There were two apartments on each floor. Wright walked up to the second floor where May Eckhardt already had the door open 'I for him. She was wearing a baggy white sweatshirt with Exeter University on the front, the sleeves pulled up to her elbows, and I blue Levi jeans. Her hair was tied back in a pony tail and she had dark patches under her eyes.
'Sergeant Wright,' she said flatly. 'I thought you said you'd telephone.’
'I'm sorry, but I was passing and . . .’
She turned away and walked down the hall, her bare feet slapping on the polished pine floorboards. Wright closed the door. When he turned around the hall was empty. There was a stripped pine door to the left and Wright peered around it into a big room with a bay window overlooking the street. May was sitting on a beige sofa, her knees drawn up against her chest. Apart from the sofa there were two armchairs in matching fabric and a Chinese-patterned rug on the floor. A big screen TV sat in one corner and a JVC stereo with waist-high speakers in another. An alcove opposite the door had been lined with shelves on which were stacked hundreds of records. Frank Sinatra was playing on the stereo.
'I thought I'd try, on the off chance . . .’
'It's all right,' she said. There was a bottle of white wine on the floor by the sofa and a half-filled glass.
'How are you?' he asked, sitting down in one of the armchairs. Her eyes narrowed. 'How do you think I am?' she asked.
'I'm sorry, stupid question.' He looked around the room. A black bass guitar hung on the wall behind the sofa where May was sitting.
'Is that your husband's?' asked Wright.
May twisted around and stared at the guitar for several seconds as if it was the first time she'd seen it. 'Yes,' she said.
'He was a musician?’
She turned around again. 'No, it was a hobby. He was a photographer.’
Wright took out his notebook and a pen. 'Who did he work for?’
'Agence France Press. It's a news agency. He was moved to the London bureau three months ago.' She leaned forward and picked up the wine glass. 'We've only just moved into the flat. Half our things are still in storage.’
'When did he go missing?’
'Last Monday. He'd been sent to Brighton for the Conservative Party conference. The office wanted him to stay in Brighton rather than coming back to London each night.' She sipped her wine. 'He was supposed to be back on Monday but didn't show. That's not unusual so I didn't worry. But on Tuesday the office called me asking where Max was. He'd left Brighton on Monday. I thought perhaps he'd had an accident, and started calling around the hospitals. Then I called the police.' She finished her wine with several gulps and refilled her glass before holding out the bottle. 'Would you . . .?' she said.
Wright shook his head. 'I wouldn't mind a drink of water, though,' he said.
She began to get up but Wright beat her to it. 'Tap water will do just fine,' he said. / May settled back and looked at him over the top of her glass. 'The kitchen's first on the right,' she said. Wright went along the hallway. The kitchen was all stainless steel and shiny white worktops and it reminded Wright of the post mortem room, stark and functional. He picked up a glass off the draining board and ran the cold tap. There was a pine knife block to the left of the sink in which were embedded five knives, all with black handles. There was a space for a sixth knife. Wright put down the glass and pulled out one of the knives. It seemed to be a pretty good match to the one that had been impaled in Eckhardt's body. He took out a second knife. It was a bread knife with a serrated edge. Wright wondered which knife was missing from the kitchen block. He pushed the two knives back into the block and filled his glass from the tap. As he did, he looked down into a plastic washing-up bowl. Lying next to a toast-crumb-coated plate was the missing knife. Wright took it out of the bowl and slotted it into the block. It was a perfect match. Wright felt an inexplicable sensation of relief wash over him.
He went back into the sitting room with his glass of water. May didn't appear to have moved at all. Wright sat down and sipped his water. 'Was he driving back from Brighton?' he asked.
'No. He was taking the train.’
'So why did you think he might have been involved in an accident?’
She frowned as if she didn't understand the question. 'I don't know. I suppose I thought he might have had a heart attack or something. You know what flashes through your mind when someone goes missing. You always assume the worst.' She began to shiver and she gripped the glass so hard that Wright feared it would shatter. 'Who would do that to him?' she whispered. 'Why would anyone want to kill my husband like that?’
'Did he have any enemies?' asked Wright.
'Good God, no. Oh no. You don't think that someone who knew Max would . . . ?' Her voice tailed off.
'Is it possible that he was working on a story that brought him into contact with dangerous people?’
'Like the Conservative Party?' She smiled thinly. 'What is it they call it? Gallows humour? Isn't that what police are famous for?’
'Sometimes it makes it easier to deal with the sort of things we come across,' said Wright.
'Well, Max is ... I mean, Max was ... a senior photographer with the agency. They wouldn't have him doorstepping gangsters or drug dealers. Most of the time he covered wars. Crazy, huh? I never worried about him when he was here. It was always when he was abroad that I was scared. And we haven't been here long enough to have made enemies. You could talk to the office, though. His boss is Steve Reynolds.’
'Where were you before you moved to London?’
'The States. New York.’
'He was an American?’
She nodded.
'And you? If you don't mind me asking, where are you from?’
'Sale. Just outside Manchester.' She smiled tightly. 'Sorry to disappoint you if you thought I was from somewhere more exotic’
'Oh, it's not that,' he said quickly. 'I know lots of Asians are born here these days--’
'Oriental,' she interrupted.
'I'm sorry?’
'I'm Oriental,' she said. 'Asians are Indians or Pakistanis.' She shook her head. 'It doesn't matter.' Her eyes glazed over and it was obvious her mind was elsewhere. They sat without speaking for several minutes. Frank Sinatra began to sing 'New York, New York'. One of life's little coincidences, thought Wright.
'He must have died in such pain,' May said eventually. 'I wonder if. . . ?' Tears welled up in her eyes.
Wright uncrossed and crossed his legs, embarrassed by the strength of her emotion. He looked down at his notebook and to his surprise saw that he'd been doodling, boxes within boxes.
'Why would anyone torture him like that? Why would anyone cut him so many times?’
'I don't know,' said Wright lamely. He knew that she wasn't fully aware of the extent of her husband's injuries and he didn't want to make her any more upset than she already was. 'It could have been a random killing. Someone who just wanted to kill, and your husband was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
'Poor Max,' she said. 'Poor, poor Max.’
Wright and Reid had to wait in the reception area of Agence France Press for almost twenty minutes before a balding man in his late thirties ambled out. His jacket collar was up at the back as if he'd pulled it on in a hurry and one of his shoelaces was undone. 'Hiya. Steve Reynolds,' he said, holding out his hand. He had an American accent.
'Tommy Reid,' said Reid, shaking his hand. 'This is Nick Wright. Thanks for seeing us.’
Reynolds opened a glass door for them and they walked together down a white-walled corridor and through another set of glass doors into a large open-plan office full of shirtsleeved young men and women sitting at desks in front of VDUs.
Reynolds's office was to the left with a glass wall overlooking the main working area. 'Can I get you coffee or something?' he asked. Both detectives nodded and Reynolds asked a young blonde secretary for three coffees. Reid and Wright sat down opposite Reynolds's desk. Wright took out his notebook as Reynolds closed the
door and sat down on the other side of his desk. 'So how can I help you guys?' Reynolds asked.
'We're looking for a reason why anyone would want to kill Max Eckhardt,' said Reid.
Reynolds grimaced as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. 'It's a mystery to all of us here,' he said. 'Max was the nicest guy you could imagine.’
'How long have you known him?’
'Personally, three months. That's when he moved here from our New York bureau.’
'He was a photographer?' asked Reid. The two detectives had agreed beforehand that Reid would lead the questioning and Wright would take notes. It was their usual way of operating, mainly because Reid's handwriting was so bad that he often had trouble reading back his notes.
'That's right. He's been with the company for more than fifteen years.' He reached across his desk and picked up a green file which he handed to Reid. 'This is Max's personnel file. I thought it might speed things up a little.’
Reid gave the file to Wright. 'The job he was on just before he died. The Conservative Party conference. Was that typical of the sort of work he did?’
'Good Lord, no,' said Reynolds. 'In fact, he fought like hell not to go.’
'Labour supporter, was he?’
Reynolds grinned and shook his head. 'War photographer. Max always wanted to be where the bullets were. Panama. Grenada. Kuwait. Northern Ireland. Bosnia. Never happy unless he was x wearing a flak jacket.’
'That's why he requested a transfer from New York? To be closer to the hot spots?’
'Partly,' said Reynolds. 'He reckoned that Europe and the new Russia were going to be the major areas of conflict over the next decade. He tried to get a transfer to our Paris office, but there are no openings there.’
Wright looked up from the file. 'So it wasn't because of his wife?’
'His wife?’
'May Eckhardt. She's British. I thought maybe she wanted to come home.’
The blonde secretary reappeared with three plastic cups of coffee. Reynolds gestured at the file. 'There's a memo in there from Max requesting the London posting. He doesn't mention May. I don't think she had a problem travelling with him. She's a computer programmer, she can work pretty much anywhere. I don't think she especially wanted to come back to the UK.’
'You said he covered Northern Ireland. Is it possible he crossed one of the terrorist organisations?' Reid asked.
Reynolds leaned forward, his shoulders hunched over the desk. 'Not really,' he said. 'Max was a photographer, not a reporter.’
'He could have photographed something he shouldn't have.’
Reynolds shook his head. 'Unlikely,' he said. 'He's been on soft jobs for the last month. Besides, terrorists would have just shot him or put a bomb in his car. They don't go in for torture.’
Reid nodded. 'You said he didn't want the Brighton job. Why did you send him?’
'We had a couple of guys off sick. And you can't cover wars all the time. It's not good for the soul.’
'And how was Max's soul?' asked Reid.
'That's a searching question,' said Reynolds, picking up a pen and twirling it around his thumb. 'Very philosophical.’
'For a policeman, you mean?’
'For anyone,' said Reynolds. 'Max was a driven man, you know? As if he was aiming for something, something that was always beyond his reach.’
'Or running away from somebody?’
The pen flew off Reynolds's thumb and landed on the floor. He bent down and retrieved it. 'Max was one of the most centred people I know. He wasn't a man on the run, he wasn't living in fear, he was just a bloody good photographer. He worked hard, harder than almost anyone I know, and I don't know anyone who didn't like or respect him. Most journalists, reporters and photographers are driven by something. They have to be. Long hours, low pay, no respect from the public, they have to have their own reasons for doing the job.’
'Tell me about it,' said Wright bitterly.
Reynolds grinned. 'I suppose there are a lot of similarities between our jobs,' he said. 'The search for the truth. The accumulation of facts.’
'The fiddling of expense sheets,' added Reid.
The three men laughed. 'Seriously,' said Reynolds, 'you'd be wasting your time looking for someone who wanted to kill Max.' He pointed at the file in Wright's hands. 'Look at his yearly evaluations. Every boss he's ever had has given him glowing references professionally and personally.’
'Could we look through his desk?' asked Reid.
'Sure,' said Reynolds. He stood up and took the two detectives out into the open-plan office. Several heads turned to look at them. They walked to the far end of the office where two whiteshirted men bent over a light box studying a strip of negatives. Reynolds introduced the two men to Reid and Wright. The taller of the two was Martin Staines, the bureau's picture editor, the other man was his assistant, Sam Greene.
'They're investigating Max's murder,' Reynolds explained.
Staines nodded at the desk nearest the window. 'We weren't sure what to do with his stuff.’
'No one's touched it?' asked Reid, sitting down at the desk and pulling open the drawers.
'Nobody wanted to,' said Staines.
'Was it bad?' asked Reynolds. 'The papers didn't give too many details.’
'Yeah,' said Wright. 'It was bad.’
'You might want to look at his locker,' said Greene. He nodded at a line of light blue metal lockers. 'Max's is third from the left.’
Wright went over to the lockers. There was a combination padlock on Max's locker. 'Six two five,' said Greene. Wright raised an eyebrow. 'He left his address book in it one night and phoned me to get a number he wanted,' explained Greene.
Wright took the lock off and opened the locker door. Inside was a yellow waterproof jacket hanging from a hook and a pair of green' Wellington boots. There was an extendable metal pole at the back of the locker. Wright took it out and examined it.
'It's for supporting a long lens,' said Staines. 'Max had some pretty heavy equipment.’
Wright replaced the pole. He checked through the pockets of the waterproof jacket but there was nothing there. 'What about the rest of his equipment?' asked Wright. 'His cameras and stuff?’
Staines and Greene exchanged looks. Staines shrugged. 'Photographers are responsible for their own gear,' he said. 'He took everything he needed with him to Brighton.’
Reid walked over to join Wright. 'Is that his wife?' he asked Wright, tapping a photograph that had been taped to the inside of the locker door.
Wright hadn't noticed the black and white photograph. It was May Eckhardt, smiling nervously at the camera as if she'd been caught unawares, one hand up to her face, the fingertips close to her lips. It was a good photograph; it had captured the softness of her skin, and the fact that it was in black and white emphasised the blackness of her hair against her pale skin. 'Yes. That's her.’
'I didn't realise she was Asian.’
'She's not,' said Wright quickly. 'She's Oriental.’
'What?’
'It doesn't matter.' Wright closed the locker door and turned to look at Reynolds. 'Did you speak to Eckhardt after he'd finished in Brighton?’
'I spoke to him,' said Staines. 'He called to say he was leaving Brighton on the afternoon train.’
'Didn't he drive?' asked Reid.
'He did as a rule but he went down with one of our reporters, Pete Thewlis. They used Pete's car and were planning to come back together, but Pete was sent on to another job. Max was a bit pissed off, but it's not as if he was in the Outer Hebrides. We told him we'd pay for him to come back first class on the train.’
'And that was the last you heard of him?' asked Reid.
'That's right,' said Staines. 'That was on the Monday, and he was due in the office that afternoon. When he didn't show we assumed he'd missed the train, either by accident or design.’
'I don't follow you,' said Reid.
'Like I said, he was a bit annoyed at having to take the train. We thought maybe h
e'd gone AWOL as a sort of silent protest. When he didn't turn up for work on Tuesday, we called his home. That's when we realised he'd gone missing.
'To be honest, we weren't that worried,' said Greene. 'It wasn't unusual for Max to go chasing after his own stories. He always checked in eventually.’
'What about this Pete Thewlis, can I talk to him?’
'He's in Islington on that explosives seizure,' said Reynolds. 'He wont be back until late. I can give you his mobile number, though.’
'Would Thewlis have taken Eckhardt's camera equipment with him?' asked Reid.
'Definitely not,' said Staines. 'Photographers are very possessive about their gear. They don't even like sharing lenses and stuff. Besides, Thewlis didn't know how long he'd be away.’
'So he'd have taken it with him on the train?' asked Wright.
'Sure,' agreed Staines.
'How much gear would he have had?' asked Wright.
Greene bent down and picked up a large canvas holdall. It was heavy and he used both hands to lift it on to the desk next to the light box. 'This is about par for the course,' he said. 'Three or four camera bodies, half a dozen lenses, a tripod, film. Max had a bag like this, and two leather cases containing his really long lenses.’
Wright put his notebook away and looked at Reid. His partner nodded. 'Okay, well, thanks for your time,' said Reid. He handed BTP business cards to the three men. 'If you should think of anything else, give me or Nick a call.’
Outside the AFP offices, Reid said, 'Can you call that guy Pete Thewlis? Check when he last saw Eckhardt?’
'Sure,' said Wright. 'What about checking the station to see if Eckhardt caught the train from Brighton? We've got to find out how he ended up at Battersea.’
'Yeah, okay. We'll go down this afternoon. We should do a sweep of the train, too. We'll need a few more bodies. Half a dozen, maybe. Can you clear it with Ronnie? We'll do the train that he was supposed to catch, and the ones either side. Oh yeah, and make sure someone goes to Edbury Bridge and views the Victoria surveillance tapes. They're supposed to hold them for twenty-eight days before wiping them, but put in a call today just to make sure.’
The Tunnel Rats Page 10
