by Tony Park
Tom slumped back in his seat. ‘What gave it away? My picture hasn’t been in the press so far.’
Fisher smiled. ‘I paid that freelance photographer in South Africa to follow Greeves. The snapper said this prick of a security guard kept getting in his way. He emailed through the pictures of Greeves – nothing worthwhile – and pointed out the man who ruined the job for him.’
‘Me.’
‘You.’
Tom shrugged. He knew this could go very badly for him, impersonating Carney, but he sensed that the journalist wasn’t about to go running to Scotland Yard just yet. ‘What do you know about Carney?’
‘Nothing.’ Fisher held his hands out, palms up. ‘I’ve never seen or heard of him before, and no one here or anyone else I know has either.’
‘Unusual?’
‘Yes and no. You get a lot of people who wake up one morning and decide that as part of their midlife crisis they want to become journalists. There are plenty of dodgy correspondence schools advertising courses in travel writing and freelance journalism, no shortage of gullible punters who think it’s an easy ticket to fame and fortune.’
‘But he outbid you by offering Precious Tambo what . . . twenty-five thousand pounds?’
Fisher leaned back again. ‘Yeah. I wish I knew who he was stringing for. Not that any of the other newspapers would tell me. Maybe you could get a court order or something – force them to cough it up?’
‘Not me,’ Tom said.
‘Yeah, not you. What about those other jokers who questioned me – Morris and what’s his name?’
‘Burnett. Maybe. Did you tell them anything about the bidding war?’
Fisher shook his head. ‘None of their business.’
‘This Daniel Carney’s a suspect now. He could have been the last one to see Precious alive. It’s possible he was masquerading as a journalist – he might have found out what you were up to in the club.’
‘Not my job to catch killers, is it?’
Tom disliked Fisher, but he was right. It would be up to the police to find out who Daniel Carney was and who, if anyone, was bankrolling him. ‘Who told you Nick Roberts was dead?’
‘No way. I don’t reveal my sources,’ Fisher replied.
‘Your friends at Hereford?’
Fisher shook his head. ‘You won’t get that out of me. However, you might want to start thinking about what you can tell me that will make you look less like the sacrificial lamb you are most definitely going to be at the inquiry, Thomas.’
‘I found Carney’s card in Nick Roberts’s house, the night after he disappeared.’
Fisher bit his lower lip and refolded his arms. ‘You think this Carney might be one of the terrorists? Think he might have tailed your man Roberts to the club so they could ambush him there?’
Tom didn’t know. He felt as though he was running around in circles at the moment. ‘From what I’ve heard about Precious Tambo, she didn’t sound like the kind to keep company with Islamic jihadists.’
‘She was a stripper. Not many girls are in that line of work because of the job satisfaction. She needed money – and maybe the terrorists had plenty to spare. Also, she had dirt on Greeves, which could have brought his bodyguard into the trap. It wouldn’t have been kosher, but maybe she or the real Carney got in touch with Greeves’s people and the minister sent his henchman to suss her out.’
Tom was thinking along the same lines, but something didn’t add up. ‘Did you ever contact Greeves or his press secretary to put Precious’s allegations to him?’
Fisher shook his head. ‘No way. I was keeping this one close to my chest. Once I had the stripper signed up I was going to go to him at the last minute for comment – late in the afternoon of the day before we went to press.’
Tom shook his head at the tactic. It was gutter journalism – have a two-page spread of lurid allegations ready to go, and give the target no time to formulate a response. The last thing a tabloid such as the World wanted was a rational explanation for Greeves’s relationship with another woman or, worse, concrete evidence that the stripper was lying.
Fisher elaborated. ‘If I’d gone to him with what I had he could have come out with all guns firing, given something to everyone. You know, “Forgive me, people of Britain, I sinned once, but now my wife and family have forgiven me and are behind me.” That sort of crap.’
‘It’s a tough game,’ Tom said.
‘Yeah. You’re about to find that out the hard way. Give me something from the inside on this thing and I’ll go easy on you at the inquiry. I can make you look like a hero if I try hard enough.’
Tom pushed his seat back and stood up. He didn’t want to be in the same room as Fisher for a second longer, and he didn’t believe a word of what the man had just said.
‘I’ll call your superiors, tell them you were here under false pretences.’
Tom looked over his shoulder as he opened the door of the interview room. ‘Go ahead. I don’t think it’s going to make any difference to my future.’
Tom found a cafe near the newpaper’s offices and ordered a tea. He took out his notebook and pen and cell phone. He dialled Dan Morris’s number and the detective groaned when Tom told him who it was.
‘I need a favour,’ Tom said.
‘Well, you’re in no position to ask for one. I’m not going to let you drag me down with you. I’m hanging up now, Tom.’
‘Daniel Carney?’
‘What about him?’
Tom moved his tea away from his notebook and waited in silence.
‘I’m hanging up.’
Tom blew on the hot liquid and sipped it.
‘How do you know about him?’ Morris relented.
Tom smiled to himself. Fisher’s threat to tell his superiors about his unauthorised – illegal – investigation hadn’t fazed him at all. He’d meant what he’d said: nothing he did from here on in would make things worse. He had resigned himself to the fact that he would not survive the inquiry with his career intact. It was liberating, in a way, to be free of the rules and regulations that had for twenty-one years governed his life as a policeman. All that mattered now, all that might, possibly, keep him in the job was if he could find something the others had missed.
‘Tom? Answer me?’
‘Carney’s card was under Nick’s fridge – probably slipped off the door.’
‘Oh, right,’ Morris said.
Tom could almost hear the squeaky wheels turning in his colleague’s mind.
‘Well, you’re wasting your time there. I don’t think he exists,’ Morris said.
‘Really?’ Tom had already come to the same conclusion. It was hard to believe a freelancer who could command a budget of twenty-five thousand pounds from a newspaper would be unknown to other reporters in the industry. Also, the instant cards giving nothing but a cell number were a flimsy prop. Tom suspected the number was probably from a pre-paid sim card.
‘The phone number was a prepaid,’ Morris said. The confirmation brought no solace to Tom.
‘There are a load of Daniel Carneys in the phone book and we’ve just about got to the end of them, but nothing so far.’
‘Precious Tambo was raped, wasn’t she?’
‘Who told you that? I’m really going to hang up now, Tom. All the details of her death are being kept quiet.’
‘A reporter.’
Morris groaned again. ‘Bleeding hell. Goodbye, Tom.’
The phone went dead in his ear and Tom sipped some more of his tea.
Names. That was all he had. One didn’t exist, and the others, Nick Roberts, Precious Tambo and Robert Greeves – the ones who could give him the answers he needed – were all dead.
On the table was a copy of the Sun, which the last customer had spilled a latte on. Tom flipped through it as he thought about his next move. On page five he saw a headline that galvanised him into action.
SLAIN MINISTER’S FRIENDS TELL OF JANET’S GRIEF. GREEVES’S WIDOW PLANS TO SET UP CHARITY IN
ROBERT’S HONOUR.
In his wallet was a laminated card with the phone numbers for Robert Greeves, his key staff members, and Greeves’s wife, Janet. There were numbers for the family homes in London, and in Bledlow Ridge, a village near West Wycombe in Buckinghamshire. The newspaper story said Janet Greeves was at the family’s ‘secluded, upmarket rural retreat’. Tom thought she would have the answering machine on for the landline but would have her cell phone turned on.
‘Hello?’ said the female voice.
‘Mrs Greeves?’
‘Who’s calling, please.’
Tom thought she was right to be cautious. She would have been hounded by hundreds of reporters so far.
‘Detective Sergeant Tom Furey, ma’am. I was with Mr Greeves, when . . .’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am.’
‘I’ve read about you in the papers, Sergeant, though not by name. Is this an official call?’
She was frosty, dismissive. It was to be expected.
‘If you’ve seen the press reports, then you’ll know I’ve been suspended.’
‘Well, if you’re calling to apologise, it’s really not necessary. I’m sure you did everything you could have done.’
He’d expected more emotion. Perhaps anger, or if she was forgiving, empathy or pity for him at failing in the line of duty.
‘I’m sorry about the way things turned out, but I also have some questions for you which might help the investigation into your husband’s abduction and death.’
‘Yes, but you’re suspended, as you’ve just pointed out. I’ve told the investigating officers about Robert’s movements on the last few days before he left for Africa. There was nothing unusual. I understand if you’re trying to clear your name, but –’
‘It’s not that. There are some sensitive matters that have come up, which I wanted to talk to you about in private. Perhaps it’s better if they’re not made part of the official record of investigation being undertaken by detectives Morris and Burnett.’
There was a pause on the end of the line.
‘I really should be going. I’m late for an appointment. Perhaps if you give me your number, I could –’
‘It’s about the affair.’
Silence.
Tom waited. It always worked.
‘I meant what I said about being late. I’m going to be with my children this afternoon and this evening. I can see you at eleven, tomorrow, at the Bledlow Ridge house.’
Tom was wired. He felt truly alive for the first time since Bernard’s death. He’d pushed a button and Janet Greeves had responded. She knew about her husband’s infidelity – perhaps there had been more than one affair.
He hated having to wait until the next morning to see her.
Ideally, he would have played his trump card face to face. Now she’d have time to prepare herself for his questions, but he couldn’t do anything about that. He finished his tea, walked to the DLR station and made his way back to Highgate.
Once inside, in the warmth of his home, he went to the study at the top of the stairs and turned on his computer. He typed Robert Greeves and Africa in the internet search engine’s subject field. There were scores of hits, so he tried again, limiting it to news coverage and added Michael Fisher to the search words. This limited the hits to less than a page.
He clicked on Fisher’s last story for the World before Greeves’s ill-fated trip to meet with the South African defence minister. This was a critical piece about the ‘globe-trotting junior minister’s love affair with the dark continent and taxpayers’ money’. It showed a full-length photo of Greeves, manipulated so that he was wearing a pith helmet and Bombay bloomers, with a pair of oversize binoculars around his neck and a gin and tonic in one hand. The story listed the minister’s trips to Africa over the past three years.
As well as South Africa, the countries he had visited included Kenya, Tanzania, Namibia, Mozambique, Botswana and Malawi. The last, Tom noted, Greeves was also reported to have visited four times on holiday, as well as the two ‘official’ visits listed in the chronology.
With its crystal-clear waters and colourful tropical fish, fresh-water Lake Malawi has proved far more attractive than Bognor Regis for Greeves during the past three parliamentary recesses, Fisher had written.
Tom made a note of the country on his pad and spent twenty minutes looking for information about it on the internet. He found a map and saw that the landlocked country was east of Zambia and north-west of Mozambique. It seemed to be largely made up of the lake which Fisher had referred to in the story.
He decided that when he picked Sannie up in the morning he’d ask her what she knew about Malawi.
23
The pilot’s British-accented voice came over the intercom, interrupting the movie that Sannie was watching without really paying attention to while she ate a breakfast of scrambled eggs, pork sausage and chips.
‘Ladies and gentleman, just an update on our arrival. We’ve made up time and expect to have you on the ground at five-fifteen this morning and arrive at the gate on schedule at five-twenty. The weather in London is quite warm – it’s fifteen degrees at the moment . . .’
Sannie washed some greasy sausage down with her orange juice. There wasn’t a trace of irony in the man’s voice. Fifteen degrees? Warm? That was less than half the temperature in Johannesburg when she’d left.
She checked her makeup in a hand mirror as they taxied, reapplying a little lip gloss. There was nothing she could do about the bags under her eyes. Even though the British government had paid for her to fly business class she had found it hard to sleep.
Outside it was still pitch black. In Africa the sun was rising at four-thirty by this time of year and it would be quite hot by now.
Sannie peered out the window and put the back of her hand against the Perspex; it felt cold. She shivered, wondering not for the first time if the clothes she’d brought with her would be warm enough. She was wearing jeans and high-heel boots for the trip, with a short-sleeve T-shirt over a long-sleeve one, and a cropped black leather jacket. It was very casual, but she planned to change into her black business suit as soon as she arrived at her hotel. Her first meeting, with Chief Inspector Shuttleworth, wasn’t until two in the afternoon. She’d probably have time to sleep a bit beforehand.
It was nice of Tom to meet her at the airport, and while technically it was totally unnecessary, she was secretly grateful that he would be riding with her in the rental car, as she was a little nervous about navigating her way around London.
Sannie had never been to England before, and it was sad to be here under these circumstances. She knew the inquiry would go badly for Tom and she was determined that, while she would answer every question truthfully, she would also use every opportunity to praise his quick reactions and dogged pursuit of the terrorists once they found out Greeves was missing. She was also looking forward to seeing him.
The brief time they’d shared had been a roller-coast of emotions for both of them – from incredible lows when it seemed they would never find the missing men or the terrorists, to the high of finding Bernard alive and planning the raid, to the crushing defeat they’d suffered on the beach in Mozambique. She wondered if Tom had considered doing what Bernard had done.
He’d sounded in the depths when she had spoken to him on the telephone and she was worried about him. With his wife gone, and the possibility of his suspension becoming permanent, she knew he was facing a very uncertain future.
She looked out the window again.
The only thing she saw were the blinking lights of another aeroplane and it surprised her how close it looked. The furthest she’d ever flown was Mauritius, on holiday. That trip – her and Christo’s first wedding anniversary – seemed like a lifetime ago, and it was. She thought of Christo as she always did, wearing the same clothes and smiling as he left to go pick up their son. She bit her lower lip as she gazed out into the impenetrable gloom. She’d allo
wed herself to get close to Tom. It hadn’t been in a sexual way, but she had followed her heart and not her head when she had joined him on his mad dash across the border. It wasn’t just because she wanted to help him find the men, it was because there was an energy or emotion that seemed to draw her to him. He understood the pain she had gone through in a way that few people could. It had hurt her to watch his zeal disappear after Bernard’s death.
Sannie had tried to buck up his spirits on the drive back into South Africa, but the crushing depression had overtaken him. The attraction she had felt for him during the chase wore off then, though she still felt for him. She couldn’t tie herself – for her sake, or her children’s – to a man who couldn’t cope with adversity. She wondered how he would be this morning.
She retrieved her carry-on wheelie bag from the overhead locker and joined the procession into the terminal. Sannie swallowed hard and felt her stomach churn. It was fear of the unexpected – of what would happen with the inquiry, and with Tom Furey.
Sannie turned her cell phone on as she walked up the air bridge, dragging her bag behind her. She sent a quick SMS to her mother as she walked, letting her know she had arrived. She’d been a saint, as usual, to agree to look after the kids for the week. Sannie was already missing them, though she smiled at the memory of Christo asking, ‘Will you see your friend Tom, the Englishman?’
‘Yes, my boy,’ she’d replied, ‘I will.’
Tom was waiting for her when she finally cleared customs and immigration. She spotted him immediately. He seemed a few inches taller than the throng of people around him.
The last time she’d seen him, when she’d dropped him at the Garden Court Hotel near Johannesburg airport, he’d been unshaven. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy from a lack of sleep, and his shoulders bowed with the weight of defeat.
Now, it was just after six in the morning and, even though he was on suspension, he was freshly shaved and wearing a smart business suit with what looked like a newly pressed white shirt and a maroon tie. His dark wavy hair was combed and he was smiling as he strode through the crowd. In his hand was something small and slender, wrapped in colourful paper.
