Despite the title and the conventional introduction, the contents of the paper grew more politically charged as the author developed his argument. He had gone to great lengths to identify those artists who, after the events of Tiananmen Square in 1989, had abruptly dropped their support for Deng Xiao Ping’s socio-political reforms.
Pole speed read the pages until he found the name he was looking for … Mo Cho, Nancy’s father’s artistic name. The fact that he belonged to a group of avant-garde artists was no surprise.
Pole had managed to gather information on this already with the help of Harris, but the article made an important point about the fierceness of the artists’ criticism as they were still living in the shadow of Mao’s Cultural Revolution. Her father had not only been part of the cultural push organised in February 1989 that supported the Tiananmen uprising, but he had in fact been one of the key organisers.
Pole sat back. He wondered why MI6 and Harris had not been more forthcoming about this aspect of Mo Cho’s story. Not a point he would presently discuss with Nancy, but something he would soon clarify with Harris himself.
“I can see it is an important source of information, but it is also a research paper. Surely it is available freely on the internet these days.”
“That’s the point, Jonathan … it is not. I tried quite a few sites. I even tried a few French sites since the paper was originally written by a French student … I couldn’t find anything.”
“How did Amy come by it then?” Pole looked at the back of the document. He noticed that it had been photocopied, it had been done with care, so it was likely that the original was not available to the public.
“I don’t know and neither does Philippe.” Nancy shook her head again.
“You need to be careful not to reopen the gash on your face.” He leaned closer, a slow move but carefully, concerned he might disturb some of her still weeping wounds.
“I’ll be fine.” Pole saw it in her eyes. She could bear physical discomfort but not the emotional agony of losing her young helper Amy.
“I also need to determine whether this document is authentic,” Nancy continued. “I haven’t yet decided how I am going to do this … I have a few options.”
“Which are?”
“To get in touch with my old contacts at the Sorbonne University in Paris and find out whether they know the author of the research paper.”
“That could take forever.”
“Agreed. And of course, I may again involve someone who doesn’t necessarily realise the risk they might be taking.”
Pole pushed away a strand of hair that had fallen awkwardly across her brow.
“You need to find someone who can research this in a protected environment.”
“You mean someone who has access to a search engine that no one can trace?”
“Something like that.”
Nancy looked at Pole sideways. “You mean GCHQ or one of the other agencies?”
Pole almost flinched. He had managed so far to produce documents that helped Nancy in her search without revealing their source. Pole had enough contacts at Interpol to justify the findings, but that argument was starting to wear thin.
Nancy’s focus had shifted and he recognised that she now wanted to own the research process fully.
This would complicate matters … a lot.
“If you have any contacts there, this might be the time to call upon them.” Pole nodded.
“As you know, I don’t … But I’m sure I’ll find someone who does.” Nancy smiled, the first smile she had given Pole that evening. She already had a name in mind and Pole hoped that name would not lead her to Steve Harris.
* * *
DS Branning’s replacement for the night arrived. A woman in plain clothes, sporting a flannel suit and a neat haircut. Her smile was friendly, and the boys, Johnny and Charlie warmed up to her immediately. Beth had not returned yet … She was almost certainly networking at one of the fashion events she attended almost every night in London Fashion Week.
Cora had retreated into Beth’s bedroom. If she had not spoken to Branning, she would not speak to to the female officer either. She regretted having spoken to him about Ollie’s words. She was no longer sure she had heard him speak. She thought he had murmured a word. Or was it that her desire to hear his voice again had deceived her?
Cora had almost finished clearing up Beth’s bedroom. There were only a few garments now left hanging outside the large wardrobe. The makeup was organised in small jars and trays Cora had found lying around the flat. The books and magazines had found a place on the bookshelves, organised in stacks and by author.
“You’re disappointingly organised for an artist.” Beth always teased.
Big Clearing Out Projects always helped her clarify her thoughts …
Boring, but there it was.
She moved a few books around on the shelves. She had decided that perhaps organising the magazines by theme would be an idea …
Was it true Ollie was a junkie?
The thought made her angry … Not at him, but at others and herself for believing this was the case so readily.
The full-length mirror that sat in pride of place in the bedroom sent back a sad picture. Her spiky hair had lost its edginess and the dark purple dye looked laughable. The clothes she was wearing were too baggy, too trendy. The fire had left nothing of her old wardrobe … If not destroyed by the flames, the smoke had left an acrid smell that had penetrated everything. There was nothing familiar to cling to.
The only person she trusted who would believe in Cora’s instinct and give Ollie a chance was not there. Nancy was back home with Pole. Yet, she was the only hope she had to help shed light on what had happened and why.
Against mounting evidence Cora believed in the one word that Ollie had uttered.
Innocent.
Chapter Twelve
The apartment hotel he had chosen had not changed much since his last visit. The Citadines, Trafalgar Square was ideally positioned … Central London, close to a number of tube lines and railway stations. St James’s Park was around the corner, ideal for an early morning jog. As importantly, it was near enough to MI6 Vauxhall Cross and yet not close enough to be on their doorstep. He was on holiday after all.
Jack had repeated the sentence several times on the flight and again this morning, when he congratulated himself on securing the best apartment in this neat four-star hotel.
He was on holiday … but …
He walked around the room checking its layout. The inspection for any possible unwanted devices would come later. The safety deposit box was working but would not resist a professional. Still, it would do for the time being.
Jack yawned whilst unpacking his suitcase and with difficulty resisted the temptation to collapse into the crisp white bed sheets for a couple of hours’ sleep.
But he was due to meet Harris a little later in Soho. An old pub Harris was raving about and Jack was certainly game for it.
Jack took a reviving shower. He brewed a cup of coffee, from a surprisingly good range of coffee pods, using the small Nespresso machine that had been fitted into the kitchenette adjacent to the small lounge.
He made himself comfortable on the sofa and spread out the newspapers he had picked up on leaving the aircraft, The Financial Times, The Times and The Guardian.
An article about the UN Security Council passing a raft of new sanctions against North Korea attracted his attention. China had been actively involved in drafting the sanctions. As a result, a few days later, North Korea had withdrawn from the 60-year-old armistice that had been signed with South Korea. A truce that had ended the 1953 Korean War.
Jack poured himself another cup of coffee. The aroma filled the room, making it homely and welcoming. China seemed to be playing its part, did this signal a complete change in attitude towards North K
orea? Did the Sleeping Giant suddenly feel confident enough of its power to no longer have need of the proxy war North Korea helped to wield against the US?
He moved over to the floor-to-ceiling window and pulled open the net curtain. He had a full view of Northumberland Avenue and, from the far righthand corner of the window, Trafalgar Square. Despite the traffic, the double glazing made the room quiet and comfortable. Jack finished his coffee.
Looking at his watch he decided he had some time before he needed to make his way to meet Harris. He opened his laptop and started the lengthy log in process. His smartphone had indicated Laurie had forwarded more documents, including a new report on China’s latest confidential conversation with the US about their proposed collaboration.
* * *
Pole had agreed she could join the Ollie Wilson case in her formal role as consultant. Nancy would now be able to investigate whether he liked it or not, as he well knew.
They had woken up early and shared a quick breakfast. Pole had a meeting he was not looking forward to, she could tell, and yet he had been silent about it. She would find out what was troubling him even if it meant coaxing young Andy into telling her a little more than he should. Just enough for her to put the pieces of this conundrum together, but not enough to get him into trouble.
Her short list of names to call was lying on the desk. Her mug of tea was almost full and still warm. At the top of her list came the name of the woman she had befriended in the first investigation she had been involved in as a Met consultant … Yvonne Butler. Her lab was involved in the Ollie Wilson case but the favour she had to ask had little to do with it. Nancy checked her watch … Only 8.45am. Although she started early at the lab, Yvonne would not yet be in the middle of an post mortem.
“Nancy …” She greeted her cheerfully. “It has been ages. Does DCI Pole keep you that busy? Day and night?” Yvonne’s naughtiness made her chuckle.
“Well, yes … night and day.” Nancy chuckled in return.
“Anything I can do for you? Some new demanding case to sink my teeth into?” Yvonne’s voice was eager. She enjoyed being involved in anything challenging and Nancy had provided her with plenty of perplexing puzzles since she’d known her.
“I hope you don’t mind me calling to ask for a favour?”
“A favour … how intriguing … can’t wait to hear what you need from me. How about 11.30am this morning? My coffee break, which I take religiously as you know, unless DCI Pole needs something urgent that is.”
“Usual café, Borough Market?”
“The very same.”
Nancy thanked Yvonne and returned to her list. She decided against calling another contact. One step at a time.
Nancy moved from the office back to her lounge. She moved the large book that sat on her coffee table, the latest publication by one of her artist friends who was retracing his career in sculpture.
She was tempted to flick through the pages but moved it to one side, and started arranging on the long glass table top the documents she had collected about her father’s disappearance.
There was, to start with, the meagre set of papers she had kept herself from the past.
The black and white photo she had looked at only yesterday beckoned her again.. An elegant young man in a three-piece suit sporting a mandarin collared shirt, and a young woman with long dark hair in a short dress patterned with large stripes. Nancy remembered the dress and its typical 60s colours. Both are smiling broadly. He has his arm wrapped around the young woman’s shoulders and she has laid her hands on the shoulders of a little girl called Nancy.
Nancy checked the date on the back of the picture. By then her and her parents had left China as the Cultural Revolution was biting hard. They had just arrived in Paris after months of travelling through China’s countryside to escape the communist regime. A trip that had finally taken them to the shores of Guangdong province, leaving for Hong Kong from there and then reaching France.
Her hands were clammy. She pushed away the rest of the memories that had terrified her as a child. The nightmare that had lasted for years, only assuaged when she, at last, had convinced herself she would never have to go back to China.
The few official documents her father had gathered, when they left, were no longer relevant. They were written in Chinese and she could barely decipher the ideograms on them. She hadn’t spoken Mandarin for years … except occasionally to help some bemused tourists. The language she had learned as a child was now laced with a heavy English accent.
The next pile of documents neatly spread out on the table had been gathered recently. Pole assured her he had been in touch with contacts in Hong Kong as well as Interpol. Nancy sat back and pondered.
How careless of her not to have probed a little more.
She pulled the satchel that always lay on the side of the sofa and took the legal yellow ruled pad from it.
She had already listed the documents she had gathered, without bothering to capture these in a Word document. Her indecision and lax attitude towards a case, her own case, that she should have taken so much more seriously, irritated her.
She stood up, took a few paces towards the large windows that overlooked the building’s gardens. The sky was just starting to clear a little. The sun had risen only recently, and clouds were beginning to disperse. There was not much point in castigating herself. She had to decide whether she truly wanted to keep digging into her past.
“No … no.” Nancy shook her head forcefully. People had helped. They had been hurt, or perhaps worse. She owed it to them to take the search seriously. She had succeeded in mounting some of the most complex defence cases, in front of both the British courts and international tribunals. She would approach her own case with the same professionalism, no matter how great the emotional cost.
She returned to the sofa and sat down again.
The documents Pole had gathered for her had confirmed what she had always suspected. Her father had become involved in the arts again when returning to China, trying to spur a new movement, introducing new ways of thinking and making that came from the contemporary art world that had developed earlier in Europe and America.
A magazine called Menshu, printed in Wuhan, had published a small article written by him. The magazine had been censored in 1987, barely a year after her father had arrived back in China. She surmised he must have kept in touch with some of his old friends and been introduced to the new Chinese avant-garde, sending an article from Paris shortly before he left France.
The few pictures, this time in colour, told her they would have been shot using a Polaroid camera and developed instantly. Her father was standing in front of a large poster. A circle in red and black turning upon itself with a red bar across it, had been drawn at its centre. The new U-turn to the past was the sign used by the new generation of artists.
A few more pictures were now spread out on Nancy’s coffee table. She had gone through them before with scant interest. She didn’t know who these people were and had assumed they were part of her father’s artistic crowd.
Nancy was about to tidy up the photos into a pile when she stopped herself dead. The Polaroid had faded considerably but there was a man at the back of the small group of people gathered in the picture she thought looked familiar. Nancy tilted the picture a little. She moved to the wall and turned up the light to full. It was still difficult to see but she now recognised him.
Nancy moved back to her study, opening a couple of drawers, rummaging frantically through. She found the magnifying glass she was looking for, returned to the lounge and looked at the photo again closely. It was him, unmistakeably.
Deng Xiao Ping himself … the man who had been and still was the symbol of China’s opening up to the world after years of communist introversion.
“Impossible …” Nancy shut her eyes and kept them closed for a moment. She opened them up again and retur
ned the magnifying glass to enlarge the face she had been trying to identify.
There was no doubt left in her mind. Her father had gathered together a group of friends, presumably artists, and he was introducing them to Deng.
Her father had re-joined the Chinese Communist Party wholeheartedly.
* * *
“I’ll tell him as soon as he has arrived.” Andy was gesticulating to attract Pole’s attention.
Pole looked at the clock on the wall. It was barely 8am. Someone was keen to get on with their day.
“Ferguson?” Pole balanced his tea on the low partition that divided off Andy’s desk space.
“Spot on, Gov.” Andy handed over the post-it on which he had scribbled the message. Pole glanced at it vaguely. He knew what the message was saying and was not keen to read it.
“Thanks Andy … how is the search for the mysterious man you lost in Balham going?”
“Nothing much, so far.” Andy looked gloomy. He was rarely defeated by someone sneaking past CCTV cameras or other public recording devices. It seemed, however, that this individual had been well prepared.
“How about the gunman that went through the floorboards and is now lying on one of Yvonne’s slabs?”
Andy remained gloomy. “Yvonne has not started the post mortem yet … otherwise nothing has shown up.”
Pole eyebrows shot up. “You mean he has no record?”
“If he has one … it’s very well hidden … the only observation Yvonne made was that he is almost certainly not British.”
“I agree on that one.”
“I’m in touch with Interpol and Europol. I’ve just received photos from the lab which have been forwarded to them.”
“Something will give.” Pole nodded encouragingly.
“Not so sure, Gov.” Andy hesitated. “It is as though someone has gone to great lengths to erase all traces of whoever this chap is.”
Pole grabbed a chair and rolled it next to his DS’s desk.
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