Tracers

TWENTY-THREE

The Corpos Fitness Centre was a modern, brick-and-glass designer cube near Battersea Park, catering to a clientele that liked to exercise in air-conditioned style and comfort. Forget about pounding around the park in wind and rain, the glossy signs and subdued lighting implied; that was for extremists, oddballs and London Marathon wannabes. Enter instead the world of heart monitors, space-age exercise machinery, designer leisurewear and your own personal trainer right out of Sex and the City, all for a very reasonable sum payable by credit card or direct debit, no cheques accepted.

They had located three fitness or exercise centres in the area; one was strictly men-only, the emphasis being on weight training, with no other facilities and, according to the man on reception, women were ‘discouraged’. The second was at the other end of the spectrum, with lots of glitz and a fancy cocktail bar. . and membership limited only by the size of your bank balance.

That left the Corpos. After Danny Park and his back-to-basics sweat and grunt gymnasium, it was light years away from what Joanne Archer would have been used to. But if what Park had said about her being a relentless trainer was true, and Hughie was correct in his claim to have seen her in Battersea with her pink gym bag, it seemed as good a place as any to continue their search.

For Harry, it was back to basics. Finding where runners might have gone could be a laborious process. Nine times out of ten a link was there, usually connected to a place or element of the runner’s past life. With Joanne Archer, all they had to go on was a rigorously observed fitness routine. While it wasn’t much, it meant she was unlikely to break that routine unless forced by circumstances beyond her control.

Four thirty in the afternoon was evidently a quiet period in the world of exercise, sweatbands and leotards. No doubt the rush would come when people began leaving work, intent on an evening workout to ease the kinks of sitting down all day.

From their vantage point in a cafe across the road, Harry counted eight people entering the Corpos premises and five leaving, each armed with sports bags. Most were young, good-looking and self-aware in the latest multicoloured leisure clothing, and were greeted by the receptionist, a young woman with a startling orange tan and lustrous black hair.

She, he decided, recognizing a professional gatekeeper at work, might be a problem.

‘Do you think that kid Hughie was daydreaming?’ Rik asked. ‘Wandering around London looking for her like a lovesick donkey.’

‘Maybe.’ Harry wasn’t sure. Kids like Hughie had different values, different ways of looking at things. To Hughie, someone who’d treated him with kindness was a person to remember. To notice. ‘We’ll give it a few more minutes, then you can go and kick the doors in.’

‘What makes you so sure this is it?’

‘I’m not.’ Harry nodded at one of the signs in the window, which read: ‘Extreme Fitness and Martial Arts!’ ‘It sounds serious enough and fits what we know about Archer’s lifestyle.’

While the minutes ticked by, they used the time to go over what they knew about their quarry, to ensure they hadn’t missed something.

‘She’s ex-army,’ said Rik, ticking off his fingers. ‘Current occupation thought to be a PA but not confirmed. She’s young, fit and travels a lot but keeps her place in north London on as a bolt-hole. Suddenly, from an already unusual lifestyle, she drops her routine and goes AWOL. No reasons given, no explanations, she just ducks out of sight. That’s not normal.’

‘Neither is the fact that Silverman had her number,’ Harry added. ‘I’d give anything to know how, though. And now he’s also on the loose.’

‘You think he called and triggered her disappearance?’

‘Unless she was waiting for him to show.’ It wasn’t much of a theory but in the absence of any other it was workable until something better came along.

Rik floated a new idea. ‘We could ask Jennings if he knows about her.’

Harry thought about that. It wasn’t a bad idea, but he wondered if Joanne Archer was something else the lawyer hadn’t told them about. The man was too full of secrets, that was the problem. Harry hadn’t yet told him about the bodies at South Acres and the events of the previous evening, because he wanted to find out who Joanne Archer was first. In any case, it was likely Jennings already knew about the shootings; if he was as plugged in to the law enforcement network as he pretended, he would have picked up reports immediately.

‘We should call him,’ Rik insisted, ‘or go see him face to face.’

‘To say what?’ The idea of Rik stomping into Jennings’ office playing the heavy might be mildly entertaining, but he figured the lawyer was tougher than he looked and would be no pushover.

‘If we don’t, he might think we’ve got something to hide.’

He thought it over, and decided Rik was right. He took out his mobile and dialled the number.

‘I was wondering where you’d got to.’ Jennings answered the phone with typical bluntness. ‘I take it you have something useful to report?’

‘Depends on your point of view,’ said Harry, and gave him a brief rundown of what he’d discovered at the farmhouse. He kept the specifics clouded, in case anyone was listening, referring to the bodies as ‘broken items’ and their method of dispatch as ‘severe structural damage’.

‘Where were they from?’ asked Jennings, catching on fast.

‘They had French papers,’ Harry replied, ‘but darker in tone.’

Jennings made no comment, and Harry thought he heard the rasp of a pen in the background. ‘So you’ve no idea where the main delivery has gone?’

‘We’re working on it.’ Harry thought the lawyer sounded altogether too calm.

There was a pause, then, ‘You have a lead?’

The interest sounded genuine. Maybe Jennings didn’t know about Joanne Archer after all. ‘Among the papers you gave us,’ Harry explained, ‘was a reference to “J.A. London”. It wasn’t much to go on and we pretty much dismissed it. When we searched the place at South Acres, we found the same initials and a number scribbled on the wall of a bedroom. It was too significant to ignore.’

‘I take it you have an address for this new item?’

Harry gave him the address of Joanne Archer’s flat in north London, and her surname. ‘It’s no longer there but we’re currently trying to find out where it might have moved to. There are also a couple of other interested parties looking for it. They could be official.’

‘I’m sure they are. Don’t worry about that.’ Jennings didn’t sound at all perturbed at the idea.

‘There’s also,’ Harry added, drawing raised eyebrows from Rik, ‘something you need to know about the main package: its source of origin is not where we were told.’

‘Go on.’

‘The brief said Israel. . and academic in nature.’

‘So?’

‘Try further east. It also arrived via Frankfurt under different papers and was picked up from Heathrow. It was obviously a prearranged collection. None of that fits the brief.’

Jennings brushed off the revelation. ‘I think you’re mistaken.’

‘Oh, come on!’ Harry exploded. Jennings was treating him like an amateur. What did the man think they’d been doing all this time, for Christ’s sake — playing dominoes? ‘We talked to somebody with the same background.’ He was beyond caring about client relations now. Too much had happened. If Jennings didn’t like his tone, he could go jump. Across the table, Rik was smiling encouragingly. He decided to dispense with caution. ‘How does Iraq grab you?’

‘Impossible.’ Jennings’ response was automatic. ‘Your informant is mistaken.’

‘How the hell-?’

‘Mr Tate,’ Jennings cut in sharply. ‘I’d be grateful if you would inform me when you find this Archer person. As to the events of yesterday, they’re no longer part of your brief. Call me the moment you have a location.’ He rang off without saying goodbye.