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by Brian Freemantle

  She did seem impressed, more so than he expected, the family’s financial difficulties obvious in the quickness with which she suggested, badly disguising it as a light-hearted remark, that perhaps he could recommend some good but safe investments for her and her mother. He went along with that, promising to study the English market and making up anecdotes of high-risk deals, allowing the modestly unspoken impression that he usually gained more than he lost.

  There were quite long periods when they didn’t speak at all, Janet seemingly quite comfortable with silence, which he picked up on quickly enough to avoid appearing uncertain by constantly talking. After that realization he let the conversation move at her pace and was glad he did. It was Janet who created the opportunity, asking if he was making the European trip alone or maybe being joined by someone (‘all alone and unattached: actually ended a relationship just before I left Washington. Sensible girl found a much more reliable guy’) and in return Janet volunteered that she’d just been let down by discovering that someone she’d formed an association with was already married.

  ‘Which made coming to look after Mummy something of a welcome escape, although hardly a good career move. He was the commissioning director of an advertising agency with which I’d just got some freelance graphic design work. Nobody warned me of the full job description.’

  They had cream teas in the next village, Graffham, and walked back with even longer periods of comfortable silence. They got to the house fifteen minutes before Edith Hibbs.

  Janet said, ‘I enjoyed that.’

  ‘Maybe we could do it again before I leave?’

  ‘I think I’d enjoy that, too,’ she said, looking directly at him.

  ‘It’s a date,’ he said, wondering if it would turn out to be one.

  Day became night with their scarcely being aware of it, certainly not Powell whose absolute concentration was getting into place all he considered necessary. From the Manhattan office he faxed Amy everything relevant from the meeting with Durham, using it as a prompt when he briefed Harry Beddows, who had returned to await the search warrant after supervising the outside surveillance on Harold Taylor’s deserted house. Beddows at once agreed the protection for Durham and the three other potential victims and to the buildup of the incident room staffing by withdrawing John Price from New York and Matt Hirst from Pittsburgh.

  On the return shuttle Brett Hordle said, ‘This is pretty crazy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Lot of things don’t make sense,’ agreed Powell.

  ‘The old guy’s got to be a relative of Myron Nolan’s that no-one knew about, the younger one his son. How about that?’

  ‘He’d have to be an identical twin. Nolan was thirty-five when he got murdered and that was forty-eight years ago. The man in the freeze frame picture isn’t eighty-three years old. And according to Westmore’s experts, there’s no evidence of plastic surgery.’

  ‘What’s your theory?’

  ‘I don’t have one. Just more questions than answers.’

  ‘Spooky,’ said the lawyer.

  ‘Yes,’ accepted Powell. Suddenly it didn’t seem ridiculous to use a word like that, although of course it was. He called Beddows on the public in-flight telephone just before landing at the renamed Reagan airport, relieved to find him still at Pennsylvania Avenue and further relieved that the search warrant wasn’t expected for another hour, which gave him time to get to the house before it was executed. Beddows appeared to realize it, too.

  ‘I’ll still come,’ insisted the division chief.

  It was almost a petulant gesture, Powell thought. The entry would still be under his authority, as the deputed agent in charge of the investigation. Emphasizing it, Powell said, ‘I want this very low key: strictly limited to surveillance and technicians.’ Wasn’t he being just as petulant; more so, even?

  ‘We get the son-of-a-bitch and the heat’s off.’

  ‘We lose him and we double it. We don’t know what’s inside yet.’

  There was a silence. ‘It’s ten o’clock. I told Public Affairs there might be something, so there’d be a spokesman available,’ admitted the division chief.

  ‘Your total responsibility, Harry. I run into a circus, you’re the ringmaster. And I don’t want to go on discussing this on an open line.’

  To avoid a detour Powell asked the lawyer to take Durham’s apartment visitors’ book to the Bureau for scientific analysis. Renting a car at the airport, he quickly gained the beltway in the light evening traffic. He found Belmont easily and parked three streets away from the address provided by the DEA. As he approached he isolated a window-darkened surveillance van at the nearest intersection, giving the watchers a front and right-side view of the silent house, and a car much further along the street, which would cover the left side. There would, he knew, be a car in the road running along the back, although from what he could see of the house there seemed to be a solid rear fence. There was no car in the driveway, nor lights in any of the windows.

  Powell approached the surveillance van from the blind side of the house, softly identifying himself at the nearside passenger door at the same time as tapping upon it.

  There was a delay in the opening and the observer said, ‘Shit, you frightened the hell out of me.’ He leaned forward, to make it easier for Powell to get in. There were four other men, in addition to the driver and his observer. One was earphoned and in front of the electronic equipment that covered one entire side wall and another was hunched close to the rear window at infrared night viewing equipment, mounted on a tripod. The other two were sitting on jump seats, doing nothing.

  The radio operator turned at his entry and said, ‘Harry’s on his way, with the warrant. Said to expect him.’

  Nodding towards the equipment Powell said, ‘You got any sensors against the windows for inside movement?’

  ‘Waiting for the warrant.’

  ‘Telephone taps?’

  ‘Authorized by the same warrant.’

  The driver said, ‘There’s no-one in that house. Guarantee it.’

  ‘What about media?’ asked Powell. ‘You seen any television vans, stuff like that?’

  ‘Christ, no!’ said the radio man. ‘You want that!’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Powell. ‘Just hoping that nothing’s leaked.’

  The observer said, ‘You going to go through that house properly you’re going to need a lot of light. Which will warn him if he comes back while you’re doing it. How you going to handle it?’

  He was accepted as the control officer, Powell recognized at once. ‘We’ll wear earpieces, connected to you. Anything suspicious – anything at all – you intercept. Maximum caution: wear vests. He uses a knife, maybe several, but he’s also probably got a magnum he stole from the first victim.’

  ‘Here comes Harry and the entry unit,’ announced the man at the window.

  It was another unmarked van. It cruised past, not stopping until it was beyond any view from the house. Powell said, ‘Tell them I’m coming across.’

  The inside layout was electronically identical to the vehicle Powell had just left, but all the men in the back apart from the operator were already kitted in SWAT team all-in-ones. Powell was glad the bulletproof vests covered the FBI initials on their backs. Their equipment belts carried mace and stun grenades, as well as 9mm magnums. Each man had an equipment sack at his feet. Powell accepted the offered earpiece from the radio operator. The overalled unit leader said, ‘Better let us check it out for entry, see there aren’t any traps before you come in.’

  The group quickly and surprisingly quietly left through the rear door.

  Powell said, ‘What happened with Public Affairs?’

  ‘Stood them down,’ said Harry Beddows.

  ‘That’s good. He’s not in the house.’

  ‘You think he’s moved on?’

  ‘We’ll know that when we get inside.’

  ‘Checked with the realtor,’ disclosed Beddows. ‘Taylor’s taken the lease for a year.’r />
  Powell’s earpiece hissed and crackled. A voice said, ‘It’s safe. Come on in. It’s sure as hell odd.’

  The entry unit had done their best to set the drapes but the house was very obviously occupied, and as he approached Powell knew that if Taylor came back while they were inside it was practically inevitable they’d lose him. Powell stopped just inside, searching for the word and deciding it was sterile. Each piece of furniture appeared to have been arranged in a pattern. There was not a single indentation in any seat or cushion and in the kitchen the search was slowed by pots and jars and cans having to be replaced exactly as they were found, always in neat lines according to their size, always with the labels facing out. There was nothing half opened or in cans in the refrigerator. There were some clothes – two jackets, some underwear, socks and shirts and two pairs of shoes – in closets and drawers of the pristine bedroom with its rigidly made bed. All were neatly folded and arranged, once more according to size.

  One of the SWAT team said from the kitchen, ‘Will you look at this!’

  When Powell arrived he saw strips of paper kitchen towel snowed across the floor.

  The searcher said, ‘It’s all around the windows and door edges. Every gap and crack is plugged, sealing the place.’

  Powell said, ‘I think Geoff Sloane should see this.’

  ‘The bastard’s left some stuff. He’s coming back,’ said Beddows.

  ‘From wherever he’s gone to kill someone else,’ completed Powell.

  It was an hour before the shout came from the basement. When they got there the team leader was training a strobe light behind the broken-down false wall so that what was hidden behind would be brightly illuminated.

  Four eyes, in specimen jars, gazed back glassily at them.

  ‘He’s definitely coming back,’ said Powell. ‘He didn’t take his souvenirs.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wesley Powell managed three hours’ sleep and wished he hadn’t bothered. He’d felt more alert – more awake – when he’d got to Crystal City at three-thirty that morning than he did now. When he arrived at Pennsylvania Avenue just after seven Amy Halliday was already there, her machines on. She looked crisp, fresh and well rested, although she’d still been there at midnight, when they’d last spoken by telephone.

  She smiled and said, ‘Hello, stranger.’

  ‘Certainly seems that long,’ he agreed.

  She gestured towards the computer bank. ‘I’ll have everything new on file in four hours.

  ‘You’re going to knock yourself out.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she insisted, getting up from her station with a clipboard in her hand. ‘No more possible victims’ names or addresses: Army Records are a total mess. Those we do know are all under protection, according to the overnight messages from the local Bureau offices. Matt Hirst and John Price have arrived: both at the Marriott. I’ve moved two more filing clerks in, by the way. And I’ve gone through this morning’s wire service round-ups of the papers and television. We’re getting hit pretty badly, for holding back on any worthwhile release …’ She hesitated, looking grave. ‘What the hell’s it all about, Wes?’

  He shook his head, helplessly. ‘There’s got to be an answer but I don’t have it.’

  ‘It’s creep—’ she tried.

  ‘I know.’ He stopped her. ‘Let’s not go down that route.’

  ‘He’s going to kill again, isn’t he?’

  ‘He probably already has. And all we can do is sit and wait for the body to be found.’

  ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Hirst or Price taking over the incident room?’

  A very vested interest, he thought. ‘It’s already being extremely well organized. I’ve got other things for them to do.’

  He started on that the moment he got into his side office, reaching both agents before they left their hotel. He told John Price to go direct to Taylor’s bank for every available record and sent Hirst to the realtor for the reference letters with which Taylor had secured the lease. As he replaced the receiver Mark Lipton, the head of Public Affairs, came on the internal line asking what in the name of Christ was happening and warning that if they didn’t come out with something substantial soon (‘like right now!’) the media were going to roast the Bureau on a slow spit: imagining pressure, the man said that as soon as he finished speaking to Powell he was going to get on to the Director’s secretariat to ask Clarence Gale to give a press conference. Powell ruined the man’s threat by saying that any statement whatsoever would only be made upon Gale’s personal approval anyway.

  ‘What makes these serial killings so different from the rest?’ demanded the man.

  ‘Ask the Director.’

  ‘You forgotten a man can make a reputation for himself co-operating with the media on something like this?’ enticed Lipton.

  ‘That’s exactly what I haven’t forgotten,’ Powell assured him, unhelpfully.

  The announcement of a full briefing conference, to be chaired at noon by the Director himself, came from Harry Beddows.

  ‘He wants answers,’ declared the division chief. He perched himself on the edge of the desk again and Powell felt crowded. He said, ‘Don’t we all?’

  ‘You heard from Public Affairs?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes ago. Lipton himself.’ Who’d clearly also spoken to Beddows, he accepted.

  ‘He tell you what he’s being asked?’

  ‘What we’re all asking each other, I guess. Without any answers.’

  Beddows shook his head at the glibness. ‘Who’s the team leader? This could start going badly wrong for you, Wes.’

  Responsibility avoidance time, Powell recognized. ‘The buck’s got to stop somewhere, isn’t that what the little guy once said?’

  ‘You want to be taken off the case, I’ll do what I can to help.’

  Powell regarded the other man in astonishment. ‘You ever hear of a request like that being made before, from anyone who stayed on in the Bureau longer than the next hour!’

  Beddows shrugged, colouring slightly. ‘I got the feeling you’re not 100 per cent into this. Lipton kind of agreed. Said you just kept referring him to the Director.’

  So a cabal was being assembled. All right, Powell thought, you want to play dirty pool, you son-of-a-bitch, you better be careful your knuckles don’t get broken. He guessed he’d be identified in print by midday. It gave him an idea. Two, in fact.

  Not having enough people on the first occasion, Clarence Gale’s personal conference room was almost overcrowded on the second. Gale settled himself authoritatively, lacking only his robes, at the head of the table and Beddows took the chair to the right by unquestionable rank. Powell faced him. Amy, still flushed from Powell’s unexpected decision to include her, was next to him, showing no nervousness as she distributed the updated dossiers she knew so well. Gale had shown no surprise at Amy’s introduction but Harry Beddows, responsible for summoning everyone else, had frowned curiously at Powell’s insistence.

  To Powell the tall, desiccated Director said at once, ‘You got a sensible explanation yet?’

  ‘Not for everything,’ admitted Powell cautiously. ‘Some ideas maybe, when we’ve talked it through. Durham is adamant Myron Nolan’s dead: that he identified the body before burial at Florence, in April 1951 … But there can’t be any doubt now these are vengeance killings associated with the man …’

  ‘And there’s another tie-in,’ offered Barry Westmore. ‘Graphology are positive the signature in the entry log to Durham’s apartment in the name of Maurice Barkworth is the same handwriting as Myron Nolan, on the military tribunal records. No question of forgery.’

  ‘So he’s definitely not dead?’ sighed the Director.

  ‘It wasn’t Myron Nolan whom Durham met that day,’ Powell reminded them. ‘I can’t explain the handwriting. I can’t explain the face on the freeze frame, seemingly the same age as Nolan was when he died. Or the fingerprints �
��’ He was conscious of Harry Beddows smiling slightly from across the table. ‘But what about this? Nolan was King Rat of the Florence jail. Ran it. Whatever he wanted, he got. Including hookers. If he could get women in and out, he could get a man in to fill a coffin and satisfy the prison personnel who actually weren’t on the take, which can’t have been very many from what Leroy Goodfellow says. All Myron Nolan would have needed was Durham finding someone no-one would miss and getting him into the stockade, to which Durham apparently came and went as he pleased, meeting Nolan in the comfort of warders’ offices. And then for Durham to go through the formality of supposedly identifying the body and signing the forms and he’s home free. And we know Durham is a crook, would have done it for money: even, for enough, arrange murder.’

  ‘That theory’s got more holes than Swiss cheese,’ Beddows attacked at once. ‘Durham admits stealing from Nolan. He wouldn’t – couldn’t – have done that if Nolan were on the outside. Jethro Morrison would have had to be paid off: had a hold over them for ever. And why would Nolan – or a family we haven’t yet discovered – wait forty-eight years to start hitting his victims!’

  ‘I offered it as an idea,’ said Powell defensively. ‘Give me a better one.’

  ‘Give me evidence I can understand and I will,’ said the division chief.

  ‘There any benefit in getting the body exhumed?’ wondered Matt Hirst.