The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books)

by Stephen Leather

  Wright looked up from the file. ‘So it wasn’t because of his wife?’

  ‘His wife?’

  ‘May Eckhardt. She’s British. I thought maybe she wanted to come home.’

  The blonde secretary reappeared with three plastic cups of coffee. Reynolds gestured at the file. ‘There’s a memo in there from Max requesting the London posting. He doesn’t mention May. I don’t think she had a problem travelling with him. She’s a computer programmer, she can work pretty much anywhere. I don’t think she especially wanted to come back to the UK.’

  ‘You said he covered Northern Ireland. Is it possible he crossed one of the terrorist organisations?’ Reid asked.

  Reynolds leaned forward, his shoulders hunched over the desk. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Max was a photographer, not a reporter.’

  ‘He could have photographed something he shouldn’t have.’

  Reynolds shook his head. ‘Unlikely,’ he said. ‘He’s been on soft jobs for the last month. Besides, terrorists would have just shot him or put a bomb in his car. They don’t go in for torture.’

  Reid nodded. ‘You said he didn’t want the Brighton job. Why did you send him?’

  ‘We had a couple of guys off sick. And you can’t cover wars all the time. It’s not good for the soul.’

  ‘And how was Max’s soul?’ asked Reid.

  ‘That’s a searching question,’ said Reynolds, picking up a pen and twirling it around his thumb. ‘Very philosophical.’

  ‘For a policeman, you mean?’

  ‘For anyone,’ said Reynolds. ‘Max was a driven man, you know? As if he was aiming for something, something that was always beyond his reach.’

  ‘Or running away from somebody?’

  The pen flew off Reynolds’s thumb and landed on the floor. He bent down and retrieved it. ‘Max was one of the most centred people I know. He wasn’t a man on the run, he wasn’t living in fear, he was just a bloody good photographer. He worked hard, harder than almost anyone I know, and I don’t know anyone who didn’t like or respect him. Most journalists, reporters and photographers are driven by something. They have to be. Long hours, low pay, no respect from the public, they have to have their own reasons for doing the job.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Wright bitterly.

  Reynolds grinned. ‘I suppose there are a lot of similarities between our jobs,’ he said. ‘The search for the truth. The accumulation of facts.’

  ‘The fiddling of expense sheets,’ added Reid.

  The three men laughed. ‘Seriously,’ said Reynolds, ‘you’d be wasting your time looking for someone who wanted to kill Max.’ He pointed at the file in Wright’s hands. ‘Look at his yearly evaluations. Every boss he’s ever had has given him glowing references professionally and personally.’

  ‘Could we look through his desk?’ asked Reid.

  ‘Sure,’ said Reynolds. He stood up and took the two detectives out into the open-plan office. Several heads turned to look at them. They walked to the far end of the office where two white-shirted men bent over a light box studying a strip of negatives. Reynolds introduced the two men to Reid and Wright. The taller of the two was Martin Staines, the bureau’s picture editor, the other man was his assistant, Sam Greene.

  ‘They’re investigating Max’s murder,’ Reynolds explained.

  Staines nodded at the desk nearest the window. ‘We weren’t sure what to do with his stuff.’

  ‘No one’s touched it?’ asked Reid, sitting down at the desk and pulling open the drawers.

  ‘Nobody wanted to,’ said Staines.

  ‘Was it bad?’ asked Reynolds. ‘The papers didn’t give too many details.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Wright. ‘It was bad.’

  ‘You might want to look at his locker,’ said Greene. He nodded at a line of light blue metal lockers. ‘Max’s is third from the left.’

  Wright went over to the lockers. There was a combination padlock on Max’s locker. ‘Six two five,’ said Greene. Wright raised an eyebrow. ‘He left his address book in it one night and phoned me to get a number he wanted,’ explained Greene.

  Wright took the lock off and opened the locker door. Inside was a yellow waterproof jacket hanging from a hook and a pair of green Wellington boots. There was an extendable metal pole at the back of the locker. Wright took it out and examined it.

  ‘It’s for supporting a long lens,’ said Staines. ‘Max had some pretty heavy equipment.’

  Wright replaced the pole. He checked through the pockets of the waterproof jacket but there was nothing there. ‘What about the rest of his equipment?’ asked Wright. ‘His cameras and stuff?’

  Staines and Greene exchanged looks. Staines shrugged. ‘Photographers are responsible for their own gear,’ he said. ‘He took everything he needed with him to Brighton.’

  Reid walked over to join Wright. ‘Is that his wife?’ he asked Wright, tapping a photograph that had been taped to the inside of the locker door.

  Wright hadn’t noticed the black and white photograph. It was May Eckhardt, smiling nervously at the camera as if she’d been caught unawares, one hand up to her face, the fingertips close to her lips. It was a good photograph; it had captured the softness of her skin, and the fact that it was in black and white emphasised the blackness of her hair against her pale skin. ‘Yes. That’s her.’

  ‘I didn’t realise she was Asian.’

  ‘She’s not,’ said Wright quickly. ‘She’s Oriental.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Wright closed the locker door and turned to look at Reynolds. ‘Did you speak to Eckhardt after he’d finished in Brighton?’

  ‘I spoke to him,’ said Staines. ‘He called to say he was leaving Brighton on the afternoon train.’

  ‘Didn’t he drive?’ asked Reid.

  ‘He did as a rule but he went down with one of our reporters, Pete Thewlis. They used Pete’s car and were planning to come back together, but Pete was sent on to another job. Max was a bit pissed off, but it’s not as if he was in the Outer Hebrides. We told him we’d pay for him to come back first class on the train.’

  ‘And that was the last you heard of him?’ asked Reid.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Staines. ‘That was on the Monday, and he was due in the office that afternoon. When he didn’t show we assumed he’d missed the train, either by accident or design.’

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ said Reid.

  ‘Like I said, he was a bit annoyed at having to take the train. We thought maybe he’d gone AWOL as a sort of silent protest. When he didn’t turn up for work on Tuesday, we called his home. That’s when we realised he’d gone missing.

  ‘To be honest, we weren’t that worried,’ said Greene. ‘It wasn’t unusual for Max to go chasing after his own stories. He always checked in eventually.’

  ‘What about this Pete Thewlis, can I talk to him?’

  ‘He’s in Islington on that explosives seizure,’ said Reynolds. ‘He wont be back until late. I can give you his mobile number, though.’

  ‘Would Thewlis have taken Eckhardt’s camera equipment with him?’ asked Reid.

  ‘Definitely not,’ said Staines. ‘Photographers are very possessive about their gear. They don’t even like sharing lenses and stuff. Besides, Thewlis didn’t know how long he’d be away.’

  ‘So he’d have taken it with him on the train?’ asked Wright.

  ‘Sure,’ agreed Staines.

  ‘How much gear would he have had?’ asked Wright.

  Greene bent down and picked up a large canvas holdall. It was heavy and he used both hands to lift it on to the desk next to the light box. ‘This is about par for the course,’ he said. ‘Three or four camera bodies, half a dozen lenses, a tripod, film. Max had a bag like this, and two leather cases containing his really long lenses.’

  Wright put his notebook away and looked at Reid. His partner nodded. ‘Okay, well, thanks for your time,’ said Reid. He handed BTP business cards to the three men. ‘If yo
u should think of anything else, give me or Nick a call.’

  Outside the AFP offices, Reid said, ‘Can you call that guy Pete Thewlis? Check when he last saw Eckhardt?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Wright. ‘What about checking the station to see if Eckhardt caught the train from Brighton? We’ve got to find out how he ended up at Battersea.’

  ‘Yeah, okay. We’ll go down this afternoon. We should do a sweep of the train, too. We’ll need a few more bodies. Half a dozen, maybe. Can you clear it with Ronnie? We’ll do the train that he was supposed to catch, and the ones either side. Oh yeah, and make sure someone goes to Edbury Bridge and views the Victoria surveillance tapes. They’re supposed to hold them for twenty-eight days before wiping them, but put in a call today just to make sure.’

  ‘I’ll arrange it.’

  Reid looked up and down the street.

  ‘I hope you’re not looking for a pub, Tommy,’ said Wright.

  ‘Last thing on my mind,’ said Reid.

  ‘They’re not open yet.’

  ‘I know a place. Just around the corner. Come on, hair of the dog.’

  Wright shook his head emphatically. ‘I’ll see you back at the office.’

  ‘Ah, come on, Nick,’ Reid whined. ‘You’ve got the car, how am I going to get back?’

  ‘Well, duh, Tommy. What’s wrong with the Tube?’

  ‘You know I hate public transport,’ scowled Reid, but Wright was already walking away.

  Wright collected his Fiesta from the underground car park and headed back to Tavistock Place.

  Wright got caught in heavy traffic and it took him the best part of an hour to get back to the office. Superintendent Newton was in the incident room, studying a whiteboard on which the various assignments had been written up. Ronnie Dundas was hovering at the superintendent’s shoulder and he winked at Wright.

  ‘Morning, Nick,’ said Newton.

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘Tommy not with you?’

  ‘We were at Eckhardt’s office. Tommy’s checking his personal effects.’

  Newton looked at Wright with slightly narrowed eyes, his lips pressed so tight together that they had practically disappeared. Wright instinctively knew that the superintendent didn’t believe him. Dundas grinned and made a cut-throat motion with his hand.

  Wright ignored the chief inspector’s antics and took out his notebook. ‘We know what train he was supposed to be on. We’ll do a sweep of the stations, and we’ll put men on the trains interviewing passengers. I’ll get the video surveillance tapes from Victoria and have them checked. If he got on the train at Brighton it could be he was forced off at Battersea.’

  ‘The train doesn’t stop there, does it?’

  ‘No, but it goes close by and sometimes the trains are held up if Victoria’s busy.’

  Newton nodded his agreement. ‘Any sign of a motive?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

  Newton turned to Dundas. ‘Any progress on the knife?’

  ‘It’s a common kitchen knife,’ said Dundas. ‘We’ve identified fifteen different suppliers in London alone, including three chain stores. The Met boys’ll continue looking, but I don’t see it providing us with a lead.’

  ‘When Eckhardt went missing he had a bagful of camera equipment with him,’ said Wright. ‘I’m going to arrange a sweep of secondhand shops to see if I can turn it up.’ For the first time Wright realised that the superintendent was holding a sheet of paper. It was a fax.

  ‘Well, maybe the cavalry will help,’ said Newton dryly.

  ‘Cavalry?’

  Newton held out the fax. ‘An FBI agent, on secondment from FBI headquarters in Washington.’

  Wright took the fax and scanned it quickly. It was a brief memo from an assistant director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, notifying the BTP that a Special Agent James Bamber was being sent to assist in the investigation and to act as liaison with the FBI.

  ‘Is this normal?’ asked Wright. ‘Do the FBI usually send people over on murder enquiries?’

  ‘Eckhardt was an American citizen,’ said Newton.

  ‘Yes, but even so. Do we send cops over to investigate deaths overseas?’

  Newton took back the fax. ‘It’s not unknown,’ he said. ‘To be honest, we should just be grateful for the additional manpower.’ He gestured with his thumb at the list of assignments. ‘We can’t keep this many detectives assigned to the case indefinitely.’ The superintendent went back to his office.

  ‘You missed my briefing this morning,’ said Dundas.

  ‘Yeah, sorry. We went straight to AFP to talk to Eckhardt’s boss.’

  ‘Just so you know, the Met team is handling the house-to-house, the knife, and they’ll look into Eckhardt’s background. We’ll concentrate on the forensics, the playing card, and anything else that turns up in the tunnel. We’ll be sharing information on a daily basis at morning prayers, and we’ll all have access to the HOLMES database. I’ve recommended that the two teams eat together in the canteen to talk informally but I won’t be holding my breath. If you think there’s anything that they should know about urgently, tell me and I’ll brief my opposite number, Chief Inspector Colin Duggan, aka the Welsh Wizard. He’s a twenty-year-man with a lot of murder enquiry experience and if your paths cross I’d recommend treating him with kid gloves. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Wright unenthusiastically.

  ‘I gather there’s a bit of friction between you and Gerry Hunter,’ said Dundas.

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Well, I know you’re man enough not to let it interfere with the job,’ said Dundas. ‘There really shouldn’t be any reason for the two of you to talk, you’ll be following separate lines of enquiry.’

  ‘It won’t be a problem,’ said Wright.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Dundas. He took another swig from his milk carton and went over to one of the HOLMES terminals.

  Two BTP DCs were sitting at neighbouring tables, their faces close up against VDUs. They were both in their late twenties, but other than their jobs, that was all they had in common. Dave Hubbard was tall and bulky and played rugby in his spare time. Julian Lloyd was anorexically thin and was one of the best amateur squash players in the South of England. They’d been assigned to checking on sexual offenders with a record of attacking men. It had been Reid’s idea, but hadn’t provided any tangible leads so far.

  ‘Hey, guys, can one of you call Victoria, see if you can get the surveillance tapes for last Monday,’ Wright shouted. ‘Eckhardt was supposed to catch an afternoon train from Brighton. We might get lucky.’

  Lloyd waved, his eyes still on his screen. ‘I’ll do it.’

  There were more than a dozen surveillance cameras around Victoria, and with a four-hour window, that would mean around fifty hours of tape to view. Tapes were rarely easy viewing, either, especially when you were trying to identify one face among thousands. With his holdall and two leather cases, hopefully Eckhardt would be relatively easy to spot, but even with half a dozen officers it would still take the best part of a day to go through the tapes. And all that would prove was whether or not Eckhardt had arrived at Victoria.

  ‘Get back here by noon,’ said Wright. ‘We’re going down to Brighton to do a sweep through the station and then we’ll be coming back on the train. Dave, we’ll need you. Tommy’s coming, and we’ll need another four bodies. See who you can round up.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Hubbard.

  Wright sat down and flicked through his notebook. He found the number of Pete Thewlis’s mobile and dialled it. Thewlis answered, his voice a Liverpudlian drawl. Wright told the journalist who he was and asked him when he’d last seen Max Eckhardt. Thewlis said they’d had breakfast together in their Brighton hotel and that Thewlis had left first, driving to York. Wright made a note of the hotel and thanked the journalist for his help.

  He was about to call the hotel to find out exactly when Eckhardt had checked out when Reid walked into the office and flopp
ed down into his chair. He pulled open his top drawer, took out a pack of mints and popped two into his mouth. ‘So, what’s new?’ he asked.

  ‘The Yanks are coming,’ said Wright, putting down his phone.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The FBI are sending an agent over. To help. I guess they think we Brits aren’t up to solving the case.’

  Reid put his mints back into the drawer. ‘Yeah, well, they can join the queue, can’t they?’

  ‘Line,’ said Wright. ‘Americans call it a line.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, we’re really going to have problems if I tell him I want to smoke a fag, right?’ He opened his bottom drawer and looked into it. ‘Fancy a coffee?’ he asked.

  The occupant of seat 17A was practically the perfect passenger. If Gwen could have her way, only men like him would be allowed to fly. He’d smiled politely when he’d boarded, had no carry-on luggage with him, and hadn’t asked for a thing to eat or drink. There had been no salacious looks, no clumsy attempts to chat her up, just a small shake of the head when she’d offered him his dinner tray. Gwen wondered what he did for a living. His clothes gave nothing away: a nondescript grey suit, white shirt and a neatly knotted tie. He looked like the typical business-class passenger. What wasn’t typical was his lack of a briefcase or laptop computer. Most businessmen had come to regard the cabin as an extension of their office, and those who didn’t work caught up on their sleep. Passenger 17A didn’t work or sleep, nor did he bother to use his inseat entertainment. He kept his seat up and simply stared ahead of him, his hands together in his lap, almost as if he was meditating. He wasn’t in a trance, though, because whenever Gwen spoke to him he answered immediately.

  ‘What do you think about the quiet one, Tony?’

  Tony Kelner was working business class with her, and was a good judge of passengers. He was gay and had the inbuilt radar which allowed him to spot other gays without a word being spoken. He pouted as he looked over her shoulder. ‘Definitely my type, darling,’ he said. ‘But he’s definitely hetero. Cruel lips.’ He mimed a shiver. ‘Oooh, I think I’d better go and lie down.’

  ‘Not until you’ve helped get the breakfasts ready,’ laughed Gwen. ‘What’s his story?’ It was a game she and Tony often played, making up fictitious backgrounds for their passengers.