Breaking Point

by Frank Smith

  Paget eyed Trowbridge thoughtfully. ‘Funny,’ he said, ‘but I don’t get any sense of loss in what you’re telling me. In fact I might go so far as to suggest that Slater didn’t die that night at the farm.’

  Trowbridge looked off into the distance. ‘You saw for yourself four body bags taken out of the barn, and the official record shows that a man by the name of Slater, who presumably worked for Kellerman, was trampled to death when the people they’d smuggled into the country panicked and stampeded during an attempt by police to free them.’

  ‘Which means that it would be more than a little embarrassing if he is seen alive,’ Paget observed. ‘So tell me, Ben. What happened to him? Indulge me.’

  Trowbridge pursed his lips and thought about it. Paget had no right to the information, and he had no right to give it, but on the other hand, what harm could it do? Especially considering the fact that he might be needing the chief inspector’s cooperation in the not too distant future.

  He turned to face Paget. ‘Off the record,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  Trowbridge, nodded. ‘The real Slater is dead,’ he said. ‘He died in Australia three years ago. The man who worked his way into Kellerman’s organization under that name is in fact a member of the Queensland Police. We use some of theirs; they use some of ours. Not just Australia, of course; we have reciprocal arrangements with a number of countries. Beyond that, all I can tell you is that he is no longer in this country.’

  ‘Thank you, Ben,’ said Paget, and meant it. ‘But since we’re talking off the record, there are a couple of things puzzling me. First, why weren’t you warned by your man that the auction had been brought forward twenty-four hours? And secondly, how did he manage to get out of that room alive?’

  ‘You might well ask,’ Trowbridge said. ‘But when Kellerman arrived that afternoon, it was a surprise to everyone, and one of the first things he did was take everyone’s phone away from them to make sure that no one could communicate with anyone outside. Kellerman didn’t trust anyone, no matter how long they’d worked for him.

  ‘On the second point, our man had the good sense to go down fast and play dead as soon as he saw Bell come in. He took a beating, but he survived. Bell was careful to keep the rest of the crew away while he and one of his men put Slater into the body bag and made sure he didn’t suffocate.’

  Paget nodded. ‘So tell me about Bardici,’ he said. ‘He must have made a hell of a deal with you if all he was going to be charged with was trafficking. The way the courts are these days, he’d have been out on the street in no time. Was he really worth that much to you?’

  Trowbridge shook his head. ‘We got nothing from Bardici,’ he said flatly. ‘He stared us down. He knew we couldn’t prove that he killed Newman and the others, and we couldn’t bring Fletcher or Slater out in the open to testify against him. Not that Fletcher would have testified against Bardici anyway; he was just as scared of the man as the rest of them were.

  ‘But as it turned out, we didn’t need to do that, because we got far more out of Fletcher than we did out of Bardici. I don’t know if you were aware of Fletcher’s background, but he spent years as a driver bringing in illegals from all over Europe for Kellerman before Customs became suspicious of him. He didn’t get caught, but he came close enough to it that Kellerman decided to pull him from the overseas run. Fletcher proved to be a mine of information. He knew the routes, he knew the staging points, he knew which border guards and Custom’s officers could be bribed. In fact he knew more about the organization than Bardici did by far, which is why we decided to protect him and let everyone believe he was dead.’

  Paget opened the door and prepared to get out of the car, then paused. ‘Odd, then, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘I mean about the way Bardici was killed, especially as he’d kept his mouth shut. Not,’ he added quickly, ‘that I’m sorry he’s dead, but still . . .’

  ‘I blame the tabloids,’ Trowbridge said blandly. ‘It seems that someone got the idea that it was Bardici who supplied us with the information that led to so many arrests in this country and in Europe. It wasn’t true, of course, but these things have a life of their own, and we weren’t in a position to tell them they were wrong without revealing the true source.’

  ‘I see.’ Paget looked off into the distance. ‘Any idea who might have started such a dangerous rumour?’

  ‘None at all. My guess is that it came from Europe. The French media picked it up very quickly.’

  ‘And they got it wrong. Fortunate for Fletcher, then, wasn’t it?’

  Trowbridge made a face. ‘Fletcher’s an idiot!’ he said. ‘Not only did he contact his sister, but he left the programme when he had everything going for him. He was fully protected: new name, new place, even a decent paying job, but he just walked away, and we have no idea where he is now. God help him if he ever runs into any of his old mates again, because once they realize he’s alive, he won’t stay that way for long.’

  He glanced at the time and said, ‘Sorry I can’t stay and chat, but I must be off. I’ve been in meetings most of the day with your bosses, and I have to get back to London tonight.’

  Paget looked surprised. ‘Do they know all this?’ he asked.

  ‘Good God, no!’ Trowbridge sounded horrified. ‘I wouldn’t trust them with the time of day. And don’t you, either,’ he warned as he started the car.

  Paget watched as Trowbridge drove away. An arm came out in one last wave before the car disappeared. He looked at the time and winced. He’d told Grace he’d be home in half an hour. He hoped she hadn’t taken that too literally.