Gallery Whispers

32

The job was relatively simple; in most cases all that McGuire and Neville were required to do was to take one look at a subject, to confirm his presence at the event, and to eliminate him from the list.

However it had to be done discreetly, without anyone being aware that they were under surveillance. The two officers had learned very quickly that they could work most effectively by ignoring those parts of the conference which all delegates attended. The University organisers had split their guests into eight smaller groups, and given them a programme of detailed study and discussion of eight key topics.

It was a simple matter for the detectives to cover one seminar room each, and wait for their subjects to come to them.

Karen Neville sat at her desk at the entrance to Room G, as discussion group Seven began to file in. She wore a badge which identified her as a member of the conference staff, and had before her a list of the members of the group. Beside some of the names she had placed a tiny, innocuous blue dot.

Smiling, she checked each delegate's pass as they reached her, and put a tick against their name on the list. There were thirty-one people in group Seven, which, for a reason best known to the organisers, contained twenty of the female attendees. Neville was accustomed to women sticking together at police events, but somehow, she had not expected economists to behave in the same way. Nonetheless, she checked each lady's badge as carefully as the rest.

Looking at the line, she wondered, for the third time that week, whether there was an international uniform for academics. Not one of them was dressed in anything resembling a formal manner. Most of the women wore trousers, several with shapeless cardigans. Only a minority of the men wore ties, and one or two were unshaven.

Of the eleven men, six were from EU countries and therefore not on her landing card list. Every one was over fifty, and overweight. Of the other five, two were Sri Lankan, one was a dour-looking, bespectacled Australian in a wheelchair, another was a twenty-sevenyear-old American from North Carolina, too young to be a disguised Hawkins, and the last was… not there, she realised. She looked at her list: Wayne Ventnor, the incongruous chemical engineer, had not checked in for the discussion.

As the group settled down and the event chairperson stepped up to the podium, the sergeant counted heads once more; sure enough, there were only thirty delegates present.

As Neville slipped out of the room, she made a mental list of possible reasons for the man's absence; illness, alcohol and boredom were the top three. She walked along the curving corridor, heading clockwise towards Room E, where McGuire was stationed.

She had gone barely twenty yards when she reached, on her right, a makeshift refreshment buffet. It was staffed by two white-coated ladies, standing guard over a tall metal um, a large tea-pot and a range of biscuits, but it had only one customer, a big, long-legged, brownhaired, bearded man. He was seated in a low chair, a coffee before him on a low table, and he was reading a copy of the Independent, through gold-framed glasses. Instinctively she checked her stride and turned into the cafe area; affecting diffidence, she shuffled up to the man and leaned over him, peering at the laminated badge which was clipped to the jacket of his navy-blue suit. It read, 'W Ventnor, Australia.'

The man blinked and looked up from his newspaper, not into her face, if that had been his intention, but at her bosom which was directly in his eyeline as she bent over towards him.

'I'm sorry,' she began, smiling. 'I was just checking that you are Mr Ventnor; I'm Karen, from the conference staff. It's my job to know where everyone is, and your name wasn't ticked off from my list.'

His eyes reached hers, at last; his sudden smile was dazzling.

'Secret police, eh?' he said, in a broad Aussie drawl.

She chuckled, covering her inward gulp. 'Hardly. Freelance conference organiser, in fact. The University hires my firm to help with the administration of events like this.'

'How have I missed you up to now?' he asked, turning up the grin one more notch.

'I've been around, I promise; it must just be that our paths haven't crossed.'

'Well, now that they have, Karen, can I buy you a coffee?' He nodded at the empty cup on the table. 'It's passable, I promise.'

'That would be nice,' she said.

As he pushed himself to his feet, and headed for the buffet table, a chill ran through her; he walked with a distinct limp on his right side.

One of the helpful ladies at the counter, pleased to have customers, insisted on bringing his purchases to the table on a tray. As she placed coffee and a KitKat before each of them, Neville smiled at him again, trying to keep a twinkle in her eyes, rather than the naked excitement she felt.

'So why are you playing hookey?' she asked. 'Have you crossed your boredom threshold as far as sub-national economies are concerned?'

'I crossed it as soon as I walked into this place,' the man replied.

His hair was a very light brown, she noticed, with fair highlights, and his beard was very definitely not false. As he reached out to pick up his coffee, she was struck by the thickness of his wrists. 'I'm no economist.'

'I didn't think so.'

He looked back at her, a little too quickly for her comfort. Careful, Karen, she told herself.

'Why's that then?'

'Because you're wearing a suit,' she said. 'In fact, you're the only smartly dressed man in this building.'

He laughed, an easy, relaxed confident sound. 'They are a scruffy shower of bastards, aren't they.'

'So what are you doing here?' she made the question sound as light and inconsequential as she could.

'I'm a minder, of sorts.' For a second or two, she was puzzled, wondering whether their surveillance was being duplicated by another agency. 'Did you see Dennis? Dennis Crombie, the guy in the wheelchair?'

She nodded. 'Yes, I've just checked him in.'

'Well I'm looking after him. That's why I'm here. I work for Blaydon Oil on an offshore oil rig, and I'm on a long leave. Dennis is an old mate, so when he told me that he was planning to come to this conference, I offered to tag along as his helper.'

'But why are you registered as a delegate?' she asked, out of genuine curiosity, as she broke a finger from her KitKat.

'There's no other category of visitor. We were told that with the Minister being here, there would be security; Dennis reckoned that it would be easiest if I registered just like everyone else. He needs me close by him, most of the time, you see.'

'You must be quite a friend, to sit through this sort of event for him.'

Ventnor smiled again. 'I've never seen Scotland,' he said. 'I've always wanted to visit the original Perth.'

'You're hardly going to see much of it, given the conference programme.'

'Ah, but we're staying on for a couple of months, afterwards. Dennis wants to do some research here, after the conference. That'll give me the chance to spend the odd day sightseeing.'

'Let me know if you need a guide,' she said. It burst from her unchecked; without a thought.

'Hey,' grinned Ventnor, 'that's damn white of you. I'll take you up on that.' he paused. 'Say, what are you doing tonight? Dennis turns in around nine. Maybe I could buy you a pizza and you could tell me about Edinburgh?'

'I shouldn't fraternise with the punters,' she began. 'But what the Hell! Where do you want to meet?'

'You tell me. It's your city.'

'Giuliano's, opposite the Playhouse theatre. Just take a taxi, if you don't know it. I'll book a table for nine fifteen.' She rose from the table. 'I'll see you there. Right now, though, I have to find my colleague.'