The door clicked open and Raymond Param looked out at them from a small hallway. He was dressed in casual slacks and a white shirt. Neither had seen a recent iron, a condition at odds with the photos on display at the house in Highgate. He needed a shave, the stubble adding an extra few pounds of weight, and a hank of hair hung uncontrolled over his forehead. In spite of his appearance, he seemed relaxed for a man who had allegedly deserted his wife and home in favour of a large amount of stolen money.
‘Can I help?’ His eyes flicked over them in turn. If there was an indication of nerves, it was in the brief glance he threw past them at the street beyond. That and the way he remained positioned well inside the doorway.
‘Hello, Mr Param,’ said Harry. His tone was calm, but left no doubt that he knew who the man was. It was essential in the first moments of contact to alleviate any tendency to panic on the part of the runner.
For a moment there was no reaction. Then Param seemed to sag visibly as if the air had gone out of him in a rush. He turned away. ‘You’d better come in.’ If he didn’t know who the men were, he knew what they represented.
He led them through the house to a kitchen overlooking a small courtyard garden bordered by a high wall covered in creepers. The room was simple in design, evidently expensive, and smelled faintly of something herbal. A rustic table and four chairs dominated the room, and the worktops were clean and free of clutter, as if the equipment was rarely used. The atmosphere was quiet, with a faint ticking sound of a boiler emanating from a cupboard at the back of the room.
‘Tea or coffee?’ he said, flicking on a kettle. He took out three mugs without waiting for a reply, then turned and faced them. ‘Who sent you — my wife?’ His expression was sour, as if he had been given yet another unpleasant surprise in a long list. ‘I’m surprised you found me. Mind telling me how?’
‘Parking fine on the Mini,’ said Harry.
Param lifted an eyebrow. ‘Bugger. I forgot that.’
Harry felt almost sorry for him. ‘It’s always the little things. Other than that, you nearly had a free run.’
Param made no comment, but turned back to the kettle and made the tea. He handed out mugs and gestured to the table, which held a sugar bowl and a carton of milk. ‘Help yourselves.’
When they were all seated, he looked at his two visitors. ‘I suppose there’s no point in promising you large amounts of money to go away and forget you ever saw me?’
Harry shook his head. ‘Sorry. It’s not the way we work.’
‘Fair enough. Just thought I’d ask.’ Param gave a sad smile. ‘Who’s the more seriously pissed off at me — my wife or the company?’
‘The company, by a short head. Your wife’s bearing up surprisingly well, considering. She’s at her sister’s.’ He kept his face carefully blank, but the information drew a wry smile of something close to appreciation from Param.
‘Yes, she always had strong support on the family side. Her sister thinks I’m a waster.’ Param shrugged and warmed his hands on his mug. ‘Like I care. So what happens now? Is this where you drag me kicking and screaming to the local nick?’ There was something almost light-hearted in his tone, as if he wasn’t taking their arrival too seriously.
‘Is there any reason why we should?’ said Rik. ‘The company wants its money back. I’m not sure about your wife, though.’
Param showed a set of even white teeth. ‘My wife will want the house, the cars and my testicles, in that order. The company will want the money but they’ll shy away from the embarrassment of publicity. It doesn’t look good to investors when a manager siphons off a load of cash.’ He sighed, the levity dying. ‘Unfortunately, they’re both in for a nasty surprise.’
‘Oh?’ Harry sipped his tea, wondering what the man had in store for them. There was something — he could feel it in the air. He eased himself back in his chair, ready to make a move.
‘Well, unknown to my dear wife, who doesn’t really bother herself with matters of finance, the house is mortgaged to the eaves. And there’s no money, company or otherwise.’ He looked apologetic. ‘Sorry — the offer of cash was a dud.’
‘What do you mean, none?’ Rik asked.
‘None. Not a cent. It’s all gone.’
Harry watched the man’s face for signs of lying, but saw none. Param had been much too calm and resigned. For a man caught within an ace of getting away with a large amount of money, he should have been depressed at failing. But he wasn’t.
Now he knew why.
SIXTEEN
‘There’s nothing to take back,’ Param explained. ‘The house is owned by the bank, and if you want to get the money, you’ll have to find Yvonne first.’ He clenched his mug between his fingers, the first real sign of tension he had shown. ‘She knew everything I was doing. . had done right from the beginning. I thought she was with me all the way.’ He looked bitter, his mouth turning down at the edges, although it could have been embarrassment. ‘More fool me. I taught her too well. She knows as much as I do about moving money around — possibly more. And she turned out to be a natural at covering her tracks and hiding what she was doing.’
‘Why did you take her on in the first place?’ Harry asked.
Param tapped his fingers on the table. ‘I needed someone else to help set up the accounts to take the final transfer of money. That way, even if the company auditors looked at me for some reason, I’d be clean. She seemed an ideal partner. There was no risk to her; she did everything perfectly legitimately. Unfortunately, she was even smarter than that; she’d set up some accounts of her own without telling me. I trusted her. Too far, as it turned out.’
Harry almost felt a touch of sympathy. It wouldn’t be the first time a man had fallen for and been duped by an accomplice far more cunning than him, and left holding the baby. ‘You got taken.’
Param nodded. ‘Yeah. Tell me about it.’
‘Any ideas where she might have gone?’ Harry had to ask the question. He doubted that it would be their problem to worry about, but if the ball got lobbed back into their court, they would need all the information they could get. And Yvonne Michaels had got a head start. ‘How about South Africa?’
‘You’ve done your homework,’ Param said with a note of approval. ‘To be honest, I haven’t a clue. Yvonne knows a lot of people in some strange places, believe me. South African and Zimbabwean ex-pats, mostly, and a few others with interesting backgrounds. She’s got three passports that I know of. She won’t be as easy to find as I was. And you can forget about the Mini; she dumped that days ago.’
‘We’ll have to call in for instructions,’ Harry told him, then added by way of explanation, ‘We’re not the police; we work freelance. Our brief was to find you and confirm your location. What happens next is up to the client.’
Param nodded. ‘I figured the company would send somebody after me. I suppose I’m lucky it isn’t a bunch of heavies with baseball bats.’ He took a deep breath and gave them each an earnest look. ‘I’ve no right to ask this, but is there any chance you guys could give me some leeway — say half an hour?’ He held up a hand. ‘Don’t worry — I’m not planning on making a run for it or doing anything stupid. I haven’t got the money or stamina to run, and I’m too much of a coward to kill myself.’
‘So what do you want it for?’ Harry asked.
‘I’ve got a letter to write. My parents. . they deserve an explanation.’ He gave a tired smile. ‘It’s not the sort of thing they should first read about in the morning papers, is it? Their favourite son ruining the family name.’
Harry considered it for a moment, then nodded in agreement. It wasn’t as if they could arrest Param; if he wanted to walk out of here right now, he could do so and there was nothing they could do to stop him. He stood up and signalled Rik to follow.
‘Thirty minutes,’ he reminded Param. ‘Then we have to call it in.’
They found a teashop just round the corner, with tired lace curtains at the window and a smell of cinnamon in
the air. It would do while they gave Param his requested leeway. The owner was an elderly, demure lady with powder-blue hair and thick spectacles, who fussed around them as if they were visiting royalty rather than two late customers wasting time. Harry opted for coffee and a slice of walnut cake over a newspaper crossword, while Rik took tea and a toasted bun.
‘I like to stay open late because it’s better than watching the rubbish they call television,’ the owner explained, rearranging the tablecloth and plates until they were just right. ‘It’s all bad news, crude men and tarts with tits for brains these days, isn’t it?’ She bustled away to get their order, leaving the two men staring at each other in amusement.
Harry tried the taxi firm again. The driver had called in sick but hoped to be in the following day. The dispatcher refused to give the man’s address and primly quoted the Data Protection Act. Harry left his number and disconnected. Tomorrow would have to do.
Next he called Jennings. In the absence of Silverman, the lawyer might react well to some good news on another front.
‘It’s Tate,’ said Harry. ‘We’ve located Param.’
‘Who?’
‘Param. Raymond Param — the investor who did a bunk?’
‘Christ, how?’ Jennings sounded puzzled. ‘I mean, how did you have time to-?’
‘Skill, mostly.’ Harry wondered what was eating the man. Maybe he’d lost his Lottery ticket. ‘And a bit of luck. What do you want us to do about him?’
‘Do? I don’t want you do anything!’ Jennings snapped. ‘I want you to find Silverman. He’s the priority, remember? Everything else can wait.’
‘Yes, you said.’ Harry resisted the urge to snap back at Jennings. He was counting on future work, and in spite of his dislike of the lawyer, he didn’t want to be responsible for jeopardizing it. He explained patiently, ‘While we were waiting for confirmation of a lead on Silverman, we got lucky with Param. It was too good a lead to miss. We’ll leave him if you want, but I wouldn’t bet on him hanging around. There’s also a problem with the money.’
But Jennings ignored this. ‘Wait one.’ The phone went silent. Moments later he was back. He sounded furious, his words coming down the line with more than his customary snap. ‘Do nothing, you hear? Nothing. Stay away from Param. I’ll be in touch.’ The phone went dead.
From somewhere in the distance, the wail of an emergency vehicle cut through the quiet. The old lady stuck her head out from the doorway to the kitchen to listen, before disappearing again.
Harry put his phone away and relayed the gist of the conversation to Rik, who had snagged the newspaper. It was open at a half-page photo showing a scene of destruction, with armed men in uniform and an armoured personnel carrier set against a background of smoking rubble and torn buildings. It was a rehash of a bombing in Baghdad ten days or so before, with renewed speculation about those responsible. A VIP had been killed, and he caught the word ‘cleric’ in the headline but little else before Rik folded the paper and tossed it to one side.
‘So we get to go home early. Did he say anything about payment?’
‘No.’ Harry stood up and left some money on the table. The call to Jennings had left him with an odd feeling of unease. There was something shadowy lurking at the edge of his brain, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. An inner warning, maybe — a feeling caused by the change in Jennings’ voice and the abrupt ending to the call. ‘Let’s go check on Param.’
They left the car where it was and walked back the way they had come. When they turned the corner of the street where Param was staying, they stopped dead.
The scene was a hive of activity. A number of police vehicles and an ambulance were gathered halfway down, their roof lights creating a ghostly display across the face of the surrounding buildings. A crowd of onlookers had formed along the pavements, and two constables were reeling out crime scene tape and forcing people back. Another officer was ordering motorists to turn around and find other routes to their destinations. It was clear that the house at the focus of all the activity was the one without a car in front.
After the tranquil scene earlier, it was a dramatic contrast. Harry swore softly. They had lost the initiative. Param had fooled them and taken the only way out.
‘What’s happening?’ Rik stopped a man walking down the street away from the police cordon. He was in slippers, a local resident who’d come out to investigate the commotion.
‘A mugging, they reckon,’ the man replied succinctly. ‘Bloke answered a knock and got knifed. Dropped him right on the doorstep. He hadn’t been living there long.’
‘How bad?’
The man shook his head and moved away. ‘Depends how bad you think dead is.’
SEVENTEEN
Jennings was in a foul mood the following afternoon. He had instructed Harry to stand by until called, while he looked into the situation surrounding Param’s death. Harry took this to mean he would be quizzing his contacts in the Met for details not yet made public. Whatever he’d discovered didn’t seem to have pleased him; the skin around his eyes was puffy and dark, as if he hadn’t slept well, and he seemed to be reining himself in with difficulty as he glared across the bare expanse of his desk.
From the moment they had walked in, it was clear something had angered him, and the little Harry had said about Param or his violent death seemed to improve matters. Beyond a brief acknowledgment of Rik’s presence, Jennings had ignored the younger man, addressing all his comments directly at Harry.
‘What the hell were you doing there?’ Jennings demanded, as if they had been laying waste to the Home Counties with a flame thrower. ‘You were supposed to be finding Silverman!’
‘I told you,’ Harry reminded him heavily, ‘we found a lead to Param’s whereabouts and it paid off. At least we now know it’s not Param your clients should be looking for, but Yvonne Michaels.’
Jennings’ jaw flexed briefly before he seemed to backtrack slightly. He tapped his fingers on the edge of his desk. ‘Very well. It appears to have been a mugging, according to the police. What were the local residents saying?’
Harry wondered why that should matter. Local reaction around a crime scene usually follows a pattern: it spreads furiously, feeding on itself like a bush fire, is invariably wrong and heaped with lurid speculation and ill-informed gossip. He explained what the neighbour had said, which seemed to make Jennings relax a little.
‘I see. Did you notice anything?’
‘We didn’t stay long enough. It’s possible we were seen going in earlier, so we’ll have to wait and see. Either way, Param claimed the girlfriend has the money and he’d been screwed. Do you want us to find her?’
Jennings shook his head. ‘Forget it. It’s a non-starter.’ He leaned back and said authoritatively, ‘I suppose it’s possible she killed him; she might have gone back for something after you’d left and they had a falling out. Still, that’s for the client and the police to worry about. Your part’s done.’ He blinked as if making a mental adjustment, and asked, ‘What about Silverman?’
‘We tracked him coming through Heathrow,’ said Rik, shifting impatiently in his chair and making the spindly back creak in protest. ‘We’re waiting to find out where he went afterwards. He was met in the terminal by a young guy and they took a cab from there but we don’t know where to.’ He fixed Jennings with a stare, then asked, ‘Are you sure he’s a professor?’
Jennings allowed a few heartbeats go by before responding. ‘That’s what he was described as, and I see no reason why anyone should have lied. Have you any reason to think otherwise?’ His glanced flickered between the two of them.
Harry shot Rik a warning look and stood up. ‘Not really. He didn’t look much like a dusty professor, that’s all.’ He smiled tightly, wanting to be out of there where he could think clearly. ‘When we find out where he went, we’ll let you know.’
It was as they were walking back to the car that Harry realized Jennings hadn’t shown any interest in how they had fastened o
n to Silverman and tracked him through the airport. That could only mean that he knew about their visit to Transit Support Services to access the airport tapes.
The only question was, how?
Rik closed the car door. ‘You didn’t mention about the blank we got on Silverman in the university,’ he said. ‘Or that the professor’s friend knows tradecraft. Is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘Patience, Grasshopper,’ Harry replied vaguely, his mind still on Jennings. There were only two ways the lawyer could have known about them viewing the tapes. The first and obvious one was if Karen had told someone. They had never met her before, but he knew Sandra wouldn’t have suggested it if she hadn’t trusted the woman — she had too much to lose. ‘Two murders, both people traced by us, yet all he’s fixated on is Silverman, as if he’s the answer to the Holy Grail.’ He pushed back the passenger seat and stretched his legs. ‘This is no more about a runaway professor than my Aunt Fanny.’
Rik was nodding. ‘He was more pissed that we’d gone after Param than at the fact that the poor bugger got knifed. You want me to go back in and poke something sharp up his nose? I’d enjoy that.’
‘Tempting, but not yet. Best make sure we get paid first.’ He was considering the second way Jennings could have known what they were up to. At the same time, he was trying hard not to connect dots which might have no relationship to each other. Paranoia was a deadly result of this game — of any game where secrets were a major part of the background, a currency, almost. He’d got used to it in MI5, managing to compartmentalize each part of the job so that he didn’t indulge in pointless speculation. Others he’d known had not fared so well, ending up with careers and marriages in ruins, fearful of their own shadows. But a pattern was beginning to form around everything they were doing which he didn’t like the feel of, and all his antennae were now quivering. First Matuq, then Param. . and the growing feeling that Jennings wasn’t as put out by the deaths as he should have been. And if he wasn’t put out, it meant he wasn’t surprised. That only led to one conclusion.
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