Close Call

Chapter 21

It was hard work trying to extract any useful ­information from Milraud. It had needed frequent reminders from Martin that Annette’s treatment depended on his cooperation to get him to fill in any of the details; even then he could only be described as a reluctant witness.

Eventually Liz had got him to admit that the Arab had got in touch with him via a contact in Yemen – a man who had put business his way before. He did not know his identity, he’d said, or who the Arab was – he never asked such questions. The request had been for comparatively small arms, as he’d said at the beginning, and he had been told these were for use by rebel groups in the Arab Spring countries. He had assumed this meant Syria, but he had not asked. It was not his concern. The Arab had said that the arms were to be delivered to Dagestan, one of the former Soviet republics, from where they would be moved on to their destination. He’d quoted an inflated price for the deal and there had been a bit of haggling, but he was very pleased with the final bargain they’d struck.

When Liz asked if he was not surprised that the delivery was to be to Dagestan, he’d said that nothing surprised him. He had both delivered arms to Dagestan before and bought arms there. When she asked more about the black man he’d met in Berlin, all he would say was that the Arab had asked him to meet the man – who he guessed must be arranging the onward shipment, though he couldn’t be sure of this as the man was so jumpy they had had no significant conversation.

As Martin drove her to the Gare du Nord to catch the last Eurostar to London, Liz was mulling over all this.

‘You know,’ she said after a while, ‘I don’t believe a quarter of what Milraud said. The trouble is, I’m so tired I can’t work it out.’

‘I can’t say I’m surprised to hear you say that. Milraud’s not one to give up easily. It sounded unlikely to me too; I’m sure some vital parts are missing. I just don’t believe he wanders around the world having meetings with people he doesn’t know anything about. He wouldn’t have lasted as long as he has, with me on his tail, if that’s how he did business.’

‘I know. And I can’t understand why the Arab Spring rebels would want to buy small weapons at a high price from someone like him. Surely they are getting all they need from Iran and Hezbollah and the like.’

‘Why don’t you stay the night and we can talk about it in the morning?’

‘I’d love to, but I can’t. Peggy rang to say there was some new information about the black man. One of the Special Branches think they know who he is.’

‘Let Peggy deal with it,’ he said, as he stopped the car at the station.

She touched his hand on the wheel. ‘No. I want to do it myself. I want to be sure Monsieur Milraud isn’t going to get away with anything now we’ve got him. For your sake, as well as my own.’

She kissed him on the cheek, jumped out of the car and was gone into the station before he could say anything.

Liz got up early in the morning and was at work by eight. Peggy Kinsolving, another early riser, was already there at her desk in the open-plan office.

‘Here’s the number to call,’ Peggy said, handing Liz a piece of paper. ‘It’s DS Halliday from Cheshire Special Branch. He said he’s fairly sure he knows the black man.’

Halliday wasn’t in his office until ten, but when he answered the phone he sounded cheerful and eager to help. ‘I’ve had your photo. I’m pretty certain I know your guy. It looks like Lester Jackson, who owns a club in Wilmslow. I’ll send you one of our pictures of him, so you can see what you think. He’s well known to me and my colleagues.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘He’s a tried and true bad guy, involved in trafficking drugs and women. But the frustrating thing is we’ve never managed to pin anything on him – not a single thing. The only trouble he’s been in that I know of was years ago. Some teenage scrapes, and one arrest for burglary – but he was underage, and I don’t think he even saw the inside of a young offenders’ institution. He’s never done time as an adult.’

‘You say he owns a club. What sort of club?’

‘It’s called Slim’s. In Wilmslow, which is in my bailiwick here in Cheshire. He gets quite a lot of the football fraternity in the restaurant and there’s gambling and girls, and drugs, of course. Sometimes it gets a bit wild at the weekends but nothing too bad, just some young footballer drinking too much or snorting too much coke and getting involved with the paparazzi.

‘There’s an upstairs operation as well, with girls providing special services, as you might say, but we’ve had no complaints and we’ve never bothered them up to now. Recently Immigration have been sniffing around. They’ve a strong suspicion that some of the girls may have been trafficked, probably from Eastern Europe, and they think he may be selling women on, because his own upstairs operation isn’t very big. Between you and me they’re planning a raid pretty soon and I’m helping them. I’ve got my eye on one of the girls as a possible inside source. The club’s in Cheshire, like I said, just inside our border, but Jackson lives in Greater Manchester’s area. You should talk to them; they know him pretty well. How’s he come across your radar anyway?’

Liz said cautiously, ‘We’re investigating a dodgy-­looking arms deal on the Continent and it’s possible he may be involved.’

‘Guns? Jackson’s crooked as a dog’s hind leg, but as far as I know he’s never sold weapons. Still, there’s always a first time – he’s not somebody who would turn down an opportunity.’

‘If I wanted the Manchester angle who should I contact?’

‘You should probably call the Deputy Head of Special Branch there.’ His voice sounded unenthusiastic.

‘Not the Head then?’

‘No, he’s new. It’s his deputy who knows Jackson. He says he’s been helpful in the past.’

‘What. You mean he’s a source?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far. But you’re better off getting the story from him.’

Halliday sounded oddly wary and Liz decided not to press the point. ‘OK, the Deputy Head it is. What’s his name?’

‘McManus. Do you want me to ring him first?’

‘Not Jimmy McManus?’ said Liz before she could stop herself.

‘Yes. That’s him. Do you know him?’

‘No, not really,’ she said, trying to recover from the surprise. ‘I met him quite a time ago. I’ll ring him myself,’ she added, though her heart was sinking at the prospect.

When the photographs came through Liz looked at them carefully, trying not to jump to conclusions. Some had been taken in the street, some in what looked like a restaurant but was probably the club. But there wasn’t any doubt – it was the same man. The same handsome face, with wide-set thin eyes, a sharp chin made sharper by the width of the high cheekbones. Afro-Caribbean, almost African but lighter-skinned, just the dark side of café au lait. Hair neatly cropped and, in all the pictures, very smartly dressed.

‘What do you think?’ asked Peggy, looking over Liz’s shoulder, unwilling to hope for too much. ‘Could it be our chap?’

‘“Could be” is the understatement of all time. He’s our man all right.’

‘But do we have any real evidence he’s one of the bad guys? Maybe he’s just a respectable businessman holidaying in Berlin.’

‘No. Milraud admitted he had a rendezvous with him and that the mysterious Arab set it up. What he hasn’t told us is why he met him and what they said to each other – nothing, according to him, except to arrange another meeting, but I don’t believe it. That’s just one of the things he’s holding back. So far we don’t have anything on Mr Jackson, and the Germans couldn’t hold him just for standing in front of a picture in a gallery, but I’m convinced he’s in it up to his neck. A Mercedes that comes out of nowhere, a private jet that diverts to God knows where, and most of all the contact with Milraud – that’s enough for me. And Halliday says he’s a tried and true bad guy.’

She looked at Peggy, who seemed convinced. ‘Now,’ said Liz, looking pointedly at her phone, ‘I’ve got someone else to ring to try and find out more.’ And Peggy took the hint and left Liz alone to make the call.