Assassin

63

Jack Grantham had wondered how he was going to play this policeman, Ravnsborg, and how much he would reveal to him about Carver. Would he, for example, show Ravnsborg the texts? They were clearly important, even crucial evidence that suggested very clearly that Carver had been duped. On the other hand, they were bound to make any detective ask the obvious question: 'Why did he send them to you?'

'Let's just say we know one another,' Grantham replied, when Ravnsborg did, indeed, ask precisely that.

'He works for you, does he, at the… Foreign Office?'

There was a half-smile on Ravnsborg's weary face as he spoke. Grantham got the impression that the big, sleepy Norwegian was enjoying the break in the grinding, relentless pressure of coping with a major disaster. It struck Grantham that this was a man he could have a drink with, or fight alongside and know that his back was covered: a man he could trust. And trust was not one of Jack Grantham's natural emotions.

'No, Carver's not an employee of Her Majesty's Government,' he replied. 'But he has carried out a couple of assignments, unpaid… favours, if you like. Big favours.'

'And in your estimation, Mr Grantham, is he a man who would blow up the King Haakon Hotel?'

'He's not a man who'd get caught blowing it up.'

Ravnsborg chuckled. 'Quite… And we have yet to determine that Carver was the man who we believe planted the bomb at the hotel yesterday afternoon. Of course, even if he were not, that might only tell us that more than one man was involved in the plot. I know only two things for sure. First, that Carver's call triggered the bomb. That has now been confirmed. And second, that he is capable of killing, because he attacked and killed three men last night.'

'Sounds like him,' Grantham agreed.

'On the other hand,' Ravnsborg continued, 'these text messages tally exactly with what other witnesses have described… You can assure me, I take it, that you did not send them to him yourself?'

'Would I be here if I had?'

'You might, I suppose, but I am too exhausted at the moment to work out why. Tell me, do you know this man?'

Grantham got up and walked round to Ravnsborg's side of the desk. A series of shots of Damon Tyzack appeared on the policeman's computer.

'Doesn't ring any bells,' said Grantham. 'Bluetooth them to my phone and I'll send them back to London. We'll see if anyone can put a name to the face.'

'At the Foreign Office?'

'I was thinking the Home Office, actually.'

Grantham would normally have sent the picture-files straight to Bill Selsey, but that hardly seemed wise under the present circumstances; and if he could not be trusted, the whole department was compromised. Grantham sent them to a different agency altogether.

Then he murmured, 'Hang on,' to Ravnsborg and hit a number on his speed-dial.

'Agatha,' he said when he got through. 'Jack Grantham here. Look, I wonder if you could do me a favour…'

Dame Agatha Bewley, the newly appointed head of the British Security Service, or MI5, was several rungs up the Whitehall ladder from Grantham, but the two of them had worked together in the past. They had history, and shared secrets, particularly where Samuel Carver was concerned. So it was as much out of self-protection as any collegial feeling towards a brother officer that she listened to what Grantham had to say and replied, 'Of course, I quite understand. Don't worry. I'll set the wheels in motion right away.'

In Oslo, Ravnsborg waited patiently until Grantham had finished his call.

'So… you think Carver has been framed, correct?' he finally asked.

Grantham nodded.

'Me, too. This is a problem, because he is a convenient, obviously guilty man, and I have everyone up to the Prime Minister telling me to arrest him so that he can be convicted as soon as possible and the public can feel safe again. But it seems to me that they would be safer if the right man were in prison. Excuse me…'

His phone had started ringing. Ravnsborg took the call. At first he said nothing beyond a few grunts of acknowledgement and understanding before firing a series of short, incisive questions in Norwegian. He wrote something down on a pad in front of him. Then, with his pen still hovering over the paper, he asked another couple of questions, evidently checking that he had written down the details of what he had been told correctly. When he put the phone back down, he looked up at Grantham.

'I was about to tell you, before that call, that we had lost track of Mr Carver. Last night, his movements were traced right up to the point where he attempted to board a ferry bound for Denmark. A passenger on that ferry, who had stepped outside for a smoke, saw him being lifted from the water by a helicopter. Well, I think we know now where that helicopter took him. And if the reports are correct, he is still there. A man with red hair was also spotted at the same location. That is the good news.'

'And the bad news?'

Ravnsborg ran his hands through his hair, leaving it even more dishevelled. He sighed like a man who was way past the end of his tether. 'The bad news,' he said, 'is that your Mr Carver may very well be dead.'