The Tunnel Rats

by Stephen Leather

  Wright grimaced. 'Better than the one we did, that's for sure.’

  'Smooth, isn't he?' 4 'He's a politician. And he's been on courses for television, press conferences, the works.’

  The waitress brought Wright's shandy over and Reid paid her. The two men turned their backs to the bar and leaned on it. The door opened and in walked Ted Vincent, his hands thrust into the pockets of his sheepskin jacket. The journalist grinned when he saw the two detectives.

  Then after my own heart,' said Vincent.

  'Ideally with a stake through it,' said Wright.

  Vincent laughed good naturedly. 'Can I buy you two gentlemen a drink?' he asked, edging between them and pulling out his wallet.

  'That'd be fraternising with the enemy,' said Reid. He pretended to consider the offer for several seconds. 'Mine's a vodka and tonic. A double.’

  'Funny guy,' said Vincent. 'Good to see you can keep your sense of humour in the face of adversity.’

  And what adversity would that be?' asked Wright.

  'Come on, you know as well as I do that you're getting nowhere on this case.’

  'It's early days,' said Wright.

  Vincent ordered Reid's vodka and a beer for himself. He raised an eyebrow at Wright but Wright shook his head. 'It's been almost two weeks. What leads have you got?’

  'You were at the press conference,' said Wright.

  'You've got fuck all,' said Vjncent. 'You've got fuck all and you know it.' Reid and Wright looked at each other, then together they turned their backs on the reporter. He wasn't fazed in the least by their show of indifference. He patted them both on the shoulders. 'Look, we're on the same side here, lads. We shouldn't be arguing.’

  'How do you figure that?' asked Reid. His vodka and tonic arrived and he downed it in one swift gulp.

  Vincent waved at the waitress, pointing at the empty glass and at his own. She brought fresh drinks. 'You want to solve the case. And I want to write about it. It's no bloody story if it stays unsolved. You can see that, right? You guys should learn how to handle the press.' He tapped a cigarette out of a pack of Rothmans and slipped it between his lips.

  'A ten-foot barge pole springs to mind,' said Wright. His glass was only half-empty but he pushed it away. 'I've got to go.’

  Wright's Fiesta was parked ten minutes' walk from the pub. He sat in the car for several minutes, wondering what he should do. Other than Reid's flat, he had nowhere to go, and he was in no mood to sit down in front of Reid's portable television with a takeaway meal in his lap and a can of supermarket lager on the arm of his chair. He decided to go to see May Eckhardt.

  The early afternoon traffic was heavy but flowing smoothly and he reached Maida Vale in twenty minutes. A Suzuki Jeep was pulling out of a pay and display parking place close to the Eckhardts' mansion block and Wright eased his Fiesta into the gap.

  As he walked towards the block he realised that he was too late. Half a dozen photographers were clustered on the pavement, five men and a girl, all with cameras and lenses hanging around their necks. They all wore thick jackets and one of the men was pouring steaming coffee from a Thermos flask into plastic cups. Wright put his hands into the pockets of his coat and slouched past. They didn't even look at him.

  He walked up to the block and pushed the button for the Eckhardt flat. There was no reply so he pressed it again. And again. When she still didn't reply, Wright kept his thumb on the buzzer for a full minute. When it became clear that she was either out or ignoring the bell, Wright took his mobile phone and tapped out her number. She answered on the fifth ring. 'Yes?' she said.

  'Mrs Eckhardt? This is Nick Wright.’

  'Nick Wright?’

  Wright felt an involuntary twinge of regret that she didn't recognise his name. 'Sergeant Wright,' he said. 'British Transport Police. I'm at the entrance to your block, can you buzz me in?’

  'Are you the one who's been ringing my bell?’

  'I'm afraid so.’

  'There've been so many journalists trying to get in, I didn't. . .' Her words dried up. 'Okay, I'll let you in,' she said. The line went dead and a couple of seconds later the lock buzzed and Wright pushed the door open. He went upstairs. This time she didn't have the door open for him and he had to knock. She had a security chain on the door and it only opened a few inches. Wright caught a quick glimpse of May's face before the door closed again. He heard the rattle of the chain being taken off and then the door opened wide.

  May Eckhardt was wearing a white towelling robe that was much too big for her. For a brief moment Wright thought that she'd just got out of the shower but her hair was dry, and then he noticed that she had jeans on under the robe. Her eyes were red and puffy and she turned her face away from Wright as she closed the door.

  'Are you okay?' he asked, and immediately wished he'd bitten off his tongue instead. Of course she wasn't okay. Her husband had been brutally murdered and a pack of press photographers were camped on her doorstep.

  She walked by him into the sitting room and curled up on the sofa again. There was a box of tissues on the coffee table. 'What do you want?' she asked.

  Wright shrugged apologetically. 'I actually came to warn you that the press would be after you. It seems I was too late.’

  'Yes, you were,' she said coldly. May leaned forward and picked up half a dozen sheets of paper. She held them out to Wright and he went over to her and took them. Their fingers touched and Wright felt a small shock, Jike static electricity. May didn't react and Wright wondered if he'd imagined it. He looked at the pieces of paper. They'd been torn from different notebooks and were offers of money in exchange for an exclusive interview. A woman reporter from the News of the World had written three times, each time raising her offer. The amount she finally offered was more than Wright earned in a year. 'They were ringing my bell and stuffing these into my letterbox for hours,' she said.

  Wright nodded at the telephone. 'Have they phoned yet?’

  May shook her head. 'No, we're ex-directory.’

  'That won't stop them,' said Wright. 'Can I sit down?he asked. She nodded and Wright dropped into one of the armchairs.

  May brought up her knees against her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. 'What am I going to do?’

  'Is there somewhere you can go?’

  'I told you before, I don't have any relatives here.’

  'You said you were from Manchester. Can you go back there?’

  She threw back her head and gave a short laugh that sounded almost like a cry of pain.

  'Friends?’

  She shook her head. 'We haven't really been here long enough to make any,' she said. She rubbed her cheek against the towelling robe. Wright realised it was her husband's robe and that she was inhaling his scent.

  'I'm sorry,' said Wright lamely. He always seemed to be lost for words in her presence. She looked so small and helpless that he felt an overwhelming urge to protect her, yet he knew there was nothing he could do. The press had a right to pursue her, and they weren't breaking any law by posting messages through her letterbox or waiting on the pavement outside. 'They'll get bored eventually,' he said. 'It's a story today, but that's because there was a press conference.’

  'A press conference? Why?’

  'We were releasing your husband's name. And appealing for witnesses.’

  She held her legs tighter and rested her head on her knees. 'So you're no closer to discovering who killed Max?’

  Wright looked away. 'No, I'm afraid not.' There was a photograph of the Eckhardts on one of the shelves in the alcove, both of them smiling at the camera. Wright didn't remember seeing it last time he was in the flat. 'By the way, an American might get in touch with you. An FBI agent.’

  May's eyebrows knotted together and her forehead creased into a frown that made her look suddenly much older. 'FBI?' she said.

  'Yeah, his name's James Bamber. The FBI have sent him over to help with the investigation.’

  Her frown became even more severe. 'Why? D
on't they think you can find Max's killer?’

  'It's not that, he's just here to help co-ordinate with the Americans, Max being an American and all. He said he might want to talk to you.' Wright looked around the room, not wanting eye contact with her. Something strange happened to his stomach each time he looked into her soft brown eyes. 'Do you have food?' he asked. She looked puzzled. 'So that you don't have to go out to the shops,' he added. 'The photographers outside are waiting for a picture. If you stay inside, they'll go away eventually.’

  'I've enough food,' she said. 'I don't have much of an appetite, anyway. How long? How long do you think they'll stay there?’

  'A couple of days, then they'll be chasing after another story.’

  'That's all Max's death is? A story?’

  Wright sat forward. 'No, of course not,' he said earnestly. 'I meant that's how the media regards it. It's much more than that to me. And to my colleagues.' A tear rolled down her cheek. 'I will find his killer, May. I promise you.’

  She rubbed her cheek against the robe. 'Thank you,' she whispered.

  There were half a dozen empty glasses lined up on the bar and Tommy Reid tapped them one at a time, trying in vain to play a recognisable tune.

  Vincent patted him on the back. 'My round,' he said. In fact, they'd all been Vincent's rounds. Alcohol loosened tongues, and loose tongues produced page leads. He winked at the waitress and she produced fresh drinks without being asked. 'Your partner's a bit touchy, isn't he?’

  'Nick? He's okay.’

  'Oh, sure,' said Vincent hurriedly, not wanting to offend the detective. 'But it's like he's got something to prove.’

  'He's young.’

  Vincent finished off his cigarette and stubbed it out in a plastic ashtray. 'Dog in a manger,' he said.

  'Bollocks,' said Reid. 'He's co-operating with the Met team, and with the guy the FBI sent over.’

  Vincent's heart began to race, but he kept his face expressionless. It was the first time anyone had mentioned an FBI involvement and he sensed a good story. He decided to use a softly-softly approach. Reid was drunk but he was clearly used to consuming large amounts of alcohol and Vincent didn't want to scare him off. 'He hasn't been on a murder case like this before, has he?’

  'I don't think any of us has ever seen anything like it before,' said Reid. 'It's a one-off.' He gulped down his vodka and tonic and looked at his wristwatch.

  'Not in the States, even? There's all sorts of weird stuff goes on there.’

  'The FBI guy says no.’

  'So why's he come over, then?' Vincent pulled a ten-pound note from his pocket and waved it at the barmaid.

  'Because Eckhardt's an American.’

  'They do that? They send over an FBI agent when an American dies?' v Reid shrugged. 'I guess so. I'd better be going.’

  Their drinks arrived. 'You might as well have one for the road,' said Vincent, picking up his pint. 'So what's his name, this guy?’

  'Bamber,' said a voice behind him. 'Jim Bamber.’

  Vincent turned around. The speaker was a man in his late twenties, slightly shorter than Vincent with light brown close-cropped hair that was greying at the temples. Bamber's hand was outstretched. Vincent transferred his glass to his left hand and they shook. The American had a firm grip but Vincent had the feeling that he wasn't using all his strength. 'Ted Vincent.’

  'Careful what you say, Jim,' said Reid. 'He's a journalist.’

  'Yeah? Which paper, Ted?’

  'The Mirror. Can I buy you a drink?’

  'Sure. Scotch. On the rocks. How's it going, Tommy?’

  Reid shrugged as Vincent ordered Bamber's drink. 'Did you see the press conference on TV?' asked Reid.

  'Sure did.’

  'So you know how it's going.’

  Vincent handed Bamber his whisky and they clinked glasses. 'Cheers,' said Vincent. 'I was asking Tommy if it was normal practice to send an FBI agent over to investigate the death of an American national.’

  'Depends on the circumstances,' said Bamber.

  Vincent could already see the headline: 'Train Cops Call In FBI.' He sipped his beer, taking his time. 'And are you taking an active part in the investigation?’

  'I'm asking a few questions, sure. This isn't an interview, is it, Ted? I wouldn't want to say anything on the record.’

  'Sure, sure,' said Vincent dismissively. He pulled his pack of Rothmans from the pocket of his sheepskin jacket and offered a cigarette to Bamber. The FBI agent declined and Vincent lit one for himself. 'What's your perspective on this, Jim?' Vincent asked. 'How do you think the investigation's being handled?’

  'It's a tough case,' said Bamber.

  'Would they do it different in the States?’

  'Like I said, it's a tough case. We just have to wait for a break.’

  'Yeah? Well, without a witness and without some sort of forensic evidence, it all comes down to motive, that's what I reckon.’

  Bamber sniffed his whisky but didn't drink it. 'You might be right, Ted.’

  'So which office do you work out of?’

  'Washington.’

  'FBI headquarters?’

  Bamber nodded but didn't reply.

  'I've got to tell you, Jim, what I'd really like to do is have an interview for my paper. An exclusive.’

  'I don't think so,' said Bamber quietly.

  'It might help bring people forward. Any publicity is good publicity and all that.’

  'I don't think so,' Bamber repeated. His voice was barely audible, little more than a soft whisper, but there was a hard edge to it.

  Vincent sensed the man's reluctance and tried to put him at his ease by smiling broadly and squeezing him on the shoulder. Bamber didn't react to the physical contact. He stared unsmilingly at Vincent and the journalist took his hand away. 'How about another Scotch?’

  The FBI agent smiled, but without warmth. 'I'm okay,' he said.

  Vincent ordered another pint for himself and a vodka and tonic for Reid. 'So, how long will you be over on this side of the pond?' asked Vincent.

  'Depends,' said Bamber.

  'The Bureau's happy to leave it open ended? Some murder investigations take months.’

  'And some are never solved,' said Reid. He ran his fingers along the top of his empty glasses. The waitress returned with fresh drinks and reached out to take the empty ones, but Reid waved her away. 'I need an A flat,' he explained.

  'I mean, can you imagine the BTP sending one of their men to investigate a death in another country?' said Vincent. 'Wouldn't, happen.’

  'Nah, you're dead wrong there,' said Reid, banging the flat of his hand down on the bar. 'British cops have been sent to the Falklands, to Kenya, lots of places.’

  'Yeah? But you're talking about real police, not the BTP.’

  Reid looked sideways at the journalist. 'Hey, you don't hear me saying that the Mirror's not a real newspaper, do you? You don't hear me saying that it's a comic with a reading age in single figures.’

  'And I'm grateful for that, Tommy. You're all heart.’

  Bamber put his drink on the bar. 'Do you two always fight like this?’

  'This?' said Reid. 'This is just the warm-up.' He chuckled and rested his arms on the bar.

  'It's a symbiotic relationship,' Vincent said to Bamber. 'We publicise their successes, we help with appeals for information, and in return they give us stories to help us sell papers. Which brings me back to you, Jim. I'd really like to do a story on you and your involvement in the tunnel murder.’

  'I don't think so,' said Bamber.

  'Come on, Jim. I don't actually need your co-operation, you know. Freedom of Information Act and all that. I can call Washington and get the scoop from them. They'll have a press office, right?’

  'I'd rather you didn't, Ted,' said Bamber.

  'So talk to me. Give me an interview. That way you'll be able to put your own slant on it.’

  'No,' said Bamber. He took a step forward so that his face was only inches away from
the journalist's. His pale hazel eyes stared at Vincent so intensely that the journalist flinched.

  Vincent was a good two inches taller than the FBI agent and several pounds heavier, but he still felt intimidated by the man. 'I'm just trying to do my job, Jim,' said Vincent. He heard his voice wavering and laughed to cover his embarrassment. It was a hollow laugh and Bamber continued to stare at him. Vincent took a drag at his cigarette. His hand was shaking and he dropped it to his side, not wanting Bamber to see the effect his stare was having on him. Reid watched them in the mirrored gantry. 'Okay, I guess I'd better be going,' said Vincent, taking a step back.

  'Yeah, see you,' said Reid unenthusiastically.

  Vincent waved to Reid's reflection, still backing away.

  'Nice meeting you, Ted,' said Bamber. He smiled and the hardness faded from his eyes. He seemed suddenly friendlier, and when he stuck out his hand Vincent shook it. Bamber put his left hand on top of Vincent's as they shook. 'It's been a rough day,' said the FBI agent. 'I didn't mean to offend you.’

  Vincent felt suddenly relieved, as if a snarling dog had begun wagging its tail. He smiled gratefully at the FBI agent. 'No offence taken, Jim.’

  Len Kruse pressed the doorbell. It buzzed and a few seconds later the hall light went on. The door opened and Ted Vincent peered out. 'Jim?' he said.

  Kruse grinned good naturedly. 'Hiya, Ted. I wanted to apologise for giving you a hard time earlier.’

  The journalist ran a hand through his unruly hair. He was still wearing his suit but he'd removed his tie. 'No problem.' He frowned. 'How did you know where I lived?’

  'Tommy Reid told me.’

  'Tommy knows my address?’

  'I guess so. Look, I had a long talk with Tommy, and he convinced me that we've more to gain by cooperating.’

  'Cooperating?’

  'On your article. I thought maybe we could do the interview tonight.’

  Vincent looked at his watch. From upstairs a woman called. 'Who is it, Ted?’

  'It's okay, it's for me,' he shouted. He shrugged apologetically at Kruse. 'My wife,' he explained. 'Can we do this tomorrow?’

  Kruse gave him a pained look. 'No can do. I'm heading up to Manchester tomorrow morning.’