by Ian Rankin
‘Sit down, John. Mint?’
‘No thanks, sir.’
Trilling took out a sweet and slipped it into his mouth. It was seven months since he’d given up smoking and he was up to four packs of mints a day. His teeth were in ruins and he’d gained half a stone - half a stone he could ill afford. Seated in his chair, with its high armrests, it looked as though it would take a crowbar to get him out again. There was a sheet of paper on the notoriously tidy desk in front of him but no sign of Greenleaf’s report. He picked up the paper.
‘Bit of a job for you, John. May be something or nothing. A sinking off Folkestone. We’ve been asked to look into it. Happened a couple of days ago. Can’t say I saw anything about it.’
It was well known that Trilling only ever looked at two newspapers, the Financial Times and the Sporting Life. He was a betting man, sometimes putting his money on a sure-fire stock or share, sometimes a horse or dog. Nobody really knew how successful he was since he didn’t share information, even when goaded by Doyle.
‘I think I read about it in my paper, sir.’
‘Did you? Good, well ...’ Trilling handed over the sheet. ‘Report back when you’ve got anything.’
‘How far do I take it, sir?’
‘As far as a day trip to Folkestone. Better liaise with Doyle.’
‘Doyle, sir?’
‘I’ve put him onto the French end.’ Greenleaf looked puzzled. ‘Didn’t I say? Another boat sank the same night off Calais. We’re to look for a connection. Doyle speaks passable French apparently.’
A day out in Calais for Doyle, an afternoon in Folkestone for Greenleaf. Typical.
‘As I say, liaise with Doyle. You might even consider travelling down together. But see what you can do by telephone first. We don’t want expensive outings on office time if we can avoid it, not with them counting how many paper-clips we use. Like the man says, John, value for money. Maybe you should write a letter rather than use the phone.’
The Commander was smiling. This was how people knew he’d made a joke.
Thursday 4 June
His first ‘liaison’ with Doyle was at eleven the next morning. ‘Bring your chair over,’ Doyle said, thereby seizing the initiative: the meeting would take place at Doyle’s desk, in Doyle’s territory. Greenleaf lifted his heavy metal-framed chair with both hands, first resting his notes on the seat of the chair itself. But as he was placing it in front of Doyle’s desk, the notes slewed floorwards. Doyle affected not to notice. His own notes, Greenleaf noticed, were neatly word-processed: not because he’d laboured hard, but because he had a ‘close friend’ in the typing pool. No doubt she’d ignored more important work this morning so she could prepare these sheets for Doyle. It all looked efficient, a single paper-clip holding the whole lot together. Doyle now slid the paper-clip from the corner of the sheets and let it fall to the floor. He spread the sheets in front of him.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘what have you got?’
‘A small touring boat,’ Greenleaf said from memory. ‘Must have sunk about two miles off the coast, just south of Folkestone. There was an automatic alarm system on board which alerted the coastguard. The system only operates in two situations: when set off by a crew member or when it’s exposed to water. No sign of the boat itself, just some debris and oil and the two bodies.’
‘Post-mortems?’
‘I’m waiting for the reports.’
‘What time did all this happen?’
‘The alarm went off at three twenty-seven.’
‘The French boat sank around three,’ Doyle added. ‘So who was on board?’
‘Two men, George Crane and Brian Perch.’
‘Crane and Perch?’ Greenleaf nodded, and Doyle produced a gust of laughter. ‘Were they out fishing?’
‘Not fishing. If anything, the boat was a pleasure cruiser. You know, a sort of motorised yacht. I don’t know much about sailing but that’s what they tell me.’
‘So what were they doing out at that time of night?’
‘Nobody knows.’
‘Where had they been?’
Greenleaf shook his head. ‘Crane’s widow didn’t even know he was taking the boat out. He told her he was going for a drive. He suffered from insomnia, she says. All Perch’s family know is that he was doing a job for Crane. The boat’s mooring is along the coast from Folkestone, a place called Sandgate.’
‘But the boat itself was nearer Folkestone when it went down?’
‘Other side of Folkestone from Sandgate.’
Doyle tapped his fingers against the edge of the desk. His suit looked crumpled but comfortable. Greenleaf, on the other hand, felt as if he was wearing a restraint of some kind. Time to buy a new jacket or start a diet. ‘What did Crane do?’ Doyle asked.
‘Had his own building firm.’
Doyle stopped tapping and reached into his jacket, scratching slowly. ‘Figures with a name like that. Do you know why the boat sank?’
‘They’re going to try to recover it this afternoon, for what it’s worth.’
Doyle brought his hand out of his jacket. ‘I can tell you what they’ll find.’
‘What?’
Doyle smiled and looked down at the sheets spread across the desk in front of him. Eventually he looked up. ‘They’re a bit quicker off the mark than us across the Channel. They haven’t quite got the boat up yet, but the post mortem’s been done. I spoke to the pathologiste this morning.’ He smiled again. Greenleaf hated him for the way he’d dropped the French pronunciation into his speech. ‘Docteur Lagarde had some interesting things to say. Incidentally, they reckon there were four on board the vessel. It was a fishing boat, registered in Calais.’
‘So what does the doctor say?’
Doyle smiled at Greenleafs impatience. ‘Well, for a start the bodies suffered some puncture wounds.’
‘What sort?’
‘Splinters of wood, metal, glass. Lagarde took a nineincher out of some poor sod. Embedded itself in the stomach and punctured the heart.’
‘Meaning there was force behind it?’
‘Oh, yes, there was force all right. Upward force. And burn marks too. One of the bodies in particular was badly scorched.’
‘An explosion,’ Greenleaf commented.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Only what they found floating around in the surface oil. Hundred-dollar bills. Fifteen of them, not in very good nick. They got a couple of serial numbers. The Americans are checking.’
‘Fifteen hundred dollars. What do you reckon, drugs?’
‘Drugs or arms, but probably drugs.’
‘You think the two boats met mid-Channel?’
‘It’s an idea. There’s only one way to tell for sure. We need the PM results from Folkestone. Want me to give you a lift?’
‘What?’
Doyle leaned down behind his desk and raised a bulging holdall high. ‘I’m off to Calais on the evening ferry. Spending the night there, do a bit of sniffing tomorrow, then hit the hypermarché before heading back. I got the nod from Trilling an hour ago.’
‘The luck of the Irish.’
Doyle’s face darkened a little. What had he said? Ah, Doyle was touchy about his name’s Irishness, was he? Got you, thought Greenleaf, got you!
When Doyle spoke, he was still subdued. ‘I’ve got to alter my headlights, dip them the right way, but after that I’m ready to leave. So if you’re heading for Folkestone ...’
‘I’ll take my own car, thanks.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Doyle. He seemed to be staring at Greenleaf’s straining suit as he said it.
‘I wish you’d come to me with this earlier, Michael.’ It wasn’t quite the opening line Michael Barclay had expected from his boss. Joyce Parry sat there, invulnerable behind thick-rimmed spectacles, his report held up in front of her. Having glanced at it for effect, she laid it back down and slipped off her glasses. They hung around her neck by a string, and she let them dangle
against her chest. From time to time, they grazed the triple-string of Ciro pearls resting just below her throat. Her throat, thought Barclay, was the oldest part of her, permanently lined and stretched. Her good legs, face and hair might say early-40s, but the neck gave the lie to this. Late-40s, the neck said to Barclay.
‘Sit down,’ Joyce Parry’s mouth told him.
Barclay had always believed that he was attractive to women. To women and to men actually. He had used his good looks and steady unblinking gaze to good effect both socially and professionally. He felt that he’d always got on well with Joyce Parry, being at his charming best in her office and at meetings where she was present. So much so in fact that someone had sent him an anonymous Valentine addressed: ‘To a creeping, slimy, boss-loving toad’. The card was pinned above his desk, its sender still a mystery.
Barclay didn’t mind it. He didn’t mind envy in the workplace. He didn’t mind that others thought he was getting on well with the boss. He’d always imagined that there was something special between Mrs Parry and him. He might almost have called it a ‘special relationship’.
And now this.
‘I really wish you’d shown me this earlier, Michael.’ She used his first name softly, the sentence fading away, to show that she was disappointed in him. As he sat in front of her, his legs felt overlong and clumsy. He rested his hands on his knees, hiding them.
‘I did try, but you were—’
‘You should have tried later. Any news from Commander Trilling?’
‘Just that he has two men working on it. One of them’s off to France, the other to Folkestone.’
‘A bit too early for Special Branch,’ she said. ‘You should have done some digging of your own first. You should have spoken to me first.’ Now the endings of her sentences were like stabs at him. ‘You jumped the gun.’ She nodded slowly towards him, letting this sink in, then wheeled her chair to the corner of her desk where it met with another in an L-shape. Her main desk was all paperwork, but on the side desk stood a computer, the screen angled just enough so that no one sitting where Barclay was could see it. This large desk also hosted printer and modem, while in a far corner of the room sat a fax machine and document shredder. There were three telephones on the main desk. One of them rang just as she was accessing the computer. She pushed her chair back into place and, instead of lifting the receiver, hit one of the buttons.
‘Mrs Parry here,’ she said, swivelling back to her computer screen.
A small female voice came from the telephone’s loudspeaker. ‘I checked the computer files—’
‘I told you not to bother, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, but I—’
‘Mr Elder belongs to the pre-microchip days. He believed in paper files.’
Sensible man, thought Barclay. Elder ... the name was familiar. The voice was speaking again.
‘Yes, well, I’ve got those files too.’
‘Good,’ said Joyce Parry. ‘All I need to know is ... no, on second thoughts, bring them in here.’
Once more she wheeled back, this time to cut the connection. Then forwards again, her fingers fast on the keyboard. Barclay knew that his superior had computer clearance far above his own. He knew too that he could beat the computer system, given time and the will. If he wanted to, he could access anything. If he wanted to.
‘Ah, here we are,’ said Joyce Parry. He studied her profile. Classically English, whatever that meant. The way she raised her chin as she read from the screen. A long straightish nose, thin lips, short well-kept hair, showing just a little grey. Grey eyes too. She was one of those women who grow better looking as they get older. She pressed a few more keys, checked that the printer was on, then pressed two more keys. The laser printer began its quick quiet work. She swivelled back to the main desk and handed the first sheet to him. He had to rise from his chair to take it. The paper was still warm from the machine.
There was a sudden tapping on the wide-open door. Parry signalled for the secretary to come in. She was carrying two bulging folders, tied securely with what looked like shoelaces.
‘Thanks, Angela, leave them on the desk.’ Joyce Parry extracted two more sheets from the printer. Barclay tried to concentrate on the piece of paper he was holding but it was difficult not to stare at those two files, the files of someone called Elder. The name definitely stirred a memory, but this wasn’t the time for reflection. Joyce Parry began untying the shoelaces while Barclay read from the laser-printed page.
The report was dated six years before, and had been filed originally by the CIA before being passed along ‘for information’ to the British authorities. What Barclay now held was formed as a precis, as abridged by D. Elder.
‘On 16 May,’ he read, ‘a small fishing boat left the South Korean port of Pusan. Crew of six. Known and well liked in the port. No hint that the crew were involved in any illegal activities prior to this time, though most boatmen in the area regard smuggling as above the law anyway.
‘On 17 May, debris and bodies (six) washed up on the island of Mishima, off the Japanese mainland. Earlier reported sighting of the boat near the Japanese coastal town of Susa. No reason why boat should have been in this area. Skipper/owner an experienced sailor. Scale of damage to vessel suggested an explosion rather than collision, grounding, etc. However, no report of anyone seeing or hearing a blast. (Southern-Asian ears and eyes not always fully functional. Remember, to them pirates are still an occupational hazard rather than a 1930s Errol Flynn film.)’
Barclay smiled and started on the second sheet.
‘Investigation undertaken by Japanese and South Korean authorities. No further evidence uncovered up to date of this report. However, there was talk in Pusan of a young woman who had been seen talking with the boat’s owner in a bar a few days prior to the final voyage. She is described as being tall with short dark hair, probably speaking English.
‘From 18-20 May, International Conference for World Peace (ICWP) based at various locations in Hiroshima, Japan. Conference attended by 240 delegates from forty-six countries, supplemented by invited guests (e.g.: from Japanese universities, media) and, to some events, general public. World media invited to attend. Four intelligence agents among those accepting. (See file no. CI/46377/J/DE.) Six keynote speeches given prominence during conference. Other activities included film shows, art exhibition, theatre events, and concert by Music for Peace (the latter with its HQ in London, investigated 1984: see file no. UK/0/223660/L/JP).’
JP: Joyce Parry’s initials. Barclay was beginning to sense what this was all about. His hands grew clammy, sticking to the sheet as he read on.
‘On closing day, 20 May, final keynote address was to be given by international peace activist Jerome Hassan (CI/38225/USP/DG). However, Mr Hassan was taken ill with suspected food poisoning and his speech (much abbreviated - Hassan was known to work by improvisation) was delivered by a colleague, Dr Danielle Brecht.
‘Mr Hassan died in hospital on evening of 20 May, just as live telecast at closing concert was beaming messages by pop and film luminaries into Japan.
‘Post mortem was carried out on morning of 21 May, with Mr Hassan’s hotel (and over 100 diners from the previous day) keenly awaiting findings. Laboratory analysis showed atropine poisoning. (Atropine is an alkaline found in Deadly Nightshade. From the Greek atropos, “the Fate that cuts the thread of life”.)
‘While still conscious, but thought to be delirious, Hassan spoke of a girl, a student probably. He spoke of her “beauty and generosity”. Hotel staff when interviewed acknowledged that on the night of 19 May, a young woman had accompanied Mr Hassan to his room. No one saw her leave, despite a twenty-four-hour reception area. Descriptions given varied. One assessed her height at nearly six foot, another at only five foot six. One said black hair, another brown. Hair was probably cropped short, and woman was fair-skinned though tanned. European perhaps, or Asian. No one heard her speak. She had crossed the lobby with Mr Hassan and entered the lift with him. She was dres
sed in black denims, light T-shirt, light-coloured jacket. Mr Hassan was carrying a plastic carrier bag, weighted down with books. Reception staff got the impression the bag belonged to the woman.
‘Woman has never been traced. Hassan’s previous sexual history questioned. (Widow not forthcoming.) As a footnote, woman’s entry to the country was clumsy, creating immediate suspicion. And her use of atropine, or at least the dosage used, was also clumsy, since it allowed the victim time to talk before dying. Pity is, he did not say anything useful.
‘See: WITCH file.
‘Final footnote: Susa is c. fifty miles from Hiroshima.’
Barclay turned to the third and final sheet, expecting more. But all he read were edited newspaper reports of Jerome Hassan’s murder, mentioning poison and the mysterious young woman. A jealous lover was hinted at. He looked up and saw that Joyce Parry was immersed in the contents of one of the Elder files. He glanced through his own sheets again, quite liking Elder’s tone - the explanation of the word atropine; the mention of the final night’s rock concert; that nice late mention that Hassan was a married man.
‘You see the coincidence,’ Parry said without warning. She was looking at him now. ‘An assassin is dropped off on the Japanese mainland and then destroys the boat which landed her. Now, six years later, something similar occurs.’
Barclay considered this. ‘Special Branch are thinking more along the lines of drugs or arms.’
‘Exactly. And that’s why I’d rather you hadn’t alerted them this early on. They may be off on half a dozen wild goose chases. Then, if we approach them with new information, they’ll wonder why we didn’t come up with it sooner. Do you see what I mean?’ Her glasses glinted. Barclay was nodding.