The Fine Art of Invisible Detection

by Robert Goddard

  ‘That can’t really be true. You came a long way to meet him.’

  ‘But I have not met him.’

  Holgate sighed and leant forward, rubbing his large hands together. ‘Maybe we could help each other.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You tell me what you know in return for … background information from me.’

  ‘Information about what?’

  ‘You’re not making this very easy, Mrs Takenaga. They tell me … you lost your husband in the sarin attack on the Tokyo subway in 1995.’

  She looked straight at him. ‘Yes. I did.’

  ‘My condolences.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That must have been a terrible experience.’

  ‘It was. And the journalists who came to see me then said they could help me. But I learnt they were only helping themselves. I was just … something to fill a column.’

  ‘Ouch.’ Holgate visibly winced. ‘Well, I can’t deny my profession doesn’t have the highest of reputations.’

  ‘You could do your reputation some good, Mr Holgate.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Tell me about Nancekuke. And the people who lived at eighteen Barnfield Hill in 1977.’

  ‘You’ve never heard of Nancekuke?’

  ‘Never. Until today.’

  ‘Well, it was a wartime airfield on the Cornish coast converted after the war into a nerve gas production plant. It’s about a hundred miles west of here. Nothing much to see there now. It’s all been cleaned up. The site was chosen because of its remoteness: no nearby large centres of population at risk in the event of an accident, and any gas that leaked likely to be blown out to sea. They produced sarin there throughout the nineteen fifties. It continued as a research station, producing smaller amounts of chemical agents, until the late seventies. It actually closed in 1980. None of what I’ve just said was officially available information when it was up and running, you understand. That’s all come out since. So, when I was writing those articles and people like Martin Caldwell and his activist friends were handing out leaflets to holidaymakers stuck in summer traffic jams on the A30 – that’s the main road into Cornwall – protesting about what was going on at Nancekuke, what was going on was basically just rumour and conjecture. I suppose you could say it was rumour and conjecture that got two of his friends killed there in June of seventy-seven.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Several workers at Nancekuke had died under … well, medically unexplained circumstances. Quite a few more had been laid off with long-term nervous disorders. It was pretty obvious something sinister was going on inside that chain-link fence. I started sniffing around. Maybe I was partly to blame, for planting ideas in idealistic young minds. But it was a genuine story. It needed following up. There was one aggrieved ex-Nancekuke worker who fed me some fairly alarming stuff, most of which I was never allowed to put in the paper. I discovered later he was also in touch with Peter Ellery and Alison Parker, housemates of Caldwell’s at eighteen Barnfield Hill – the two who died. I think that’s what got them started.’

  ‘Started on what?’

  ‘Hard to be certain. But something that involved trying to break into Nancekuke. Alison Parker’s body was washed up at Porthtowan, barely a mile from the base. Peter Ellery’s body was never found. They were seen, with Caldwell, in a pub at Towan Cross, a mile or so inland, on the evening they went missing. That ex-Nancekuke worker I mentioned – Tom Noy? He lived at Mount Hawke, a stone’s throw from Towan Cross. None of that’s a coincidence. What exactly happened – how they died – I don’t know. Accidental drowning? Or a fatal encounter with base security? I can’t say. Whether Caldwell can say I’ve never been sure. But he’s never left the mystery alone, has he? Your journey from Japan confirms that. So are you going to tell me what you were hoping to learn from him? Or what you think he was hoping to learn from you?’

  ‘He said he had information about who’d given Shoko Asahara, leader of Aum Shinrikyo, details of how to manufacture sarin.’ Wada wondered if Holgate would query this, but she was guessing he knew very little of how the cult had functioned. ‘I hoped he’d give me evidence about other people who might have been responsible for my husband’s death.’

  ‘I’m surprised Caldwell saw any connection between Nancekuke and the Tokyo attack.’

  ‘Sarin is the connection, Mr Holgate.’

  ‘Even so … it’s a stretch, isn’t it? Although …’ Holgate frowned and kneaded his hands. ‘Caldwell’s missing. And the man you told the police stole his computer was Japanese, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He appeared to be.’

  ‘So, there clearly is a Japanese angle to this. What else can you tell me?’

  ‘Nothing. But you could tell me more about the other residents of eighteen Barnfield Hill. Was one of them called Miranda?’

  Holgate’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Yes. That would be Miranda Cushing. Baroness Cushing, as she is now. If I’d known she was going to make a name for herself in politics and end up in the House of Lords, I’d have paid her more attention. But how—’

  ‘There was a message from her on Caldwell’s phone.’

  ‘I’m surprised they’re still in touch. What did the message say?’

  ‘That Caldwell had not turned up – in London, I guess – to meet someone called Nick Miller. Miranda wanted to know why.’

  ‘Miller? One of the other residents was called Miller, I think. A girl. I can’t remember her first name.’

  ‘It sounds like a man to me.’ Wada didn’t propose to explain how she knew for a fact Nick Miller was a man.

  ‘You can’t judge someone’s sex by their name these days, Mrs Takenaga. Not in this country, anyway. But … it could be her husband, I suppose.’ Or her son. But Wada had no intention of saying that. ‘It all suggests something’s going on that’s stirred up memories from forty years ago. I wish I knew what.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Holgate looked narrowly at her. ‘I reckon you’ve got a better idea than me of what it might be, Mrs Takenaga.’

  ‘I do not understand why you think so.’

  ‘Instinct.’

  ‘A journalist’s instinct?’

  ‘If you like.’ Holgate sighed. ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘Go back to Japan, I suppose. If Caldwell does not … reappear.’

  ‘Really? Give up? Just like that?’

  ‘What choice do I have?’

  ‘I might be able to help you, Mrs Takenaga. But I need you to be more … open with me. More … forthcoming.’

  ‘I am not generally … forthcoming … with people I hardly know, Mr Holgate.’

  ‘Particularly not when they’re journalists?’

  ‘Well …’ She smiled at him. ‘You are one. You said so.’

  He sighed again, then took out his wallet, removed a card from it and laid it on the bedside cabinet. ‘Sorry it’s a bit grubby. I haven’t had a batch printed for a long time. But it tells you how to contact me. And I hope you will contact me. When you’re ready.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘To discuss where you go from here. Because I seriously doubt it’s back to Japan.’

  ‘I am feeling tired. I think I would like you to leave.’

  ‘Then I’ll go.’ He rose from the chair. ‘Thanks for the chat. Especially since you didn’t actually want to have one.’

  It had been another frustrating day for Nick. He’d made no progress with his landscape after foolishly deciding to make one last effort to contact Caldwell. All he’d got for his pains was a fleeting telephone conversation with Mimori Takenaga, the Japanese woman Caldwell had supposedly been meeting in London. But she was answering Caldwell’s phone in Exeter, which made no sense to him. And she was giving away very little. Until the line had suddenly gone dead. Which it had stayed ever since. What the hell was going on?

  That evening he was meeting Mike Bennett, an old university friend, now a barrister, for one of their monthly get-together
s over a drink. The venue was, as usual, a smart pub overlooking Blackheath Common. Nick tried to put Caldwell out of his mind and concentrate on Mike’s account of an entertainingly convoluted libel case he’d handled recently, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Caldwell. This didn’t escape Mike’s attention. Eventually, Nick ended up telling him all about the mystery that had recently seeped into his life.

  ‘You’re not going to be able to let go of this, are you?’ said Mike when he’d finished.

  ‘Can’t see I’ve got much choice in the matter.’

  ‘You could always do what this Takenaga woman seems to have done.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Run the guy to earth. After all, you do know where he lives, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, but …’ Nick’s words drizzled into silence.

  ‘Exactly.’ Mike raised a satirical eyebrow at him. ‘But what?’

  Wada felt exhausted by her verbal fencing match with Holgate. There was more she’d have liked to ask him, but that would only have made it obvious to him that she was holding something back. Her entrenched suspicion of journalists made it unlikely she’d ever confide in him. But … ‘You never know’ – one of Kodaka’s favourite sayings – came into her head and made her smile at the memory of how he would say it. She could still hardly believe she was never going to hear his voice again. But so it was. She acknowledged his posthumous advice with a little nod and slipped Holgate’s card into her bag.

  The facetrail computer stick was safely stored in there as well. She was eager to know what was on it, but couldn’t find out without returning to London, or using somebody else’s computer, which she couldn’t imagine being able to arrange safely.

  For the moment, all she could do was use her phone to look up facetrail on the internet. She got a hit straight away. According to its website, Facetrail offered a search service for missing persons. It used an existing photograph or likeness of the missing person to trawl through millions of online images, seeking a match. It claimed its finely tuned algorithms put it way ahead of any similar service. It claimed, indeed, to be foolproof. If they’re out there somewhere and there’s an image of them, we will find them for you.

  Had Caldwell been trying to find someone? It certainly looked like it. But who? Maybe the answer was on the stick. And maybe that answer was why he’d gone to Iceland.

  So many questions. They whirled in Wada’s head. She couldn’t corral them into order. A trip to the toilet revealed she was still light-headed and unsteady on her feet. Her head ached dully despite the painkillers. She was irritated by her own weakness. But she couldn’t will it away, try as she might.

  She was asleep when they brought her supper. And asleep again soon after eating it. Her body had won out in the struggle with her mind. She was going to rest, whether she wanted to or not.

  NINE

  WADA WOKE FEELING much more like her normal self. she’d always been quick to recover from injuries or illnesses. Haha claimed Wada had inherited this resilience from her, although there might have been another explanation. ‘Why is Umiko up and about so soon?’ she’d once heard her father ask following a bout of glandular fever. ‘Because I haven’t made the mistake of fussing over her,’ her mother had replied.

  It was early morning, the ward was quiet and Wada’s mind was clear. She got out of bed and walked around experimentally. There was less pain and much less wooziness, although sudden movements still needed to be avoided. She dressed and left the ward, telling the nurse on duty she was going out to get some fresh air. The nurse didn’t seem to notice Wada was carrying her bag under her arm. In fact, she barely noticed her at all. Which wasn’t unusual in Wada’s experience.

  Outside, there were several people standing at a bus stop. They paid Wada no attention as she joined them. It was a cold morning and most of them were concentrating on keeping as warm as they could.

  The bus arrived and, conveniently for Wada, its destination was St David’s station. She clambered aboard with the others and bought a ticket. ‘All the way, please,’ she told the driver.

  At the station, she found herself with half an hour to wait for the next train to London. The business day would be drawing to a close in Japan, but it wasn’t too late to call Dobachi. His secretary answered and said Dobachi was out of the office, but she confirmed the despatch of a package to Wada by express international post on Tuesday. ‘It should arrive today, Wada-san.’ But that wasn’t all she had to report.

  ‘Dobachi-san asked me to tell you if you called that he has made enquiries about Kodaka-san’s client, Mimori Takenaga. She has been admitted to a psychiatric clinic; no visitors allowed. That is all he has been able to establish.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Wada’s heart sank as she rang off. Kodaka was dead, Caldwell might well be dead too and Mrs Takenaga was now under close control. That left Wada alone, vulnerable and poorly equipped to anticipate her enemies’ next move. Her best hope was that they thought her so poorly equipped she wasn’t worth bothering about.

  She made another phone call then, to the Hotel Arnarson in Reykjavík. The man who answered sounded slightly friendlier than the man she’d spoken to the night before. She repeated her enquiry about Martin Caldwell without mentioning she’d already been told he’d left.

  ‘Ah, Mr Caldwell. So many people are asking about Mr Caldwell.’

  ‘They are?’

  ‘Yes. We have heard from the police also about him.’

  ‘Has he done something wrong?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘Do you think he’s still in Iceland?’

  ‘I guess he must be. The police said there was no record of him leaving the country. But … can I have your name?’

  ‘I am just a friend.’

  ‘Yes, but, excuse me, you sound … well, are you Japanese?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘One of the people who came looking for Mr Caldwell was a Japanese gentleman.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘He didn’t give a name. Like you.’

  ‘Was he … tall?’

  ‘Yes. He was. Taller than me. And I am not short.’

  ‘Thank you for the information.’

  ‘Can I—’

  She ended the call there and stared for a moment into the distance. Building work was underway on the land beside the station, as it seemed to be underway everywhere in Exeter. But Wada’s gaze was fixed on the hilly horizon. The tall Japanese man looking for Caldwell in Reykjavík had to be the same tall Japanese man who’d come to Caldwell’s home in Exeter. Something he’d found on the computer he’d taken must have told him where Caldwell had gone. But what was Caldwell doing in Iceland?

  By the time she boarded the train, she was exhausted all over again. The effort of leaving the hospital and travelling to the station had taken a lot out of her. Or maybe it was the phone calls that had done it. There was just so much she didn’t know. But she was determined to learn more. And determination had carried her through before. Maybe it would again.

  Nick woke early as well. Over breakfast, he debated with himself whether he should do as Mike had suggested. The clincher was the question of what else he could do. It seemed, in the end, there was no other way to get Caldwell out of his head. He’d have to go to Exeter and see what he could find out.

  The morning was cold but fine. As soon as the rush hour was over, he set off. There and back in the day was his aim. There and back with the Caldwell issue settled.

  It felt good to be on the move. What he was going to learn in Exeter he didn’t know. Maybe nothing. But at least then he’d know there was nothing to learn. That would be an end in itself.

  Wada was confident she hadn’t been followed from the hospital. The intruder at Caldwell’s flat had seemed more interested in Caldwell’s computer – and his photographs – than in Wada. But she was aware she had something – the facetrail stick – that the man might also have been looking for, so she couldn’t afford to be compla
cent. It was time to use some of the tactics Kodaka had taught her. From Paddington she went by taxi to the National Gallery, left shortly after entering and by a different door, then took the Tube to Russell Square. Access to the street was by lift and she was pretty confident none of the other occupants of the lift were anything but ordinary travellers.

  At the Envoy, she asked if there’d been any parcels delivered for her. The answer was no. Not yet, anyway.

  No matter. While she awaited the parcel’s arrival, she was free to investigate the contents of the facetrail stick. She hurried up to her room. Where a shock greeted her.

  The small safe in the wardrobe, where she’d stowed her laptop, was not as she’d left it. The door was open. And the laptop was gone.

  Nick reached Exeter around lunchtime. He stopped at the motorway service station on the outskirts for a sandwich, then drove into the centre, following his satnav to 18 Barnfield Hill.

  It was a large, detached Victorian villa, bay-windowed and red-bricked. The house next door had become a doctors’ surgery, but number 18 had been converted into flats. And there was Caldwell’s name, against the bell-push for flat 6. Nick rang it. As expected, there was no response. His plan was to find someone living there who would answer, then press them for information about Caldwell and his Japanese visitor.

  It never came to that. Before he could try any of the other bells, the door opened. A bald, stooping man who was probably in his seventies, dressed in a tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, took half a step out of the door, then stopped. He peered curiously at Nick. ‘Looking for someone?’

  ‘Martin Caldwell.’

  ‘Join the club. He’s a man in demand.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Slightly. I’ve just been talking to his neighbours about him. He’s, er, gone missing, it appears. I’m a journalist. Well, was. I’m retired now. I first met Martin Caldwell when he was living here as a student back in the seventies. My name’s Barry Holgate.’