The Predators

by Brian Freemantle

‘Model?’ demanded the American.

  ‘I don’t have the complete report.’

  ‘Colour?’ said Blake.

  ‘Black, according to one,’ said Poncellet, relieved at last to be able to reply positively. ‘Blue, according to the other.’

  ‘What about occupants?’ said Harding.

  ‘You really do need to speak to them yourselves,’ Poncellet finally capitulated.

  ‘We most certainly do,’ said Harding. He needed to discover what the fuck was wrong with the FBI superstar sitting silently beside him, too. The Iceman seemed to be frozen into unresponsive inactivity, unaware of or uninterested in what was going on around him.

  The questioning of witnesses was very much a police function but Claudine included herself, without seeking the approval of Peter Blake or anyone else, just as she visited whenever possible the actual scene of a violent crime and the post-mortem examination of its victim. She didn’t consider it an arrogant refusal to trust the ability of others, which she knew to have been a London criticism before her transfer to Europol. Unless she had reason to doubt their competence, as she now definitely had with John Norris, Claudine never intruded into the assigned roles of those with whom she worked. What she didn’t expect and most certainly didn’t want was for those others to think they could do her job for her. One missed question vital to her from someone not examining a situation from her perspective was the difference between success and failure. Professionally it was better to offend than to fail.

  She made a particular point of announcing her intention to re-interview the eye-witnesses, fully expecting Norris to stay as well. He didn’t, saying it was more important he return to the embassy with Burt Harrison to prepare the ambassador for the second press conference. Poncellet and Smet did stay, which she had not anticipated. From the fleeting expressions she intercepted between them it seemed to surprise Blake and Harding, too. When Claudine pointedly remarked it would intimidate witnesses to be confronted by so many people Poncellet dismissed the clerks, despite what she was sure were Smet’s whispered objections.

  The first person positively to identify Mary walking away from the school was a 28-year-old mother who took her four-year-old daughter along the rue du Canal at the same time every day to feed whatever birds might be on the nearby waterway: that day there hadn’t been any. She definitely recognized Mary from the published photographs and correctly identified the colour – blue, trimmed with red – of the backpack, a detail that had intentionally been withheld from the media release. Because she was such a regular user of the road at such a regular time she was accustomed to seeing children collected from the school, mostly by car, and was mildly curious at a child walking away unaccompanied. There was no one close or in conversation with Mary, who’d been walking quite normally and not in any obvious hurry and had ignored her and the little girl when she passed.

  The accounts of the two other pedestrians – a bookkeeper the end of whose working day coincided with the school dismissal and a hotel waiter who always walked to his evening shift for the exercise – tallied in every respect, even to identifying the rucksack. The book-keeper thought Mary was walking fast, not as if she was trying to get away from someone but as if she was anxious to reach a destination.

  All three were quite adamant that the child was showing no signs of distress or uncertainty. The waiter, in fact, had been struck by the confidence with which Mary had been walking, as if it was a regular route she knew well. It was that streetwise assurance that had attracted his attention: it was his regular route to work and he couldn’t remember seeing her before.

  Each of the three had been walking in the opposite direction to Mary and had no reason to look round once she had passed, so none had seen a car or the child being accosted.

  The breakthrough came with the first car driver. His name was Johan Rompuy and he was a technical translator in English and Italian in the agricultural division of the European Commission. He was a 57-year-old grey-haired, grey-suited bureaucrat who had worked in the governing body of the European Union for eighteen years and thought and talked with the pedantry of a man whose life was governed by detail, order and regularity.

  That was why he remembered the incident with Mary so well. He’d been summoned late to a Commission meeting of agricultural ministers and was in a hurry, although obeying the speed limit, which he always did. He’d been following on the inside lane directly behind the black Mercedes when it had suddenly stopped, making him halt just as sharply. The volume of traffic in the outer lane prevented his pulling out to overtake. He’d seen everything because it had happened directly in front of him.

  Claudine had positioned herself to the side of the room, giving the encounters over to Blake and Harding, and had the impression of two tensed cats undecided which was to be the first to jump on an unsuspecting mouse: even the timid, grey-featured civil servant fitted the cat and mouse analogy. The local FBI man gave the slightest body movement, conceding to the Englishman.

  For the briefest of moments Blake hesitated, preparing himself. ‘You’re very important to us and to this investigation,’ he began, and Claudine at once acknowledged the basic psychology of the approach.

  Rompuy smiled, a man rarely praised or flattered by superiors. ‘I’m glad to be of help.’

  ‘And I want you to be as helpful as possible. There are a great many questions we want answering. You’re going to have to be very patient: what might not seem important to you could be of very great importance to us.’

  The smile remained. ‘I understand.’

  ‘You’re sure the car was black?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What model?’ asked Harding.

  ‘A 230, I think.’

  ‘Was the registration Belgian or foreign?’ said Blake.

  ‘I didn’t make a note of it, obviously. But I’m sure it was Belgian. If it hadn’t been I might have looked more closely. And I’m sure the country designation was Belgium, too. Again I would have looked more closely if it had been foreign. My job is identifying different nationalities.’

  ‘Was it a Brussels registration?’ pressed Harding, taking up the questioning.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Was there anything unusual about the car: a badge or a sign in the rear window?’ coaxed the American. ‘Anything inside that you could see – about the car, I mean, we’ll get to the passengers in a minute – like a sticker or a religious medallion or a permanent parking authority or even the sort of decoration people sometimes hang in their vehicles.’

  The man made a visible effort to remember. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Was there a radio aerial?’ asked Blake.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Positioned where?’

  ‘At the rear.’

  ‘Was it raised, for the radio to be playing? Or retracted?’

  ‘Retracted.’

  ‘What about a telephone aerial?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the man at once. ‘In the middle of the rear window, at the top by the roof.’

  ‘A straight aerial or a spiral one?’ persisted the American and Claudine was aware of the quick approving look from Blake. Poncellet and Smet were sitting motionless, an audience to a special performance of experts.

  ‘Straight, I think,’ said Rompuy doubtfully.

  ‘Now let’s talk about the people inside,’ encouraged Blake. ‘How many were there?’

  ‘Two. A man and a woman.’

  There was a stir, from the two Belgians, which Claudine at once regretted because Rompuy looked at them and said: ‘There were. I’m sure there were.’

  ‘We believe you,’ said Harding quickly. ‘How were they sitting?’

  ‘The man was in the front. The woman in the back.’

  ‘So you could see the woman better?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Claudine hadn’t moved, not wanting to risk distracting the man again, but there were questions she needed to ask. But the detectives had to finish first.

  �
��Whereabouts in the back seat was she: to the right or to the left or in the middle?’

  ‘More to the left, to give the child room to get in.’

  ‘Was she like that when the car stopped? Or did she move over?’

  ‘I don’t remember her moving over. I think she was there when the car stopped.’

  ‘How did the rear door open, then, for Mary to get in?’

  Rompuy frowned. ‘I’m not sure. I think the man turned and opened it but I can’t really remember.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the woman,’ said Blake, wanting to maintain a sequence. ‘What colour hair did she have?’

  ‘Blond.’

  ‘Light, yellowy blond or dark blond?’

  ‘Dark.’

  ‘You could see her shoulders: part of her back?’

  ‘Yes.’ The man frowned.

  ‘How much? Show us on your own body,’ said the American.

  Self-consciously Rompuy stretched over his shoulder, with difficulty pushing his hand down roughly to the bottom of his shoulder blade.

  ‘So you could see what she was wearing?’

  Rompuy’s frown remained. ‘It was a jacket, I think. Fawn or maybe a light brown.’

  ‘Can you describe it?’ demanded Blake.

  ‘It was just a jacket.’

  ‘What was the cloth like, rough, smooth? Could it have been suede? Leather?’

  ‘It was cloth, of some sort. Smooth, I think.’

  The questions were building up in Claudine’s mind but still she held back. Momentarily Blake turned his eyes to her and she gave an almost imperceptible nod to show that she wanted to take up when they were satisfied.

  ‘What about the style of her hair?’ said Harding. ‘Did she wear it loose or tied?’

  ‘It wasn’t tied, exactly,’ said the man awkwardly. ‘But it was tight against her head, one side sort of folded over the other …’

  Blake looked hopefully at Claudine, who in turn looked round the room and then picked up some paper and quickly sketched. ‘Like that?’ Claudine asked.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Rompuy at once, pleased at making himself understood.

  ‘It’s a pleat,’ said Claudine. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? Her hair was pinned into a pleat, so that it made a line down the back of her head?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the man, smiling again.

  Both men moved to speak at the same time and again Harding deferred to the English detective. Blake said: ‘You’re doing very well. You’re telling us a great deal we need to know. Now you saw the back of the woman’s head, looking from your car into hers. But they’d stopped for Mary, hadn’t they?’

  ‘As I now know, yes.’

  ‘Did Mary get in immediately?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They talked.’

  ‘How long for?’

  The man shrugged. ‘I don’t know. A few moments.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Blake. ‘They’d stopped and the rear door had opened, for Mary to get in. But she didn’t, not at once. Who was she talking to, the man or the woman?’

  ‘The woman.’

  ‘So the woman must have looked towards Mary?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the man, as if he was again surprised at the question. ‘That was when she kind of leaned across.’

  Neither man showed any impatience at not having already been told that. The tension was palpable to Claudine. Blake said: ‘If she was looking towards Mary, leaning across the car, you must have seen her in profile?’

  ‘I did.’

  There was a brief hesitation from both detectives. The noise of Smet moving in his chair sounded loud. Blake said: ‘Was she full-faced or thin in the face?’

  ‘Thin, I think. That was the impression I got.’

  ‘Tanned or light-skinned?’

  ‘Definitely tanned.’

  ‘A lot of make-up? Or not very much?’

  ‘I don’t remember there being a lot of make-up.’

  ‘You’re looking at her in profile,’ said Blake. ‘Was her nose large or small? Straight or crooked? Describe it to us, in your own words.’

  ‘Straight,’ said the man, trying hard. ‘And sharp. That’s how I remember her, as a sharp-featured woman.’

  At Blake’s pause Harding took up the questioning. ‘You could see part of her front now. What was she wearing under the jacket? A blouse or a sweater?’

  ‘I don’t remember seeing anything under the jacket.’

  ‘You say she was thin-faced. What about that much of her body that you could see? Was she big-busted or small?’

  The man looked embarrassedly towards Claudine. ‘I don’t think she was very big.’

  Claudine smiled at the man and said: ‘Don’t feel awkward. There’s no reason to be. All this is vital to us, so try to help as much as you can.’

  ‘Quite small-busted. Not noticeable at all, really.’

  ‘Was she wearing earrings?’ asked Blake, returning to the questioning.

  ‘Yes. Hoops. I think there were jewels in them.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Clear. Like diamonds.’

  ‘What about her ears? Large? Small? Close to her head?’

  ‘Quite small. And close to her head.’ The man sat back in his chair and said: ‘Could I have something to drink?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Blake, looking to the police commissioner.

  Poncellet quickly gestured to Smet. The lawyer hesitated, actually turning to where the clerks had sat before realizing they weren’t there any more. He hurried irritably out of the room, a man demeaned by a chore that was beneath his dignity.

  Rompuy said: ‘I hope everything is all right.’

  ‘You’re doing remarkably well,’ replied Blake. ‘I wish every witness could be as helpful.’

  ‘I want to help,’ said the translator. ‘She must be suffering a lot.’

  ‘That’s why we want to get her back as quickly as we can,’ said Harding.

  ‘Will you get her back?’

  The media might discover the man, Claudine thought. As Smet came back into the room, carrying a carafe and glasses, she said: ‘I’m quite sure we will. What you’re telling us adds a lot to what we already know.’

  The man drank the water gratefully. Smet leaned close to the police commissioner, who shook his head to whatever the lawyer said.

  ‘Can you go on now?’ Harding asked the translator.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’ve given us a very good description of the woman,’ said Harding. ‘What about the man?’

  ‘I couldn’t see him so well, in the front.’

  ‘Did he turn at all, for you to see him in profile?’ asked Blake.

  They’d started to hurry, overlooking questions that should have been asked, decided Claudine. The interview had been going on for over an hour, so it was understandable, but she had a vague feeling of disappointment in Peter Blake. It was fortunate she’d held back to allow the two men to finish.

  ‘I don’t remember him turning, although I suppose he must have done if he opened the rear door.’

  ‘Was he wearing a jacket?’ asked Blake.

  ‘Yes. Black.’

  ‘Like a chauffeur?’

  ‘I suppose so. My impression was that he stayed looking to the front, as a chauffeur would have done.’

  ‘Could you see more of his back than you could of the woman’s?’

  ‘Yes. And I remember he kept his seat belt buckled.’

  ‘What about his hair?’ asked Harding.

  ‘Black.’

  ‘Long? Short?’

  ‘Short. And he was going bald, at the top …’ Rompuy frowned, putting his hand vaguely to the back of his head. ‘Here, like the way monks have their hair?’

  ‘At the crown of his head,’ said Blake. ‘A tonsure.’

  ‘That’s it!’ said the translator. He poured himself more water.

  ‘What about his ears? Were they flat against his head, like most people’s?
Or did they stick out?’

  ‘I don’t remember anything about his ears.’

  ‘Could you see his hands, sitting as he was? Was he holding the wheel?’ asked Harding.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Could you see if he was wearing a ring?’

  ‘I couldn’t see.’

  ‘Did he turn the engine off or keep it running?’ asked Blake.

  ‘He kept it running. And the brake lights were on all the time, so I suppose he was sitting with his foot on the brake.’

  ‘What about indicators?’ said Harding. ‘Was there any signal that the car was going to turn in to the side and stop before it did so?’

  ‘No. That’s how I got stuck behind. It was too quick for me to get round him.’

  ‘Didn’t that inconvenience you?’ asked Blake.

  ‘It delayed me a few minutes. And I was in a hurry.’

  ‘Did you sound your horn?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did the car move off immediately Mary got into it?’

  Take your time, take your time, Claudine thought.

  ‘Yes,’ said the man.

  ‘Fast?’ asked Harding.

  ‘There was too much traffic to drive really fast.’

  ‘Was it as fast as the traffic would allow?’ insisted Blake. ‘As if he was anxious to get away?’

  ‘I suppose it was as fast as he could go. I wasn’t really ready and in the gap that opened up someone else overtook and got in front of me.’

  ‘With another car in the way, were you able to see what was going on inside the car after Mary got in?’ said Harding.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Which way did it go?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the man lamely. ‘We were moving again and I was late. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’ve done remarkably well,’ Blake said, looking first to Harding, who nodded to show he’d finished, and then invitingly to Claudine.

  ‘Monsieur Rompuy,’ she said at once. ‘I have some different sorts of questions which might seem odd but bear with me. The woman was looking sideways across the car, with Mary still on the pavement? And then she leaned across the car to encourage Mary in?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That would have tilted her off balance, unless she supported herself. How did she do that? Was she resting against the seat or was her arm visible, along the seat back where it joins the rear shelf?’