Tracers

SIXTEEN

‘There’s nothing to take back,’ Param explained. ‘The house is owned by the bank, and if you want to get the money, you’ll have to find Yvonne first.’ He clenched his mug between his fingers, the first real sign of tension he had shown. ‘She knew everything I was doing. . had done right from the beginning. I thought she was with me all the way.’ He looked bitter, his mouth turning down at the edges, although it could have been embarrassment. ‘More fool me. I taught her too well. She knows as much as I do about moving money around — possibly more. And she turned out to be a natural at covering her tracks and hiding what she was doing.’

‘Why did you take her on in the first place?’ Harry asked.

Param tapped his fingers on the table. ‘I needed someone else to help set up the accounts to take the final transfer of money. That way, even if the company auditors looked at me for some reason, I’d be clean. She seemed an ideal partner. There was no risk to her; she did everything perfectly legitimately. Unfortunately, she was even smarter than that; she’d set up some accounts of her own without telling me. I trusted her. Too far, as it turned out.’

Harry almost felt a touch of sympathy. It wouldn’t be the first time a man had fallen for and been duped by an accomplice far more cunning than him, and left holding the baby. ‘You got taken.’

Param nodded. ‘Yeah. Tell me about it.’

‘Any ideas where she might have gone?’ Harry had to ask the question. He doubted that it would be their problem to worry about, but if the ball got lobbed back into their court, they would need all the information they could get. And Yvonne Michaels had got a head start. ‘How about South Africa?’

‘You’ve done your homework,’ Param said with a note of approval. ‘To be honest, I haven’t a clue. Yvonne knows a lot of people in some strange places, believe me. South African and Zimbabwean ex-pats, mostly, and a few others with interesting backgrounds. She’s got three passports that I know of. She won’t be as easy to find as I was. And you can forget about the Mini; she dumped that days ago.’

‘We’ll have to call in for instructions,’ Harry told him, then added by way of explanation, ‘We’re not the police; we work freelance. Our brief was to find you and confirm your location. What happens next is up to the client.’

Param nodded. ‘I figured the company would send somebody after me. I suppose I’m lucky it isn’t a bunch of heavies with baseball bats.’ He took a deep breath and gave them each an earnest look. ‘I’ve no right to ask this, but is there any chance you guys could give me some leeway — say half an hour?’ He held up a hand. ‘Don’t worry — I’m not planning on making a run for it or doing anything stupid. I haven’t got the money or stamina to run, and I’m too much of a coward to kill myself.’

‘So what do you want it for?’ Harry asked.

‘I’ve got a letter to write. My parents. . they deserve an explanation.’ He gave a tired smile. ‘It’s not the sort of thing they should first read about in the morning papers, is it? Their favourite son ruining the family name.’

Harry considered it for a moment, then nodded in agreement. It wasn’t as if they could arrest Param; if he wanted to walk out of here right now, he could do so and there was nothing they could do to stop him. He stood up and signalled Rik to follow.

‘Thirty minutes,’ he reminded Param. ‘Then we have to call it in.’

They found a teashop just round the corner, with tired lace curtains at the window and a smell of cinnamon in the air. It would do while they gave Param his requested leeway. The owner was an elderly, demure lady with powder-blue hair and thick spectacles, who fussed around them as if they were visiting royalty rather than two late customers wasting time. Harry opted for coffee and a slice of walnut cake over a newspaper crossword, while Rik took tea and a toasted bun.

‘I like to stay open late because it’s better than watching the rubbish they call television,’ the owner explained, rearranging the tablecloth and plates until they were just right. ‘It’s all bad news, crude men and tarts with tits for brains these days, isn’t it?’ She bustled away to get their order, leaving the two men staring at each other in amusement.

Harry tried the taxi firm again. The driver had called in sick but hoped to be in the following day. The dispatcher refused to give the man’s address and primly quoted the Data Protection Act. Harry left his number and disconnected. Tomorrow would have to do.

Next he called Jennings. In the absence of Silverman, the lawyer might react well to some good news on another front.

‘It’s Tate,’ said Harry. ‘We’ve located Param.’

‘Who?’

‘Param. Raymond Param — the investor who did a bunk?’

‘Christ, how?’ Jennings sounded puzzled. ‘I mean, how did you have time to-?’

‘Skill, mostly.’ Harry wondered what was eating the man. Maybe he’d lost his Lottery ticket. ‘And a bit of luck. What do you want us to do about him?’

‘Do? I don’t want you do anything!’ Jennings snapped. ‘I want you to find Silverman. He’s the priority, remember? Everything else can wait.’

‘Yes, you said.’ Harry resisted the urge to snap back at Jennings. He was counting on future work, and in spite of his dislike of the lawyer, he didn’t want to be responsible for jeopardizing it. He explained patiently, ‘While we were waiting for confirmation of a lead on Silverman, we got lucky with Param. It was too good a lead to miss. We’ll leave him if you want, but I wouldn’t bet on him hanging around. There’s also a problem with the money.’

But Jennings ignored this. ‘Wait one.’ The phone went silent. Moments later he was back. He sounded furious, his words coming down the line with more than his customary snap. ‘Do nothing, you hear? Nothing. Stay away from Param. I’ll be in touch.’ The phone went dead.

From somewhere in the distance, the wail of an emergency vehicle cut through the quiet. The old lady stuck her head out from the doorway to the kitchen to listen, before disappearing again.

Harry put his phone away and relayed the gist of the conversation to Rik, who had snagged the newspaper. It was open at a half-page photo showing a scene of destruction, with armed men in uniform and an armoured personnel carrier set against a background of smoking rubble and torn buildings. It was a rehash of a bombing in Baghdad ten days or so before, with renewed speculation about those responsible. A VIP had been killed, and he caught the word ‘cleric’ in the headline but little else before Rik folded the paper and tossed it to one side.

‘So we get to go home early. Did he say anything about payment?’

‘No.’ Harry stood up and left some money on the table. The call to Jennings had left him with an odd feeling of unease. There was something shadowy lurking at the edge of his brain, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. An inner warning, maybe — a feeling caused by the change in Jennings’ voice and the abrupt ending to the call. ‘Let’s go check on Param.’

They left the car where it was and walked back the way they had come. When they turned the corner of the street where Param was staying, they stopped dead.

The scene was a hive of activity. A number of police vehicles and an ambulance were gathered halfway down, their roof lights creating a ghostly display across the face of the surrounding buildings. A crowd of onlookers had formed along the pavements, and two constables were reeling out crime scene tape and forcing people back. Another officer was ordering motorists to turn around and find other routes to their destinations. It was clear that the house at the focus of all the activity was the one without a car in front.

After the tranquil scene earlier, it was a dramatic contrast. Harry swore softly. They had lost the initiative. Param had fooled them and taken the only way out.

‘What’s happening?’ Rik stopped a man walking down the street away from the police cordon. He was in slippers, a local resident who’d come out to investigate the commotion.

‘A mugging, they reckon,’ the man replied succinctly. ‘Bloke answered a knock and got knifed. Dropped him right on the doorstep. He hadn’t been living there long.’

‘How bad?’

The man shook his head and moved away. ‘Depends how bad you think dead is.’