Eight

by James R. Vance

  Pity that I'm not here on holiday, she thought. I could have spent hours exploring those enticing clothes shops…maybe later in the week.

  She continued her walk along another lane of shops that eventually led into a smaller compact square. A bar on the left caught her eye, advertising itself as a Salon de Thé and Brasserie. Strangely, its sign announced it as Le Café 1900. There were vacant tables on a terrace outside, but the evening air was cool. She opted to sit inside.

  On entering the bar, she immediately experienced a sepia postcard vision of 1920’s style France. This was a world apart from the pubs and restaurants that she and Klara used to frequent. Realising that table service was the norm, she chose a vacant seat facing the high bar counter. The absence of bar stools suggested that its function was for serving waiters as opposed to propping up customers. She found herself by a large window overlooking the square.

  Whilst waiting for service, she absorbed the dated décor of the bar's interior. Segmented areas divided the lofty ceiling. Each consisted of four-cornered domes that sprouted from the tops of aged, grey marble pillars laced with shiny veins of pink and dark brown. Enormous mirrors in ornate gilt frames exaggerated the sense of depth and space. On many of the walls, faded paintings of scenes depicting exuberant eras of French life added nostalgic animation to its contrived decadent ambience. It was as though she had travelled back in time.

  She ordered a glass of Bordeaux Supérieur and withdrew a large brown envelope from her bag. She had discovered it under the car keys on a table in the apartment. It contained the vehicle's registration document, her French driving licence, a rent book for the apartment, a pass for the university and a credit/debit card for Credit Agricole bank. Each item was in the name of Louise Charrière. In a separate envelope, she found a detailed map of Limoges and a folded Michelin map of France. Rob had left nothing to chance.

  She sipped her wine, asked for a menu and savoured the moment. Her identity change was documented and official. It was now time to change her persona to match the environment and the situation that her assignment demanded. It was time to blend in as a researcher of European culture, not as an undercover agent.

  She glanced through the window, wrapped in thought as she observed the pedestrian traffic. There was something different about French women. Was it the way they dressed or was it simply their deportment? To blend in, she decided that she needed to be chic as opposed to trendy. On the other hand, she also wished to stand out from the crowd in preference to being ignored, but in a subtle way. Perhaps, if she adopted a French style of dress and behaviour, her inability to speak the language fluently and her accent would add a little je ne sais quoi. She convinced herself that a shopping expedition for a new wardrobe would solve her dilemma. She did not require much persuasion.

  A waiter arrived to take her order. Skipping the starter and omitting the cheese course, she chose the Terrine de Saumon aux Epinards followed by a Mousse au Chocolat. A basket containing a mini mountain of sliced baguette, a carafe of vin blanc and iced water complemented the meal.

  An hour passed before she walked back to the apartment, well nourished and satisfied with her first foray into the local scene. Later, as she snuggled under the duvet, she again wondered whether she would be able to cope with what lay ahead. Weighed down with her concerns but tired after a long day, she soon drifted into a deep sleep.

  8888

  Massey picked up the phone and dialled Newton's extension. “Can you clear your desk in the next five minutes? We have a date with your friend ‘Hardcore’.”

  Newton laughed. “If that's the case, I'll be two minutes. Where the meeting?”

  “I've arranged to rendezvous at the Horse and Jockey in Chorlton. It's on her way home. Apparently, she lives not far away in Didsbury and is already acquainted with the pub. It shouldn't be more than twenty minutes on the motorway. If we take both cars as far as Denton, leave yours just off the M60, I can drop you there on the way back to my temporary digs. See you in a couple of jiffies.”

  Thirty minutes later the two detectives walked into the Horse and Jockey. D.C.I. Harcourt had already arrived. She sat at a table in a quiet corner of the lounge. Apart from a regular at the bar who was chatting to a member of staff, the public house, a local tavern with low oak-beamed ceilings, appeared devoid of other customers.

  She rose from her chair as they crossed towards her. “D.S. Newton…how nice to see you again.” She turned to Massey. “You must be D.C.I. Massey. Pleased to meet you. Your reputation precedes you. I remember when you put away those two sisters for that dreadful murder at the pub in the Peak District.”

  Massey shook hands. “Thank you. Unfortunately, I failed to achieve the result I wanted and realise the sentence that they deserved. The court played its part, but someone in high places pulled more than a few strings. The case was re-tried and they were released early.”

  Harcourt empathised with his obvious frustration. “So I believe. One's faith in the justice system is constantly put to the test. The excuse of overcrowded prisons is wearing a little thin. Murderers are murderers and, if guilty, should be banged up for life.”

  They joined her at the table where she addressed Newton. “If I recall, you were also involved in that case.”

  Massey nodded. “Without D.S. Newton's tip-off, we may never have traced them.”

  Harcourt studied Massey with a penetrating stare. “Such modesty…a rarity amongst male officers. I believe you both met during your initial training. Here you are, a chief inspector, yet you're still a sergeant.” She looked across at Newton, a glance that hardly concealed the look of contempt. “What went wrong, D.S. Newton?”

  “I must have been scratching the wrong back,” Newton replied with the hint of a smirk.

  Harcourt quickly changed the subject, ignoring his jibe. “Let me order you both a drink.” She rose from her chair. “What's your poison?”

  Massey looked across at the bar. “A half of Boddingtons for me will be fine.”

  She turned to Newton with a disparaging expression.

  “Same as,” he said, smiling.

  He turned to Massey. “She fancies you. Already, you're her hero. Play your cards right and you could be in there.”

  Massey watched his opposite number as she ordered the drinks at the bar. She wore a black pencil skirt with a side slit, a cream silk blouse and black patent leather stilettos. She had left her jacket slung over the back of her chair.

  “Nice legs,” Massey remarked, sizing up his prospective partner, “and pleasantly attractive.”

  Newton grinned. “Nice all over and I'm speaking from experience.”

  Harcourt returned with their drinks, placing them on the table. She leaned over her chair to extract a slim folder from her briefcase. The action appeared to be deliberately provocative. The two men lifted their beers but the glasses failed to reach their mouths. Both sets of eyes pierced Harcourt's shapely derrière.

  Seemingly oblivious to their noticeable fascination, she placed the folder in front of Massey. “I'm afraid there's not a lot to go on. Inside are copies of both the young men's football I.D. cards…thanks for faxing yours through to us. We have also included a couple of photos of our Moss Side victim. There's a preliminary forensic report on the murder victim. It states mostly how the bullet entered his head and exited above the left eye, removing a fragment of the cranium section of his skull. At the scene, we found no traces of either the weapon or the bullet. Obviously, the execution was carried out elsewhere. That part of the investigation is ongoing.”

  Massey studied the report. “Any progress on that line of enquiry?”

  “Nothing so far. We've checked with Interpol with regard to their backgrounds. If they had genuine French passports, a local Mairie or Préfecture could have issued them. As we do not know from where the two victims originated, that could take time.”

  “What about the footie I.D.s?” Newton asked.

  Harcourt shook her head. “The French Football
Federation I.D. cards are of little significance, apart from the fact that they relate to a club in Limoges. Following our enquiries, we have confirmation that the doctors’ names and signatures are fake, so it's even more probable that the registration forms are also bogus. Someone could have stolen them from one of the many local F.F.F. offices. Apparently, there's a locally based retired gendarme looking into those issues with some female agent assigned from our intelligence services.”

  Newton sighed, indicating some frustration. “If there is a football club connection, surely it would have been more sensible to have involved a bloke.”

  Harcourt glared at him. “On this occasion, I'll ignore what might be interpreted as a sexist remark, as I made a similar point.”

  Newton merely smiled, revelling in the repartee. To Massey, it seemed evident that the two former colleagues had endured a love-hate relationship. He wondered how Newton had managed to bed her. She was not typical of his usual class of female conquest. Harcourt seemed too sophisticated and intelligent. Perhaps she had fancied a bit of rough for a change.

  Harcourt continued unabashed by Newton's constant provocation. “Their logic was founded on the fact that an attractive young woman would have more chance of making a connection with the players than a strange male.” She opened her diary. “The agent's called Louise Charrière. With a name like that, it appears that she is possibly French.”

  Massey intervened. “I suppose that makes some sense. I can see the logic in sending someone who can speak the language.”

  Harcourt attempted to reinforce her rebuff of Newton's comment. “I agree. For once, they seem to have made the correct decision.”

  She continued to brief them on the outcome of her enquiries. “According to the U.K. Border Agency, there have been several of these football-affiliated visitors over the past few weeks. There are several common factors. All are young, all are of Afro-Asian origin and all have produced French passports. One or two have slipped in across the Channel but some have flown in via various airports in the U.K.from Limoges.”

  Massey was puzzled. “How did the authorities know about their football link before these I.D. cards turned up?”

  “Quite simple really. Apparently, when they handed in their passports, these fake I.D. cards were inside, creating an opportunity to state that they were keen to see a premiership football match during their stay. Possibly, it's been a premeditated distraction.”

  Massey continued to probe. “You said that they've passed through different airports here, but all departures were from Limoges?”

  Harcourt nodded. “There are flights from there into Southampton, Stansted, Liverpool, East Midlands and, at certain times of the year, into Luton, Manchester, Newcastle and even Edinburgh. Why they are arriving at different locations is a mystery.”

  There was a pause whilst they gathered their individual thoughts. Massey scrutinised the contents of the file. Harcourt leaned back in her chair considering what their reactions might be towards a subsequent plan involving her and Massey. Her superiors had authorised the arrangement prior to this meeting. She decided to save the announcement for the last moment.

  Newton was the first to speak again. “What if it wasn't a distraction? What if they were genuinely interested in major football venues?”

  Harcourt considered his point. “You think that they were being truthful?”

  Newton leaned across the table to explain his reasoning. “From what you have said, it appears that these so-called football fanatics have spread themselves around the country intentionally. For example, why would you want to fly to Southampton or Edinburgh if you wished to see a premiership game? If you were that keen, you'd want to watch Arsenal, Chelsea, Liverpool and especially United and City here in Manchester…teams in the major cities. The popular destinations would surely be Stansted, Liverpool and possibly East Midlands.”

  Harcourt interjected. “Those are the three airports where they have disembarked.”

  Massey was intrigued. “What point are you making?”

  Newton continued. “If these young guys are arriving at those specific destinations, maybe it's because there's a more obvious reason to visit certain major cities.”

  “Meaning?” Massey asked.

  Newton leaned over the table. “Think about profiling, a technique that's gathering momentum. I'm no expert but from the evidence so far, surely there are similarities to nine eleven and July seven. They may be in the country to carry out a well-planned joint mission on what may be perceived as easy targets.”

  Harcourt lowered her voice. “An opportunity to create carnage across major cities…each one a potential suicide bomber with a given target. Fanatics of a different kind. That is certainly feasible.”

  “When I say ‘easy targets’, I'm not talking just city centres, but locations where thousands congregate on a regular basis. The targets could be their apparent excuse for coming here…football stadiums.”

  Massey shook his head. “They would never gain entrance. Random searches often take place, making access uncertain. Also, the most successful clubs only allocate tickets to season ticket holders.”

  Newton disagreed. “Some still go on open sale. Searches and major security operations come into force only when the police think the match has potential for violence between rival supporters, like United versus Leeds or Liverpool, West Ham versus Millwall. Besides, prior to kick-off you can guarantee that several thousand are queueing to enter through the turnstiles. They could do some major damage without even entering the stadium.”

  Harcourt pointed out an alternative. “There are also other ways of acquiring tickets. I have friends who purchase complete hospitality packages.”

  “Yes, but they're expensive, aimed at corporate clients,” Massey said. “These are just youngsters.”

  Newton leaned across the table. “Funded by Al Qaeda?”

  Silence reigned again for a few moments. Massey and Newton finished their beers.

  Harcourt stood. “I'll fetch some more drinks. Same again?”

  “It's my shout,” Massey argued.

  Harcourt countered him as she walked towards the bar. “It's my meeting.”

  Newton grinned. “Told you that she was a control freak.”

  Massey was focussing his mind on matters that were more important. “I have a question for you. Why would someone shoot one of them? So far, according to the forensic report, it has every semblance of an execution.”

  “Maybe he chickened out, refused to go through with it. They couldn't take the chance of sending him back or letting him loose. Too much knowledge, so it was ‘goodnight Vienna’! Perhaps the guy who was accidentally killed in the car crash was his replacement.”

  “He arrived the following day. They would have planned his trip well in advance of this incident. There would have been insufficient time to arrange a substitute and book the ferry.”

  “Agreed. However, what if they had prior knowledge of his refusal? Once they had confirmation that his replacement was in the country, then it would have been expedient to take him out.” Newton sat back in his chair, a smug expression on his face. “I rest my case.”

  Harcourt arrived back at the table with the drinks. The two detectives continued with their theoretical discussion.

  Newton quaffed some beer before continuing. “That means another replacement for the original substitute could be a possibility, ensuring that Manchester would not miss out as a target. Taking it one step further, to speed up the process, the logical option would be to fly one in.”

  Massey began to see some possibilities in their speculations. “Maybe on a flight from Limoges to Liverpool?”

  “What have I missed?” Harcourt asked.

  Massey related a summary of the suppositions that they had put forward whilst she was at the bar.

  She listened intently until he had finished. “Well, that problem's easily solved. We step up security on every flight into the North West from Limoges and arrest any young man carr
ying a football I.D. card in his passport.”

  “You're assuming that he disembarks at a targeted airport and that there are no other suicide bombers already in the U.K. who could be re-assigned,” Newton added, reaching for his glass again.

  Massey intervened. “Are we not jumping ahead of ourselves here? There's not a shred of evidence yet to support our theory. There are too many grey areas.”

  Harcourt partly agreed. “Maybe, but something is definitely afoot, otherwise the security services would not be showing a presence in France, nor would the Border Agency have alerted the Counter Terrorism Units across the U.K. Anyhow, we can still step up airport security just in case we are correct in our conclusions.”

  “If our assumptions are right,” Massey said, “I would imagine that the security services have already implemented such actions. Every French passport presented on entry to the U.K. will be meticulously scrutinised.”

  “So, where do we go from here?” Newton asked, wondering if he would have some part to play in their investigation.

  Harcourt took the opportunity to introduce the plan agreed earlier with her superiors. “D.C.I. Massey and I are booked on a flight to Limoges on Sunday morning.” She saw the consternation on Massey's face. “Don't worry, it's been authorised. It's an early flight, so make sure that you don't have a late night on Saturday.”

  Massey was almost lost for words. “What's the point of going over there?”

  Harcourt shrugged. “I thought that would be obvious from our current discussion about a potential influx of suicide bombers.”

  “Surely, that's the responsibility of the Counter Terrorism Unit and Interpol's Fusion Task Force,” Massey argued. “In that scenario, our role would be to find their likely destination and possible targets here on the mainland. We have a fairly accurate idea of their origin.”