by KJ Griffin
Chapter 18: Grovesnor Hotel, Victoria Station, London: 7:00 p.m.
The bar of the Grovesnor Hotel was filling with noisy business types, smoothing over the day’s exertions before the train journey home. Clayton arrived early, partly because he thought he ought to buy the drinks, partly to keep an eye open for a pretty Spanish waitress he had noted on a previous visit. Removing his jacket, he sequestered the two corner bar stools and ordered a large Scotch and soda, keeping one ear open for a cough or a nervous giggle, while he slumped his elbows on the counter with the determination of a heavy drinker whose eyes did not intend to get any further than the row of bottles in front, or the back of the bar stewardess’s skirt.
But Knox surprised him. Without the usual noises, the MI5 man slapped an envelope on the counter next to Clayton’s glass.
‘Lean pickings for you, I’m afraid, Max.’
‘What will it be, Graham?’ Clayton asked, opening the envelope and attracting the bar stewardess’s attention. Knox ordered a beer and treated himself to his first cough.
‘These two arrived at the house at eight thirty-five, this morning,’ he spluttered, pointing at the first photo Clayton was studying. A young man and woman were captured waiting outside some black iron gates, speaking into an intercom in the wall. From their deportment, Clayton guessed that they were not a couple. The next shot showed them walking towards a mansion under the surveillance of a security guard.
‘They left again just after four. Probably work inside; that would be my guess. We’re running ID checks on the photos. Nothing yet, I’m afraid.’ Cough.
‘They weren’t followed?’
Another cough, hoarser and more indignant. ‘I told you, Max. A two-man team is as much as I can afford without clearance. Now if you can get me the go ahead…’
‘OK, Graham. What else is there? Any photos of the Special Envoy?’
‘No luck there, either, I’m afraid. Apart from the couple you’ve just seen, and several catering vans, there’s only one other face in the gallery.’
Clayton pulled the last picture to the top.
‘Fancy a bit of that, eh, Max?’ Silly giggle.
Clayton certainly did, but he was dammed if his enthusiasm was going to allow Knox another stifled chortle. He stared intently at the face in the pictures. Gorgeous! Simply gorgeous.
‘Obviously, we’re checking on the girl, Max. Nothing yet. She left just after the other two arrived and returned to the house at nine-twenty in the evening.’
Clayton drained his glass.
‘Have the girl tailed, will you Graham? And it doesn’t matter if there’s no one to watch the house while you do it.’
Knox looked rankled.
‘Look, Max, twenty-four hours, forty-eight tops, I can manage. But anything beyond that…’ Acerbic cough. ‘I’ll have to go official.’
Knox was right. Clayton knew there was no way he could ask for more, so he forced himself into a twisted half-smile and drained his glass.
‘Twenty-four hours will do fine, Graham. If there’s nothing to work on by then, I’ll stop pestering you. Now, drink up. Same again?’