Tracers

by Adrian Magson

  They said nothing. This was all moving at a fast pace, but while Joanne was helping them, they weren’t about to suggest that what she had done might have contravened the Official Secrets Act.

  The copies of the photo inched with agonizing slowness out of the machine, and Joanne slipped them in her pocket while Harry paid the assistant. They left the shop and returned to the car.

  ‘This is him,’ said Joanne, passing one of the photos between the front seats.

  The snap showed two men sitting at a street café table. One was stocky, running to fat and in his fifties, with unremarkable features. The other was a strict contrast: large and bullish, with powerful arms and big hands, and a strong, angular face. They were both dressed in tan-coloured trousers and pale shirts, and on the table in front of them were small coffee cups and glasses of water. The tables around them were deserted. Two more men were in the background, both wearing casual clothes, flak jackets and dark glasses. They were staring off to each side away from the café scene. Both carried sub-machine guns and wore side arms.

  ‘Iraq?’ Rik guessed.

  ‘Yes. It was in the suburbs, about halfway between the safe house and the compound. There was a market nearby and I was supposed to arrive fifteen minutes later, but I got there early. I’d decided to go to the market and act normal, like I was supposed to. To be honest, I needed the distraction.’

  ‘So they weren’t expecting you,’ said Harry.

  ‘No. As usual, I was dressed as a local, so they wouldn’t have recognized me. I was surprised to see them. There had been a bunch of killings in the area and the streets were flooded with US troops. I think that’s why they were able to sit there like that. Everyone else was indoors except for a few locals and me. When I spotted them, I couldn’t resist it – I took a quick shot. It looked so bizarre.’

  Rik stared at her. ‘You walked around with a camera on you?’ He didn’t have to say how dangerous that had been. If she had been stopped in a random search by Coalition forces or Iraqi police, her cover would have been blown in an instant.

  ‘I hid it under my clothes,’ she explained. ‘They wouldn’t have dared touch me.’ She shrugged. ‘It was a risk worth taking.’

  ‘Why did you take the shot?’

  ‘I don’t know. Instinct, I think. I’d got used to keeping records of everybody I saw, both in and outside the compound. This was just part of it. Humphries always told me to be aware of everybody and everything around me. To remember faces and names – especially of the people I met, whichever side they were on. He came across as a bit of a cynic but I think he’d learned by experience never to miss a trick. I did it without thinking.’

  Harry pointed at the plumper of the two men in the photo. ‘This is Humphries?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know the other man’s name. After I got the shot, I went straight to the safe house and waited. Humphries arrived alone dressed in local clothes. If he saw me near the café, he never said. But I remember he didn’t seem happy.’

  ‘He didn’t say why?’

  ‘No. He seemed distracted, like he was just going through the motions. But it was a stressful time and I figured he had a lot on his plate. He was probably running other ops in tandem with mine. Anyway, we did the briefing and he left. He didn’t ask for the memory card and I didn’t offer it. It was the last time I saw him.’

  Harry pointed at the other man in the photo. ‘What about him?’

  ‘I never saw him again either – until now. Three days later, Humphries called me to another briefing. He said to go to the safe house and wait. It was the day the compound was bombed.’

  Harry nodded. ‘And the day he was killed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He must have known something was up.’ Harry spoke with quiet conviction. ‘Why else call another meeting so quickly after the last one?’

  Joanne shrugged sadly. ‘We’ll never know now, will we?’

  ‘It would help,’ said Harry slowly, as if teasing his thoughts into words, ‘if we knew something about Humphries: family . . . places he knew . . . where he lived. Did he ever say anything about his background?’

  Joanne shook her head. ‘I don’t remember. But how would that help us? He’s dead.’

  ‘Because he’s your only point of reference to this mess. It won’t do any good going back to the training camp – they’ll deny any knowledge and call the cops. Trying to find your way back up the chain of command would end the same way. We’d get blocked all along the line and you’d finish up being investigated for the death of your friend Cath. If we can find out who Humphries worked for, we might be able to get to someone who can help you and sort out what’s going on with Rafa’i.’

  Joanne shrugged. ‘He never talked about himself, except . . .’ She paused.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He once told me that he had a twin sister, Sheila. She’s a teacher in a primary school in Essex. It was at one of our meetings, after we’d finished a briefing. I got the impression they were close and shared a house.’ She closed her eyes. ‘He even mentioned the village . . . God, where was it?’

  They waited but nothing came. Finally, Harry said, ‘Don’t push it. It’ll come.’

  ‘OK. But she won’t know anything. People like Humphries aren’t supposed to talk about their work, are they?’

  ‘You’d be surprised what spooks talk about,’ said Rik. He sounded almost irritated. ‘Half the secrets published in the press come about through family members spilling the beans.’ He sat back with a heavy sigh.

  Harry turned to look at him. Irritation wasn’t Rik’s usual demeanour. ‘Something bothering you?’

  ‘Matuq,’ Rik replied. ‘And Param. I can’t get it out of my mind.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘I keep thinking about what you said before, about there being a connection. They couldn’t have known Rafa’i. It doesn’t fit.’

  ‘They didn’t have to. It’s not the victims who are the connection; it’s Jennings.’ When they both looked puzzled, he explained by asking, ‘What was stolen at any of the locations?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Rik said.

  ‘Exactly. There’s another similarity: they were killed on or near the doorstep and the killer didn’t hang around afterwards. Same with South Acres: in and out, two men down, no messing. Then gone.’

  ‘Except,’ Rik pointed out, ‘we don’t know what happened to Rafa’i.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Harry frowned. ‘I don’t get that. But I still think it’s the same pattern and the same man. He specializes in fast entries and exits and doesn’t hang about. He’s not there to steal anything – that’s not his job.’

  ‘So what is it, then?’ Joanne looked at the two men in turn, although something in her face told them she already knew the answer.

  ‘He’s a specialist,’ Harry replied. ‘He kills people.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  Rik stopped the Audi at the end of the track leading to Stokes Cottage and climbed out. Everything seemed quiet; no scene of crime vans, no figures in forensic suits, no support units, no press corps. As still as the grave.

  ‘We need to split up,’ Harry had suggested earlier. He was still puzzled at the total absence of news about Matuq’s murder. Rik had checked online, but not even the local papers had any coverage. It was the same with Param’s death, although there was a brief mention of an assault in the area, but with no details. Yet this was at a time when knife crimes were headline news, with every attack splashed across the front pages providing further embarrassment to a Home Office already under considerable pressure to halt the rise in street crime.

  Harry had rung Dempsey’s, the letting agent responsible for handling South Acres. When he came off the phone, he was even more confused.

  ‘South Acres is being renovated and is no longer on the market. The previous tenants checked out two days ago.’

  Rik’s mouth curled. ‘I’ll say – and no forwarding address.’

  ‘The keys were dropped off and ever
ything’s above board.’

  ‘No way. What about the bodies?’

  Harry looked sombre. ‘I’m guessing there weren’t any. They’re probably buried in the woods somewhere. I smell men in suits.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Joanne looked at him.

  ‘A professional is involved and the murders have been suppressed or downplayed – even Param’s, although I’d guess it was too public to cover up locally.’

  ‘We should check South Acres,’ Rik suggested. ‘Somebody’s telling porkies.’

  ‘It’s too late for that. The workmen are already in; any evidence will have been destroyed by now. It might be worth checking Blakeney and Battersea, though.’ Privately he didn’t hold out much hope of finding anything. If Matuq’s murder in Blakeney had been concealed, and Param’s hadn’t been allowed to hit the headlines, there was every likelihood that the Battersea flat was already empty.

  ‘But who could suppress that kind of thing?’ Joanne asked. ‘Who has that sort of influence?’

  Rik said, ‘The kind of people we used to work for.’

  Harry nodded. ‘OK. Joanne and I will see if we can track down Humphries’ sister. If we find her, she might be able to tell us something useful. It’s possible he let slip something about who he worked for.’

  Rik nodded. ‘I’ll do Blakeney. The locals won’t have seen me before. Then I’ll check Joanne’s place in Battersea.’

  Joanne looked from one man to the other. ‘Why are you two doing this?’ she asked quietly. ‘You’re not getting paid for it. You don’t owe me anything.’

  ‘Because,’ Rik replied, ‘if we’re right, whoever took Rafa’i also killed your friend. When they realize they screwed up, they’ll come looking for you.’

  For a second Joanne looked bewildered. Harry added, ‘What Boy Wonder forgot to mention is that they’ll probably come after us, too. So we’re not so much noble as a bit short on options.’ He smiled to soften the words. ‘Never mind, if they come too close, we’ll let you use your gun.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said faintly. ‘I’ll remember that.’

  Now, after a fast drive from London, Rik was in Blakeney. He’d used the journey to ease the tension of the past couple of days out of his system, concentrating on driving the car as hard as conditions would allow. It was his means of relaxation, but one he could only truly accomplish without Harry in the car. Not that Harry was bothered by speed; he simply saw little point in using the full power of the car’s highly tuned engine when you didn’t need to.

  He surveyed the ground as he walked up the lane towards the cottage, and was dismayed to see several sets of tyre tracks in the mud. Harry had mentioned only one, and clearly described the track ending among the trees, with no other houses. He had a feeling he was too late.

  He rounded the bend at the top of the track and stopped. The cottage looked just as Harry had described: isolated, a little sad, even neglected. Except that the faded green door in the photo on Harry’s mobile was now painted a glossy, duck-egg blue.

  He checked the trees and bushes on his left, and the reeds to his right. His nerves were jangling at this latest development. Who the hell would allow someone to decorate the front door of a murder scene?

  He stepped forward and pressed the doorbell, heard it echo inside. The place sounded empty. He stepped over to the front window and peered in, and felt his nerves crank up even further.

  The room, far from being the drab place Harry had mentioned, was now bright with freshly minted walls and a new carpet. None of the sad decor, no half-finished meal, no oddments of thrown-together furniture.

  And no Matuq lying against the rear wall.

  Somebody had been busy. And definitely not the police. He checked the side of the cottage. The lean-to was still there, but there was no sign of a Renault with slashed tyres.

  He was about to take a look at the back garden when a voice spoke behind him.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  He turned to see a youngish woman standing by the corner of the cottage. She wore green Wellingtons and a fleece, and had large, brown eyes. She was pretty, with glossy black hair and perfect teeth, and looked very country.

  ‘Uh . . . yes – sorry.’ He smiled and felt wrong-footed. Where the hell had she appeared from? ‘I was miles away. I was wondering if this place was to let.’ What he really wanted was to ask if she’d heard about a brutal murder committed here in the last few days, but decided that might be too direct.

  The woman shook her head and smiled patiently, as if accustomed to dealing with lunatics wandering around the countryside looking for places to rent. ‘It’s not available.’

  ‘That’s a pity. It’s in a nice location. Are you the owner?’

  ‘No.’ The woman waved a vague hand towards the village. ‘I live along the road and sometimes take in the key. I was out walking my dog and noticed you here.’ She frowned slightly. ‘This isn’t really the best place to be looking at.’ She stood to one side, a clear indication that he should leave.

  ‘Why?’ Rik stood his ground. ‘You make it sound like somebody just died.’

  The woman’s eyes flickered. It was a momentary thing and most people would have overlooked it. But Rik had spent long enough watching faces to spot it.

  ‘There’s been nothing like that,’ she replied eventually. ‘What a strange idea, Mr—?’

  Rik ignored the opening and studied her. For a woman on her own she seemed very self-possessed, in spite of standing in an isolated spot with a stranger asking strange questions and making comments about death. Maybe they were bred tough around here.

  He noticed she was carrying a mobile phone but no dog lead.

  So where was the dog?

  ‘I’ve got a lively imagination,’ he replied, and stepped past her. It was time to go, and fast, before she summoned help. ‘Thanks for your time.’ As he walked back down the lane, he felt her eyes on him all the way. When he turned to look back, she had disappeared.

  He drove into the village and stopped at a small supermarket. The woman on the till smiled, but shook her head when he asked about the cottage.

  ‘Stokes Cottage? No, dear, there’s been nobody there for a while. The last tenant skipped without paying the rent, they say.’ She rolled her eyes at the dishonesty of some people. ‘The owners must have decided to sell it. They’ve had workmen in, doing it up. It’ll go for a good price, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Does the owner live here?’

  ‘No, dear. London, I think. They’re all from London, aren’t they, these days? Why – you looking for a place to buy, are you?’

  In Islington, north London, Harry was standing by the Saab, parked behind his flat, and beginning to wonder how stupid he’d been.

  He had left Joanne sitting in the passenger seat less than three minutes ago, after returning from a wasted morning outside Jennings’ office. They had been waiting for the lawyer to show up, but by the time noon had come and gone, it seemed pointless wasting any more time. Discreet enquiries at adjacent businesses had been met with politely blank looks, and the two men they had spotted earlier had not returned, nor had the office opened. Checking out where Humphries’ sister lived might at least offer the feeling of progress of a sort, if only Joanne could recall the name of the village. He had tried not to pressure her to remember it, because these memory fragments usually returned in their own time.

  He shouldn’t have left her alone down here while he went upstairs. She evidently didn’t trust anyone fully, and who could blame her after what she had been through? The temptation to cut and run once she was on her own must have been too great.

  He went to the front of the building and checked the street in both directions. It was a waste of time; if Joanne had decided to run, she would have done just that. And with her skills, there was no guessing how far away she was by now.

  He was about to go back for the car to make a tour of the area, when he saw a brief flicker of movement. It came from inside a vehicle halfway do
wn on the other side of the street. He continued turning away, careful not to betray the fact that he had seen something. When he looked at the spot again, there was no sign of anyone.

  He knew he hadn’t been mistaken. There was a person in the car. But was it significant?

  Then he spotted Joanne.

  She was walking along the pavement towards him, fifty yards beyond the car where he’d seen the movement and on the same side of the street. There was something odd in her stance, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. The rucksack, maybe, which never left her side? Her attention seemed to be focussed on a spot on or near the same vehicle where he had seen the movement.

  In the same instant, he realized what was unusual about her stance: she was holding her gun down by her leg.

  He felt the back of his neck go cold. It was a classic approach to a suspect vehicle, remaining carefully in the driver’s blind spot while keeping him in sight and holding your weapon ready. The next move would be to tap on the window right behind his ear and—

  Harry turned and ran back to his car at the rear of the building. It was pointless shouting a warning; Joanne had obviously spotted the watcher on her way out and had reacted in the way she’d been trained. If the person in the car, innocent or not, showed the slightest sign of resistance in the next couple of minutes, it would probably be the last thing they ever did.

  He tore out of the car park, hoping nobody chose that moment to drive by. By the time he was out in the street, Joanne was already within ten paces of the suspect vehicle and bending forward slightly, beginning to bring her weapon up. He hit the accelerator, hoping he could make it in time.

  The gap narrowed fast. As he began to draw level with the stationary car, he stamped hard on the brakes. The tyres squealed in protest as they tried to grip the tarmac, causing Joanne to glance up. At the same moment, a shadow moved inside the vehicle. But the watcher wasn’t in the driver’s seat where he should have been – he was in the back and facing the pavement, waiting for Joanne to draw close.