Foreign Bodies

by Colin A Millar

  He had indeed been young; in fact, he’d been at school during most if not all of it. He was, however, familiar with the investigation. He’d seen plenty on the news as a kid and his father had been a copper at the time in London; he was uniform but had been involved in some door-to-door enquiries and had told the young Tony all about it. He described all this to Tanner.

  Tanner accepted it with a nod. ‘Well, there have been a couple of things that have come up – one doesn’t really concern you, but the other does.’

  Handley raised an eyebrow at his boss. Tanner took his cue and filled him in on the enquiry that had come in from Belgium and, of more interest to Handley, Marcus Travers’ connection to the old investigation.

  ‘That,’ said Handley when his boss had finished, with a note of triumph in his voice, ‘is very interesting, given what I found this morning.’

  It was now Tanner’s eyebrow that raised.

  Handley continued, his voice rising slightly with excitement as he produced the notes from his jacket pocket. ‘I found – well actually, Charlotte Travers found these this morning.’ He handed over the first three and continued: ‘Now these three seem to back up the theory that Marcus was having an affair and has simply run off with another woman.’

  Tanner nodded as he read the three notes, a hint of ‘I told you so’ on his face which then descended into a frown.

  ‘There’s a “but” isn’t there?’ he said, his voice getting gruffer as he spoke. He had seen something about the three notes and Handley suspected it was the same thing he had spotted.

  ‘Yep, there is and it’s quite a big one …’ Handley now spoke with real passion in his voice, the chance to impress his boss driving him on to state his case. ‘I think you’ve noted the same thing I did, that if these are notes from a lover, why so short and to the point? But more importantly to my eyes, where are the kisses at the end? And where are the terms of endearment?’

  ‘Uh-huh, I’d started to think that but maybe they were just not that type or were concerned that others – Mrs Travers, for one – might see them?’

  ‘That’s a fair point, Guv, but I still think it’s a little odd. And then …’ There was almost a flourish in Handley’s voice, like a magician about to say ta-da!. ‘…there’s this.’ He handed over the fourth and final note.

  Tanner took it and glanced at this new piece of paper.

  He had expected to see something very similar but this note, however, caused him real pause for thought. He sat stock still reading the small slip of paper a few times more. This one had no name at the top and no sign-off underneath, but the handwriting was exactly the same as the previous three – it was certainly from this Julia woman. The contents, however, were very different. It simply said:

  I think I know what you’ve done, we talk today or I go to the police.

  Tanner raised his head slowly to look directly at Handley, his brows raised, eyes wide.

  Handley, who had already been staring at his boss, also raised his eyebrows, this time with an unspoken question framed in the gesture.

  ‘Right,’ Tanner said in a decisive and authoritative tone. ‘I think you’d better drop everything else and get to finding Mr Travers and this Julia woman – whoever the fuck she is, don’t you? I’ll let DCS Pearson know what’s going on.’

  ‘95

  That was damn close, he thought as he waved to the retreating back of the police constable. He watched her return to her colleague already seated in the patrol car pulled in tight behind him, with its blue lights still flashing.

  He left his window down as they manoeuvred around his car and carried on into the night, making sure he was looking intently at the ticket he’d received as they passed. Nothing more than a concerned individual having just received an extremely rare ticket for a minor motoring offence. He had stupidly failed to check his brake lights and one had failed.

  A trickle of cold sweat ran down his back. He had, after all, not 15 minutes before, Delivered another one. She would likely only just be cooling in her Newington flat. He would smell of her perfume, could potentially have some fibres – connecting him to her or her flat – on the clothes in the bag in the boot. Fingerprints weren’t so much of a problem; he wore gloves for most of the Delivery and the points where he was unable to (it would be very strange keeping gloves on as he entered a house) he used his prodigious memory to recall anything he had touched – simply wiping down any appropriate object before he left.

  He breathed deeply to calm himself, then tried to think a little more rationally. He was a respectable member of the public, was – as he’d said to the constable – simply driving home, which was entirely true. He had just neglected to state from where. He hadn’t touched any alcohol and had also been courteous in the extreme to the young officer. He had given, as far as was possible to ascertain, no indication that he was in any way agitated or nervous.

  But the officer could easily have decided to check the car over, maybe even have wanted to check the boot for a loose wire or to check the spare tyre. That would have been too close for comfort. She was unlikely to want to check his belongings, but still, the thought that she could have was disconcerting in the extreme.

  His position helped of course. He could drop the FO into conversation fairly easily and as such would draw any suspicion further away from himself. But it wasn’t immunity, and he knew if this happened again he would have to be extremely careful about what he said and did.

  Another piece to work on and ponder – he had to ensure he could very convincingly explain where he had been and where he was going. He would have to do some mirror work to perfect what he was already thinking of as his ‘police face’. And perhaps more importantly, try not to get stopped again. It was simple mistakes and happenstance that he knew were the most likely to lead to the end of the Quest.

  He returned to the thought of hair and saliva which could yield DNA, and that fibres could easily be matched to those of his clothes or car, or anything else of his that he hadn’t even considered. That thought really bothered him. Obviously, they would have to catch him and get samples in order to be able to match those with anything from the scenes, and he was certain he wasn’t on the police database, but again that was a risk too far. He needed a means to counter that eventuality, to find a way to muddy the waters.

  He resolved to start on his new homework as soon as he got home. Further research would be required on forensic evidence gathering, how results were obtained and what flaws there were in the processes.

  But first, he had to dispose of the clothes in the boot and vacuum the carpet in there and the rest of the car – to be sure. That would be the highest priority. He was unwilling to rely on leaving it and having the car valeted in the morning.

  Breathing a final sigh of relief, he turned the ignition, straightened his tie and pulled the car back out into the road, whistling quietly as he did so.

  Chapter Six

  Handley stood outside the very imposing Foreign and Commonwealth Office’s main building on King Charles Street in Westminster. He had never been near here before, working mainly around the East End and Romford areas. This was actually City of London Police’s patch and to Handley felt a very long way from Stratford! Taking a calming breath, he walked up the steps and entered the main atrium.

  Having introduced himself to the officious individual at the main desk, he was asked to wait to one side and an aide to Sir Frederick Derringham would be along shortly.

  He perched on the – to him – ridiculously small and fragile chair and prayed it wouldn’t break.

  Sir Frederick Derringham! Jeez, talk about elevated! Handley fidgeted nervously with his collar and straightened his tie. Sir Frederick was Director of European Political Affairs, just a couple of rungs below the Permanent Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs. Essentially, he ran one of the largest departments in the Foreign Office and was Marcus Travers’ boss.

  After his meeting with Tanner, Handley had written up his initial repo
rt about his latest discoveries and those newly realised connections to The Charmer investigation. Meanwhile, Tanner had rushed up to DCS Pearson’s office to, presumably, gain more budget and clearance to up the hunt for Marcus Travers. Travers was not exactly a suspect for The Charmer case but was, in the parlance, ‘a person of interest’ and Handley had to admit, he could see no reason why he shouldn’t be a suspect.

  Tanner had eventually returned and gestured Handley back into the little office. Handley had been – metaphorically and at times literally – sitting on his hands waiting for instruction from his boss. He wanted to be active, he wanted to be part of something bigger than common assault and bag-snatching from old ladies. He worked those incidents hard and diligently, but … Handley had dreams and ambition. Handley wanted to be on the ‘one to watch’ list.

  Inside the small, bare office yet again, Tanner had outlined their course of action. Handley was to visit the Foreign Office and talk to Travers’ boss, Sir Frederick Derringham, and confirm that Travers had indeed been on the training courses, team-builders and conferences that were of interest. He was also to try and ascertain Derringham’s thoughts on Travers’ reliability, and whether the ‘Knight of the Realm’, as Tanner had put it, thought Travers might – just might – have bunked off.

  Tanner, in the meantime, was assigning some of the team to see if they could track the Julia woman, although he admitted they were probably flogging a dead horse. There was literally nothing to go on except some handwritten notes and maybe a little (and by a little Tanner meant miniscule) forensic they might glean from those notes.

  Handley had sat quietly while Tanner proceeded to swear for a full 10 minutes about the size of the case file he had to go through, and that he was expected to play the happy ‘we’re all in it together’ schmuck with the Belgians.

  Following on from Derringham, Handley was to speak to whomever he felt was appropriate at the FO that might shed more light on the subject. Handley had already had telephone contact with everyone who had worked with Marcus Travers, but – he conceded – it could do no harm to loom over them in person. And maybe they might remember or, better still, even know this Julia woman.

  And so, Handley tried to keep his ample weight off the flimsy chair and process all that had happened since he had left Mrs Travers on her doorstep with tears running down her face.

  Two days of nothing much had passed since then. Apparently this was the earliest Sir Frederick could possibly do, and of course he was always available for The Met but sure the young DC understood that duty called. Handley had already formed an impression of Derringham: smallish, round, bow tie-wearing and assuredly posh and public school. Pompous, was a word that came to mind when Handley thought of Sir Frederick.

  Not that Handley had met Sir Frederick in person yet; when he had called the last time to discuss Marcus Travers, he had spoken to a secretary who had asked him to email his queries directly to her. Sir Frederick was, understandably, very upset at the disappearance of Marcus, as were all the staff, but at that time he was ‘distressingly busy’ and could not afford the time to see DC Handley in person.

  This time, however, DCS Pearson had applied whatever pressure he could bring to bear in order to secure a face-to-face interview with Derringham.

  As he sat, Handley tried not to think about the fact he was about to meet one of the most senior civil servants in the country. This was way more terrifying than being in front of Chief Superintendent Pearson – after all, Derringham would almost certainly report back on his conduct and professionality. He fervently hoped his mask wouldn’t slip at a crucial moment, like as soon as he was in Derringham’s office. The chair creaked a little when he shifted position slightly, stopping him dead in his tracks. He determined to sit as still as possible whilst trying to summon every last inch of his professional persona.

  Eventually, a very slim, middle-aged woman in a very smart blue suit – skirt precisely at knee length, hair dark brown and immaculate – approached Handley where he sat.

  ‘DC Handley? Sir Frederick can see you now – please be aware he has only 10 minutes to spare and then he must leave in order to attend to … matters of State.’

  Lunch, more like – thought Handley as he rose from the chair, being careful to push down on the arms so as to avoid bringing it with him. He followed the prim and proper secretary down the corridor she had approached from.

  After what felt like an interminable journey through one ornate corridor after another, they came to the outer office of The Director of European Affairs, presumably where Ms (definitely a Ms) Prim and Proper worked. She hadn’t introduced herself and had spoken only to direct him on their travels, but Handley was sure it was her that he’d spoken to and emailed previously.

  ‘Please wait here a moment,’ she said as she moved to the inner door, knocked and entered.

  After a moment or two she re-emerged and held the door open with a gesture for Handley to enter.

  The first thing Handley noted on entering the office was its size. It was vast. The Met would have housed five officers in there, plus various filing cabinets. Predictably, the walls were all wood-panelled. There was a built-in bookshelf on one wall, stacked with large tomes, none of which Handley could see the titles of. Then his eyes fell on Sir Frederick’s desk, a huge wooden affair that was immaculately tidy and devoid of any paperwork. Yeah really busy, thought Handley, seeing in his mind his own paper-strewn, note-festooned mess back at his own office.

  Finally, he looked at Sir Frederick Derringham himself, rising smoothly from behind his monolith of a desk. He was not at all what Handley had expected. Tall for a start, maybe only an inch shorter than Handley’s six feet four. His hair was dark and well groomed – surprisingly dark for a man in his fifties, dyed maybe? – with a square chin and wide, full-lipped mouth. There was a slight paunch around his middle but otherwise he looked like he kept his broad frame in trim. He wore an extremely expensive suit, with a light blue shirt and understated tie. His eyes, brown and clear, were conveying warmth and welcome as he stretched a strong hand towards Handley.

  ‘DC Handley,’ he said as he shook his hand with a strong and dry grip. ‘I must again apologise for not seeing you when you first approached my office, and I wish to make it clear that I was and still am deeply upset and concerned at Marcus’ disappearance. I am afraid, however, that the world and therefore the Foreign Office just does not stop, for anyone.’

  His voice also surprised Handley, it was rich and full of character with a tuneful quality suggesting a strong tenor singing voice. Although it held the wide vowels and clipped consonants of a public-school accent his tone was warm and held not a trace of the pompous bluster Handley had expected. There was the barest hint of Scots to his accent. Handley was already warming to the man.

  ‘I completely understand Sir,’ Handley replied, trying to keep any trace of deference from his voice, ‘and I’m pleased you could afford the time to see me on this occasion.’

  Derringham waved this away with a quiet ‘Anything at all to be of help.’

  He gestured to a set of seats on the other side of the office from the book shelf. They were low, wide and leather clad – four of them sat around a neat, glass coffee table.

  After seating themselves, Handley declined the offer of a hot beverage and decided to launch straight into his questions, being aware of the time constraints that had been placed on him.

  ‘Sir Frederick,’ he got as far as saying before he was interrupted.

  ‘Frederick, please,’ Derringham said. ‘I don’t hold with titles – all my staff call me Frederick so I don’t see why you shouldn’t. So, er, it’s Tony isn’t it? Your superior gave your full name when he called me. May I call you Tony or would you prefer a more formal form of address?’

  ‘I think at this stage, Sir Frederick—’ Derringham held up a wagging finger causing Handley to falter slightly which he then covered by clearing his throat before continuing. ‘Frederick, I think at this stage I woul
d prefer DC Handley if you don’t mind.’

  Derringham smiled a radiant, white smile. ‘Of course DC Handley, I do understand.’

  Handley could feel the conversation slipping from his control already, Derringham seemingly effortlessly gaining the upper hand by controlling the terms of address. With a force of will Handley pushed his professionalism to the very forefront of his mind, focusing hard on the job in hand.

  ‘I’m here, sir,’ Handley said, deepening and slowing his voice as he spoke so as to project a serious and purposeful air, ‘to ask if anything further had occurred to you since I emailed my questions regarding Marcus Travers’ disappearance?’

  Derringham shook his head. ‘No, not really … as I said in my earlier reply Marcus was, is, a dear colleague I have known for many, many years. In fact he was instrumental in my gaining such, ah, elevation, one might say. I socialised with him on occasion, although less so since he married. Us free spirits tend to move in different social spheres’ – a half smile crossed Derringham’s mouth as he said this – ‘although I know his wife and children well, of course, but apart from that I knew little of his private affairs in recent years.’

  ‘You’re not married yourself then sir?’ Handley knew this was entirely irrelevant but couldn’t help but ask.

  ‘No, DC Handley, never have been. Just haven’t seemed to find the right girl.’ Derringham honoured him with one of his dazzling smiles. ‘I don’t see a wedding ring on you either Tony – bit of a kindred free spirit yourself, eh?’

  Handley felt himself begin to blush a little. ‘Ah, no, I’m not sure I’m a very free spirit but like you I just haven’t found the right person.’

  To hide his unease he cleared his throat and continued straight into another question. ‘You say you’ve known Mr Travers a long time – how long would that be? And perhaps if you can give me your thoughts on him as a person?’