Of course. All that was true. Don had spoken to her as well. They would hardly have brought her back to Wortalleth West just to—‘Who did Zlenko strangle, then?’
‘I don’t know. Let’s just …’
The door leading to the utility room stood half open. Harkness marched through it, switching the light on in that room as well as he went.
‘Ah.’
‘What is it?’
‘In the corner.’ Harkness pointed to a stack of white reinforced plastic trays and containers. ‘They’re from the freezer.’ Harkness stepped across to the sink. Over his shoulder Don saw several packs of frozen food piled up, no longer frozen. ‘These are from the freezer too.’
He moved towards the freezer. As he reached for the handle, Don braced himself for what – for who – they would find.
Harkness pulled at the handle and opened the door a few inches. He held it there, straining against a weight inside, then peered in and nodded for Don to take a look too.
All Don could see when he got there was the top of a blond-haired head and a pair of shoulders in a pale suit, dusted with ice. ‘Jesus, it’s—’
‘Mike Coleman,’ said Harkness with an effort. He tried to close the door again, but Coleman’s head had fallen forward against the frame, blocking it.
‘Get him out of the way, Don, for God’s sake.’
Don laid a hand gingerly on the crown of Coleman’s head and pushed it clear. As he did so, the dead man’s face, grey-white, with staring eyes and parted, swollen lips, met his gaze.
‘That’s it. Mind your fingers.’
Don let go and jumped back as Harkness closed the door with a thump. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘No blood, actually,’ said Harkness. ‘But probably quite a lot of hell.’
‘Why would they …?’
‘Hard to say. He had an irritating manner. And he was always trying to manipulate situations to his advantage. My guess would be that he got out of his depth without being aware of it. Zlenko tends to react violently if you rub him up the wrong way.’
‘But …’ Don was shaking like a leaf in a breeze, he suddenly realized. He felt weak. His heart was fluttering. ‘They murdered him.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘I didn’t think …’
‘They were the murderous type? Or that there was anything at stake worth murdering for?’
Don stared at Harkness helplessly. ‘What do we do?’
‘About Coleman? Nothing for now. He’ll keep. Literally, as it happens. As for Fran, I need to make a phone call. While I do that, perhaps you could bag up the no-longer-frozen food and take it down to the bin at the end of the drive. Tomorrow’s collection day, as I recall. I’ll find a cupboard to store the trays and containers in. We don’t want anything to draw attention to the freezer, do we? Not with Mr Renewables inside.’
Don went on staring. ‘How can you be so calm?’
‘It’s my temperament, Don. It’s not always a blessing. People mistake it for arrogance. But just now … it’s an aid to clear thinking.’
‘Who are you going to phone?’
‘An old friend. Amazingly, I do have a few of them. Now …’ Harkness looked at Don encouragingly. ‘Chop chop. We have work to do.’
Lumbering down to the end of the drive with a couple of bulging bin-bags a few minutes later, Don’s thoughts were a swirl of shock and confusion. French had uttered a lot of threats. But now he had actually killed someone. Or Zlenko had, probably acting on his say-so. These were the people holding Fran and they were clearly not to be trifled with. Harkness claimed he knew how to deal with them, but Don was not so sure. Maybe, at this point, they should call in the police, who would start taking Fran’s disappearance seriously with Coleman’s dead body to grab their attention.
Rubbish binned, Don walked on up the lane towards the Mullion road, checking his phone for a signal. As soon as he got one, he called Blake.
No answer. He left a brief voicemail message. ‘I’m at the house in Cornwall. I’m OK. I’ll call you again later. Call or text when you can, but remember I might not get it right away. Don’t use the landline number.’ Don did not want Harkness picking up the phone with Blake on the other end. ‘I’ll explain why later.’ That done, he headed back to the house.
He saw Harkness closing the garage door as he went up the drive and altered route to intercept him in the colonnade.
‘Find something up there?’ Don asked.
‘Coleman’s Merc.’
‘No sign of Fran’s hire car?’
Harkness frowned. ‘She had one, did she?’
Don hesitated. It would not be easy to explain how he knew that without recounting the details of Peter’s visit to his flat. He decided to plead guesswork instead. ‘I suppose she must have.’
‘Pawley didn’t mention it.’
‘You’ve spoken to him?’
‘Just now. He’s worried about Fran, of course. Probably about his fee as well. Doesn’t know what to do for the best. Seemed relieved to be told to leave everything in my hands. I made it very clear he wasn’t to come back here. He thinks I’m in London, of course.’
‘What about your friend?’
‘Ray Hocking? He’s the fellow who delivers my papers. I was at primary school with Ray. He uses his eyes and ears far more than his mouth. I like that. Apparently, he has some valuable information for us. He lives in Mullion, so we’ll wait until dark before we go and see him. Don’t want any nosy neighbours clocking us, do we?’
‘What sort of information does he have?’
‘The kind you don’t discuss over the phone. Talking of which, you took your sweet time with the rubbish. You didn’t go walkabout in search of a mobile signal, did you?’
‘No.’
‘We need to be careful who we talk to right now, Don. Coleman’s murder makes Fran’s situation even more delicate.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’
Harkness looked at Don soberly. ‘I can work this out, Don. Truly, I can. Just let me.’ Now, suddenly the smile was back. ‘OK?’
I go back to the Marta and call Don. Still no answer. I don’t leave a message this time. I decide to try again after taking a shower.
When I come out, I find he’s called me. The message says he’s at Wortalleth West, he’s OK and he’ll call again later. But he also says I shouldn’t use the landline. I don’t understand why. I can’t contact him any other way when he’s at the house.
Seeing Jane Glasson has made me twitchy. I don’t know what Don’s doing and he doesn’t know what I’m doing. We have to trust each other. That’s it. No buts. He’ll do what he thinks is right. I know that. I’ll do the same. And he knows that too.
It’s time to head back to Jane’s flat. I want to be there when Filippo arrives. We’ll see what happens then.
It’s nearly dark when I get there. The café’s still open. I sit at an outside table and order a beer and a croque monsieur. The beer goes straight to my head. When I eat the sandwich, I realize how hungry I am. I order a coffee to cut through the beer. I pay for everything up front. I may have to leave in a hurry. I can see the glow of lights on in the top-floor flat. Jane’s waiting for Filippo. So am I.
He arrives about five minutes early. A small, slim guy in his mid-to late thirties, with thick brown hair, a narrow face, a neat, tailored beard and almost black eyes that dart about a lot as he approaches the door that leads to the stairs. He’s wearing blue jeans, a grey jacket and striped shirt. They’re all pressed and fitted with a dose of Italian chic. But there’s a dose of Swiss nerd as well. He has to be Filippo Crosetti.
He goes in and takes the lift. I know where he’s going. I follow him by the silent stairs route.
The sixth-floor landing’s empty and quiet when I get there. The door to the seventh floor is firmly closed. I open the window and lean out. There are lights on in several windows above me, but they’re not open. I can hear a low hum – air conditioning, maybe – and faintly, music
– Spanish guitar, it sounds like – but no voices. There’s light further up as well, on the roof terrace. Maybe that’s where they are, enjoying the view of the city.
Above my head is a narrow parapet. I clamber up on the windowsill and try to figure out what my chances are of getting up there if I stand on the railings. It’s a long drop. The table I was sitting at outside the café looks like doll’s house furniture from up here. And I don’t reckon I’d actually have the strength to pull myself up. Fuck.
Then I do hear a voice. Crosetti’s. Definitely male, anyway, and the accent’s Italian. I catch a drift of cigarette smoke. He’s up on the terrace. I can’t quite see him, but there’s a shadow I sense is his. And a few words float down to me.
‘Sì, sì. I know. The answer is the same always … It is logical, but … You understand. I know you do.’
He turns away. I don’t hear any more. Except a door closing. Then a light comes on in another window. It’s shut, like the others. I won’t hear anything they say in there. I climb back down from the windowsill.
I need to find out more. But how? What is the answer that’s always the same? What are they planning? The ‘something big’ Perkins reckons Harkness is using all that money for? But what? What can it be? And how is Jane tied into it?
I don’t exactly know how to take the chance I’ve got. But I’m not going to let it slip away. I’m totally not.
In the end, I decide to go back down to the café and wait. I drink another coffee. I text Don. Progress here. What about you? I don’t know when he’ll get it, though. Or when he’ll reply. I’m tightrope-walking without being sure the tightrope’s actually there.
An hour’s nearly up when Crosetti comes out. He looks edgy. Whatever he got from Jane, it’s not peace of mind.
I’m out of my chair and after him. He lights a cigarette, which slows him down. He walks down Limmatquai to the end, where there are lots of tram stops. He eyes the information screen at one of them and waits. I hang around close by.
Just after he’s finished his cigarette, a number 4 shows up and he gets on. So do I. I sit a few seats back from him, ready to edge closer if he uses his phone. He doesn’t. I stay where I am.
It’s not long till we reach the terminus, on the other side of the river from the Hauptbahnhof. Crosetti heads across the bridge. I tag along behind. He fits in another cigarette. He’s definitely nervous.
I wonder if he’s going to catch a train. But no. He’s going back to his hotel, the Schweizerhof, a swish-looking place opposite the side entrance to the Hauptbahnhof. Inside, he collects his room key, then heads straight into the bar.
The bar’s cool and dark and quiet. Crosetti plonks himself on a stool. I sit at a table. The barman takes Crosetti’s order. Tequila. He downs it in one and orders another. Yeah. Definitely edgy.
I go up to the bar and sit on a stool. The bar’s right-angled and I’m looking across the corner of it at Crosetti. He doesn’t seem to notice me. He fiddles with his phone, then puts it down. He sips his second tequila. He fiddles with his phone again. He puts it down again.
I order a G&T and try to look relaxed. And I try to think. Crosetti’s a few feet away from me. He knows everything I want to know. What can I do, in however long I’ve got?
Then there’s a ping from my phone. And as I look at the text that’s come in from Don, an idea comes into my head.
As soon as it was properly dark, Harkness told Don he was ready to leave. Their destination was close by: a nondescript semi-detached bungalow on the western side of Mullion, home of Ray Hocking and his wife Linda. Harkness had apparently failed to mention over the phone that Don would be coming with him. He needed to go in and prepare the ground. He would fetch Don as soon as he had explained everything to Ray.
Left alone in the MG, Don reached immediately for his phone. Blake had not replied to his last message, so he sent another. Away from house. Free to speak for short period if you want.
It was worth a try, Don reckoned, though he suspected Harkness would call him in before Blake responded. But he was wrong about that. She texted back more or less straight away. Can’t explain but phone Schweizerhof Hotel Zürich and ask to speak to Filippo Crosetti urgently. Tie him up long as you can if you get him.
Crosetti was the genius who had developed Elixtris for Harkness. What the hell was Blake up to? He texted back. Don’t understand. And he got a short answer. Just do it.
‘OK,’ Don muttered to himself. He Googled the hotel and got a number. He hesitated for a few seconds, then rang it.
‘Hotel Schweizerhof.’
‘Hello. Can I speak to Filippo Crosetti please? It’s very urgent.’
‘Herr Crosetti?’
‘Yes. Filippo Crosetti. It’s very important.’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
Good question. Don Challenor did not sound like a good answer. ‘Peter Revell.’
‘Hold on, please.’
Don struggled to concoct something to say to Crosetti as he held. Blake had landed him in an impossible situation. No doubt she had done it for a compelling reason. But impossible it nonetheless was.
He expected the man who had answered the phone to come back on the line and say he was putting Don through to Crosetti’s room – or alternatively that Crosetti had refused to take his call. Instead, an Italian-accented voice said suddenly, ‘Crosetti here. Who is this?’
‘Ah. Filippo Crosetti?’
‘Sì.’
‘My name’s Peter Revell.’
‘Sì. They told me. Who are you, Mr Revell?’
‘Er I’m, er, a spokesman for …’
‘Che?’
‘A spokesman for, er, a recruitment agency.’
‘Recruitment?’
‘Your achievements haven’t gone unnoticed by your company’s competitors in the pharmaceuticals industry, Signor Crosetti. Given your employer’s current difficulties, my agency’s client, who must remain anonymous for the present, wonders if, er …’
‘If what?’
Good God almighty, thought Don. Where the hell am I going with this? ‘You’ll appreciate, I’m sure, that this is a very delicate subject. I’m just, er, floating a possibility. You understand?’
‘I do not understand, Mr Revell. How did you know I was at this hotel?’
‘Ah, well …’
‘Sì? Sì? Well? Well? How did you know?’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘What? What did you say?’
There was a movement at the edge of Don’s vision. He looked towards Hocking’s house and saw Harkness standing in the doorway, waving him in.
‘Who are you? Who do you work for? Answer me. Now. Subito.’
‘Sorry.’
‘What?’
Don could not continue. Crosetti was speaking to someone else now, in German. He did not sound happy. And Harkness did not look happy. His waving had become impatient.
‘Hope that’s achieved something, Blake,’ Don murmured as he ended the call.
It was just a gamble. A long shot. A very long shot. But it came off. My phone doesn’t look very different from Crosetti’s. Well, that’s what I’ll say if I need to, anyway. And it’s kind of true.
I deleted all the texts I’d sent and received, which was easy, because there weren’t many. That left me holding a dataless phone when Crosetti was called to reception to take an urgent call. And he was so surprised HE LEFT HIS PHONE ON THE BAR NEXT TO HIS TEQUILA.
I slide my phone round the corner of the bar as I stand up and swap it with Crosetti’s as I move past his stool. I see him ahead of me, stepping round the concierge’s desk to reach the landline phone. I walk straight ahead, not hurrying, but not dawdling either. I see a sign pointing to the loos and I follow it. I hear Crosetti saying, ‘Crosetti here. Who is this?’ I don’t know how long Don will be able to stall him. But maybe it’ll be long enough.
I lock myself in a cubicle in the ladies’ and see what there is on Crosetti’s phone. The latest stuff
all seems to be in German or Italian. I can’t read any of it, of course. I should’ve realized that. Shit. I scroll through the slabs of text. There’s nothing I can make any sense of.
Hold on. At last, something in English. An email from Ingrid Denner, dated 12 June – yesterday. I fast-read through the guts of it.
The subject of the meeting with you and Ms Townsend will be her role in your ongoing management of the Elixtris project, in particular the significant budgetary allocation made for the engagement of the outside scientists listed in the attachment, whose first recorded point of contact with the company was in each case Ms Townsend. Their expertise in nanotechnology and bioelectronics does not appear directly relevant to the delivery of a classical cosmetic and will require explanation. I am asking Hertha Rietz by copy of this email to reserve a symposium room at HQ Zug for our discussion on Thursday 14. Please note all communications with me should be via my BlackBerry – this number – until further notice. She doesn’t explain why. But I can guess. She found the sapper. I suppose that means Gareth never read this email.
I look at the attachment. More than twenty names, professors and the like, at universities in Europe, the US, Canada, Australia and Japan. I check for a reply from Crosetti to Ingrid. Nothing.
But I do see the name Rietz. A short email, a few hours after Ingrid’s to her and Crosetti, in English. The meeting’s to be in symposium room B4 at noon.
Tomorrow. Not much over twelve hours from now. I’d like to be a fly on that wall. But I can’t be. Can I?
I scroll through Crosetti’s list of contacts. There are mobile and landline numbers listed for Astrid Townsend. I tear off a sheet of loo paper and jot them down. I jot down the numbers recorded for Harkness and Ingrid Denner too – just in case.
I reckon I’ve pushed my luck – and Don’s – far enough. It’s time to go back to the bar and act totally innocent, maybe a bit fluffy. That should do it.
Crosetti’s not in reception any more. I see him ahead of me at the bar, babbling and gesturing at the barman. He’s got my phone in his hand.
I breeze in and give him one of my best smiles. ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘That’s mine, isn’t it?’ I hold out his phone. ‘And this must be yours.’
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