A number of thoughts come into play about that fateful night. One important one: why did Marian choose to walk along the river bank, when she could have taken the easier and much brighter route over the bridge, past this very spot, through Spinningfields, turned left onto Deansgate and then a straighter and equally well-lit route to Victoria train station? I consider this for a moment; there would be precious little difference in the distance. Maybe we will never know. I turn, and still deep in thought begin to walk slowly back towards Piccadilly.
My mobile phone rings. I’m expecting it to be Benson to advise me about his problems at FrackUK, which would be on my route back, but it’s Bill Lambert.
‘Hi, where are you?’ he enquires.
‘In Manchester at the moment,’ I answer. ‘Just been meeting my bank manager. He’s never a cheerful soul, certainly not when he’s lecturing me on austerity, but at least I got my overdraft increased.’
‘I know the feeling,’ he empathises. ‘We’ve just had some reports in that you would be keen to know about, if you want to drop by.’
‘Yeah, sure. Give me an hour. The area around Victoria is a building site at the moment.’ Surprisingly enough, I make the journey in only forty minutes.
‘You made good time,’ Lambert remarks as I am ushered into his office by Detective Maurice Evans.
There is a report on the desk, which is obviously taking centre stage.
‘I thought we’d better share this information with you pronto,’ he begins. ‘We’ve had several reports in from Interpol and Europol about both our disappearing felons – mostly possible sightings that cannot be corroborated at this stage. However, this one,’ he holds it up to stress the point, ‘is fact. It confirms that one Hans Johansen arrived at London Heathrow airport this morning on a British Airways flight from Oslo.’
I am stumped, and pause to try and make sense of this information before I speak. ‘I don’t get it. Why would he come back to the UK so soon? Or why even at all?’
‘We were hoping you might be able to shed some light on that,’ Evans states.
‘Well, unless there was unfinished business…’ I volunteer.
‘Umm,’ Lambert ponders, as both policemen absent-mindedly scratch their chins.
Nothing more of import is discussed, and I leave them going over their various reports.
I ponder this information all the way back on the metro into town. I leave the tram, but before checking the information board for trains to Stockport, I ring Amelia for an update.
‘Afternoon. Must have been a long meeting at the bank,’ she observes. ‘Or did he stump up a lunch for you?’
‘I should be so lucky! No, Bill Lambert phoned me as I was leaving. He had some reports to discuss – the strangest one being that Hans Johansen is back, spotted at Heathrow yesterday. He got off a flight from Oslo.’
‘That’s weird,’ she agrees.
‘Yes, but we can’t come up with a why as yet.’
‘There’s nothing urgent here, so what are you going to do?’
‘I think I’ll ring Carl Benson while I’m close by, see if he has any news yet. If not, I’ll head off home early.’
I make the call, and am put through to his PA, who informs me that he’s out of the office for the rest of the day. I consider asking if there has been an American visitor, but think better of it. He’ll call as soon as he feels able, won’t he?
I check the information board, and there’s a non-stopper leaving in five minutes. I’ll be home in an hour.
As I park up the Saab, a shocked Cyril spots me and asks, ‘You’re early! Haven’t sacked yourself, have you?’
‘Not that lucky,’ I reply as we fall in step together. ‘I was in Manchester, and the office is quiet this afternoon so there didn’t seem much point going back in.’
‘Don’t have that luxury in my job,’ he moans.
‘It’s a tough life,’ I agree, stepping up my pace to avoid further conversation. Once inside I shrug off my jacket and discard my shoes, then set off to the kitchen. I’m about to pour an early Bombay Sapphire gin and tonic when the blinking red light of the answerphone catches my eye. I’m delighted to hear the voice of Wendy Davenport, letting me know she is in Manchester for the weekend and asking to meet. Involuntarily checking the mirror, the grinning face of a Cheshire cat is looking back at me. I instantly reach for the handset to call her back, then check myself. ‘Slow down, mate,’ I say out loud. ‘Get yourself a drink and think a bit more first.’
I sit down, and sipping my gin I watch the news for all of ten minutes. Wendy picks up after two rings.
‘Hello! I’m so glad you called back so soon. I must apologise for running out on you last time, but after my Uncle Jack’s funeral I was in a bad place and needed space. I am very fond of you, and felt it was too early to burden you with my troubles.’
Bloody hell, where’s the Hollywood script when you need it, I think. ‘It wouldn’t have been a burden at all, and if I’m honest my feelings are way beyond fond,’ I manage to say.
‘Ooh! I am blushing now. I can’t wait to see you.’
‘When are you arriving?’
‘I’m travelling up tomorrow, and the train is due in Piccadilly at quarter to nine in the evening.’
‘I’ll be there to meet you,’ I promise.
‘How romantic,’ she answers slowly.
Trying not to overdo it, I ask, ‘what else have you got planned?’
‘I have to see my daughter, of course, but she does know about you, and she will have her own timetable, so I will be a free agent for a fair amount of time.’
‘Wonderful! I’ll be waiting at the station tomorrow.’
‘Thank you. I’ll see you then, bye.’
Replacing the phone, I almost think I imagined the whole conversation, and I’m still daydreaming when my mobile rings. It’s Amelia.
‘Hi, it’s me. Where are you?’
‘I’m at home just about to eat. Why, where are you?’
‘You’re not going to believe this.’
‘What?’
‘I’m outside the gym with Sophia and Suzy. They’re back from a few days in the Algarve, Portugal, where Carlo Peroni, Sophia’s father, has a place in Lagos.’
I’m becoming more exasperated. ‘Yes, well?’
‘She reckons she saw Barry Milton.’
I feel like I’ve been head-butted again, and sit down in shock. ‘Are you sure? I mean, is she sure?’
‘She did work for him for a long time, so she should know.’
‘Look, why don’t you come over here? Give me a few minutes to think. Maybe I’ll call Lambert; he would have a police contact in the Algarve.’
I hear Amelia get the OK from Sophia and Shelia, before replying, ‘We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’
Tidying up, I ponder the best move. I decide I should ring Lambert. Before making the call, I grab a cookie and put the kettle on. Fortunately Lambert is working late.
‘Lambert,’ a gruff voice announces.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ I apologise.
‘No, go on. I’m reading the latest on the body in the Irwell case. We’re still not getting very far, that’s the problem.’
‘I may be able to give you a lead on it, then.’ I pass on my conversation with Amelia.
‘That could be a real breakthrough if we could haul him in. They’re on their way over now, you say?’
‘Be here anytime now,’ I confirm.
‘I’m going to be here another hour, so call me back as soon as.’
‘Will do. In fact, I can hear them now. Speak shortly.’
‘You were quick,’ I say, pouring coffee as we sit, conference-like, around the farmhouse kitchen table.
‘No traffic at this time of night,’ Amelia remarks.
‘So let’s hear the story,’ I say, addressing the girls.
Suzy takes the lead. ‘You know Sophia has been a bit down? Well, her father said why the two of us don’t get away for a few da
ys at his place, basically.’ She glances at Sophia, who takes over.
‘We were strolling around the marina, looking at the boats, and over a glass of wine we got to imagining what it would be like to have one, as you do. There are several brokerages around the marina, so we thought we would check out the adverts in the windows. You can clearly see into the office area, people at desks and so on. And lo and behold, in one of them who do we see, sat there bold as brass? Barry Milton chatting up some unwary punter. He’s changed his appearance as much as he can – shorter hair and grown a beard – but it was him alright.’
‘How sure can be you be?’ I ask. ‘A hundred per cent?’
There is a flicker of doubt from Sophia as she glances at Suzy for reassurance.
Suzy steps in. ‘I’d say ninety-five per cent.’
Sophia nods. ‘Yes, definitely.’
‘What do you think he’s doing? Did you go in?’
‘No, of course not,’ Suzy replies. ‘He knows us, remember?’ Sophia agrees.
Stupid question, I reflect.
‘There was a sign on his desk saying Consultant,’ Sophia adds.
‘That’s pretty conclusive, I’d say,’ Amelia offers.
‘It certainly is,’ I confirm, wondering whether to ring Lambert now, whilst the girls are still here, or wait. I can’t just chuck them out, though.
‘I’m going to ring Lambert, see if he wants a word with you,’ I announce.
They all stare back at me. ‘It’s OK,’ Suzy says, and Sophia nods.
My call is answered by Detective Sergeant Evans. ‘I’ll pass you over.’
‘Didn’t waste your time,’ Lambert says as he comes on the line.
‘No need. They are very confident – ninety-five per cent sure, despite a haircut and new beard as disguise. They are still here, if you want a word.’
‘No, that won’t be necessary. I’ve been chewing it over with Evans while we’ve been waiting for you to call us back. I don’t want him to get away again, obviously, and contacting the Portuguese police could take too much time, and we could lose him. So we plan to fly over and arrest him, but the problem is we have never actually seen him face-to-face, and photographs taken some time ago can be misleading, especially if he can produce convincing ID. It would help if you could come with us.’
This is really coming out of the blue. ‘Right,’ I say, hesitantly. ‘I have been upfront and personal with the man, as they say, and would certainly recognise him again, beard or no beard.’
‘Good, that’s sorted, then. Meet us at the airport. We’ve already booked three seats on the 07:35 Monarch flight to Faro in the morning. We’ll meet you at the check-in desk.’
The three girls are staring at me as I replace the handset.
‘They’ve booked me on a flight to Portugal in the morning.’
‘Looks like you’re on a jolly then,’ Amelia quips.
‘I guess so,’ I confirm, shaking my head in disbelief as the girls giggle away at my discomfort. Ten minutes later they’re gone and I’m packing my bag for an early start in the morning. I try to book a cab, but it’s too short notice for the first company I call. Not relishing the best part of an hour’s drive, I opt to drive to Crewe station as normal, and pick up the airport train, which takes only thirty minutes. As usual before an early morning flight I struggle to sleep, and wake up in a panic when I remember I’m supposed to be collecting Wendy Davenport on the Friday evening. My sleep is unsettled, with visions of trains and boats and planes.
Chapter 22
I park at Crewe long-stay car park and walk over to the station, realising there won’t be much time to get from the airport station to the airport gate at terminal two. The train is due to arrive at 07:04 and the flight is 07:35.
I jog over to terminal one and see Lambert and Evans at the side of the desk, checking their watches, presumably all checked in. There is only a straggle of fellow last-minute travellers queuing, so Lambert waves me forward and pushes me to the front. A tattooed bruiser steps up to remonstrate, but soon retreats at the flashing of Bill’s ID.
With only cabin baggage, we are soon through customs, with airport staff warned that we cannot miss this flight. We catch what must be the last bus to the aircraft and are seated by 07:25. At 07:30 the bruiser enters the cabin and stares angrily at us, clearly just having made the flight with no time to spare.
I sit in the window seat, feeling like a captured fugitive being escorted to his fate. The flight is pleasant, on time and unremarkable. We go over the little information we have on the murder of Marian Clowes, and the police view remains that Milton is the perpetrator. I still feel that this is far too convenient. Refreshment is tea and a chocolate bar, after which we talk about past flights and holidays.
Electronic scanning gets us through passport control in minutes, and with no hold baggage we’re exiting the airport arrivals by eleven o’clock. Strolling out through the exit doors, the heat is immediately apparent, even at this time of year. It’s a good ten degrees warmer than Manchester. At the taxi rank we climb into a big black air-conditioned Mercedes E-class cab, which whisks us through the outskirts of Faro and onto the A22 toll road. The toll system is efficient. There are no manned areas, and the toll control is operated by overhead scanning of number plates. Most vehicles have a transponder fitted in the vehicle, which is automatically picked up by the scanner and billed accordingly. Portuguese cab drivers seem to feel obliged to drive at top speed in the outside lane at all times, and we arrive in Lagos by noon.
The taxi drops us opposite the marina, where we cross the road and traverse the bridge over the waterway, which is periodically raised to allow sea traffic to pass through on its way to the Atlantic Ocean. We walk the same route the girls would have taken, to a strip of bars and restaurants fronting the marina. Taking time out in a first-floor bar for coffee and to work out a strategy, we are afforded a fine view of the marina: a beautiful sight on a sunny day.
‘What’s the plan, then, boss?’ Evans asks.
Lambert looks at me, ‘Did the girls say exactly where this yacht brokerage actually is’
I have to pause to think for a moment. ‘Yes, they said it was on a corner of a small square at the far end, where the road bridges over the river are.’
We all peer north, inland, where the Monchique Mountains are just visible in the distance.
‘I can see the square clear enough,’ Lambert observes, ‘but I can’t quite make out any names on the windows. It should be pretty obvious, though, when we get a bit closer.’
‘Do we walk in and grab him, then, boss?’ Evans asks.
‘More or less, yes, once our friend here has identified him,’ he answers, glancing at me.
‘Can we actually do that?’ I ask hesitantly.
‘Theoretically, probably no, but they say possession is nine tenths of the law,’ Lambert chuckles. ‘But given the choice between being handed over to the Portuguese police and taken down to Portimao police station to wait out an official request, or a nice little airplane trip with us, I know what my choice would be. Evans has the cuffs, and we risked the expense of an extra ticket back – last row on the plane, so less visible to other passengers going on and off.’
‘You seem to have thought of everything,’ I smile.
‘We did feel it in the public interest to speed things up if we could,’ Evans says.
We finish our coffee and take the stairs down at the end of the veranda nearer to our target. We stroll along the marina, trying to look like normal tourists but probably standing out a mile in suits, pale-faced and looking hot. As we check out the larger yachts and gin palaces, Evans says, ‘Don’t suppose I could afford one of those on my salary.’
‘Not a chance, Evans,’ Lambert confirms.
Approaching the end of the marina, we take a left and notice a brokerage at the back of the square. We continue, and a few yards further right on the corner, just as described, there is another.
‘That must be it,’ I say.
‘Right, let’s separate. If we all look through the same window it’ll give the game away,’ Lambert orders. Gesturing at me, he adds, ‘You look through the main window and we’ll hang round the side a bit. If he’s there, give us a nod. We’ll go in first and get his attention with an enquiry, then you follow in half a minute, OK?’
I stroll to the window and pretend to read an ad for a twenty-one-year-old sloop. As I peer into the shop, I can see a man with his back to the window talking to a customer. Both are bending over a table, and the man is pointing down to what appears to be map on the table. I glance over and hold up one finger to indicate one minute. They peer in the window too, and give a thumbs-up that they understand. The two men inside stand upright and shake hands. The customer turns, and the man faces the window, so I quickly move closer to the window as if reading small print on the advert. I move an inch to see the man’s face, and it’s definitely Milton, beard or no beard. I turn, hoping he hasn’t recognised me.
‘It’s him,’ I whisper to the two policemen, who are primed like athletes waiting on their marks. Surprisingly swiftly, they run to the door and are inside. I follow moments later as ordered. Job done, I think. They are standing in front of a desk as I walk over, the man behind the desk not yet visible. He appears concerned as I walk into view and stare at the badge bearing the name Luis. I am gobsmacked. Shaking my head, I exclaim, ‘It’s not Milton!’ ‘He must have recognised me and slipped out the back.’
‘Where’s the other man?’ Lambert demands of Luis holding up his ID.
‘Harry, go to the bathroom!’ a now frightened Luis replies, glancing towards the rear of the shop.
‘Is there a back door?’ Evans demands.
‘Yes, but what is going on?’ Luis asks as we all rush to the rear of the shop.
‘Later,’ Lambert offers over his shoulder.
The rear door opens onto the outside of the square.
‘How bloody stupid could we be?’ Lambert curses, looking at me and Evans. Our sheepish silence confirms our agreement. There are only two directions he could have taken, one back to the marina, but unless he is hiding, the way back along the marina is clearly visible but no one is in sight. We jog in the opposite direction, which takes a dog-leg to the right behind the square and forward again behind older, greyer buildings to a road.
Troubled Waters Page 13