Tracers

THIRTY-SEVEN

‘I’m sorry — I don’t see how I can help you.’ Sheila Humphries was every inch the teacher, her hands clasped across her front as if waiting for some unruly child to pay attention. ‘I think you may have confused me with somebody else.’

They had arrived barely ten minutes ago after an agonizingly slow drive in stop-start traffic, to discover that the village lay at the end of a narrow road a few miles from the coast near Mersea Island, south of Colchester. It boasted a single primary school — St Matilda’s — located on the eastern fringes close to a new housing development. A modern red brick and glass structure, it had a large, open playground between the building and the road, and nowhere for Harry and Joanne to park and survey the place without attracting the immediate attention of vigilant staff or parents. In addition, a caretaker tidying up some play equipment to one side was watching them.

Harry had opted for the direct approach. They didn’t have time to waste hoping Joanne might spot a middle-aged woman resembling Gordon Humphries. And there was no way of telling for certain whether they had been followed or not.

‘Come on,’ he’d said, climbing out of the car. ‘When in doubt, ask a janitor.’

‘Don’t you mean a policeman?’

Harry smiled. ‘You’ve been overseas too long. Policemen are almost extinct in this country. . except when you don’t want them.’ He looked pointedly at her rucksack. ‘If he tells us to bugger off, try not to shoot him.’

‘Sheila?’ The man eyed them both with caution and squinted against the sun when they approached him. ‘She’s inside. You’re not inspectors giving her a hard time, are you? Only she’s not been so good since her brother died.’ He shook his head and nudged a marker cone into place alongside some coloured plastic equipment boxes. ‘Bloody shame.’

‘It’s her brother we’re here about,’ said Joanne. ‘Gordon was a nice man.’

‘You knew him, did you?’

‘I worked closely with him.’

‘Oh.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You don’t look like you work in oil exploration. Sorry, I’m not supposed to say that, am I? It’s all equality now. I suppose there’ll be paperwork and stuff to sort out, won’t there? Ruled by the bloody stuff, we are. I’ll tell her you’re here.’ He marched away and disappeared through a side door, returning moments later. ‘In through the door,’ he told them, ‘and she’ll see you in the common room third on the left. She’s got a free period.’

They entered the building to find a middle-aged woman with greying hair and a melancholy look waiting for them in a plain, tiled corridor lined with pupils’ work. Seabirds seemed to be the main subject.

Harry glanced at Joanne, who nodded to confirm that the woman looked like Gordon Humphries, and advanced to shake her hand. The woman gestured to an open door and followed them through. They found themselves in a staff room decorated with pinboards covered in graphs, schedules and notices, and furnished with soft chairs and coffee tables. The overall effect was of clutter and cheerful disarray.

‘I know this is painful,’ Joanne started, ‘but we’re here to talk about your brother, Gordon. We need your help.’

Sheila Humphries lifted her chin, the pain evident in her face. ‘What about him? Are you from the company?’

‘The government, you mean?’ Joanne said gently. ‘Not exactly.’

‘Government? I don’t follow.’

‘Gordon worked for the government.’

‘I’m sorry, but that’s not right. My brother worked for an oil company.’ She looked carefully at them both, the teacher demanding an explanation. Yet in spite of the guarded response, there was a hesitancy about her and her hands never ceased twisting and moving. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t see how I can help you. I should call someone.’ She looked as if she was about to turn towards a phone on the wall.

Harry took out his wallet and showed her his MI5 card. If she still chose to call for help, it was likely to be an official number and would be another count against him. There was nothing else for it but to bluff their way through.

She looked at the card and appeared to relax. ‘Oh. I see.’

Joanne opened her rucksack and took out the photo of Humphries and his companion at the street cafe. She held it out and said, ‘This is Gordon, isn’t it?’

Sheila Humphries reacted as if she’d been stung. She took the photo and stared at it, then gave a deep sigh and sat down on a chair as if her legs had given way. She ran her fingertips gently across the glossy surface, then murmured softly, ‘Oh, dear God. You poor boy.’

They took a chair each and waited, giving her time to adjust to the shock of seeing her brother’s face again. A buzz of high-pitched laughter echoed down the corridor outside and a clock ticked in the room, drawing away the seconds until she looked up.

‘How can I help you?’ she said.

‘You know where that photo was taken, don’t you?’ said Joanne. She glanced at Harry for guidance, but he said nothing, not daring to intrude on the moment.

Sheila took a deep breath and nodded. ‘Somewhere in Baghdad. I said he should never have gone there. But it was his work. It was what he did.’ Her voice was breathless, almost muffled, as if forcing each word through a heavy gauze. ‘How did you come by it?’

‘I was the one who took it.’

‘You?’ Sheila looked stunned. ‘But that means. .’

‘Gordon was my boss.’ She paused, then continued in a matter-of-fact manner, ‘We used to meet for briefings. I was due to meet him the morning he died. He didn’t come.’

‘Briefings?’ Sheila Humphries suddenly leaned forward, a look of understanding dawning on her face. She stared at Joanne with intense concentration. ‘He said they’d put someone out there. . a young girl. He was appalled at the idea. Said it was horribly dangerous and he couldn’t protect her. It was you?’

Joanne said nothing.

‘He told you about it?’ Harry was surprised.

‘Only the once,’ she replied, eyes still on Joanne. ‘He was nearing voluntary retirement age. We were going to take a long holiday together. Then they asked him to stay on for a really important job. Vital, they said. It was going to be his last assignment.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ said Joanne.

‘Gordon loved his work. He really did. But not this time. It was as if the spark had gone out of it for him. They’d assigned him to another section or something, and there was a lot of training involved. He mentioned Iraq and said they were placing someone in an impossible situation and it was his responsibility as handler to see that nothing happened to them. He thought it was madness but couldn’t get them to call it off.’ She shook her head. ‘He wasn’t supposed to talk about his work, but I wasn’t stupid — I knew what he did right from the start. We were always close, you see.’

‘The other man in the photo,’ said Harry. ‘Do you know him?’

Sheila nodded without looking at the photo. ‘His name’s Andrew Marshall. He was one of Gordon’s superiors — a major, I think, although he’s a civilian now. They’d worked together before in. . well, in other places.’

‘Is he one of the good guys?’ Joanne asked

Shelia shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I always thought so. With what they have to do, it’s difficult to tell sometimes.’ She looked guiltily at Joanne. ‘Sorry.’

‘But Gordon trusted him?’

‘Oh, yes. He trusted Andrew. Not,’ she added softly, ‘that it did him any good in the end, did it?’ She took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her nose. ‘A step too far.’

‘Pardon?’

‘He always said that things went badly when you took just one step too far. Like taking that last run down a ski slope.’ She gave a stiff smile. ‘He loved skiing. Nearly broke his leg a couple of times, taking a final run.’

‘What did they tell you about it?’ Harry asked.

‘The accident? Actually, Andrew came to see me. He said he didn’t want anyone else to do it, not after all he and Gordon had been through together. I thought that was very kind of him. He told me Gordon’s car went off the road somewhere in Kuwait. But I knew that couldn’t be true — he was nowhere near Kuwait at the time. They’re very good at concealing things from families. . they have to be, I suppose, otherwise we’d never sleep nights. There was even a report in the paper and a picture of the car.’ She took a deep breath, a catch in her throat. ‘Gordon never normally told me exactly where he was going or staying, but he did this time.’

‘Why was that?’ Harry waited. This could be the opening they needed.

‘He had trouble sleeping, which was very unusual for him. And the last time he was home on leave, he told me what he’d been doing and where he was going next. It was the first time he’d ever done that. That’s how I knew about you.’ She looked at Joanne with an odd look of compassion. ‘He thought you were a very special young lady. There weren’t many people he said that about. He was really very unhappy about it. He wanted to protect you. . but deep down, I think he knew that was impossible. I still don’t know why you do it — any of you. But I suppose somebody has to, otherwise where would we be?’

A bell sounded along the corridor. Sheila shook herself and glanced at her watch. ‘I’m sorry — I have to go. You wanted something, didn’t you? Something connected with Gordon.’

Harry considered his words carefully. There was no point making her aware of what they were involved in; it would serve no useful purpose. She had been fed an official story covering the death of her brother, but had recognized it for what it was, even though she knew there must be something deeper involved than a mere road traffic accident. The truth was probably best left buried. But at least they now had a name. He opted for a direct question.

‘Do you know where we can find Andrew Marshall?’ he asked.