'I'll arrange it.’
Reid looked up and down the street.
'I hope you're not looking for a pub, Tommy,' said Wright.
'Last thing on my mind,' said Reid.
'They're not open yet.’
'I know a place. Just around the corner. Come on, hair of the dog.’
Wright shook his head emphatically. 'I'll see you back at the office.’
'Ah, come on, Nick,' Reid whined. 'You've got the car, how am I going to get back?’
'Well, duh, Tommy. What's wrong with the Tube?’
'You know I hate public transport,' scowled Reid, but Wright was already walking away.
Wright collected his Fiesta from the underground car park and headed back to Tavistock Place.
Wright got caught in heavy traffic and it took him the best part of an hour to get back to the office. Superintendent Newton was in the incident room, studying a whiteboard on which the various assignments had been written up. Ronnie Dundas was hovering at the superintendent's shoulder and he winked at Wright.
'Morning, Nick,' said Newton.
'Morning, sir.’
'Tommy not with you?’
'We were at Eckhardt's office. Tommy's" checking his personal effects.’
Newton looked at Wright with slightly narrowed eyes, his lips pressed so tight together that they had practically disappeared. Wright instinctively knew that the superintendent didn't believe him. Dundas grinned and made a cut-throat motion with his hand.
Wright ignored the chief inspector's antics and took out his notebook. 'We know what train he was supposed to be on. We'll do a sweep of the stations, and we'll put men on the trains interviewing passengers. I'll get the video surveillance tapes from Victoria and have them checked. If he got on the train at Brighton it could be he was forced off at Battersea.’
'The train doesn't stop there, does it?’
'No, but it goes close by and sometimes the trains are held up if Victoria's busy.’
Newton nodded his agreement. 'Any sign of a motive?' he asked.
'I'm afraid not, sir.’
Newton turned to Dundas. 'Any progress on the knife?’
'It's a common kitchen knife,' said Dundas. 'We've identified fifteen different suppliers in London alone, including three chain stores. The Met boys'U continue looking, but I don't see it providing us with a lead.’
'When Eckhardt went missing he had a bagful of camera equipment with him,' said Wright. 'I'm going to arrange a sweep of secondhand shops to see if I can turn it up.' For the first time Wright realised that the superintendent was holding a sheet of paper. It was a fax.
'Well, maybe the cavalry will help,' said Newton dryly.
'Cavalry?’
Newton held out the fax. 'An FBI agent, on secondment from FBI headquarters in Washington.’
Wright took the fax and scanned it quickly. It was a brief memo from an assistant director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, notifying the BTP that a Special Agent James Bamber was being sent to assist in the investigation and to act as liaison with the FBI.
'Is this normal?' asked Wright. 'Do the FBI usually send people over on murder enquiries?’
'Eckhardt was an American citizen,' said Newton.
'Yes, but even so. Do we send cops over to investigate deaths overseas?’
Newton took back the fax. 'It's not unknown,' he said. 'To be honest, we should just be grateful for the additional manpower.' He gestured with his thumb at the list of assignments. 'We can't keep this many detectives assigned to the case indefinitely.' The superintendent went back to his office.
'You missed my briefing this morning,' said Dundas.
'Yeah, sorry. We went straight to AFP to talk to Eckhardt's boss.’
'Just so you know, the Met team is handling the house-to-house, the knife, and they'll look into Eckhardt's background. We'll concentrate on the forensics, the playing card, and anything else that turns up in the tunnel. We'll be sharing information on a daily basis at morning prayers, and we'll all have access to the HOLMES database. I've recommended that the two teams eat together in the canteen to talk informally but I won't be holding my breath. If you think there's anything that they should know about urgently, tell me and I'll brief my opposite number, Chief Inspector Colin Duggan, aka the Welsh Wizard. He's a twenty-year-man with a lot of murder enquiry experience and if your paths cross I'd recommend treating him with kid gloves. Okay?’
'Okay,' said Wright unenthusiastically.
'I gather there's a bit of friction between you and Gerry Hunter,' said Dundas.
'A bit.’
'Well, I know you're man enough not to let it interfere with the job,' said Dundas. 'There really shouldn't be any reason for the two of you to talk, you'll be following separate lines of enquiry.’
'It won't be a problem,' said Wright.
'Glad to hear it,' said Dundas. He took another swig from his milk carton and went over to one of the HOLMES terminals.
Two BTP DCs were sitting at neighbouring tables, their faces close up against VDUs. They were both in their late twenties, but other than their jobs, that was all they had in common. Dave Hubbard was tall and bulky and played rugby in his spare time. Julian Lloyd was anorexically thin and was one of the best amateur squash players in the South of England. They'd been assigned to checking on sexual offenders with a record of attacking men. It had been Reid's idea, but hadn't provided any tangible leads so far.
'Hey, guys, can one of you call Victoria, see if you can get the surveillance tapes for last Monday,' Wright shouted. 'Eckhardt was supposed to catch an afternoon train from Brighton. We might get lucky.’
Lloyd waved, his eyes still on his screen. 'I'll do it.’
There were more than a dozen surveillance cameras around Victoria, and with a four-hour window, that would mean around fifty hours of tape to view. Tapes were rarely easy viewing, either, especially when you were trying to identify one face among thousands. With his holdall and two leather cases, hopefully Eckhardt would be relatively easy to spot, but even with half a dozen officers it would still take the best part of a day to go through the tapes. And all that would prove was whether or not Eckhajrdt had arrived at Victoria.
'Get back here by noon,' said Wright. 'We're going down to Brighton to do a sweep through the station and then we'll be coming back on the train. Dave, we'll need you. Tommy's coming, and we'll need another four bodies. See who you can round up.’
'Will do,' said Hubbard.
Wright sat down and flicked through his notebook. He found the number of Pete Thewlis's mobile and dialled it. Thewlis answered, his voice a Liverpudlian drawl. Wright told the journalist who he was and asked him when he'd last seen Max Eckhardt. Thewlis said they'd had breakfast together in their Brighton hotel and that Thewlis had left first, driving to York. Wright made a note of the hotel and thanked the journalist for his help.
He was about to call the hotel to find out exactly when Eckhardt had checked out when Reid walked into the office and flopped down into his chair. He pulled open his top drawer, took out a pack of mints and popped two into his mouth. 'So, what's new?' he asked.
'The Yanks are coming,' said Wright, putting down his phone.
'What?’
'The FBI are sending an agent over. To help. I guess they think we Brits aren't up to solving the case.’
Reid put his mints back into the drawer. 'Yeah, well, they can join the queue, can't they?’
'Line,' said Wright. 'Americans call it a line.’
'Yeah? Well, we're really going to have problems if I tell him I want to smoke a fag, right?' He opened his bottom drawer and looked into it. 'Fancy a coffee?' he asked.
The occupant of seat 17A was practically the perfect passenger. If Gwen could have her way, only men like him would be allowed to fly. He'd smiled politely when he'd boarded, had no carry-on luggage with him, and hadn't asked for a thing to eat or drink. There had been no salacious looks, no clumsy attempts to chat her up, just a small shake of
the head when she'd offered him his dinner tray. Gwen wondered what he did for a living. His clothes gave nothing away: a nondescript grey suit, white shirt and a neatly knotted tie. He looked like the typical business-class passenger. What wasn't typical was his lack of a briefcase or laptop computer. Most businessmen had come to regard the cabin as an extension of their office, and those who didn't work caught up on their sleep. Passenger 17A didn't work or sleep, nor did he bother to use his inseat entertainment. He kept his seat up and simply stared ahead of him, his hands together in his lap, almost as if he was meditating. He wasn't in a trance, though, because whenever Gwen spoke to him he answered immediately.
'What do you think about the quiet one, Tony?’
Tony Kelner was working business class with her, and was a good judge of passengers. He was gay and had the inbuilt radar which allowed him to spot other gays without a word being spoken. He pouted as he looked over her shoulder. 'Definitely my type, darling,' he said. 'But he's definitely hetero. Cruel lips.' He mimed a shiver. 'Oooh, I think I'd better go and lie down.’
'Not until you've helped get the breakfasts ready,' laughed Gwen. 'What's his story?' It was a game she and Tony often played, making up fictitious backgrounds for their passengers.
Tony folded his arms and put his head on one side. He pressed a finger against his lips as he studied the passenger. 'He works out,' he said. 'Look at those thighs. What is he, twenty-seven, twenty-eight?’
'His hair is starting to go grey,' said Gwen.
'Prematurely, darling,' said Tony. 'Nothing a little Grecian Two Thousand wouldn't hide.’
'Is that what you use?’
Bitch!' hissed Tony playfully. He ran a hand through his own unnaturally blond and coiffured hair. 'A little peroxide, that's all I allow near my locks.' He put his forefinger to the side of his face as he glanced at the profile of the passenger. 'He's a professional footballer,' he said eventually. 'Played for a first division club, but was plagued by injury--’
'Didn't have a limp,' interrupted Gwen.
'Is this my story or yours?' asked Tony. 'Knee problems, or Achilles tendon. Nothing serious, but enough to keep him from giving his best, so he decided to quit playing before he was over the hill. He's just joined a second division club, as assistant manager.’
'Oh, did I mention that he was American?' said Gwen.
'They play soccer in the States,' said Tony. 'All right, Miss Know-it-all, what do you think?’
'Mafia hitman,' she said. 'Look at his eyes. Cold, cold eyes. That man could pull the trigger and not care. The Mafia send him all over the world to get rid of people who are causing them problems. He gets well paid for what he does, but he doesn't do it for the money.’
Tony raised his eyebrows. 'Interesting,' he said. 'I wonder if I could persuade him to indulge in a little S and M.’
Gwen giggled and Tony gave her a playful push. The man in 17A turned his head slowly and looked at them across the cabin. His eyelids were half closed and his face was devoid of any emotion, but Gwen and Tony both stopped laughing immediately. Tony shivered, and this time Gwen knew he wasn't faking it. He turned away and began to busy himself with one of the trollies. The passenger held Gwen's look for several seconds, but to the stewardess it felt like an eternity. She was transfixed by his pale hazel eyes, unable to tear herself away. The man smiled, but his lips didn't part. It was a humourless smile and it sent a chill down Gwen's spine. Eventually he looked away. Only then did she realise that she'd been holding her breath all the time he'd been staring at her, and she exhaled like a deflating balloon.
Tommy Reid put down a cup of coffee in front of Nick Wright. 'Morning prayers in five minutes,' he said.
Wright sipped his coffee. 'Yeah, I know,' he said. The two detectives went downstairs to the incident room. Most of the BTP detectives were already there, sitting on tables or standing around, drinking coffee or chewing on bacon sandwiches brought from the canteen. Only half of the Met contingent had turned up, but Hunter and Edmunds were there, huddled over a HOLMES terminal. Several of the detectives fidgeted with pens or pencils - Newton was a vehement anti-smoker and hadjjanned smoking in the room. The detectives would have to wait until after the briefing before lighting up.
The superintendent walked in, a clipboard under one arm, followed by Ronnie Dundas and the Met's senior officer on the investigation team, Chief Inspector Colin Duggan, a balding Welshman in a dark blue suit. The assembled detectives stopped talking and waited while Newton studied his notes. 'Day eight, gentlemen. One week and a day. I have so far approved four hundred and eighty hours of overtime and I appear to have precious little to show for it. I know you're all keen to have that central heating installed or upgrade your car or pay for that foreign holiday next year, but the powers that be are going to want to see some sort of return on their investment. And frankly, so am I.' His upper lip barely moved throughout his speech, though his eyes fixed on each of the detectives in turn. Most of them averted their eyes under his stony gaze; they were all well aware of how slowly the investigation was proceeding.
'So, let's recap. We know that Max Eckhardt left his hotel intending to walk to the station, but none of the station staff remembers seeing him. Nick, have we spoken to every member of staff?’
'Everyone who was working on the Monday. And if he did buy a ticket, he didn't use a credit card.’
'We've interviewed passengers on the train that he should have caught,' said Reid. 'And the trains either side. We'll do another sweep next Monday, just in case there are passengers who only travel then. It's a long shot, but it's worth a try.’
'Agreed,' said Newton. 'Julian, any joy on the surveillance tapes?’
'Afraid not,' said Lloyd. 'We've been through all of them, but there's no man with a holdall and two leather cases. We're trying to decide whether we go through them again to see if he's lost the gear, but that's going to take days. We'd have to look at the face of) every white male, and the quality's not that good.’
'I think we should,' said Wright. 'It's the only way we have of rinding out if he arrived back in London.’
The detectives looked at Newton, waiting for him to reach his decision. His lips tightened to the point where they almost disappeared, then he relaxed. 'Okay. But organise it so it's done between other enquiries. No overtime. What about forensics?’
'Nothing,' said Reid. 'At least nothing that we can definitely say belonged to the killer. If we had a suspect, it's possible we might be able to link him to the crime scene.' He grinned. 'But then if we had a suspect, we could just beat a confession out of him anyway.' He held up his hands. 'Joke.’
The superintendent glared icily at Reid. 'As always, we're grateful for you trying to lighten the moment, Tommy. But I'd rather you left the song and dance act until we'd at least got some of the way towards solving this case.' Newton looked around the room as if daring any of the others to crack a joke. 'Gerry, anything new on the knife?’
'Nothing,' said Hunter. 'When we eventually get a suspect, maybe we'll be able to link them to the knife, but it's not going to point the way. I'm more concerned at the moment about finding Eckhardt's camera equipment. I've distributed serial numbers and descriptions. That equipment's worth over two thousand pounds, it must be somewhere.’
Newton nodded. 'Good,' he said. 'I want that equipment found, and found soon.' He looked around the assembled detectives before tapping his clipboard. 'Right, two more things. First, we're going to hold another press conference tomorrow. We'll announce that we've identified the victim, then release his picture and appeal for witnesses again. I'm also going to release details of the missing camera equipment. This time I'll conduct the press conference, along with a press officer. That's tomorrow at three. Second, Max Eckhardt's funeral is this afternoon. Tommy and Nick, I want you two to attend.’
'It's a bit sudden, isn't it, sir?' asked Wright.
'Not really. It's been more than a week, and the cause of death isn't going to be disputed,' said the superintenden
t. 'The pathologist says they don't need anything else, so they contacted the widow. She called in a firm of undertakers and they had a slot today. I gather there weren't any other relatives to inform, and it suits us to have the funeral before the press conference so that we don't have a pack of photographers pestering the mourners.' He looked around the room. 'Any other thoughts?’
None of the detectives spoke. The first few morning briefings had produced a stream of ideas and theories, but the initial flush of enthusiasm had faded and most of the detectives were now resigned to the fact that the case, if it was ever going to be solved, would be solved by routine investigation rather than a flash of deductive reasoning. That, or a lucky break.
The superintendent didn't appear to be surprised or disappointed by the lack of response. 'Okay, let's get on with it,' he said, heading for the door. 'Oh, by the way. For those that don't know already, an FBI agent has been seconded to the investigation. James Bamber's his name. He has no jurisdictional powers in this country. That means he has no powers of arrest, no right to acquire a warrant or to question suspects. That said, he's to be offered every assistance.’
The superintendent left the room, and half a dozen of the detectives immediately went upstairs to light up. Hunter and Edmunds took their coats off the rack by the door and headed out.
'Shit,' said Reid.
'What?' said Wright.
'I'm not wearing my black suit.' He grinned, expecting to get a smile out of Wright, but Wright wasn't amused.
'Newton's right, you know. Sometimes you're not funny.’
There was a single red rose on the polished pine coffin, and it vibrated as the wooden casket slid along the metal rollers and through two green velvet curtains. Recorded organ music oozed out of black plastic speakers mounted on shelves close to the ceiling. The vicar closed his leather-bound Bible as if impatient to get on with his next function, be it a wedding, a christening or a funeral. Wright wondered if the young vicar, who was still in his twenties, showed a similar lack of enthusiasm for weddings as he'd shown for the funeral service. It had taken a little more than ten minutes and he'd hardly looked up from the Bible, as if embarrassed by the handful of mourners who'd gathered to say farewell to Max Eckhardt. There were eight in all, including Reid and Wright, who stood together in the pew furthest from the vicar and his lectern, their hands clasped across their groins like footballers in a defensive wall.
The Tunnel Rats Page 11
