The Run Around

Chapter Ten

Charlie chose a Mercedes again, just for the hell of it, disappointed the build-up of early rush-hour traffic on the M4 made it difficult to drive as fast as he had on his way down to Sussex. And then there had been less need for speed than there was now.

Charlie was too old and too wise to become excited ahead of time but according to the Director the sightings at London airport were practically positive. And not just one. Two. Trying to balance the hope, Charlie wondered how two different people were able to be anywhere near positive, on the basis of such an indistinct photograph. Whatever, he thought; don’t knock it, check it. The first indicator looked promising, at least: it was Terminal Two from which, with the exception of British Airways, all flights from Heathrow departed for Europe.

He sought out a parking spot near a protective pillar and used the elevated walkway to get into the building, knowing from past experience that the security offices were at the far end, beyond the banks. On Sir Alistair Wilson’s instructions, the two men were waiting for Charlie in a private, inner room, where the only lighting came from a neon strip: it was a box joined to other boxes all around and Charlie wondered why modern office planners were so stuck on the beehive style of architecture. William Cockson, the Special Branch inspector, was a grey-haired, grey-suited, anonymous sort of man, cautious in movement and manner. Edward Oliver, the immigration official, was much younger, hardly more than twenty-five: he wore a tweed jacket and rigidly pressed trousers and was blinking a lot, as if he were nervous at having committed himself to an opinion.

‘This seems to be important, from the reaction,’ said Cockson, at once.

‘Maybe,’ said Charlie. ‘Maybe not.’ The identification was vital so it was important not to influence either man into responding as they imagined he wanted them to.

‘I was supposed to be off duty an hour ago,’ said the policeman, someone sadly accustomed to having his private life constantly disrupted.

From his briefcase Charlie took a bigger enlargement of the Primrose Hill picture than that which had been made available for the port and airport surveillance and said: ‘Look at this again. Take as long as you like. Do you think this was the man?’

It was the more experienced Special Branch officer who looked up first, nodding. ‘I think so,’ he said.

Oliver raised his head soon afterwards. He said: ‘I’m pretty sure.’

Not as positive as the Director had promised, thought Charlie. He said: ‘When?’

‘The thirteenth,’ said Cockson, positively.

The day of the pick-up realized Charlie. Worriedly, he said: ‘What time?’

‘In the evening,’ said the young immigration man.

Johnson had timed the whole episode in Primrose Hill as ending by two in the afternoon, remembered Charlie, relieved: more than long enough to get here. Nodding to the enlargement on the desk between them Charlie said: ‘It’s not a good picture.’

‘No,’ agreed Oliver.

‘And the departure lounge was crowded?’

‘It always is,’ said the younger man, with growing confidence.

‘So how come you think you recognize him, in a crowded departure lounge from a bad photograph?’

Oliver looked sideways, deferring to the older man.

Cockson said: ‘There was an incident … well, hardly an incident. Rather more something that caught the attention of us both …’ The policeman hesitated, imagining a further explanation was necessary. ‘I was on duty at Eddie’s desk that evening. Right beside him. There was this girl, pretty kid, and obviously pregnant. My first thought was that she shouldn’t have been travelling at all, not that far gone. There’s supposed to be a time limit in pregnancy, beyond which airlines won’t accept you for travel, you know?’

‘I know,’ encouraged Charlie. ‘So what happened?’

‘She was practically up to my desk, just one person away, when she fainted,’ picked up Oliver. ‘Went down like a log.’

‘So?’ pressed Charlie, doubtfully.

‘He walked away,’ said Cockson. ‘This man. I was looking at her, like I said. But I was aware of someone directly behind. And when she started to sway, obviously going down, he switched lanes to another desk. If he’d caught her as he easily could have done she wouldn’t have gone down so heavily. She started to haemorrhage, you know? Had to be taken to Middlesex Hospital and there’s still a chance she might lose the baby.’

‘I saw it, too,’ endorsed Oliver. ‘I thought rude bugger and as I thought it Bill said it, right in my ear.’

It was the avoidance of someone trained against getting caught up in the slightest sort of attention-attracting event, Charlie recognized. But also something that a lot of untrained people might have done, not wanting to get involved, either. Wrong to over-interpret. He said: ‘You were really looking at the girl, though?’

‘Yes,’ said Cockson, cautiously.

‘And went to help her?’

‘Of course,’ said Oliver.

‘So you only had the briefest look at the man?’

‘No,’ refused Cockson, positively. ‘She was obviously in a bad way, needing to lie there and not get up. When I was kneeling beside her I looked up at the bastard, intending to say something. That’s when I saw the other funny thing.’

‘What other funny thing?’ said Charlie, patiently.

‘He wasn’t looking,’ said the policeman. ‘A pregnant woman falls down right in front of him, he walks away and then when she’s lying there he doesn’t even look. That wasn’t right; not natural. Everyone else was looking: a lot seeing what they could do. Too many, actually. But he was staring straight ahead’ — he gestured down to the photograph again — ‘rather like he is there, really. That side of his face, certainly.’

‘Did you say anything?’

‘No,’ admitted Cockson. ‘The girl was the important person to worry about: needing comforting. There wasn’t any point in starting an unnecessary argument and distressing her further.’

‘So how long were you looking directly at him?’

‘Maybe a minute,’ said Cockson.

To the immigration man, Charlie said: ‘What about you?’

‘I was looking directly at him, too,’ said Oliver. ‘I couldn’t get over what he’d done. Or rather not done.’

‘But you didn’t check him through? See the passport?’ said Charlie, resigned.

‘It was British,’ announced Oliver.

‘British!’ exclaimed Charlie. ‘How do you know?’

‘That’s my job, looking at passports,’ reminded the younger man. ‘He was holding it in his hand, ready to present it, so I could not avoid seeing it. And it was definitely British. I remember thinking about it: there are some people I could imagine walking away from the girl like he did but not an Englishman.’

Harkness and Witherspoon would have appreciated a remark like that, thought Charlie. He hoped to Christ the neighbouring immigration official who had actually checked the man through was on duty. To Cockson he said: ‘You’re a trained observer. Describe him to me.’

The policeman hesitated and then said: ‘Average height, five feet ten or five feet eleven … Well built although not heavy: fit looking. Very dark hair and quite dark skinned, too.’

‘I remember that, as well,’ came in Oliver. ‘The skin colouring, I mean, against the British passport. Not that it means anything these days. But there was also something about the way he held himself.’

‘Held himself?’

‘I work out a bit,’ said the immigration man. ‘Try to stay in shape. That was my immediate impression of this man: that he held himself and walked like someone who likes to keep in shape. And he does, from the photograph, doesn’t he?’

‘Impression formulated at the moment?’ pressed Charlie, cautiously. ‘Or impression after you’d been shown the photograph?’

‘Then,’ said Oliver, at once. ‘The bastard could have held her up with one hand if he’d wanted to.’

‘What time did it all happen?’ asked Charlie.

‘Seven,’ said Cockson.

‘Definitely,’ confirmed the younger man.

‘Why so certain?’ demanded Charlie.

‘We both came on duty at six,’ said the policeman. ‘And because I knew there would later have to be a report by the airport police I made a point of checking the time. It was definitely seven.’

‘How was he dressed?’ asked Charlie, wanting to build up the description.

‘Grey suit,’ said Cockson. ‘Black shoes. A coloured shirt, blue, I think. I know it wasn’t white. Can’t remember what sort of tie.’

‘Was the suit patterned grey, check maybe, or plain grey?’

‘I can’t say,’ admitted the policeman and Oliver shook his head, unable to go further either.

‘Topcoat or mackintosh?’

‘Not that I can remember,’ said Oliver.

‘Or me,’ said Cockson.

‘Hat?’

‘No,’ said Cockson. The immigration official shook his head again.

‘Was he carrying anything, a briefcase or a travel bag perhaps?’

‘Again, not that I can recall,’ said Cockson.

‘Or me,’ said the younger man.

‘Newspapers or a magazine?’

Both men shook their heads this time.

‘Umbrella?’

‘You’re trying damned hard, aren’t you?’ said Cockson.

‘I get awarded points,’ said Charlie. ‘So was there an umbrella?’

‘No,’ said the policeman.

‘No,’ said the immigration man.

‘Is there anything, anything at all, that you can remember about him that we haven’t talked about?’ persisted Charlie.

Neither man replied at once, considering the question. Then Oliver said: ‘I’m afraid not.’

Cockson said: ‘I don’t think we’ve contributed a lot.’

‘You’ve been very helpful, both of you,’ assured Charlie. ‘I’m grateful.’

‘What’s he done?’ asked Cockson.

‘Nothing yet, I don’t think,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s what he might do.’

Charlie imagined, wrongly, that he was fortunate in the other immigration man being on duty. His name was Jones. He was a balding, fat-stomached man and within minutes of their meeting beginning Charlie guessed, correctly, that Jones was counting off the days to his retirement. Jones vaguely remembered the girl collapsing although he didn’t recall the date being the 13th or what time it was in the evening. Enough people seemed to be helping, so he’d left it to them. He shook his head at the offered picture and when Charlie asked about the passport demanded in return if Charlie had any idea how many British passports he examined every day. Charlie patiently recounted the physical description, adding the street clothes this time, and Jones said: ‘That could be anyone of a thousand men,’ and Charlie agreed that it could.

The contact with the Director was on an open, insecure line so the conversation had to be circumspect.

‘Positive?’ demanded Wilson.

‘Not positive but enough to pursue.’

‘Know where to go?’

‘No.’

‘Can you find out?’

‘It’s going to be a long job.’

‘Need help?’

Charlie considered the question, thinking again about relying on others and the danger of banana skins. He said: ‘Probably some impressive government-sounding pressure later, but at the moment I’d like to try it by myself.’

‘Run it your way,’ said Wilson, supportively.

‘I’m going to book into an airport hotel.’

‘I don’t give a damn about the cost.’

Charlie hoped Harkness had been in the room to hear the remark: it would ruin the deputy’s day. Cautiously Charlie said: ‘Let’s keep the other checks in place.’

‘They are,’ assured Wilson.

Charlie worked upon the assumption that the dark-skinned man would have moved with the professional expertise he had shown in Primrose Hill Park. Which meant 7 p.m. on the 13th would have been a comfortable arrival for whatever flight he was catching but not too early, because trade-craft training on both sides is that a loitering person attracts attention. And a professional would not have taken that risk, even in a crowd-concealing situation like an airport departure lounge. Charlie decided three hours was the absolute maximum. Ten o’clock then. Still a haystack but at least it had a shape. He hoped. It was a hope that faltered almost at once. Charlie realized he’d embarked upon a practically impossible task, trying alone to work out what he wanted by studying the ABC flight guide. So he sought guidance from the deputy duty officer in the control tower, confident the man’s specialized knowledge would avoid banana skins. When Charlie explained what he wanted the man shook his head in bewilderment, complaining that it would take forever, but Charlie said it wouldn’t, because he was concentrating only on seven European destinations. It was still very late when together they produced the final list.

Between seven and ten o’clock on the night of the 13th four aircraft departed London Heathrow for Vienna, five for Paris, two for Geneva, one for Brussels, three for Madrid, two for Berlin — via Frankfurt, of course, where he could have disembarked and re-routed to any of the target cities — and three to Rome, with one internal connection to Venice.

‘I wish you luck, whatever you’re trying to do,’ said the man when they finished.

Charlie booked into the Ariel Hotel, eased his protesting feet from his Hush Puppies and ordered turkey sandwiches and a bottle of whisky from room service, the Director’s remark about expenses still clear in his mind. Eighteen aircraft, he thought. How many people made up a cabin crew? Depended on the aircraft, he supposed, but he decided to calculate using an average of ten. Which gave a maximum of a hundred and eighty people to question, if the enquiry went its full length. Like the control tower official had said, he needed luck. A lot of it.

‘Well?’ demanded Clayton Anderson.

‘All set, Mr President,’ said the Secretary of State.

‘It sure as hell better be,’ said Anderson.