Foreign Bodies

by Colin A Millar

  ‘Not at all Sir Frederick, I’m very grateful for your organising it. I realised I was asking a lot, so to be honest, I wasn’t expecting it so soon.’

  Handley tried to keep his voice even, conveying a laissez-faire attitude to his desire for that information, while his hand was already moving the mouse to open his email in anticipation.

  ‘Very gracious of you DC Handley, I must say. Anyway, you shall have it, as I say, imminently. However, that is not the primary reason for my call.’ Sir Frederick was clearly enjoying his moment of revelation and Handley stayed silent, allowing for the inevitable dramatic pause.

  ‘I may have found your Julia,’ Sir Frederick continued.

  Handley sat forward now, his hands automatically grabbing his pen and pulling his notepad over.

  ‘Really? That’s excellent news, Sir Frederick, please tell me what you know.’ Handley was struggling to keep the excitement from his voice but a large slice of urgency still made its way into his tone.

  ‘Well, this may not be who you are looking for, but, on more than one occasion Marcus appears to have signed in a Julia Metcalfe. As far as I know she is an investigative journalist, but I have to confess – I have never fully understood what that is, or indeed, how they manage to make any sort of living as such. Anyway, I have nothing to explain why she should be meeting Marcus but I thought the name was too much of a coincidence to not mention it.’

  Handley was silent for a moment as he jotted down her name and wrote several question marks after it.

  When he did speak it was in a calmer manner than before. ‘Thank you, Sir Frederick, that could prove to be extremely useful. Could you tell me – how many times did Mr Travers sign her in? And when was the last time he did so? Also, any other information he might have given?’

  Sir Frederick gave a short, barking laugh. ‘I’m one step ahead of your questions, Detective, I have it all here. Marcus last signed her in nearly six months ago. Prior to that she was here three times – on each occasion he listed the reason for her visit as ‘research’ and then added ‘The Guardian’ but without any further explanation.’

  Handley scribbled down this information. His mind must have wandered as he processed this information on Julia, as he suddenly realised Sir Frederick was still speaking. He felt his cheeks redden as he lied to the senior civil servant, pretending that for some reason the line had broken up a little (entirely unlikely these days, he thought, unless Sir Frederick was in Mozambique using an old Nokia via satellite and standing precisely in said satellite’s only black spot) and would he kindly repeat what he had just said.

  Sir Frederick’s voice dripped with indulgent patience as he replied, ‘Technology is still flawed, DC Handley, no need to apologise. I was simply saying I took the liberty of calling on an old friend at The Grauniad …’ He chuckled at the use of the old nickname for the newspaper. ‘And he told me that Julia Metcalfe was indeed a freelance reporter for them, but whatever she might have been working on at that time, it didn’t involve them or the Foreign Office. And, perhaps of more interest to you, they haven’t heard from her in several months now.’

  Handley sat very still for a moment, trying to calm the rush of thoughts going through his mind. Julia Metcalfe, if indeed it was the Julia they were looking for, had disappeared at the same time as Marcus Travers. But where to and how were still complete unknowns. And the biggest question was still – why had they disappeared? More questions with no answers. He gave himself a beat to halt the flow of questioning in his mind.

  ‘That, Sir Frederick,’ he said, slowly and quietly, ‘is extremely interesting – thank you very much for bringing it all to my attention. Could you send me the details of your friend at The Grau… er, The Guardian, in case I need to ask further questions? I would like to follow this up straight away. Is there anything else you can tell me?’

  ‘No, no that’s all I can tell you DC Handley, but I sincerely hope it is of use. I am so very worried for Marcus, especially now there appears to be a great deal of interest from you chaps. I do hope you can find him hale and hearty, and soon. I’ll put my friend’s details at the bottom of my email if that’s acceptable? Now, I’m afraid duty calls. Please let me know of any news on Marcus and rest assured I will be in touch if there is anything else that springs to mind. Goodbye.’

  Before Handley could respond in kind or thank him, Sir Frederick had put the phone down. He continued to breathe slowly and calmly for a few minutes, mentally treading water, allowing his mind to absorb the extra oxygen and start actually doing some work.

  So, Julia Metcalfe was some form of investigative journalist. He now knew her surname and that she had in the past worked for The Guardian. Plenty to go on there, he thought.

  A number of questions immediately sprang into his mind. What had she been working on that appeared to involve Marcus Travers? Was it actually related to The Charmer case or were they all simply jumping to false conclusions? It was, after all, still possible and even probable that they were having an affair and had simply run off together. This would explain the secrecy and deceptions and why Marcus had tucked those notes from her so carefully away?

  These questions led undeniably to a simple and obvious conclusion: they still knew next to nothing about the relationship or dealings between Julia Metcalfe and Marcus Travers. They had the notes she had sent and these certainly suggested that he had at least replied, but more likely was that they had met and discussed whatever she was working on and that this had happened more than once. However, they could equally be read as notes from a mistress determined that he leave his wife and family for her, and again that they had met on more than one occasion to talk this through.

  And now he knew she had visited the Foreign Office on at least four occasions, which would, to Handley’s mind, suggest that it wasn’t a relationship of the illicit, romantic type. It seemed very unlikely Marcus would tolerate his secret lover coming in to his place of work. It felt too indiscreet, too open, after all they could have simply met for lunch outside the office. Handley smiled as it occurred to him that the Foreign Office, during the day at least, was not somewhere you could easily invite a lover to then sneak into the nearest broom cupboard for a quickie. And what’s more, Marcus Travers simply didn’t fit the type who would do so.

  With the scant evidence available to him, Handley had to conclude it seemed more likely that their relationship was platonic – based on something Julia had been working on or was interested in or had come across during the course of some sort of investigation.

  He mulled this over for a while then decided on a course of action. First on the list was to find out as much as possible about Julia Metcalfe, which meant checking the electoral register, DVLA records, land registry and the PNC. Then, a visit to The Guardian, to see what they knew of her work and what she was generally interested in and might therefore have been working on. This, in turn, might tell him something more about the connection between her and Marcus Travers.

  Feeling better for having a clear plan of action, he jotted down what he intended to do. He would have to run all this by the boss and felt more prepared to do so if he had written it all down while clear in his mind.

  As he rose to leave his desk and find DCI Tanner his email chimed. He glanced quickly at the sender, keen to be getting on, and saw it was from Sir Frederick. He sat back down and opened it. There was a Word document attached, the email simply saying ‘Hope this is what you needed, F.’ Sir Frederick’s details were embedded below, under which were the details of his contact at The Guardian, clearly added after their conversation.

  For a second or two Handley considered leaving the email until after he had instigated his searches into Julia Metcalfe, but his self-preservation instinct kicked in. Malcolm Tanner would hang him by the balls if this were really important and he had neglected it for something else – so he sat back down and opened the attachment.

  It was immaculately laid out and contained a number of inserted Excel sheets with va
rious notes underneath each one – the whole document was clearly Agatha’s work. The first of these tables was entitled ‘Assigned engagements requiring overnight stays’. Handley wondered about the meaning of this heading, especially the word ‘Assigned’. Wouldn’t Marcus have all his appointments assigned to him by his superior? Scanning to the next heading, ‘Instigated engagements requiring overnight stays’, it became clear that Marcus had more autonomy than Handley had thought. He chastised himself for somewhat naively ascribing his own lack of autonomy to Marcus Travers’ position at the Foreign Office. Marcus could, it would seem, simply inform the office that he would be away on business directly associated with his work – presumably, although not necessarily, with clearance from Sir Frederick. Handley added this to his to-do list and wrote ‘check with Derringham’ next to it. Then there were credit card transactions and expenses claims and finally absences, which Handley took to mean sickness and such like.

  Each spreadsheet was very long and contained a lot of information. Handley’s shoulders sagged as he realised he would be sitting for hours, trawling through all of this data. Still unsure what should take priority, he decided to print out the document and – whilst it was printing – find the DCI and defer that decision to him.

  As he hit the print button it occurred to him that he may as well print the relevant lists of dates, times and places that the new information would need to be checked against. He went to the appropriate folder on his desktop and opened the file containing the list of murders attributed to the Charmer. He was about to hit print when one of the dates on this list caught his eye. Frowning, he clicked back to the Foreign Office list.

  He doubled-checked twice, then checked another date on the two lists, again twice. He knew he would still have to go through every entry on the spreadsheets but, with a smile that veered between self-satisfied and grim, he now knew exactly what should take priority.

  ‘10

  Brussels … a place he found both interesting and boring in equal measure. Boring because work – copious, tedious amounts of work – was never far away when he was there. He was, after all, only meant to be in Brussels when he was working. Interesting because all sorts of new opportunities to further the Quest presented themselves, as they would again very soon if all went to plan.

  He was in the foyer of a moderately expensive hotel, not far from Grand Place and Gare du Nord station. The official reason for him being there was to attend a function hosted by an NGO promoting business links between various elements of the technology market across Europe. He was attending in order to represent the British Government and its concerns. He had already spotted a number of contemporaries from other nations, most notably the representative for the German government. He fervently hoped that they had not spotted him.

  The unofficial reason he had agreed to come was the lovely, young lady sitting not far away in the bar area. He had come across her a couple of times in recent days, always looking a little like an outsider, lost and unsure how to gain access to the clique she needed to join. He recalled that feeling from his own past. These days he was always confident and often the centre of attention; he hadn’t felt like an outsider for more than 25 years now.

  His interest in her had been piqued immediately – she was so similar in looks and manner that his insides had leapt. He knew immediately that he could not let her slip through his grasp. He had made some discreet enquiries as to her name and position, where she was likely to be over the next week, which seminars, which shindigs and meet-and-greets, and slowly discovered all he needed to know.

  Her name was Adele and she was an independent PR consultant based in Brussels. She was just making in-roads into the IT and technology industries and was trying to pick up contacts during this week-long conference and networking event. She was intelligent, erudite and most importantly unattached, romantically, as far as anyone knew. Perfect, he thought.

  And now, in this hotel foyer, was the chance he had to meet her, to assess the likelihood of her actually being The One or close to that, at the very least. He’d already noted as he’d entered the hotel that she was sitting alone and apparently not actively seeking anyone out. There was no time to waste, he didn’t want some smarmy little shit moving in before he had a chance to. He walked swiftly into the bar area, then moving to the bar itself he ensured he was standing with his back to her, precisely opposite where she was sitting. He ordered a malt and, once served, lifted the glass and turned, seemingly as though to survey the room. He allowed his eyes to wander for a few seconds and then settled them directly on her, holding his gaze until she looked up at him.

  She lifted her head in the way people do when they instinctively know they are being stared at and stared straight back at him. He felt the tingle of anticipation as she did so. ‘Yes, she will most certainly do,’ he thought as he held her gaze. He allowed a small smile to form on his lips and creased his brow slightly as if questioning whether he knew her or not. Before she could look away, he walked over to her.

  He usually found the first five minutes or so tricky, introducing himself and formulating an appropriate reason for having approached. On this occasion it was easier – he had only to say that he had seen her at a number of events but hadn’t had the pleasure of encountering her at previous conferences so thought he ought to introduce himself. She, it turned out, had also spotted him and so was glad he had approached. He had spoken French whilst negotiating the introduction and it had the desired effect. She was impressed at the quality of his vocabulary and grammar, though joked that his accent needed considerable work. He joined in with her chuckles. They then switched to English – it transpired her native tongue was Flemish, so to avoid any further ‘faux pas’ he thought English seemed the most neutral language, which she also spoke fluently.

  He gave her a false name, just to be on the safe side. One of the boons of being a civil servant and not a politician was that his name and face were not widely known outside of his sphere of influence, but he liked to minimise the risks.

  After a couple more drinks and a general laugh at some of the other delegates in attendance – the nerds, boffins and others who appeared to speak a language entirely their own – they decided to move to a different bar. She lived in a suburb of Brussels called Sint-Agatha-Berchem, to the north of the city, and wanted to move somewhere a little closer to home. He knew a small bar at the north end of the city so suggested they go there. 'Two more drinks’, she told him, and then she would be ready for home. With a casual air that he hoped came across as simply curious, he said, ‘Do you know, I’ve been to most areas of Brussels at one time or another but I don’t think I have ever been to Sint-Agatha-Berchem. Why don’t I escort you there? If you know of a local bar you like to frequent, I’ll buy us a nightcap and you can tell me a little about the place.’

  Smooth enough, he thought. Just the right amount of charm, interest and non-threatening language. She was definitely warming to him, he could tell, but right now he couldn’t decide whether she was warming enough. Still, he had his briefcase with him so perhaps it wouldn’t matter.

  It took a little persuasion. She said she was tired, and had probably drunk too much, etc. etc. But eventually – with the promise of just the one drink and the pledge that he simply wanted to see her get home safely or at the very least on home turf – she relented and they headed out to find a cab.

  It was getting later in the evening and being a Wednesday, the roads were fairly quiet. It took just under 20 minutes in the car. He noted the route as they went, always aware of escape routes and alternative places to pick up or call for a cab back to the city. Always careful, always planning.

  When they reached their destination, it turned out to be a smallish bar situated on the corner between two streets. It was a cosy little place, typical of many little cafés to be found throughout Belgium and beyond. The barman or owner, he couldn’t tell which, greeted her with a flurry of arms and a staccato, machine-gun delivery of Flemish. She returned the
welcome and presumably explained that her companion was British and had very little Flemish because he immediately began to speak in slightly faltering but perfectly understandable English. He liked the place immediately, it was comfortable and homely. Shame I can never come back, he thought.

  He persuaded her, with the help of their enthusiastic host, into having two more drinks, by which time she was starting to show the effects of the alcohol. Her words slurred slightly and she became more tactile and flirtatious. During these drinks, she explained that she lived just around the corner and that the area was known as ‘the village’ in the city – it was quiet and residential and had some pleasant green spaces. Perfect for his purposes, he thought. He decided that after he had finished, he would use Google maps to make his way through one of these parks before calling a cab.

  As a third round of drinks arrived, this time unasked for, he excused himself and headed for the gents. Once safely locked in a cubicle he pulled a small vial from his inside pocket. Earlier, during one of her toilet breaks, he’d slipped it out of his case and placed it in there ready for later use. This was why he had wanted her close to home, Rohypnol acted quickly and dragging a semi-conscious woman into the back of a cab in the middle of the city would attract far too much attention. He palmed the vial and headed back out to the bar.

  As he’d hoped, she decided it was her turn to visit the toilet and making sure the barman wasn’t looking he slipped the drug into her drink.

  He didn’t always use this method to subdue his women, they were often too far from home to risk them falling unconscious on the way. He had several methods he could employ, perfected over the years. He now had them all down to a fine art. For example, he had a small cosh in his case and could quickly and precisely render a woman unconscious as soon as they were safely locked inside the front door. There were also a number of other sedatives and drugs that relaxed inhibitions and had women dropping their natural guard when with a stranger. He had realised, however, that these would be unnecessary with this one, the drink was doing most of that work for him.