Tracers

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Gordon worked for the government.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but that’s not right. My brother worked for an oil company.’ She looked carefully at them both, the teacher demanding an explanation. Yet in spite of the guarded response, there was a hesitancy about her and her hands never ceased twisting and moving. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t see how I can help you. I should call someone.’ She looked as if she was about to turn towards a phone on the wall.

  Harry took out his wallet and showed her his MI5 card. If she still chose to call for help, it was likely to be an official number and would be another count against him. There was nothing else for it but to bluff their way through.

  She looked at the card and appeared to relax. ‘Oh. I see.’

  Joanne opened her rucksack and took out the photo of Humphries and his companion at the street café. She held it out and said, ‘This is Gordon, isn’t it?’

  Sheila Humphries reacted as if she’d been stung. She took the photo and stared at it, then gave a deep sigh and sat down on a chair as if her legs had given way. She ran her fingertips gently across the glossy surface, then murmured softly, ‘Oh, dear God. You poor boy.’

  They took a chair each and waited, giving her time to adjust to the shock of seeing her brother’s face again. A buzz of high-pitched laughter echoed down the corridor outside and a clock ticked in the room, drawing away the seconds until she looked up.

  ‘How can I help you?’ she said.

  ‘You know where that photo was taken, don’t you?’ said Joanne. She glanced at Harry for guidance, but he said nothing, not daring to intrude on the moment.

  Sheila took a deep breath and nodded. ‘Somewhere in Baghdad. I said he should never have gone there. But it was his work. It was what he did.’ Her voice was breathless, almost muffled, as if forcing each word through a heavy gauze. ‘How did you come by it?’

  ‘I was the one who took it.’

  ‘You?’ Sheila looked stunned. ‘But that means . . .’

  ‘Gordon was my boss.’ She paused, then continued in a matter-of-fact manner, ‘We used to meet for briefings. I was due to meet him the morning he died. He didn’t come.’

  ‘Briefings?’ Sheila Humphries suddenly leaned forward, a look of understanding dawning on her face. She stared at Joanne with intense concentration. ‘He said they’d put someone out there . . . a young girl. He was appalled at the idea. Said it was horribly dangerous and he couldn’t protect her. It was you?’

  Joanne said nothing.

  ‘He told you about it?’ Harry was surprised.

  ‘Only the once,’ she replied, eyes still on Joanne. ‘He was nearing voluntary retirement age. We were going to take a long holiday together. Then they asked him to stay on for a really important job. Vital, they said. It was going to be his last assignment.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Joanne.

  ‘Gordon loved his work. He really did. But not this time. It was as if the spark had gone out of it for him. They’d assigned him to another section or something, and there was a lot of training involved. He mentioned Iraq and said they were placing someone in an impossible situation and it was his responsibility as handler to see that nothing happened to them. He thought it was madness but couldn’t get them to call it off.’ She shook her head. ‘He wasn’t supposed to talk about his work, but I wasn’t stupid – I knew what he did right from the start. We were always close, you see.’

  ‘The other man in the photo,’ said Harry. ‘Do you know him?’

  Sheila nodded without looking at the photo. ‘His name’s Andrew Marshall. He was one of Gordon’s superiors – a major, I think, although he’s a civilian now. They’d worked together before in . . . well, in other places.’

  ‘Is he one of the good guys?’ Joanne asked

  Shelia shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I always thought so. With what they have to do, it’s difficult to tell sometimes.’ She looked guiltily at Joanne. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘But Gordon trusted him?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He trusted Andrew. Not,’ she added softly, ‘that it did him any good in the end, did it?’ She took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her nose. ‘A step too far.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘He always said that things went badly when you took just one step too far. Like taking that last run down a ski slope.’ She gave a stiff smile. ‘He loved skiing. Nearly broke his leg a couple of times, taking a final run.’

  ‘What did they tell you about it?’ Harry asked.

  ‘The accident? Actually, Andrew came to see me. He said he didn’t want anyone else to do it, not after all he and Gordon had been through together. I thought that was very kind of him. He told me Gordon’s car went off the road somewhere in Kuwait. But I knew that couldn’t be true – he was nowhere near Kuwait at the time. They’re very good at concealing things from families . . . they have to be, I suppose, otherwise we’d never sleep nights. There was even a report in the paper and a picture of the car.’ She took a deep breath, a catch in her throat. ‘Gordon never normally told me exactly where he was going or staying, but he did this time.’

  ‘Why was that?’ Harry waited. This could be the opening they needed.

  ‘He had trouble sleeping, which was very unusual for him. And the last time he was home on leave, he told me what he’d been doing and where he was going next. It was the first time he’d ever done that. That’s how I knew about you.’ She looked at Joanne with an odd look of compassion. ‘He thought you were a very special young lady. There weren’t many people he said that about. He was really very unhappy about it. He wanted to protect you . . . but deep down, I think he knew that was impossible. I still don’t know why you do it – any of you. But I suppose somebody has to, otherwise where would we be?’

  A bell sounded along the corridor. Sheila shook herself and glanced at her watch. ‘I’m sorry – I have to go. You wanted something, didn’t you? Something connected with Gordon.’

  Harry considered his words carefully. There was no point making her aware of what they were involved in; it would serve no useful purpose. She had been fed an official story covering the death of her brother, but had recognized it for what it was, even though she knew there must be something deeper involved than a mere road traffic accident. The truth was probably best left buried. But at least they now had a name. He opted for a direct question.

  ‘Do you know where we can find Andrew Marshall?’ he asked.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The air in Joanne Archer’s Battersea flat was filled with the tang of cleaning fluid. Trapped in the stillness of the hallway, it hung in the atmosphere like a thick veil. It was enough to tell Rik he was too late; the cleansing had already taken place.

  He ran his hand down the doorjamb. A new latch had been fitted, with a fillet of wood inserted and planed smooth to replace the damaged section. It hadn’t yet been painted, and whoever had been the last out must have forgotten to click the door behind them. He pushed it shut and slipped the button to lock it.

  First he checked the bathroom. It was empty, scoured clean; no coiled tights, no razor, no traces of soap or powder. The kitchen was pristine, as were the other rooms, stripped of all trace of the previous occupants. No bags, no empty wine bottles, no takeaway food containers, not even a layer of dust.

  And no body.

  There was a patch of bedroom carpet where the dead woman had been lying. Looking at the way the edges were curled up against the wall, Rik guessed the floor underneath had also been scrubbed. Not exactly a thorough job – replacing the carpet would have been more professional – but enough to cover up what had happened to the untrained eye.

  He rang Harry. ‘Battersea’s cleaner than a vicar’s conscience,’ he told him.

  ‘Can’t say I’m surprised,’ said Harry. ‘Best get out of there.’

  ‘Will do.’ Rik was already moving towards the door. ‘Any joy your end?’

  ‘We got a lead from Humphries’ sister, but it could be a waste of time. We’ll meet at you
r place.’

  ‘You betcha.’ Rik switched off his mobile. Heard the clatter of footsteps on the metal stairway.

  Too late.

  He stepped up to the door and peered out through the side window. Two men were climbing the stairs. They were both heavyset and purposeful, dressed in casual clothes.

  One he recognized as the passenger in the Volvo.

  He stepped back, wishing he’d got a weapon. But that was as pointless as hoping to meet Jennifer Lopez on a beach at sunset. Anyway, against two he’d be at a disadvantage. And these men looked like they meant business.

  He retraced his steps to the living room and looked out of the front window overlooking the shops. Immediately below was an overhang, a section of flat roof covered with heavy felt and a scattering of gravel. It was roughly four feet wide, easy enough to walk on. The question was, would it be strong enough to support his weight?

  There was only one way to find out.

  The window was single-glazed and opened outwards to the side. He flipped it open and clambered out. It was a bit public, but a much better option than going down the other way and trying to get past the two men. Dropping to the flat roof, he ignored a few surprised looks from pedestrians on the opposite pavement and walked along the roof to the end of the row of shops, careful not to tread too heavily. When he reached the end, he found a convenient rubbish skip placed within easy reach, and swung down to the ground and walked away without looking back.

  His car was parked on the main road, but he ignored it. Instead, he turned and walked along the access road behind the block. Each shop had its own rear door, with a stairway to the flats above every thirty yards. In between lay a clutter of vehicles, skips, pallets and other rubbish, and he used this cover to approach Joanne Archer’s stairway.

  He found a couple of large wheeled bins at the rear of a takeaway, and stopped, nose twitching at the sickly sweet smell of spicy food and grease.

  A door slammed overhead and footsteps pounded down the stairs, causing the structure to vibrate. The two men appeared, looking grim, and Rik smiled at their discomfort. It was tinged, though, by an awareness that they had clearly worked out what he was doing and were close behind him.

  Too close. Next time he might not be so lucky.

  The men walked across the road and disappeared round the corner. Moments later, a familiar blue Volvo appeared and edged out on to the main road, then surged away with a brief squeak of tyres, heading north towards the city.

  Harry hit the wheel with his hand and skidded into a lay-by, a cloud of dust drifting past as they came to a stop. They were only a few miles away from Green’s Morton after leaving a tearful Sheila Humphries, and Harry had just ended the call with Rik about Joanne’s flat.

  ‘Damn – how stupid am I?’

  ‘What’s up?’ Joanne reached instinctively for her gun, twisting in her seat to glance through the rear window.

  ‘No, not that.’ Harry climbed out and walked around the car, deep in thought. When he leaned against the front wing, Joanne got out and joined him. ‘What Sheila said about them being good at concealing things. It set me thinking: concealing is the same as covering up.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Rik was right,’ he explained, frowning in concentration. ‘Your friend’s murder was a mistake.’

  ‘They thought she was me. Don’t remind me.’

  ‘What if Param’s killing was a mistake by assumption? The killer didn’t get identities confused, he made a definite, planned move based on what he assumed we were doing.’

  Joanne shrugged. ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘When we went to see Jennings after Matuq’s death,’ he explained, ‘he handed us another job – to look for Silverman . . . Rafa’i as we now know him. He said it was urgent. We started on it right away, then had to wait for information about who had picked him up at the airport. While we were doing that we picked up with the Param job. We’d got a strong lead, so we used it to fill the time. We traced him to his girlfriend’s place in Harrow. But when we confirmed he was there, we didn’t ring in immediately.’

  ‘You said he wanted to write to his parents.’

  ‘Sure. It seemed reasonable, so being suckers for a sob story, we agreed. By the time we went back, he was dead. A local said it was an attempted mugging, but there’s been no mention of his name in the news since. Not a word.’

  ‘You think it’s been suppressed?’

  ‘Leaned on at the very least. And now the evidence of Matuq’s death has gone as well.’

  ‘Couldn’t this man Jennings have got it cleared away?’

  ‘He could – but I didn’t tell him where I’d located Matuq . . . just that I’d got him and was waiting for instructions. There’s only one way he could have known he was in Blakeney.’

  ‘He had you followed.’

  ‘Yes. But in London, the tail couldn’t have known we were chasing down Param, because we hadn’t told Jennings we’d switched assignments. He would have assumed we were closing in on Rafa’i, and as soon as we were out of the way, he went in for the kill.’

  Joanne frowned. ‘Did they look alike?’

  ‘Only the colouring. To western eyes, both men looked Asian or middle-eastern. In the dark, the killer wouldn’t have noticed the difference. He was too intent on completing the job. But he was careless.’

  ‘There’s only one flaw in your argument,’ Joanne said after a moment’s thought. ‘If the killer was the same man all along, and he thought it was Rafa’i he’d killed in north London, even if he realized his mistake and followed you out to the farm, why take Rafa’i? Why didn’t he slot him there and then?’

  ‘He couldn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Rafa’i wasn’t there.’ Harry spoke with absolute conviction. It was the only explanation, and had been staring him in the face all along. Only he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. There hadn’t been time for the killer to go upstairs, find Rafa’i and force him back down and into the car. It would have taken too long. If Rafa’i was the important figure they now knew him to be, with his background of conflict, he would have put up a struggle . . . and the killer would have cut his losses and finished him off there and then. ‘Rafa’i probably heard the killer approaching the farm and dropped out the back window. There were outbuildings and trees to duck into, and it was getting dark. The killer realized he was stuffed, so he left, using the Suzuki because one of the guards had disabled his bike.’

  As they climbed back in the car, Joanne’s phone rang, muffled inside her rucksack. She dug it out and peered at the caller display. It was an unlisted number. She looked at Harry in confusion. ‘I have no idea who this is. I only switched it on a short while ago.’

  ‘Answer it,’ Harry suggested. If it wasn’t a telesales call or a wrong number, he had a good idea who the caller might be.

  She asked who was speaking and her face went pale. ‘It’s Rafa’i,’ she mouthed, then replied in a brief rattle of Arabic. Moments later, she began again, then stopped. The call had been cut short. ‘I think he was scared we might be monitored. I asked him where he was, but he wouldn’t say. He wants to meet me.’

  ‘Where and when?’

  ‘He told me some time ago that there was one particular place he wanted to visit if he came to London. He’d seen it on television and liked the open space. Without naming it just now, he said we should meet there tomorrow morning at ten.’

  Harry made a guess at the biggest open space he could think of. ‘Hyde Park?’

  ‘No. St James’s Park and Horse Guards Parade. Near the lake.’

  Harry considered it. Was it genuine or was it an elaborate set-up to draw Joanne into a trap? The area was open, from what he recalled, and dotted with trees. It was also well publicized on tourist sites worldwide. If Rafa’i was as well read as Joanne had implied, he’d be aware of it. He might even have watched the Trooping of the Colour on television. There were several approaches to the area and it was easily overloo
ked, which could be both a benefit and a danger, depending on whose side you were on. ‘You’re sure it was him?’

  ‘Yes. I recognized his voice.’

  ‘How did he sound?’

  ‘Stressed.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. If it was me, I’d be going mental.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  Harry started the car. ‘You want to help him, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then that’s what we’ll do.’

  THIRTY-NINE

  Rik spotted Rafa’i first. The Iraqi was moving around the northern perimeter of the lake, apparently deep in thought. But his nervousness was obvious in the jerky movements of his head. He was hovering in the wake of a group of Japanese girls giggling and taking snapshots of the ducks on the water, the birds parading brazenly for titbits from passers-by.

  ‘By the lake, north side. He’s early and using cover,’ said Rik. He was following the Iraqi’s progress through a pair of binoculars, his mobile on hands-free in his top pocket. Rafa’i wore a white shirt and dark slacks, and had it not been for the bandage over his right hand and the dark patch beneath one eye, could have been any other casual visitor enjoying the cool air of a weekday morning in central London.

  ‘OK. Keep him in sight.’ Harry’s voice came through flat and low. He was standing on Horse Guards Parade, to the east of the park where he could watch the northerly approaches. The time was just coming up to 09.45. ‘Has Joanne seen him yet?’

  Joanne was sitting alone on the grass at the very end of the lake, in a triangular area between the water, some large flowerbeds and the Guards’ Memorial. Her back was to Horse Guards Parade. She had a camera and occasionally pretended to take a photo, turning her body when a view seemed to appeal to her. Then she held the camera to her eye and focussed on a spot by the lake for several seconds.

  It was the signal to Rik, who was closest, that she had seen and recognized the former cleric.

  ‘OK, she’s got him.’

  Rafa’i slowed deliberately, allowing the Japanese girls to pull away from him. He stood by the fencing around the lake and stared into the water. Then he disappeared from sight for a while as he moved behind a section of bushes close to a lakeside cafeteria. When he appeared again, another group of tourists had moved along the path towards him and were stopping for a photo call. Laughing and pushing, they formed a ragged line and grinned at their guide, who was taking snaps with their cameras.