She looked with at him with some curiosity. ‘So what’s with the new venue?’
‘It’s convenient.’
‘There’s more to it than that. What’s going on?’
‘I’ll come straight to the point. You’re aware of the SFO’s investigation into Makepeace et al?’
‘I am. It’s all over the papers like an outbreak of measles.’
‘What I’m about to say is highly confidential. There’s a witness missing. The young girl in the photos you gave me, we need to speak to her. We have no idea where she is, but it’s essential she’s found.’
‘How am I supposed to know where she is?’
‘Through your lover boy, Seb Harvey.’
‘Ex lover. He’s an ex. Anyway, putting that aside, how would he know?’
‘We know Makepeace was with the girl in the dunes at Aldeburgh and it was highly likely Seb who gave him a good kicking. We have two separate witness accounts. One, he was seen walking away with her. Two, he was with her in his car… then it goes cold. We’re assuming he knew her and that it wasn’t a random attack. What do you know?’
Nixie silently took this in. She hadn’t known for sure about Seb’s role in the attack, but it made sense. ‘All I know is what he told me, which was very little, that he knew her, and that she was an adopted daughter of friends of his parents.’
‘And?’
‘He felt sorry for her.’
‘Did he give a name?’
‘Nope… he just said, she’d been got at by Makepeace.’
‘We’ve got plans for Makepeace ─ we’ve got him on the fraud, but not the sexual exploitation. For that, we need a witness… like the girl. All possible leads have been followed up, but Makepeace has been advised by some smart-arsed lawyer to keep his mouth shut. We also know several girls have gone missing in Aldeburgh the last year, including her. So something is going on. The Suffolk coastline is right opposite mainland Europe. We suspect traffickers. It’s under surveillance, but if Seb knows anything more about the girl, which might help us… we’d be back in business.’
‘What do you expect me to do?’
‘We want you to track him down.’
‘I’ve told you. It’s all over between us. I haven’t seen or heard from him for a long time.’
‘That’s your problem.’
‘It’s also yours, because I haven’t the faintest idea where he is.’
‘He owes us.’
‘For what?’
‘For not leaning on him. The hacking. Remember?’
‘I’m sure that suited you. The Met does no favours, unless there’s something in it for them. Anyway, it makes no difference, since I don’t know where he is.’
‘That’s because you don’t want to know. Where did you last see him?’
‘Greece.’
‘Where in Greece?’
‘An island.’
‘Well, start there.’
‘Do you realise there’s hundreds of Greek islands, many totally uninhabited and besides, it was some time ago – like a year or so.’
‘I don’t give a shit. I know you well enough, Nixie. If you put your mind to it, you’ll find him.’
‘Maybe, but what if I don’t want to?’
‘Your problem. Get over it. You have a job to do.’
They sat in silence, eyeballing each other. Bill leant forward, opened one of the folders lying in front of him, pulled out several photos, lined them up neatly, and then pushed them across the table to Nixie. ‘Maybe these will help.’
Nixie took the photos and looked at each one closely.
They showed a riot, a large, angry, crowd, out of control. Cars had been turned over, some torched, and lay burning and abandoned along the road. Windows of official-looking buildings had been smashed with bricks and anything else that came to hand. More images showed tear gas and water cannons directed at the protestors, who in an effort to hide their identity, had wrapped scarves round their faces.
In a series of dramatic close ups, the camera focused on one man in particular. With his arm raised high, he was pictured throwing a Molotov cocktail at a government-building window. Then he ran, pursued by two police officers dressed in full riot gear, one of whom grabbed him round the legs, pushed him onto the ground and in the grip of the two police, subjected him to what looked like a brutal assault.
Other demonstrators piled in to defend him, while others attacked the police. The man struggled free, staggered to his feet, pulled off his scarf, and with his eyes streaming from tear gas, noticed the camera. He gave the V sign.
Nixie put the photo down. ‘Impressive. Okay. Yeah, that’s Seb. Where were these taken?’
‘Impressive. I don’t think so. Try being a member of the riot squad in the middle of that mob. Where do you think it is?’
She shrugged. ‘By the look of the city and the riot police, I’d guess Athens?’
‘Right. The Greek debt crisis and the subsequent anti-austerity demonstrations, and, as you can see, the Greek police, unlike ourselves, don’t pussy foot around.’
‘Who took them?’
‘Can’t say.’
‘Who’s Seb working for now?’
‘No idea, but that’s not what we’re interested in. What we want from him is some contact with the girl, and any information she can give about Makepeace − which means a trip to Athens.’
‘I don’t speak Greek.’
‘Neither does he, but it hasn’t stopped him getting involved.’
‘One small problem… he doesn’t know I work for you.’
‘He doesn’t need to know.’
‘Really… so how am I supposed to explain why I’m there?’ She stared at Bill, before she spoke again. ‘I can’t do it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because, if I find him, I’ll have to say I want us to get back together again, otherwise why would I be in Athens ─that’s the only thing I can say if that’s where he is – and it’s a lie.’
‘Lying isn’t usually a problem for you, so what’s with your reluctance with the truth, that you work for the Met?’
‘Don’t want to. He’ll hate me forever.’
Bill stared at her thoughtfully, then tapping his pen on the table, he said, ‘I’ll make a coffee.’ He disappeared into the kitchen.
Nixie walked across to the window. It overlooked the corridor running outside the flats and was made with one-way glass. She knew this because a woman passing by didn’t appear to see her, even though she was standing close. She returned to where she’d been sitting, just as Bill placed a coffee in front of her.
He sat down, and looked questioningly at her. ‘Well?’ he said.
‘I don’t know. I’m not sure the best way to go about it, and there’s also the small matter of what I say to Grassroots. I can’t just up and go to Greece without giving some kind of explanation.’
‘If you want my opinion, which admittedly you haven’t asked for, I think the love angle is the best.’
‘Love angle? What love angle?’
‘Right, everyone knew you two were running around together, so it would be no surprise if you said you wanted to get back together again, and went to find him. It’s what women do.’
‘Spare me the stereotyping.’ She paused, then said, ‘I have another idea… I could use the personal angle for Grassroots, but as far as Seb goes, I could tell him who I’m working for, and then ask whether he’d be up to working undercover for the Met.’
‘Are you having me on?’
‘Nope, I’m serious.’
‘Don’t see the point.’
‘Everything’s above board and he’ll know the score.’
‘He wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of being taken on. He’s virtually gone AWOL.’
‘I couldn’t
care less. It’s not whether he might or might not be taken on, that’s not the point, it’s more about getting his trust by making a case for why I’m there.’
‘I’m not interested in that. All I need to know is what he knows about the girl and Makepeace.’
‘You have no idea do you?’
‘Of what?’
‘Of how to get somebody to open up.’
‘I’ll leave that to you, Nixie. You can do and say what you like, as long as you get your arse into gear and move. We want to know who she is and where she is. End of story.’
Nixie stood up. ‘Okay. I’m going. You get the money into my account. I’ll be on a plane to Athens.’ She’d got to the door when she had another thought. ‘What if he won’t play ball?’
Bill smiled. ‘He has no choice. If he obstructs police investigations I, personally, will make his life hell.’
‘How?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’
‘Well, yeah, I would. It’ll also help to make him see some sense ─ in the event he refuses to cooperate.’
‘Considering he’s your ex lover, your hardness is impressive.’
‘It’s my job. I’ve learnt to develop it. So to continue… what’s the crack?’
‘Melbury is Seb’s father and there’s no love lost between them. It was Seb who posted on the emails, thus dropping his own father well and truly into the shite.’
‘Melbury is Seb’s father?’ Nixie’s voice rose with surprise.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Incredible. How do you know?’
‘Courtesy of the SFO. They investigated who’d posted the emails. They figured it had to be someone with a major grudge, and whoever it was, would have more info pertaining to the fraud. They discovered it was him.’
‘How did they work that out?’
‘Forensic evidence ─ the envelope, matching the saliva, and the handwriting. The rest followed, logically. Melbury lives in Lavenham. Aldeburgh is fairly close by. Seb spent the weekend in Lavenham while Melbury was away with his missus. It was the same weekend the emails were posted and Makepeace was attacked in Aldeburgh. We liaised with Seb’s company and they confirmed what we suspected. Melbury is his father.’
‘Christ. Seb must hate his father.’
‘That’s bleeding obvious.’
‘So, in the event of non-compliance, what do you plan to do?’
‘Tip off the press. They’ll have a field day. I can see the headlines already. “Rich kid cops father”.’
‘That’s evil. It’s psychological warfare.’
Bill shrugged. ‘The means justify the ends. Not so evil as the game Makepeace is playing… so see what you can do.’
Nixie had been in Athens for just over a week and had spent the first few days getting to know her way round. She irritably opened the international edition of the Guardian and looked up the temperature: thirty degrees plus in Athens, twenty-two degrees London, eighteen in Pembrokeshire. She sighed. How did the Athenians survive this heat? It was stifling. It was unbearable. Her clothes stuck to her. It felt like she was living in an open oven.
Today, she was in the locality of Exarchia. She reasoned that if Seb lived anywhere, it would be here. Known for its history of opposition to the conventional, political system, its multiculturalism, its anarchic politics, its militancy and its street art, it was a no-go area for the establishment. In 2008, following the crash, and the subsequent street protests, its fame spread world-wide. A fifteen-year-old protester by the name of Alexander Grigoropoulou was shot dead by the police. It was an event which triggered days of violent and destructive rioting and his name and identity were now permanently commemorated on many of the buildings. Today, however, the streets were quiet, possibly due to the visible presence of the police, many dressed in full riot gear and apparently ready for the first sign of trouble.
Sitting in one of the casual pavement coffee shops, just off Exarchia Square, she’d spent some time reflecting on what was known about Makepeace, Melbury and Fortescue. She’d concluded it was safe to assume they all three were crooks and fraudsters, but Makepeace’s twisted interest in the sexual exploitation of young girls, so far, had been kept under wraps. She was under age, so the press, ostensibly, had conformed to the legislation to keep her out of the public eye which meant that as far as the general public went, she was unknown. But what Seb would know about her, or where she was, remained to be seen.
She had no idea how she could track him down. The memories of their last bitter row and their final hours together before they parted was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. Until she actually met him, she wasn’t sure what she would say. She glanced up; a young woman had squeezed past her and sat down at the next table. Dressed in jeans and carrying a couple of books which she placed on the table in front of her, she began reading a typed, written paper, drinking her coffee at the same time. Nixie quickly assessed her as a student.
This was the type of opportunity Nixie had been trained for, namely how to make contact with the locals. Wasting no time, she smiled, and said, ‘Excuse me, but do you speak English?’ The girl looked up and nodded. ‘I’m looking for the Quinta Hostel. Would you mind pointing me in the right direction?’
‘Do you have a map?’
‘I’ve lost it, I need to buy another.’
‘You don’t need to do that. It’s not far.’
‘Thank you. I haven’t yet got my head round your alphabet.’
‘It takes a while. Are you from the UK?’
‘Yeah.’
‘London?’
‘Yes, ever been there?’
‘Yes, I was at the LSE on an Erasmus exchange. I loved it. I want to go back.’
‘Well, your English is good.’
‘Thanks. I practise whenever I can. The hostel isn’t far. If you wait, I’ll take you.’
‘You’re very kind.’
She laughed. ‘Not really, I just want to use my English.’
‘That’s fine by me. I’ll go and pay for the coffees, while you finish. My name’s Nixie, by the way.’
‘I’m Kloe, spelt K.L.O.E, not the English way.’
The girl was waiting for Nixie when she came out, and led the way past the secondhand bookshops, the cooperative cafes advertising meeting rooms, and shops selling new and secondhand CDs. Many of the walls were painted with the bold, stark colours of street art, the graffiti of protest, which seemed to visually shout with the energy and the spirit of resistance.
‘Exarchia must be an exciting place to live.’
‘It is. Exciting at its best, but dangerous at its worst. Everyone has a story to tell about riots and protests. But things can blow up at any moment. It’s like living in a powder keg, particularly since 2008. You know, after the virtual collapse of the global economy. Since then, the locality has attracted all the politicos and the anarchists, and they’re really militant.’
‘Really.’
‘Yeah.’ Kloe stopped and looked at her. ‘Do you mind telling me why you’re here? You’re well off the tourist trail and, if you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look the type.’
‘Type?’
‘A politico.’
‘Well, actually I am political, and I’m looking for someone in particular.’
Kloe looked wary. ‘Who? Who are you looking for?’
‘A Brit by the name of Seb… he was in trouble with the police in the UK. Political stuff, not crime, and he’s on the run. I need to find him. He’s likely to belong to one of the anti-austerity groups, which is why I’m here, not that that’s the main reason, I’m…’
Kloe interrupted her. ‘For all I know, you could be the police.’
Nixie glanced quickly at her. She was astute and she’d have to be careful.
‘If that were true, I’d use the usual cross-
border channels of communication between the police, instead of hanging around here looking for him. No, this is strictly personal. I met him at a demo, the one outside the bank in the City of London. It was part of an international day of protests. You must have heard of it. We were activists and became lovers, but we fell out. It was over a year ago now, and it sounds stupid, but I’m still in love with him and, well, I want to see if we can get it together again. That’s why I’m here. So having heard of Exarchia, I thought there was a good chance he might be here.’
Kloe seemed to relax and looked sympathetically at her. ‘I know what you mean. We’ve all been there and done that. Do you have a photo of him?’
‘I do. I keep them in a little wallet. I’ll show you. Let’s sit down there.’ She pointed to a randomly placed bench on the street, took out two photos and passed them to Kloe. ‘These were taken in Karpathos. It was our first day together, and taken at the sea front, and this was after the huge row we’d had. I was about to catch the ferry. I was gutted and it suddenly occurred to me I might never see him again. I asked him if I could take a photo. He said yes, but I could see he wasn’t too keen.’ Nixie looked into the distance. ‘The row we had… it was about lying. I felt I couldn’t trust him, but I didn’t want to split up, but he said it wasn’t possible after what I’d said. That was the last time I saw him.’
Kloe stared closely at the photos, then handed them back. ‘Maybe it was for the best. He looks familiar, so perhaps I have seen him before, but where, I have no idea.’
‘Is there anyone you could ask?’
‘Sure, plenty. There can’t be that many Brits in Exarchia who live round here and are also politically active. Does he speak Greek?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Okay, look, I’m going to have to go. I’ve a tutorial. Can I get in touch with you, if I hear anything?’
‘Thanks. I’d really appreciate your help. Here’s my number.’
‘I’ll do my best. Ciao, Nixie, but take care and watch who you speak with. The place swarms with informers. Some of them are undercover cops.’ She walked off, but immediately turned round and said, ‘I forgot. Keep going down this side of the Square, turn left and you’ll get to the Quinta.’
Truth and Lies Page 24
