‘What did the witnesses have to say?’ Stella asked.
‘That’s where it gets interesting. I took statements from all seven. Then when I’m done, guess who shows up to secure the scene?’
‘Who?’ Stella asked.
‘MI6.’
Stella squinted slightly. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I was shown ID by the investigating officer. Even still, it’s my first homicide, so I radioed the station who confirmed they got the call. These guys were MI6.’
Stella said to Dan, ‘Like they handled the Lipski crime scene.’
Walker turned his palms up. ‘It wasn’t like I was in a position to argue. When I asked what was going on they told me the crime scene upstairs was part of a GCHQ safe house and I didn’t have authorisation to enter it. What got me in trouble was the next day, when I tried to follow up with the witness statements. Only one of the seven saw anything. She told me Miss Bishop stood on the ledge a moment, then threw herself off. Except there are a few problems with that statement. First: the broken French window that leads to the balcony. I clearly heard a smash, followed immediately by Miss Bishop’s scream as she fell. Why would she throw herself through the window first?’
‘There was no mention of suicide in the final police report,’ said Stella.
Walker nodded vigorously. ‘Only accidental death, right. So what about the scream? She didn’t scream on the way down. She screamed before she started to fall. Those aren’t the only problems.’
‘What else?’ asked Stella.
‘The witnesses all show me driving licences and passports. But when I get to the station none of their details check out. Not a single working phone number. So I ran their names through the Electoral Register, the DVLA, Inland Revenue: everywhere. Not even birth certificates. It was like those seven people never existed. When someone found out about the searches the Chief Superintendent suspended me. Failure to follow orders, he said.’
‘I don’t follow,’ Stella said, unacquainted with police rank.
‘Administrative leave for a first-year rookie PC, you’re lucky if it’s the cleaner that handles your paperwork. For the Chief Superintendent to get anywhere near this is like getting the Home Secretary to come round to deal with a noisy neighbour. It’s unprecedented protocol.’
Dan certainly had an idea. ‘Unless he was under orders from someone higher up the chain to snuff out any problems.’
So far Stella liked what she had heard. Not because Walker was telling her things that confirmed her theory, but because he was believable. With any possible source Stella always asked herself, why are they talking to me? What might the other side of their story be? How authoritative a source are they? What proof in documentation do they have? But most of all, Stella always looked for passion: a lack of it.
In her experience, people who were passionate about a story were rarely the most reliable. They magnify facts that fit their theory, and ignore anything that doesn’t. Walker was different. He was self-effacing. He didn’t try to attach the definitive to things he didn’t know. Stella now had to set about poking holes in the very theory that would make a great story.
She turned back a page in her notes. ‘Constable Walker, if these witnesses gave false names, who do you believe them to be?’
For the first time, he hesitated. ‘Ms Mitchell, it might not seem like it, but we’re in the same game. We can both know certain things to be true: that the only other witness to Miss Bishop’s death directly contradicts what I saw and heard with my own eyes and ears. And that witness is not only wrong, she’s a liar with a fake identity. So the only reason for those witnesses to be there was for a premeditated plan to murder Miss Bishop and control the scene afterwards. And thanks to Mr Leckie, we’ve since learned that MI6 may well have had links with Miss Bishop’s past they would rather keep quiet.’
Stella said, ‘But we’re not in the truth game, are we, constable? We’re in the evidence game. The what-we-can-prove game.’
Walker added, ‘And all I can prove is the identification those witnesses gave me was entirely fake.’
‘Do you have any documents to prove that?’
Walker said casually, ‘I’ve got a picture of one of the witnesses.’
Dan flicked Stella’s leg with the back of his hand. ‘Told you he was up to it,’ he said.
It was one of those moments Stella sometimes had when interviewing a contact, of being so excited by what she’d just heard, but somehow managing not to show it: it was a power thing she’d learned over the years, especially in the presence of politicians. If a contact knows how badly you want certain information, the bigger the price they might put on it. ‘How did you get a picture?’ she asked, keeping a neutral expression.
Walker explained, ‘She gave me her passport for ID, but I was suspicious of how new it looked.’
‘How new it looked?’
‘See, whatever their cover was, they didn’t think it through. I’ll bet it was arranged last minute.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Walker seemed to think it was obvious. ‘She was standing about in Pimlico wearing a dress that cost, easy, four figures. The passport had been issued three years earlier, but it was pristine. Someone in her position would travel at least twice a year. That passport’s not been in and out of luggage twice a year for the last three years. No chance. So I took a picture of it on my phone.’
Stella was still trying to remind herself this was a new constable she was speaking to.
Walker said, ‘That’s why I’m speaking to you. I need you to find that woman. You find her, you find who the conspirators are. Then you know who had Abbie Bishop killed.’
‘Can you send me a copy of the picture?’ Stella asked, holding her phone out so he could read her number.
Walker texted it to her. ‘I don’t care about the suspension,’ he said. ‘What I care about is my dignity. My honour. Have you got any idea what a suspension on a rookie cop’s sheet looks like five years down the line? I should have been the last black man in Britain to want to join the Met. Trust me, I’ve good reason. But I did it because I want to make it better. I’m talented, I know. And I’m smart. A lot of people might think the smart thing for me to do here is come back to work in two weeks and shut up, but I can’t do that. They knew that was going to happen to Miss Bishop, and they sent me on that beat because they thought I would be too green to cause a fuss. I’m not scared, believe me. I’ve never been scared of anything.’
Stella remembered something from earlier. ‘You said Abbie tried to say something.’
‘Yeah,’ Walker said. ‘I thought she was trying to tell me someone’s name, someone to call. I’ve seen a few people die in my time. That was the first time I’ve had anyone quote Shakespeare to me.’
‘Shakespeare?’ Stella said, getting a rush of adrenaline. She knew what she was hoping Walker would say.
‘Yeah, I looked it up afterwards. “Hell is empty. All the devils are here.”’
Dan, who had been in mid-sip of the last of his pint, suddenly choked a little.
Walker continued, ‘It’s from The Tempest.’
All Stella could picture was Novak’s laptop and the same words appearing on the screen.
Walker said, ‘Look, I’m doing this because you’re the only ones who can investigate this properly. I’m relying on you now.’
Stella stood up and offered her hand. ‘Thanks for talking to us, Constable Walker. If you think of anything else that might be important...’
‘You’re stealing my lines now,’ Walker said with a smile.
Once Dan and Stella got outside he asked her, ‘What d’you think then?’
‘Let’s go through the list for an unauthorised source, shall we? One: What’s his motivation? He’s not out to hurt the force, or incriminate anyone. Actually, in speaking out the only person who’s been hurt is him. Two: what’s the other side of the story? So far, lies or silence. The only evidence for suicide or even accidental
death have all been faked – the witnesses, Abbie’s tox report, sealing off the scene to independent sources. Three: is he in a position to know what he claims? Of course. He’s a policeman who was first on the scene. And four: does he have documentation to back up his story? Yes. He has the picture of the witness which we can now trace.’
‘Solid as a rock,’ Dan asked. ‘I’d go to print tomorrow, if we could.’
Stella knew they were still a long way from that. ‘I’ve heard that quote before. Hell is empty, all the devils are here. Or seen it anyway. It came up on Tom’s laptop in New York. When it had a virus on it.’
‘That can hardly be a coincidence,’ Dan said.
‘Like you choking on your pint when Walker told us, you mean?’ Stella said. ‘You’ve seen it too, haven’t you.’
Dan didn’t see the point in pretending otherwise. He seemed to be an open book to her. ‘I heard her say it. Abbie Bishop.’
‘What?’ Stella halted. ‘When?’
When he realised she’d stopped walking, Dan stopped too. ‘One of the recordings. The stolen ones. Abbie was telling Hawkes that if she ever used that phrase he should raise an alarm with MI6. It was a warning code that she was in danger.’
‘She said all this in a voicemail?’
Again, he went straight to the truth. ‘Normal conversation.’ He started walking again. Hands in his pockets.
Stella pulled him around. ‘I thought you only accessed voicemails,’ she said.
‘I lied,’ Dan said. ‘I had Hawkes’ phone tapped as well.’ He tried to protest. ‘It was so easy, Stel. I couldn’t not do it!’
She couldn’t believe how quickly their story was coming together and falling apart at the same time. She said, ‘If nothing else you’re proof that jail is no deterrent to reoffending.’
‘Are you actually mad at me?’ he asked.
‘How perceptive.’
‘This is a massive lead.’
‘It’s a massive lead that’s massively useless. What happens when my editor asks how we know that phrase was a warning code and what it means? How can we print it? The Republic isn’t The Herald or The Post, Dan. We can’t listen to voicemail, then fake a bunch of research notes so it looks like we got there legitimately.’
‘Why not?’ He honestly didn’t see the problem.
She grabbed his arm and pulled him on towards Elephant and Castle tube station.
Dan thought Stella was done with the argument.
Then she said, ‘If we were going to use them, how would it work?’
Walter Sharp residence, downtown Albany, New York – Wednesday, 6.53am
The red-stone detached house in the middle of Archer Street had first appealed to Sharp due to its excellent visibility from both the deep porch-front and fenced back garden. The nearest neighbours were a healthy toss of a baseball away, which meant he would be left in peace, and be able to keep tabs on any unscheduled visitors.
Being in CIA so long gave Sharp a unique perspective on real estate: what made for a good property didn’t always ensure the greatest privacy.
When the real estate broker had enquired, politely, as to Sharp’s occupation, Sharp told her he was in insurance. Which wasn’t altogether a lie. Insurance of sorts. This was prior to her running Sharp’s credit rating, which when it came back told her she needn’t have worried. The house had been on the market for $415,000. Sharp paid cash.
He had been left a healthy inheritance by his father who had sold his drill bit company to the U.S. government in the eighties. He died soon after, still not really knowing what his son did for a living. Sharp’s mother had died in childbirth, and he had no other living relatives, which made him the perfect candidate for CIA. If it hadn’t have been for a face that looked so strikingly made of timber, he might have made a good grey man.
Now Sharp found himself sharing his house with another occupant for the first time in his nine years of living there.
*
Novak woke up to the sound of clanging metal and grunting somewhere downstairs. He had slept deeply – deeper than he had done in months. The comedown from last night’s adrenaline and feeling safe for the first time in three days.
He came downstairs and found Sharp in the centre of what was once a dining room, pounding out bench presses with cast iron plates rattling on a barbell with each repetition. The rubber mats that covered the floor were all doused in white splotches from the salt in his sweat.
In the light coming through the front-door window Novak noticed how wrinkled his clothes were – especially his white Oxford shirt which he’d slept in. It was freezing outside, but Sharp hadn’t felt it necessary to put on the radiators.
Sharp grunted his loudest as he grinded out the last few reps in his fourth set, planting the bar back in the rack with a crash.
Novak picked up the pile of newspapers that had just been delivered, sitting on the hallway table: The New York Times; The Wall Street Journal; Le Monde; The Guardian; and the last edition of The Republic. ‘You must have a gold card for your newsagent,’ he said.
Sharp stood up and towelled his face. ‘He orders them in special for me. Not much demand for Le Monde around here.’
He wore a stringer vest, which he believed was the only way to lift. He was big, but also extremely cut: his body fat was comfortably under ten per cent, low enough for chiselled abs. He grabbed a khaki vest and threw it on.
‘Any word about Fitz?’ Novak asked.
Sharp replied, ‘He’s at Mount Sinai Hospital,’ Sharp said, removing plates from the bar. ‘He’s stable and talking, according to your editor. I told him you’re OK, but you’re going to be out of contact for a while till we work this thing out. I think that’s best, don’t you?’
It was only when Novak clocked the weight of the plates Sharp was removing he realised he had been benching three hundred pounds for about ten reps. Novak could barely do half that. He was too embarrassed to tell Sharp he lifted too. Novak had muscle, but it was the kind that if he slacked off on his diet his body would turn to shit in a few weeks. Sharp was like the north face of the Eiger in comparison.
‘I guess so,’ Novak said, thinking it best not to argue with the man who saved your life.
‘I might look like a military grunt, but I’m not such a yahoo I don’t know who Martin Fitzhenry is. I’ve got four of his books over there.’
Novak looked at the impressive book cases lining the entire west side of the room. ‘Have you read all these?’ he asked, picking out random psychology books from the shelves with titles like Extreme Ownership; Discipline Equals Freedom; The Art of War; Influence – The Science of Persuasion; The 48 Laws of Power.
Sharp made his way to the kitchen, finishing the last of his water on the way. ‘I try to keep my ratio eighty per cent read, twenty unread. I’m away from home too much.’
Sharp wasn’t like the other CIA agents Novak had met before. His French must have been pretty good to read Le Monde (it seemed somehow appropriate that no American newspaper had thought to include ‘World’ in the title), and his interest in literary fiction took Novak particularly by surprise.
Sharp dropped about three pounds of fruit into a blender along with whey protein powder and finely milled oats. His post-workout breakfast. ‘You must be hungry,’ Sharp said.
‘Um...’ Novak paused, looked at the whirring blizzard of fruity porridge in the blender. ‘You got any Pop Tarts or something?’
Sharp stifled a laugh as he drank straight from the blender jug, taking half of it in one go. ‘I can scramble some eggs.’
Novak took a seat on the barstool at the breakfast counter. ‘That sounds good.’
During the lull in conversation that followed Novak tried to work out if he could now ask the questions he’d wanted to the night before – when they were on I-87 heading north out of New York City, driving deeper into the serene pine barrens of Albany County, and they were just two guys from different walks of life on a highway in the middle of the night.
/> Sharp cracked some eggs into a frying pan and stirred them up.
‘I really want to thank you again for last night, Officer Sharp,’ Novak said. ‘Me and Fitz would both be dead right now if it wasn’t for you.’
Sharp just nodded. ‘What would you like to ask, Mr Novak?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You’re flattering me – which is fine, I guess. But you think that if you’ve massaged my ego a little I won’t mind a tough question so much.’ Sharp looked over his shoulder. ‘We’re off the record, so go ahead.’
Novak braced himself. ‘I’ve always wanted to ask someone involved in CIA rendition: how do you know you’re not torturing an innocent person?’
Sharp’s automatic responses kicked in. ‘The United States does not torture,’ he replied.
Novak laughed. ‘Are we playing that game? Come on. Malik was sent to you like hundreds of others. Are you going to tell me he was the only innocent that the CIA has tortured?’
‘We make more than we miss,’ he said.
‘How would anyone know?’ Novak asked. ‘The White House has censored every report into CIA torture programs. You’ve got gangsters turning informant on their rivals to get rid of them. Now the White House itself is using it to eliminate its enemies. What do you think Malik knew that was so dangerous he was assassinated?’
Without checking with Novak first, Sharp dropped a dollop of hot sauce into the eggs. ‘It’s not for me to say.’
‘I know about him,’ Novak said.
‘Who?’
‘Malik. A contact at GCHQ sent me his file.’
‘Why don’t you tell me,’ Sharp said.
‘He was born into a deprived area in London to Syrian-born parents. He was such a gifted student he secured a no-fee bursary at Eton College. You any idea how rare that is? He was a star of the debating team. He left Oxford with a First Class Honours in Politics, Philosophy and Economics. Everyone in Malik’s circle thought he’d be destined for politics. Instead, believing he was in debt to the U.K. for giving his family asylum, he applied for an army intelligence posting. His application found its way to MI6, who were looking for someone with brown skin, familiarity with Arabic and an ability to mix with different social classes.’
Official Secrets Page 26
