by Ian Rankin
He’d considered an insurance scam. Take the boat out at dead of night and blow it up, then claim the money. But it didn’t add up. Why not just sell the boat? One reason might be that no one was buying. Okay, so why did he have to die too? A miscalculation with the timer or the amount of explosive used? Possible. But Greenleaf still didn’t rate it. Why take someone else along? And besides, there was the French sinking to consider. It had to be tied in with the British sinking; too much of a coincidence otherwise.
Bringing him back to murder.
Crane’s wife didn’t know anything about anything. She knew nothing about her husband’s movements that night, nothing about his business affairs, nothing about any of his meetings. All she knew was that she should wear black and deserve sympathy. She seemed to find his questions in particularly bad taste. Crane’s secretary, when tracked down, had been no more forthcoming. No, no meetings with strangers. No sudden ‘appointments’ out of the office which couldn’t be squared with his diary. No mysterious telephone calls.
So what was Greenleaf left with? A man in debt, needing a few thousand (well, fifteen or so actually) to see him back on dry land. Personal financial affairs which had yet to be disentangled (it seemed Crane had been a bit naughty, stashing his cash in several accounts kept hidden from the prying taxman). A midnight boat trip which ends with him two grand in pocket but not in any position to spend it. It all came back to smuggling, didn’t it? Just as Doyle had said. Arms or dope or someone creeping back into the country unannounced. Well, hardly unannounced. Whatever it was, it had cost six lives so far, which was too high a price to pay, whatever the payoff.
Most of these thoughts Greenleaf kept to himself. On paper, he stuck to the facts and the procedures followed. It still looked like a tidy bit of work, scrupulous and unstinting. He began to feel quite pleased with himself. He’d get it to Trilling before lunchtime. Definite. When would Doyle file his findings? Not before tomorrow. He was due back tomorrow morning. Say tomorrow afternoon then. Giving Greenleaf over a day clear, a day during which he’d be ahead of his nemesis. He breathed deeply and decided to pause for another cup of coffee.
When he got back from the machine, his phone was ringing. He almost spilled hot coffee all down his shirt as he lunged for the receiver.
‘Yes? Greenleaf here.’
‘John? Terry Willard at CC.’
‘Morning, Terry.’ Good. Terry Willard was one of Counterfeit Currency’s best workers. ‘What can you do for me?’
‘You sound chirpy for a man who must’ve been in - where was it? - Folkestone? - till all hours last night. We’re not used to getting faxes after six.’
Greenleaf laughed and relaxed into his chair. ‘Just conscientious, Terry. So you’ve got some news, have you?’
‘The notes aren’t counterfeit. I’m pretty sure of that.’
‘Oh.’ Greenleaf tried not to sound disappointed.
‘Better than that, really,’ said Willard. ‘I’ve already traced them.’
‘What?’ Greenleaf sat forward in his chair. ‘Terry, you’re a genius. Christ, it’s not even ten o’clock yet.’
‘To be honest, it wasn’t the hardest work I’ve done. The computer picked the numbers out inside a couple of minutes. Those notes are ancient history. You probably wouldn’t have noticed that last night, the state most of them must have been in, but take it from me they are old banknotes. And they’ve been out of circulation for some time. We were beginning to doubt we’d ever see them again.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean they’re marked. The serial numbers are on record. They’re part of a kidnap pay-off.’
‘A kidnap?’
‘Best part of five years ago. In Italy. A British businessman’s daughter was kidnapped by some gang ... It’s a bit of a long story. Want me to send you over what I’ve got?’
‘Christ, yes. A kidnap?’ Greenleaf’s head was reeling. ‘Yes, send me what you’ve got. And Terry ... ?’
‘Yes?’
‘I owe you a beer.’
‘No sweat.’
Commander Trilling showed no emotion as Greenleaf told his, or rather Willard’s, story. Greenleaf’s report was in front of Trilling, as was the file sent over from Willard, and he glanced at them from time to time as the Special Branch officer recapped. ‘The father’s name is Gibson, sir. At the time he was an executive with the Gironi chemicals company in Turin. The daughter, Christina, was in a private school near Genoa. She disappeared during a visit to an art gallery. She was missing two days before Mr Gibson received a telephone call from the kidnappers.
‘By that time the Italian police were already involved. They know that when a rich businessman’s daughter goes missing, there’s usually a ransom demand somewhere at the back of it. They’d set up telephone taps at the Gibson home and the Gironi headquarters before the first call came.’
Trilling crunched down hard on a mint and nodded.
‘The problem was timing,’ Greenleaf went on. ‘The gang telephoned on four occasions that first day, but never for more than eight seconds, not long enough for any tracing system to work. The first call merely stated that Christina had been kidnapped, the second identified the terrorist gang responsible, the third stated how much of a ransom was required, and the fourth was a plea from Christina herself.
‘Another two days passed before the gang got in touch again.’
Trilling interrupted. ‘Was the caller male or female?’
‘Male, sir.’ Greenleaf had studied the case file well over the previous hour. He knew that he was leaving just enough out so that the Commander would ask him questions. He already knew the answers to those questions. It was an old trick which made you look not-quite-perfect but not too far off it either.
‘And the gang?’
‘La Croix Jaune: Yellow Cross. Nothing much about them on the files. Probably a splinter group from one of the other terrorist organisations. The name may be some obscure joke to do with the Red Brigade. They came on the scene in ’85 and seemed to disappear again in ‘88. In fact, there are doubts they ever existed at all as a group. The name may just be a cover for two or three criminals working together. Two kidnaps and two armed bank robberies. They were never identified, let alone captured. The only time a bank camera caught them they were masked.’
‘You say two or three members?’
‘That’s all Christina Gibson saw. They kept her blindfolded most of the time, and at others they were dressed in balaclavas and sunglasses. But she was fairly sure there were two men, one taller than the other, and one woman, as tall as the men but slimmer.’
Trilling nodded thoughtfully. ‘So what happened?’
‘Mr Gibson cooperated throughout with the police. It was an international effort by then, as far as these things go. Two Special Branch men were flown out to assist. Matt Duncan and lain Campbell. The kidnappers—’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Sorry, sir?’
‘The British contingent: did it include anyone else?’
‘Not on record, sir.’ Greenleaf frowned. This was the first question to have stumped him. But Trilling was smiling, nodding to himself.
‘That means nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, sir, the kidnappers wanted dollars, but we asked Mr Gibson to persuade them to take sterling. He told them dollars would take some time, while he had the sterling to hand. They agreed. So we put together thirty grand’s worth of notes. The intention was to catch them cold, but there was a shoot-out and they got away. The girl was released, but the money had flown with the gang.’
‘Clumsy.’
‘Agreed. The Italians reckoned they wounded one of the gang, but nothing came of it. And the money disappeared, despite a check by all clearing banks. The notes on Crane’s body are the first to have surfaced.’
‘Poor choice of word,’ commented Trilling. ‘Still, good work, John.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Yes, very good work.
So, what do we make of it?’
‘Well, it links Crane to a terrorist group, which indicates arms smuggling rather than drugs.’
‘All it links him to, John, is dirty money. You can buy dirty money for fivepence in the pound. It’s a cheap way of paying someone a large sum when you’re not bothered what happens to the person afterwards.’ Trilling thought for a moment. ‘You know, I’m not at all sure that we’ve been given a level playing field here.’
‘Sir?’
‘It all smacks of the cloak-and-dagger brigade. Who did you say contacted us in the first place?’
Christ, what was his name? Barrow ... Beardsley ... Barkworth ... ‘Barclay, sir.’
‘Barclay. Never heard of him. But he’s one of Joyce Parry’s. I wonder what Joyce is playing at? I think I’d better have a word with her.’
He was about to pick up his receiver when there was a knock at the door. Greenleaf rubbed his stomach to stop it from rumbling. It was quarter to one, and so far today all he’d had was five cups of coffee.
‘Come in.’
It was Trilling’s secretary. She was holding two sheets of paper, stapled together. ‘Mr Doyle’s report, sir.’
‘Thank you, Celia.’ Trilling held out his hand, took the report and laid it on his desk, on top of Greenleaf’s own report. Greenleaf stared at the closely typed top sheet. He was oblivious to Celia’s smile, or the closing of the door after she left. He kept hearing her words: Mr Doyle’s report ... Mr Doyle’s report. When Greenleaf looked up from the desk, he saw Commander Trilling studying him.
‘Efficient, isn’t he?’ Trilling mused.
‘Very, sir. But how ... ?’
‘Oh, quite simple really. Doyle requested a laptop computer. He’s taken it with him. Clever devices, they work on rechargeable batteries you know. Sizeable memory, too. I can never get on with the screens on them, but some people can.’
‘So Doyle’s writing his report as he goes?’
‘That’s it. Then he plugs the laptop into a modem, presses a few buttons, and his copy arrives at a computer here. All we have to do is run off a hard copy.’ He patted Doyle’s report, then lifted it up. ‘Now, let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.’ But instead of reading, he looked at Greenleaf over the paper. ‘If there’s a case to investigate, John, I want you and Doyle to work on it together. Understand? Together. Do you think you can manage that?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Trilling continued to look at him. ‘Good,’ he said, before turning his attention to the report.
Dominic Elder was a large man, larger than Barclay had expected. That surname, Elder, had put him on the wrong track. He’d expected a hunched, defeated figure, the sort who had been elders at his mother’s Presbyterian church. But Dominic Elder was large and fit and strong. He’d be about fifty, a year or two older than Joyce Parry. His face had been handsome once, but time had done things to it. He looked out of place in the garden of the pretty cottage, on his knees and planting out seedlings in a well-kept vegetable-bed. ‘Mr Elder?’ Barclay had driven slowly down the lane, and had parked right outside the gate before ejecting Il Trovatore from the cassette player. But, even as he pushed open the gate, the man in the garden seemed not to acknowledge his presence.
‘Mr Elder?’ Barclay repeated. ‘Dominic Elder?’
‘That’s me, Mr Barclay,’ the figure said, rising stiffly to its feet and brushing soil from its hands. ‘Who did you expect to find?’
‘There’s no number or name on the gate,’ Barclay explained. ‘I wasn’t sure I had the right house.’
Elder looked around him slowly. ‘You may not have noticed,’ he said in his quiet, deep voice, ‘but this is the only house there is.’ He said it slowly, as if he were explaining something to a child. His eyes fixed on Barclay’s as he spoke. He was massaging his back with the knuckles of one hand. ‘I suppose you were recruited straight from university, yes?’
Barclay made a non-committal gesture. He wasn’t sure where this was leading. He’d had a long drive, and an exasperating one. Roadworks, wrong turnings, and trouble with the car’s third gear. It kept slipping back into neutral. On top of which it was twenty-eight degrees, and he needed a drink.
‘Yes,’ Elder was saying, ‘straight from university. What did you study?’
‘Electronics.’
“‘Oh, brave new world.”’ Elder chuckled. ‘So they put you into surveillance first, did they?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘But it was routine and boring. You wanted out.’
Barclay shuffled his feet. Maybe Elder was astute, but then again maybe he’d learned all this from Joyce Parry. Barclay wasn’t impressed by tricks.
‘And eventually you got your transfer.’ Elder checked the dirt beneath his gardener’s fingernails. ‘What school did you go to?’
‘I really don’t see what ...’ Barclay sighed. Losing his patience wouldn’t do any good. Besides, this man was an old friend of Mrs Parry’s. It might pay to humour him. ‘It was a comprehensive,’ he conceded. ‘I suppose that’s what you want to know.’
‘Scottish?’
‘I was born there.’
‘But you moved away when you were young. The name’s right, but there’s not much of an accent left. Father in the armed forces?’
‘RAF.’
Elder nodded. He checked his fingernails again, then stretched a hand out towards Barclay. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Barclay.’
Barclay thought about refusing the handshake, but eventually gave in. Elder’s grip was a lot firmer than he’d expected. He did his best to squeeze back.
‘A rough journey, eh?’ Elder commented. ‘I was expecting you three-quarters of an hour ago, allowing for one stop at motorway services.’
‘Roadworks,’ Barclay explained. ‘And my gearbox is playing up.’
‘Been to Wales before?’ Elder was walking back towards the cottage. Barclay followed him.
‘Only to Llandudno.’
‘Strange choice.’
‘It was a day trip. We were on holiday in Southport.’
‘Strange choice. This was when you were younger?’
‘Eleven or twelve, yes. Why do you say “strange”?’
‘Most families with children would choose Blackpool or Morecambe. I’ve always thought Southport very ... reserved. Was there much to do there?’
They were at the front door now. It was already open, and Elder wandered inside and along the narrow hall. ‘I don’t remember,’ Barclay said. ‘Some would say there’s not a lot to do in rural Wales either.’
‘They’d be right.’ At the end of the hall, Elder entered the kitchen and stood in front of the sink, rinsing his hands. Barclay, who had followed, felt awkward standing in the doorway. ‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Elder. ‘To enjoy my twilight years.’
‘Twilight? But you’re only—’
‘Fifty. Like I say, twilight. In our profession.’
Our. For the first time, Barclay felt a little of his hostility fall away.
‘Take my advice, Mr Barclay, set your sights on retirement at fifty. Maybe even at forty-five. I know, it all seems a long way off. What are you ... late-twenties?’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘Twenty-five then. In a few more years, you’ll begin to notice things. You’ll notice your reactions slowing - almost imperceptibly, but with the proper equipment you can measure the decline. You’ll start to feel aches and pains, twinges. Try testing your memory, speed and accuracy of recall. Do it every six months or so and chart your decline.’
‘Very comforting.’
Elder, drying his hands on a teatowel, shook his head. ‘Not comforting, no. But by being aware of your limitations, you may save your own life. More important still, you might just save other people’s. Think about it. Think about our profession. That’s all I’m saying.’ He reached a hand behind his back and rubbed at it slowly, thoughtfully. ‘Tea? Or would you prefer a beer?’
‘Something
cold would be gratefully received.’
‘I think I’ve some bottles in the fridge. We can take a couple into the living-room. It’s cooler in there.’
Cooler and darker. There were windows only to the back and side of the cottage, and these were part-overgrown with ivy. The room was small and comfortable. It had a messy, lived-in look, like a favourite pullover. The walls were whitewashed stone, and against one stretched a series of chipboard and melamine bookcases, standing at crazy angles due to the weight of books pressing down on them over the years. On a low tile-topped table sat a range of bottles - gin, Pimm’s, whisky, vodka - full or nearly full. Various knick-knacks filled the window ledges and a few of the spare shelves. The room also contained TV, video, a hi-fi, half a wall of classical LPs, a sofa, and two armchairs. Elder made for one of these. Again, he made no motion, no gesture to help Barclay decide what to do. Should he opt for the other chair or the sofa? He decided on the chair, and sank slowly into it, looking round appreciatively at the room. Yes, comfortable. But dusty, too. There were edges of fluff where the carpet met a chair or a bookcase. There was a layer of dust on the video recorder, and another covering the front of the hi-fi.
Well, thought Barclay, let’s try playing him at his own game. He swallowed a mouthful of cold beer and said: ‘You’re not married, Mr Elder?’
But Elder was nodding. He waved his left hand towards Barclay. There was a ring on the wedding-finger. ‘Didn’t you notice? I suppose you’ve got computers to do that sort of thing for you.’
Barclay knew now what Joyce Parry had been getting at when she’d talked of Elder as though he were some dinosaur from the ancient past. He’d retired only two years ago, yet his ideas were Stone Age. Barclay had come across them before, these troglodytes who thought the Enigma code-breaker was a bit too high-tech to deal with. They belonged to old spy novels, left unread in second-hand bookshops.
‘A penny for them,’ Elder said, startling Barclay.