware of the effect he had on women, but this one was different. This one he would have to court and charm.

  There was no indication that she had heard him. Sighing, she extracted a pen from her bag, unfurled a newspaper and started to fill in the crossword. The last thing she wanted was some idiot trying to pick her up. She noticed the chiselled looks, the auburn lights glinting in the rich brown hair. It was difficult to tell his age. He could have been in his late forties or well-preserved fifties.

  A stewardess came up the aisle pushing a trolley, reciting her usual spiel. She smiled at the man coquettishly, inviting him to play her game. A real dish she thought, probably with a fat bank balance. Perhaps she could bag him before they touched down.

  His eyes above the friendly smile bored into her: hard balls of ice-blue marble. Involuntarily, she gave a little shudder. There was something vaguely disturbing about him. She felt a sharp stab of fear. Quickly, she started to push the trolley down the aisle.

  “Hold on a minute! I’ll have a whisky and soda.” He raised an enquiring eyebrow at the girl beside him.

  She groaned inwardly, knowing she was trapped next to him until they reached Heathrow. Resigned to his company she nodded curtly, “Gin and tonic,” Still, he was rather good-looking. Maybe a couple of gins would loosen her up.

  “Alex Campbell,” he said offering his hand.

  “Joanne Howard.”

  The plane banked, locked onto automatic pilot, and started its approach. Below, the runway lights shone like glow-worms. Suddenly, the plane began to shudder. For a few minutes they rattled around like dried peas in a tin can. Joanne grabbed her drink to prevent it sliding sideways, Alex’s hand reaching out at the same time. He let it rest on hers. She didn’t stop him.

  “Staying in London?” Campbell asked.

  “No, I’m flying on to Cardiff International.”

  “What a coincidence, so am I.”

  Joanne looked at him suspiciously, one eyebrow arched in disbelief. For some reason she didn’t altogether trust him. By the time they landed she reluctantly agreed to meet for lunch at the Hilton Hotel the following day.

  *

  Joanne glanced at her wristwatch. Twenty-five minutes past one. She idled in the foyer for a while then entered the bar adjacent to the restaurant. Alex was sitting on a low sofa by the window casually reading a newspaper. He was wearing an expensive suit, white shirt and Oxford University tie. Campbell knew he looked good. When he spotted her he rose, flashing a brilliant smile. The man oozed sexuality, she thought. Raising her hand he gently brushed it with his lips. Suddenly, she felt a stirring in the pit of her stomach. She must be careful. It would be dangerous to become too involved with this man.

  “I hope you like champagne?”

  He smiled, inclining his head towards the bottle of Verve Cliquot resting in a silver ice bucket. A waiter poured two glasses of the pale golden liquid then retreated behind the bar. Slowly, she took a sip and placed it back on the table. Champagne always made her very light-headed. Lulled by the effects of the alcohol, she found herself enjoying his company more than she had expected. Finishing her second glass she sank luxuriously back into the sofa. He grinned disarmingly, reaching for the bottle. She covered her glass with the palm of her hand.

  “Not for me. I have to travel to Oswestry later this afternoon.”

  “Come on,” he coaxed. Joanne didn’t notice that he had only taken a couple of sips from his glass. “It’ll be a waste if it goes flat. You’ll be fine once you have something to eat.”

  During lunch, she found herself warming to Alex. His pharmaceutical company had branches in Bern, Munich and Milan. He appeared to be a very wealthy man. This trip was to finalise details for a new venture near Wrexham.

  “I’m driving north later this afternoon,” he told her. “Why don’t I give you a lift.”

  They set off around five o’ clock catching all the commuter traffic leaving the city on the A470. Driving rain splattered the windscreen of the hired Jaguar obliterating the road ahead. Coupled with high winds, conditions were treacherous and slow. Lulled by the warmth and the rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers Joanne eventually dropped off to sleep. By the time they reached her modest cottage, north of Oswestry, it was almost midnight.

  Set in a sloping cul-de-sac the cottage was surrounded by trees on three sides. Nearby, the shape of another house loomed in the darkness. Rain hammered down as they ran up the path. They huddled under the open porch while Joanne pushed her key into the lock. Alex deposited her suitcase in the hallway. She stood silhouetted against a background of dim light watching him.

  “I’d like to see you again,” he said, “after I’ve completed my business.”

  “It’s a f
ilthy night. You heard the flood warnings on the traffic news. I wouldn’t want you to be stranded after driving me here. Perhaps you ought to stay here and go on in the morning.”

  The words were out of Joanne’s mouth before she realised it. He probably thought she was coming on to him. Alex hesitated for a few seconds, seeming uncertain, before running to the car to fetch his overnight bag. In another room a telephone shrilled. It was Mrs Blake from the cottage.

  “The postman left a parcel for you. It was too wet to leave it outside.”

  “I’ll pop over for it in the morning.” The nosey cow must have been watching from her window prying into her affairs, as usual. “Thanks for taking it,” she replied, cutting her off in mid-sentence.

  “Pour some drinks, Alex. Make yourself at home while I take a shower.”

  Joanne luxuriated under the hot water, the heat soothing her aching muscles. In the living room Alex, wrapped in her towelling bathrobe, stared into the fire. Carefully, he placed another log in the centre watching the flames lick hungrily at the seasoned wood. It hissed and crackled sending orange flames shooting up the chimney. Satisfied, he relaxed onto the comfortable chesterfield sofa. She had good taste, he reflected, gazing round the room.

  “Feeling better now?” he asked when Joanne came into the room vigorously towelling her hair.

  He patted the empty space on the sofa. She sat down next to him acutely aware of his proximity. Alex’s drink lay untouched on the coffee table. She didn’t protest when he topped up her glass. She was beginning to feel deliciously tipsy. Suddenly, he pulled her to him and kissed her tenderly. Smiling, he took her hand and led her upstairs.

  At first he was gentle, whispering endearments in her ear as though they had been lovers for years. I must be insane, she thought. I don’t know anything about this man. Something nagged at her, plucking at her memory like a plectrum on guitar strings. Struggling through the fuzz of alcohol, she tried to grasp the thought and hold it before it slipped away back into her subconscious. Without warning Alex’s lovemaking became more urgent, almost frenzied. Terrified, she tried to push him off, but he was too strong for her. The more she struggled the more violent he became.