by Graham Ison
‘Yes, I quite understand, but you will send it to the secret address I gave you, won’t you?’
‘Certainly, Pim.’ Over the course of our two meetings with de Jonker, I’d come to realize that he was out of his depth with this whole business. And that applied whether he really was the policeman he claimed to be or just playing a part.
All of which prompted a question. One of the statistics on Colin Wilberforce’s ‘fact paper’ about Ieper stated that it had a population of about 35,000 people. And from what I’d seen of Poperinge, the population there was probably even less.
‘What’s the crime rate like in Ieper, Pim?’ It was the sort of question that one policeman often asks another from a different area or a different country.
De Jonker waggled his hand from side to side. ‘Up and down, Harry, up and down.’ His answer was so non-committal that it clinched it as far as I was concerned. Any real copper would have had the facts at his fingertips and would have followed up with the usual gripe about lack of resources. ‘Shall we go in for dinner?’
Dinner was a relatively quiet meal and I got the impression that Pim de Jonker would be pleased to see the back of us. If he was playing a part, the strain of trying to delude real police officers must have been severe. Certainly, the whole business of coded messages, secret addresses and covert hotel meetings smacked of the fantasy world of spy fiction, and seemed like a massive scam with Kate and me the flies enmeshed in de Jonker’s web.
It was gone half past ten when we finished dinner and Kate and I retired to our rooms.
Kate paused at her door. ‘I don’t know about you, Harry, but I’ll be glad to get the hell out of here. That de Jonker guy is beginning to annoy me.’
After a leisurely breakfast on the Wednesday morning, we found Inspecteur Piet Janssen waiting in the lobby of the hotel. Once we were in the BMW police ‘taxi’ that had collected us at Calais, we set off for the airport, arriving less than an hour later.
‘Good bye, sir. Good bye, madam.’ Apart from that brief stilted farewell, Janssen had not uttered a single word since picking us up. Perhaps he was disappointed that we hadn’t told him and de Jonker the identity of Cuyper’s killer.
But then again, perhaps de Jonker had told him to keep his mouth shut.
Dave Poole met us at Heathrow and drove us straight to Belgravia.
‘Good morning, sir. I trust you and Miss Ebdon had an enjoyable time in Belgium.’ Colin Wilberforce was his usual bright and efficient self, but the greeting was spoken with a suggestive smile. ‘The commander said he wanted to see you the moment you returned,’ he added, before I could respond to what was clearly a loaded comment. But as it was the second time that Kate and I had been abroad recently and stayed overnight, albeit on police business, I suppose the rumour mill had been working overtime. After all, Kate was an attractive woman and the troops could be forgiven for putting two and two together. And if they were envious, who could blame them?
‘By the way, sir,’ continued Wilberforce, reading an entry on his computer screen, ‘Appleby checked Jones’s story about an advertising conference at Heathrow, but it seems no one’s heard of Jones or the company he was supposed to have been visiting. Of course, Jones is a common name, but in your absence Mr Driscoll told Appleby to knock it on the head because it was evident he was wasting his time.’
‘Good decision,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a feeling that Jones wasn’t anywhere near the airport the day Cuyper was murdered.’
‘One other thing, sir. Tom Challis found a member of staff at a hotel who recognized the photograph of Cuyper.’ Wilberforce handed me a slip of paper. ‘I thought you’d want to follow that up yourself.’
‘Thanks, Colin, I’ll do that. Who was the member of staff? D’you have a name?’
‘Not a name, sir, but Tom said it was the hall porter he spoke to. Oh, and Tom got our surveillance people to take a photograph of Jones. He thought you might want to ask the hotel people if they’d seen him with Cuyper. In fact, Mr Driscoll directed that photographs of everyone who’s come to notice be displayed here in the incident room.’
Once again I was impressed by the efficiency and initiative of the guys I was lucky enough to have working with me. Some senior officers don’t realize it, but an investigating officer is only as good as his team. And if you upset them, they can sink you without trace just by acting dumb. Believe me, I’ve seen it happen.
Anticipating that the interview with the commander was unlikely to be a fun-packed event, I thought it advisable to take time to have a cup of coffee before making my way to the great man’s office.
‘Ah, Mr Brock. You’ve returned. I take it you have prepared a written report about what you discovered in Belgium.’ Pushing a file aside, the commander leaned forward, linked his hands on the desk and gazed at me over his half-moon spectacles as though inspecting an interesting example of marine life. ‘I hope your visit will prove to have been worth the expense.’ It was strange how money and paperwork seemed always to dominate conversations with the commander.
‘I’m afraid I have nothing to report, sir.’
The commander moved sharply back as though he had received an electric shock. ‘What d’you mean: nothing to report? Are you telling me that your visit to Belgium has been a complete waste of time and money? That won’t please the DAC, you know.’
‘The Belgian police paid all the expenses, sir.’ I hoped that that would soften the fact that I wasn’t going to tell him anything. However, if de Jonker and company proved not to be police officers it meant our expenses had been paid for by a criminal gang, and that would most certainly send the commander spiralling out of control. That apart, I realized that I was in the ticklish situation of trying to placate one senior officer as a result of a more senior officer’s order. ‘The DAC directed me to report the details of my visit to Belgium to him and to no one else, sir.’
‘I’m sure the DAC didn’t intend that you should keep that information from me, Mr Brock.’ The commander afforded me the sort of patronizing smile that seemed to question my ability to understand a simple statement.
This is where you jump in the deep end, Brock, old son, I thought, and you haven’t got a lifebelt. ‘The DAC particularly directed me not to report details of my enquiry to anyone but him, sir.’ I paused deliberately. ‘And he made a point of including you specifically in that prohibition.’
‘Good grief, Mr Brock, that is absolutely—’ The commander spluttered and went red in the face, but managed to stop just short of criticizing the DAC, something which in his view would have been tantamount to a form of Metropolitan Police treason. Quickly recovering, he said, ‘I’ll have a word with the DAC. I’m sure you misunderstood his direction, Mr Brock. In the meantime, you’d better lose no time in getting across to Commissioner’s Office to see him.’
I returned to the incident room and gave Wilberforce the four names that Pim de Jonker claimed to have got from Cuyper. ‘Do the usual searches on those, Colin, and let me know the result ASAP.’
As Kate had accompanied me to Belgium, I decided to take her with me to see the DAC. But not until we’d had lunch at a nearby trattoria.
When we left the restaurant, the sun was high in the sky and it was blazing hot. I couldn’t be bothered to take a Job car, and I didn’t intend to walk. I wasn’t going to risk the Underground, either, having no desire to be plagued by itinerant musicians and beggars, apart from the very real possibility of being mugged. I hailed a cab, and to hell with the expense, even if the commander disallowed the claim which, in his present mood, he was very likely to do.
Since 1967 New Scotland Yard has been housed in a charmless glass and concrete pile in Victoria, and now more than ever it looked like a run-down fortified third-world airport. Rumours have been abounding for some time that a new home would be found for the force headquarters. After all, the Metropolitan Police is staffed by people who are great movers and shakers, even though they often move in the wrong direction and shake for no apparent reason.
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I always get the impression that gaining access to Commissioner’s Office would be much easier if I were a member of the civil staff. However, having eventually persuaded a doubting security guard that Kate and I actually were police officers, we finally reached the DAC’s office.
‘He’s on the phone at the moment, Mr Brock, if you’d care to take a seat.’ Fiona, the DAC’s secretary, gestured towards a bank of easy chairs, but no sooner had Kate and I settled than the secretary glanced at her telephone console and spoke again. ‘You can go in now,’ she said.
‘Harry, Kate, come in and take a pew.’ The DAC’s jacket was hanging over the back of his chair, his shirtsleeves were rolled up and his tie slackened off. He possessed none of the starchy pomposity of my revered commander and he certainly didn’t worry about his image. ‘What’s the spiel, then, Harry?’ He moved from behind his desk and sat down alongside us.
I told him, as succinctly as possible, what we had learned during our short stay in Belgium, adding that de Jonker had promised to pay all our expenses.
‘I should hope so, Harry.’ The DAC laughed. ‘How did you rate this de Jonker guy?’
‘Out of his depth,’ I said, ‘and I suspect Dirk Cuyper was floundering even more so. But the hierarchy over there wanted him specifically for the job, and so he went.’ It was no good beating about the bush with the DAC, he’d been a detective for too long and wanted straight answers. I took a deep breath. ‘That said, guv’nor,’ I continued, ‘I think the whole set-up is bogus.’ I went on to explain the cloak-and-dagger antics of de Jonker and his sidekick Janssen, the so-called trustworthy hotel, and de Jonker’s instructions about how we should get in touch with him. ‘I think the point of the whole exercise was to get as much information as possible from us without giving anything away.’
‘Spit it out, Harry,’ said the DAC.
‘Frankly, I don’t think de Jonker is a police officer, sir. When I suggested we should smooth the waters by having a word with his chief in Brussels, he nearly had kittens. They of all people would know about such an operation, despite what de Jonker said. Furthermore, he didn’t seem to know the first thing about law enforcement in the way you’d expect a copper to know, no matter what nationality, and when I asked him about the crime rate in Ieper he hadn’t got a clue. All this business of coded messages, secret addresses and covert hotel meetings just didn’t ring true. In short, I reckon that de Jonker isn’t a copper at all and that he set up this meet solely for the purpose of finding out what had happened to Cuyper. Having thought about it, I think Cuyper was in this country to set up a sex-slavery operation, not to investigate it. But once we got out there I decided to see it out.’
‘I would have done the same, Harry,’ said the DAC. ‘You never know, you might’ve come back with some useful information, even though you haven’t found out who killed Cuyper. What’s your view, Kate?’
‘I agree completely with Mr Brock, sir,’ Kate said promptly. ‘From what Cuyper’s so-called widow, Renata, told us, Cuyper was frequently over the side; and de Jonker said that was why he was picked for the job. That said, I don’t think she was Cuyper’s widow; I think she was a plant.’ She paused. ‘Her behaviour would certainly fit in with what Mr Brock said about the whole shebang being bogus, sir.’
‘Well, there’s one way of finding out,’ said the DAC. ‘I’ll speak to my oppo in Brussels.’ He flicked down a switch on his intercom. ‘Linda, see if you can get that guy in Brussels I met at an Interpol conference about six months ago. Yeah, that’s him.’ He picked up the list of names de Jonker had given us. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had time to check these names, have you, Harry?’ he asked.
‘They’re being put through the system as we speak, guv, but I don’t hold out much hope that it’ll get us any nearer finding out who topped Cuyper. If this set-up is as big as I think it is, they’ll have covered their tracks.’
‘I’m surprised they didn’t cement his body into a motorway bridge somewhere,’ commented Kate drily.
The DAC laughed. ‘They aren’t building any at the moment, Kate. I checked.’ The phone buzzed. ‘Hello? Ah, Maurice, how are you?’ The niceties having been exchanged, the DAC went on to tell his contact, as succinctly as possible, what Kate and I had experienced in Poperinge. After a lengthy conversation during which he gave his contact all the details we had gleaned, he replaced the receiver and looked up, a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘De Jonker and Janssen aren’t police officers, Harry. Any minute now I imagine a large number of Belgian police officers will descend on that pair from a great height. He’ll ring back with the result. In the meantime, Harry, follow up all the leads you’ve got and keep me posted. I’ll tell your commander that if there’s anything you need in connection with this enquiry, you’re to have it without question.’
And that reminded me of a rather pressing problem. ‘There’s just one other thing, guv’nor,’ I said, as Kate and I stood up. ‘The commander wants me to brief him—’
‘He’s been on the dog already, Harry,’ said the DAC. ‘I’ve told him all he needs to know.’ And with that enigmatic statement he returned to his desk.
On our way back to Belgravia, Kate asked, ‘What did the DAC mean when he said the commander had been on the dog, Harry?’
‘It’s rhyming slang, Kate. Dog-and-bone: phone. I’m surprised you didn’t know that,’ I said, delighted that for once my Australian DI, who often fooled we Pommies with her indiscriminate use of Strine, had for once been fooled herself.
As the DAC had more or less told me to get a move on, Kate and I went straight the offices of the building company that was developing the site of the former health club. Fortunately, the company was halfway between the Yard and Belgravia police station.
‘You’ll need to see the project manager dealing with it,’ said the helpful receptionist once we’d told her who we were and what we wanted. ‘If you’d like to take a seat, Chief Inspector, he’s just dealing with a client.’
‘I’m beginning to think the world’s full of project managers,’ said Kate as we sat down. ‘That’s what Dennis Jones was supposed to be doing in an advertising agency.’
‘Appleby made enquiries at Heathrow and came up with nothing, Kate.’
‘Yes, Len Driscoll told me.’
A man came out of a door behind the receptionist’s desk, nodded briefly to the receptionist and made for the lift.
The man who followed his visitor out of the office was stocky, maybe five foot eight in height, with a shock of wiry grey hair. He was wearing a suit and a collar and tie, but looked as though he’d be more comfortable in work clothes and a hard hat. The hand that grasped mine was firm and rough. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, Chief Inspector. I’m Bob Maynard, the project manager for the site you’re interested in. Come through.’
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Harry Brock and this is Detective Inspector Kate Ebdon, Mr Maynard,’ I said as we took seats in the project manager’s cramped office. There were blueprints pinned to two of the walls, and rolls of what I took to be plans standing up in a box beside his cluttered desk. On a table near the window was a model of a group of buildings, presumably of some project under construction.
‘How can I help the police then, Chief?’
‘We’re investigating a murder at Cockcroft Lodge in North Sheen—’
‘Cockcroft Lodge?’ queried Maynard, thoughtfully savouring the name. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s not one of ours.’
‘It’s not the ownership of the building that matters, Mr Maynard. The murder’s got nothing to do with your company, but it’s the site you’re developing in Richmond that we’re interested in. I understand it was a health club with a swimming pool and gymnasium.’
‘Ah, got it! I’m with you now. What d’you want to know about it, then?’
‘So far we’ve been unable to discover very much about the victim, but we’ve been told that he visited this club on a regular basis. It’s a long shot, I know, but we often h
ave to clutch at any passing straw.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about the management of the place before we acquired it, Chief Inspector. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just another parcel of land that we’re building on.’
‘We didn’t think you would be able to help much, Mr Maynard,’ said Kate, ‘but we were wondering if you can give us the names of anyone you’ve had contact with. I’m talking about the previous owners or staff. Anyone at all who we can talk to, because it’s imperative that we find out more about our murder victim. Then we might get a lead on who killed him.’
‘I’ll see what we’ve got in the paperwork.’ Maynard crossed to a filing cabinet and pulled out a thick dossier. ‘I didn’t realize how much mundane stuff you had to do in your job,’ he said, elbowing the drawer shut and turning back to his desk. ‘Now, let me see. Ah, here we are. It was owned by a Mr Victor Downs, or owned by his company. I’ve got an address for him, but that’s all I can do for you, I’m afraid.’ He looked up and grinned. ‘Unless either of you wants to buy a new-build town house on the site of an old health club.’
I laughed. ‘No thanks. I don’t know what you’re asking for them, but as it’s in Richmond, I couldn’t afford it.’
Maynard laughed too. ‘Neither could I. Ah, I remember this. God knows why, but when one of our staff did the initial survey after the purchase, they took possession of all the staff photographs that were hanging in the entrance hall. I told my secretary to bin them, but they’re still here.’ He took the photographs out of the file and handed them to me. ‘Any good to you, Chief?’
‘They might come in useful, Mr Maynard,’ I said, taking the prints and handing them to Kate. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be more helpful,’ said Maynard as we shook hands.
EIGHT
Kate and I returned to our offices in Belgravia, and I told her to wait in case the DAC rang back with more details about the bogus police officers in Poperinge.