“So what did you think?”
“I thought … it’s illogical, because I’d seen the guy drive off, but I thought I was next. That the Paki had done Ray because he’d seen his face in the light and was going to do me too. I was crapping it, frankly. I just wanted to get out of there.”
“So you drove away.”
“Bloody right I did. Straight to Ilford, no stops, and dropped off the other runners.”
“So when did you ring Eastman?”
“When I’d finished in Ilford.”
“Why didn’t you ring him straight away? As soon as you found the body?”
“Like I said, I just wanted to get out of there, to get clear of the whole business.”
“What was Eastman’s reaction when you rang?”
“He went totally spare, like I knew he would. I rang him in the office and he was like … he just went totally off his head.”
“And since then? What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Waiting for you blokes, basically. Putting my house in order. I knew it was just a matter of time.”
“Why didn’t you come straight in? Give yourself up?”
Mitchell shrugged. “Things to do. People to see.”
There was a pause, and Whitten nodded. As he walked to the door to call the custody sergeant, Honan touched Mitchell’s elbow, and the pair got to their feet. Opposite them, Bob Morrison glanced at his watch. Frowning, he hurried from the room.
“Off to ring Eastman, do you think?” Mackay murmured, touching his forehead to the one-way glass.
Liz shrugged. “It’s not impossible, is it?”
Don Whitten swung heavily through the door of the observation suite. “Well?” he asked. “Do we buy the story?”
Goss looked up from the notes he’d been studying. “It’s logical, and it’s certainly consistent with the facts we know.”
“I’m the newcomer here,” said Mackay. “But I’d have said the guy was telling the truth, and before the local uniform sit down with him tomorrow I’d like him to spend a few hours going through photographs of known ITS players. See if we can get a provisional make on the gunman.”
“I agree,” said Liz. “And I’d say that we need to get on to that black Astra as a matter of urgency—details to all forces, national security priority, et cetera.”
“Agreed, but what do we tell people?” asked Whitten. “Do we link the search for the car to the Fairmile murder?”
“Yes. Put out a nationwide alert that the car has to be found and placed under observation, but that under no circumstances are the driver or passengers to be approached. Instead, Norfolk police should be contacted immediately.” She raised an eyebrow at Steve Goss, who nodded, and turned back to Whitten. “Do you know where Bob Morrison went?”
Whitten shook his head uninterestedly. Yawning, he shoved his hands deep into his suit pockets. “My guess is that our shooter’s still on our doorstep. Otherwise why did he have himself dropped off outside that transport café rather than going on to London with the others.”
“The car could have taken him anywhere,” said Goss. “Perhaps he was heading north.”
Mackay leaned forward. “More than anything else, we need details of this Caravan organisation. These Germans that Mitchell told us about. Is there any reason why we can’t just haul Eastman in right now and sweat him for twenty-four hours?”
“He’d laugh at us,” said Liz. “I’ve got to know Mr. Eastman pretty well over the years, and legally speaking he’s very switched on indeed. The only way we’re going to get him to talk—as with Mitchell—is to deal from a position of strength. Once we’ve got enough information to put him away we can bring him in and break him, really give him a bad time, but until then …”
Mackay looked at her speculatively. “I love it when you talk dirty,” he murmured.
Whitten sniggered, and Goss stared at Mackay disbelievingly.
“Thank you,” said Liz, forcing a smile. “A suitable note to end up on, I think.”
She kept the smile going until she and Mackay were in the Audi. Then, as they pulled their seat belts over their shoulders, she rounded on him, pale with fury.
“If you ever—ever—undermine my authority in that way again, I will have you off this case, and I don’t care if I have to move heaven and earth to do it. You’re the learner here, Mackay. On sufferance—my sufferance, and don’t you forget it.”
He stretched his legs in front of him, unperturbed. “Liz, relax. It’s been a long night, and I was making a joke. Not a very good joke, I admit, but …”
Gunning the throttle and snapping her foot off the clutch so that he was thrown backwards against his seat, she swung out of the police station car park. “But nothing, Mackay. This is my operation, and you take your lead from me, understand?”
“As a matter of fact,” he said mildly, “that’s not strictly true. This is a joint service operation with joint service sanction, and with all due respect to your achievements to date, it’s actually the case that I outrank you. So can we please loosen things up a notch? You’re not going to catch these people single-handed, and even if you did, you’d have to share the credit with me.”
“Is that really what you think this is about? Who gets the credit?”
“If it isn’t about that, what is it about? And that was a red light, by the way.”
“It was still yellow. And I don’t give a toss about your rank. The point I’m making is that if we’re going to have one tenth of a chance of catching our shooter, then we’re going to need to keep the local uniform and the Special Branch a hundred per cent onside. That involves getting and keeping their respect, which in its turn involves your not treating me like some bimbo.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Like I said, Liz, I’m sorry, OK? It was meant to be a joke.”
Without warning, the Audi screeched hard leftwards off the road, jolted over two puddle craters, and came to an abrupt halt.
“Bloody hell!” gasped Mackay, straining against the taut lock of his seat belt. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry,” Liz said breezily. “It was meant to be a joke. Actually, I’m pulling into this layby to make a couple of calls. I want to find out who hired that black Astra.”
A little over seventy minutes later, a dark green Rover pulled up out side a small terraced house in Bethnal Green, east London. The car doors opened, and two nondescript men in their mid-thirties made their way down the short flight of steps to the basement, where the taller of the two rang three long, insistent blasts on the bell. It was a cold night, and a pale edge of frost showed on the area steps. After a short pause the front door was unlocked by a blinking, worried-looking young man with a beach towel round his waist. A step or two behind him hovered a woman, perhaps a few years older, in a lemon-yellow kimono.
“Claude Legendre?” asked the taller of the two men at the door.
“Oui? Yes?”
“We have a problem at the Avis office in Waterloo. We need you to bring the keys and accompany us there now.”
Legendre stared beyond the men at the pinkish glow of the night sky, clutched at the knot of his towel, and started to shiver. “But … who are you? What do you mean, a problem? What sort of problem?”
The tall man, who was wearing a denim jacket over a heavy black sweater, held out a plastic-laminated identity card. “Police, sir. Special Branch.”
“Let me see that,” said the woman, reaching past Legendre to snatch the card from the taller man’s hand. “You don’t look like police. I don’t—”
“I’ve just explained the situation to your London area manager, sir,” the shorter man interrupted her. “Mr. Adrian Pocock. Would you like me to call him now?”
“Er, yes please.”
Patiently, the shorter man took a phone from the pocket of his olive-green Husky jacket, dialled a number, and handed it to Legendre. Several minutes of conversation ensued, in the course of which the woman fetched a blanket from in
side the house and draped it over Legendre’s narrow shoulders.
Finally the young Frenchman nodded, snapped the phone shut, and returned it to the shorter of the two men.
“What’s happening, Claude?” asked the woman, her voice shrill with concern. “Who are these people?”
“A security problem, chérie. J’expliquerai plus tard.” He addressed the two men standing outside. “OK. Two minutes. I come.”
Liz’s phone woke her at 7:45. She rolled over unwillingly, her mouth dry with the previous night’s cigarette smoke and her hair smelling of it, and pressed the answer button.
After a drive conducted largely in silence, she and Mackay had arrived back at Marsh Creake shortly after 3:30 a.m., and as she was preparing to go to bed in Temeraire one of the Investigation team had rung to say that they had identified the manager of the Avis car-hire outlet at Waterloo Eurostar station and were on their way there to go through the customer and CCTV records.
“We’ve got a fix on the Astra,” he told her now. “It was hired by an English-speaking woman, last Monday, and she paid cash in advance. She also showed a British driving licence. The manager, who’s French, like most of his customers, handled the transaction himself and vaguely remembers her, because she insisted on a black car and did not use a credit card. The cash was put in the safe on the Monday night, banked midday Tuesday, and is now effectively untraceable.”
“Tell me about the driving licence,” said Liz, reaching for the pen and notebook on her bedside table.
“Name of Lucy Wharmby, age twenty-three, born in the United Kingdom, address 17A Avisford Road, Yapton, West Sussex. Photograph shows brown-haired Caucasian woman, oval features, no distinguishing marks.”
“Go on,” said Liz fatalistically, certain of what was to follow.
“The driving licence, along with credit cards, cash, a passport and other documents, was reported stolen to the British consulate in Karachi, Pakistan, in August. Lucy Wharmby is a student at the West Sussex College of Art and Design in Worthing, and was provided with a replacement licence shortly after the beginning of the last academic term, and this replacement licence is currently in her possession.”
“You contacted her?”
“I rang her. She was at home in Yapton where she lives with her parents. Their telephone number’s in the directory. She claims never to have visited the county of Norfolk in her life.”
“And the Avis CCTV?” asked Liz.
“Well, it took us a bit of time, but we found the right person eventually. The customer’s a woman, about the right age as far as I can see, and definitely dressed to beat the cameras. She’s got sunglasses on and a peaked cap pulled down over her face, so you can’t see her features, and she’s wearing a long parka-style coat, so you can’t see her figure. She’s also got a small rucksack and a valise-type case with her. All I can say for sure is that she’s white and somewhere between five seven and five nine in height.”
“The invisible,” murmured Liz.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing … Just thinking aloud. We need to keep a whole team on this—can you clear that with Wetherby?”
“Sure. Go on.”
“I want you to get the passenger list for that Monday morning’s Eurostar arrival—the one immediately preceding the woman’s visit to the Avis counter. Check if the name Lucy Wharmby’s on the list, and if not, find out what name she came in on. My guess is that the person we’re looking for is a UK citizen and passport holder aged between seventeen and thirty and will have used her own passport for the journey. So in the first instance go for English names, female, seventeen to thirty. This is still going to leave you with a pretty long list—the train was probably full of people coming home for Christmas—but every single one has to be checked and accounted for. Hit the phones, and if necessary get local uniform out checking. Where were these women on Monday night? What have they been doing since? Where are they now?”
“Got you.”
“Call me the moment you hit an anomaly. Anyone who looks or sounds wrong. Anyone who, for whatever reason, hasn’t been where they ought to have been. Anyone who hasn’t got a rock-solid alibi for that night.”
“It’ll take a bit of time.”
“I know. Get everyone you can on to it straight away.”
“Understood. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Do that.”
She fell back against the pillows, fighting the fatigue that was dragging at her. A session beneath Temeraire’s unreliable-looking shower, a couple of cups of coffee downstairs, and things might seem a little clearer. The pursuit was taking shape now. There was the shooter and there was the invisible—the man and the woman—and both of them had been seen in the flesh. There was the car, the black Astra, clearly chosen for its indeterminate signature on CCTV film, just as the woman’s clothing had been chosen for its concealing qualities.
Reaching out to the bedside table, she found her pen and notebook. Opening it, she wrote the words: What, who, when, where, why?
The five essential questions.
She could answer none of them.
L ess than half a mile from the cell in which Kieran Mitchell had spent the night, a black Vauxhall Astra pulled in to a parking bay in Bishopsgate, Norwich. Climbing from the passenger seat, Faraj Mansoor glanced around him at the ranks of cars, the Georgian rooftops and the cathedral spire, and took a handwritten shopping list from the inside pocket of his coat. Remote-locking the Astra, the driver patted her pockets for change and sauntered across to the pay-and-display ticket machine.
At Faraj’s side a man in a green and yellow Norwich City scarf was extracting a small child from a battered Volvo estate car and harnessing her into a Maclaren buggy. “Saturday mornings,” he grinned, nodding at Faraj’s shopping list. “Don’t you hate them?”
Faraj forced a smile, not understanding.
“The weekend shopping,” explained the man, slamming the Volvo’s door and releasing the buggy’s brake with his toe. “Still, it’s the Villa game this afternoon, so …”
“Absolutely,” said Faraj, conscious of the dead weight of the PSS in his left armpit. “Tell me,” he added. “Do you know where there’s a good toy shop here?”
The other frowned. “Depends what you want. There’s a good one in St. Benedict’s Street, about five minutes’ walk away.” He gave elaborate directions, pointing westwards.
Returning, the woman slipped her arm through Faraj’s, took the shopping list from him, and listened to the tail end of the directions. “That’s very helpful.” She smiled at the man in the scarf, dipping down to pick up the mouse doll that the little girl in the buggy had dropped.
“She’s called Angelina Ballerina,” said the girl.
“Is she? Goodness me!”
“And I’ve got the video of Barbie and the Nutcracker.”
“Well!”
A little later, still arm in arm, the two of them arrived outside a shop window in which a sparkly Santa with a cotton-wool beard rode a fairy-lit sleigh piled high with games consoles, Star Wars light-sabres and the latest Harry Potter merchandise.
“What’s the matter?” asked Faraj.
“Nothing,” said the woman. “Why?”
“You are very silent. Is there a problem? I need to know.”
“I’m fine.”
“No problem, then?”
“I’m fine, OK?”
In the shop, which was small, hot and crowded, they had to wait almost a quarter of an hour to be served.
“Silly Putty, please,” the woman said eventually.
The young male assistant, who was wearing a red plastic nose and a Santa hat, reached behind the counter and handed her a small plastic container.
“I, er, I actually need twenty,” she said.
“Ah, the dreaded party bag! We actually sell party bags pre-filled, if you’re interested. Green slime, orcs’ eggs …”
“They’ve … they really just want the Silly Putty.”
As she followed Faraj out of the shop, bag in hand, the assistant called after her. “Excuse me, you’ve left your …”
Her heart lurched. He was waving the shopping list.
Apologetically pushing her way back to the counter, she took it from him. On it were visible the words clear gelatin, isopropol, candles, pipe cleaners; his fingers covered up the rest.
Outside, as she clutched the list and the carrier bag, Faraj looked at her with controlled anger from beneath the brim of his Yankees baseball cap.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes watering in the sudden cold. “I don’t think they’ll remember us. They’re very busy.”
Her chest, though, was still pounding. The list looked harmless enough, but to anyone with a certain sort of military experience it would send an unmistakable message. That said, of course, such a person was hardly likely …
“Remember who you are,” he told her quietly, speaking in Urdu. “Remember why we’re here.”
“I know who I am,” she snapped in the same language. “And I remember all that I have to remember.”
She looked in front of her. At the end of an alleyway between two houses she could see the cold sweep of the river. “Superdrug,” she said briskly, glancing down at the shopping list. “Or Boots. We need to find a chemist.”
L iz stared despairingly at the image on her laptop. Lifted from the Avis car-hire CCTV at Waterloo, it showed the woman who had hired the Astra. Hair, eyes, body shape, all were obscured. Even the wrists and ankles, which might have given a clue as to physical type, were covered by clothing. The only clue lay in the lower planes of the face, which were tautly defined, with none of the puffiness which might have accompanied a larger body.
She’ll be fit, guessed Liz. Someone who can move fast if need be. And she looks medium height—perhaps a little taller. Other than that, though—nothing. The image was too blurred to give up any useful information about the clothes, except that the parka buttoned on the right and had a small dark green rectangle on one faded shoulder.
At Risk Page 19
