by Mark Arundel
I didn’t like this approach and I told Meriwether so.
‘It would be easier to get the intelligence from VX and they could get it through the chain of command within the police force.’
Meriwether didn’t agree with me.
‘We don’t want anybody to know we’re interested, in case there is a connection with Casanova. All you have to do is make contact with her and get her to keep you informed of progress. It should be straight forward enough I would have thought, especially for a man of your experience.’
A man of my experience—what experience? Perhaps Meriwether thought I’d once been a pimp or a gigolo. I’d never been either of those two things and the prospect of deceiving Detective Superintendent Hannah Foley was not filling me with joy.
Charlotte completed her briefing by informing me of all the other facts and details she thought I would need in order for me to carry out a successful seduction, but before I could act on any of them, Meriwether called me with new intelligence from VX.
‘The murdered girl has been confirmed as the prostitute Casanova was visiting, just as we expected, although there seems to be some confusion over her identity. She doesn’t appear to have been a British citizen and immigration doesn’t have any record of her either. The autopsy confirms death by strangulation. In his report, the pathologist has given ethnicity as Far Eastern, Southeast Asia, most likely Macau or Hong Kong. Don’t ask me how he knows, I’ve got no idea.’
The mention of Hong Kong made me remember Xing. I forced the memory from my mind and asked, ‘How did she get from Southeast Asia to London?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘How old was she?’
‘The pathologist has estimated mid to late teens.’
‘That’s young to be here alone. She must have a story.’
‘Make a new friend and find out.’
I finished the call with Meriwether and decided on the direct approach. VX assured me my false identity as an officer with Interpol would hold up no matter what, so boldness wasn’t a problem.
A heavy snow shower of big, wet flakes blown almost diagonally by a determined wind had fallen, giving the city a sudden whitewash that seemed to soothe the heartbeat.
The police headquarters was on the corner. I could read the street sign on the wall despite the snow that peppered the top half: Love Lane; I smiled and pulled my collar higher against the bitter chill from the whistling north-easterly. At the door, I stamped my thick, rubber-soled boots making the deep treads give up their captured ice and dirt.
Inside it was instantly warmer and at the desk, I pulled off my black, woollen hat and dark overcoat, and asked to see Detective Superintendent Foley. In reply to the question of who I was, I showed my Interpol warrant card and got a different look back from the desk Sergeant.
‘Take a seat while I call up and tell her you’re here.’
I didn’t sit and Hannah Foley appeared in under two minutes. She asked to see my warrant card and I showed her. She looked at it as if it was the first one she’d ever seen. I hoped she was impressed.
She led me to a small, windowless interview room and we sat at a table on opposite sides. I wasn’t sure how police officers spoke to each other, so I decided to let her start. She stared at me but didn’t speak. There was silence. I smiled at her and she half smiled back. Still there was silence. Finally, she spoke.
‘Is it to do with the murder case?’
‘...the prostitute in Soho.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘What’s the interest from Interpol?’
That was a good question. Of course, I’d prepared, I wouldn’t just go in there without a carefully thought out plan.
‘We’ve been contacted by the Home Office.’ That was a good start. ‘They’ve sent us a copy of the pathologist’s report.’ I was doing well.
‘Is it to do with the victim’s identity and citizenship?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Have you got some information for me?’
‘No, no I haven’t.’ There was a pause. Hannah Foley didn’t speak, so I said, ‘The international element to this murder case, with the victim’s unconfirmed citizenship and identity, means Interpol should be kept informed of progress.’ That was good. I’d hit on the right approach. ‘It’s your investigation, of course, and we don’t want to get involved, but if developments were to lead towards an international aspect then cooperation between us would become necessary. If I was already up-to-date with the investigation then it would make things much easier all round.’
Detective Superintendent Foley nodded, but I could see she was thinking of the extra paperwork involved. Not wanting to dishearten her, I said, ‘At this stage all I’m asking for is that you allow me to call you for regular updates. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes.’
She nodded again and with more than just a hint of hope in her voice said, ‘At this point we think the most likely scenario is one of the girl’s clients did it, probably without any premeditation. We’re taking that route. We’re running DNA and prints, local enquiries, questioning the neighbours, CCTV and I’ve called in a couple of favours from the Met vice unit; we should have a good picture pretty soon and maybe an arrest in days.’
‘So you don’t mind if I call you for updates?’
‘No, of course not, it’s not like television where the different law enforcement agencies don’t like each other, I’ll be happy to keep Interpol in the loop, and anyway your insights and suggestions will, I’m sure, be very helpful.’
I could see why her career was doing so well. I guessed the police force was as much about how you did things as the things you actually did.
‘Thanks,’ I said and smiled. ‘Do you have a card with your number?’
She took one from her jacket pocket and passed it over. I noticed her nails were long and they shone with a coating of clear lacquer. My eyes went back up to her face and I saw a small amount of gloss on her lips and a dab of mascara on her eyelashes. She reminded me of a French army doctor I’d once known. Neither of them was immediately attractive, but I found myself liking them all the same.
Back outside it was snowing again. I pulled my hat on and trudged off towards the nearest tube station. My phone rang. It was Meriwether.
‘How did it go?’
‘Okay. I’ve got her number and she’s happy for me to call anytime for updates.’
‘Good. Something has happened.’
‘What?’
‘Casanova has disappeared.’
‘Casanova has disappeared?’ I said, repeating Meriwether’s words.
‘Yes, damned inconvenient of the man. I’m beginning to dislike this whole business. It has the whiff of defeat, and I don’t like to lose.’
I wasn’t sure what Meriwether meant by that, but I didn’t question him on it. Instead, I asked, ‘What do we know about his disappearance?’
‘He hasn’t been at work or at home. Both his work colleagues and his wife have reported him missing. He lives and works in the centre of town, so the City of London police is investigating, not our young Miss Marple though, fortunately.’
Young Miss Marple was the name Meriwether had given Detective Superintendent Hannah Foley.
‘He was last seen leaving his office at around ten o’clock yesterday morning. Nobody seems to know where he was going. If he did kill the girl and has now done something stupid then politically we’re buggered.’
The wind-propelled snow was stinging my face, so I turned away and found shelter in a doorway.
‘I still don’t think he killed the girl.’
‘No. Let’s hope you’re right.’
There was a pause and then Meriwether asked, ‘Is it snowing again?’
I imagined he had caught sight of the snow through the window from inside the warmth and dry of his club.
I didn’t respond to his weather question and instead said, ‘There are only two reasons a man like Casa
nova would disappear; one, he’s running away from something too big for him to cope with or two, he’s been taken against his own will.’
‘Are you out in this dreadful weather? Dear boy, do try and find some shelter.’
‘He could be scared; the girl’s murder may have spooked him or, whoever did kill the girl, may now have grabbed him.’
‘Do you think he’s dead?’ Meriwether asked.
‘It’s possible.’
‘Hmm,’ he said. He sounded like a discontented lama. ‘Well, there’s nothing more we can do until we hear something. In the meantime, I should get indoors out of this dreadful weather.’
I went home. By the time I got there, the snow had stopped again. I made a coffee and decided to call Charlotte.
‘Have you heard?’
‘Yes, I got a call, and no, my grandfather doesn’t know where he is.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Me?’
‘You know him. If he’s run away where would he go?’
‘I don’t know him that well.’
‘You could ask his wife.’
‘I already did.’
This conversation wasn’t going to get me anywhere, so I changed the subject.
‘My new watch keeps excellent time,’ I said. I could hear Charlotte’s mood lighten.
‘Did you get home safely from the ball?
‘Why doesn’t your grandfather like me?’
‘He thinks you’re a thug. Apparently, soldiers from twenty-two regiment aren’t gentlemen.’
I laughed and Charlotte laughed too.
‘Do you want to have dinner with me tonight?’
‘...where?’
‘You choose.’
‘Wear your dark blue suit with a light blue shirt.’
The restaurant Charlotte chose was off the Bayswater Road. I collected her in a cab and wore a grey suit with a black shirt.
‘You look nice,’ she said. ‘Not a bit like a thug.’
‘...like a gentleman?’
‘Yes, very nearly,’ she said.
As Charlotte walked, her long cashmere coat swayed around her ankles. It was a stylish way to fight off the cold between the open doors of her apartment, the cab and the restaurant. Underneath she wore a low-cut dress that shone in the candlelight like polished silver.
‘Meriwether told me your parents were killed when you were young.’
‘Yes, they were. My grandfather brought me up.’
I was interested to know how they had died and hoped Charlotte would tell me, but she didn’t. She changed the subject with a question about me.
‘Any regrets about taking the job?’
‘Not so far.’
She smiled and said, ‘It’s early days.’
‘Did you really select me from a possible one hundred and sixteen?’
‘Yes, I told you. Although the computer did most of the selecting, I just clicked the mouse.’
‘Has anyone done the job before me?’
Charlotte thought before she answered, but before she could speak, a waiter appeared and placed our starters the wrong way round. He left and we swapped them over. I stared at her waiting for an answer.
‘Yes, there has been one before you.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He was killed.’
‘How was he killed?’
‘Does it matter?’ Charlotte sipped her claret. ‘You know how dangerous the job is. You could have been killed in Tenerife—you very nearly were.’
I remembered Geoffrey, and abruptly I didn’t feel like asking any more questions. I made a mental note not to bother saving for a pension.
We ate our starters in silence. I caught Charlotte looking at me several times and I could tell she knew I was remembering Geoffrey and Tenerife. She waited for me to speak first. The waiter removed our empty plates and when he was gone I said, ‘How long have you been in the intelligence service?’
She didn’t pause. ‘I’ve always been in the intelligence service.’
‘You’re higher up than Bradshaw. How high is that?’
‘The higher you are the more secrets you know. Once you know their secrets they never let you leave.’
‘Has Meriwether really left?’
‘Yes, but no one ever really leaves.’ Charlotte sipped at her claret glass and then asked, ‘What do you think has happened to Casanova?’
‘I don’t know, but I don’t think we’re going to have to wait long to find out.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘He’s too important to be missing for long. We’ll hear something soon, one way or another.’
We fell into a silence. Charlotte broke it. She held my eyes and asked, ‘Do you think my grandfather is connected in some way?’
‘I hope not, but you might want to prepare yourself in case he is.’
Charlotte nodded and said, ‘I already have.’
3
SUNDAY, 08:55—09:10
The following day, before breakfast, Bradshaw appeared. It was the first time I’d seen him since that last night in Tenerife. I walked out of the bakery next to the newsagents, conveniently located around the corner from my apartment building, and he was standing on the opposite side of the road reading a newspaper and smoking. I spotted him immediately and he looked up, waited a few seconds, folded his newspaper and then crossed the road to join me.
‘Do you mind if I walk with you?’ he asked.
Stephen Bradshaw’s haircut still didn’t look as if he paid for it and one end of his scarf flapped in the breeze like a flag at half-mast.
‘Do you want a croissant?’
For a moment, he looked at me as if I’d asked him to hand over his life savings and then his face lifted and he shook his head. ‘I’ve already eaten breakfast,’ he said.
His face was pink from the cold. Frosted snow still covered the rooftops and the air temperature hovered close to zero.
‘How’s your throat?’ I asked.
‘How’s my throat? Oh, yes, it’s fine.’
In Tenerife, I’d chopped him across the throat and bruised his windpipe. He’d given me good cause, really he had.
‘How’s your heart?’
‘The bruising has faded thanks.’
‘That’s good,’ he said.
We were walking slowly. Ahead, an early morning December sun lighted the street. It threw shadows that stretched out over the ground and caused car windscreens to glint brightly.
‘I’ve got a job for you,’ Bradshaw said. He didn’t bother with any preamble. From the moment I saw him standing across the road, I wondered what he wanted and now I knew. I wasn’t sure how I felt.
‘What kind of job?’
‘The kind I give out, the kind I’m responsible for, you know.’
Unfortunately, I did know. ‘I’m not on your roster, am I?’
‘Well, you are sought of. Your name went on for Tenerife and it hasn’t been removed, not officially anyway.’
‘Why do you want me?’
‘It’s politically sensitive with a high degree of risk.’ Bradshaw paused as if his mind was recalling a personal memory and then he refocused and said, ‘I know what happened in Tenerife, I know what you did. I also know that you took care of our friend from the FO [FO: Foreign Office]. It was work that’s difficult to ignore.’
Flattery has never worked on me, but Bradshaw didn’t know that. We had stopped walking. ‘I’ve already got a job,’ I said.
‘Yes, I know. This would be something extra. Think of it as a freelance project. The pay is the same as before.’
‘Can the people I’m working with know about it?’
‘Um, it may be best not to involve them. As I said, it is rather sensitive, and not strictly within their jurisdiction. I would advise against it. I won’t be telling them and they won’t hear it from VX either.’
‘Can you give me the details before I decide?’
‘All I can tell you now is it’s a
single target, male, currently located in central London.’
I didn’t respond and Bradshaw waited. His patience didn’t last long and he said, ‘Well, will you take it?’
Before my mind had made a decision I found my mouth opening and I heard my voice, as if it were distant or belonged to someone else, speak the words, ‘Okay I’ll take the assignment.’
I thought Bradshaw was going to smile, but his pink cheeks remained still and flat. From an inside jacket pocket, he took a tiny computer memory stick and pressed it into my palm.
‘It contains all the details. The access code is marzipan555. Make sure you delete everything after you’re finished. I’m having your equipment sent to you today in the post. It was good seeing you again.’ Then he turned and walked away. I watched him step carefully across a frosty stretch of pavement while his hand disappeared inside his jacket pocket.
4
SUNDAY, 09:10—09:15
STEPHEN BRADSHAW
Stephen Bradshaw, Military Intelligence (seconded), Head of Special Operations [ST Division] lit a cigarette with his Dunhill lighter and hunched over in his coat.
He dragged hard on the filter tip and then studied the gold lighter in his hand. It was old now with that worn cared-for appearance like a vintage car. His wife had bought it for him as a birthday gift in the first few years of their marriage. He turned the lighter over and looked at the inscription. He couldn’t read it without his glasses. It didn’t matter because he knew what it said: All my love, Susan x. He put the lighter away in his outside jacket pocket and dragged once more on the cigarette.
Seeing him again was unexpectedly pleasant. In his position, Stephen Bradshaw met many men from the Special Forces. Few if any were good company. This one, however, was different. Despite Tenerife, Bradshaw couldn’t stop himself from liking the man. What did Churchill say? I like a man who grins when he fights. Bradshaw knew what Churchill meant. Susan wouldn’t understand. His wife rarely understood him and even less so in recent years. It would be easy to blame his work, but he knew there was more to it than that. Susan had fallen out of love with her husband. Unfortunately, for Stephen Bradshaw, he remained very much in love with his wife. He took another drag. The cigarette tasted old like stale bread. He threw it down and it rolled away across the pavement and dropped into the gutter. A stream of easy smoke gave away its position.