Tracers

SEVENTEEN

Jennings was in a foul mood the following afternoon. He had instructed Harry to stand by until called, while he looked into the situation surrounding Param’s death. Harry took this to mean he would be quizzing his contacts in the Met for details not yet made public. Whatever he’d discovered didn’t seem to have pleased him; the skin around his eyes was puffy and dark, as if he hadn’t slept well, and he seemed to be reining himself in with difficulty as he glared across the bare expanse of his desk.

From the moment they had walked in, it was clear something had angered him, and the little Harry had said about Param or his violent death seemed to improve matters. Beyond a brief acknowledgment of Rik’s presence, Jennings had ignored the younger man, addressing all his comments directly at Harry.

‘What the hell were you doing there?’ Jennings demanded, as if they had been laying waste to the Home Counties with a flame thrower. ‘You were supposed to be finding Silverman!’

‘I told you,’ Harry reminded him heavily, ‘we found a lead to Param’s whereabouts and it paid off. At least we now know it’s not Param your clients should be looking for, but Yvonne Michaels.’

Jennings’ jaw flexed briefly before he seemed to backtrack slightly. He tapped his fingers on the edge of his desk. ‘Very well. It appears to have been a mugging, according to the police. What were the local residents saying?’

Harry wondered why that should matter. Local reaction around a crime scene usually follows a pattern: it spreads furiously, feeding on itself like a bush fire, is invariably wrong and heaped with lurid speculation and ill-informed gossip. He explained what the neighbour had said, which seemed to make Jennings relax a little.

‘I see. Did you notice anything?’

‘We didn’t stay long enough. It’s possible we were seen going in earlier, so we’ll have to wait and see. Either way, Param claimed the girlfriend has the money and he’d been screwed. Do you want us to find her?’

Jennings shook his head. ‘Forget it. It’s a non-starter.’ He leaned back and said authoritatively, ‘I suppose it’s possible she killed him; she might have gone back for something after you’d left and they had a falling out. Still, that’s for the client and the police to worry about. Your part’s done.’ He blinked as if making a mental adjustment, and asked, ‘What about Silverman?’

‘We tracked him coming through Heathrow,’ said Rik, shifting impatiently in his chair and making the spindly back creak in protest. ‘We’re waiting to find out where he went afterwards. He was met in the terminal by a young guy and they took a cab from there but we don’t know where to.’ He fixed Jennings with a stare, then asked, ‘Are you sure he’s a professor?’

Jennings allowed a few heartbeats go by before responding. ‘That’s what he was described as, and I see no reason why anyone should have lied. Have you any reason to think otherwise?’ His glanced flickered between the two of them.

Harry shot Rik a warning look and stood up. ‘Not really. He didn’t look much like a dusty professor, that’s all.’ He smiled tightly, wanting to be out of there where he could think clearly. ‘When we find out where he went, we’ll let you know.’

It was as they were walking back to the car that Harry realized Jennings hadn’t shown any interest in how they had fastened on to Silverman and tracked him through the airport. That could only mean that he knew about their visit to Transit Support Services to access the airport tapes.

The only question was, how?

Rik closed the car door. ‘You didn’t mention about the blank we got on Silverman in the university,’ he said. ‘Or that the professor’s friend knows tradecraft. Is there something you’re not telling me?’

‘Patience, Grasshopper,’ Harry replied vaguely, his mind still on Jennings. There were only two ways the lawyer could have known about them viewing the tapes. The first and obvious one was if Karen had told someone. They had never met her before, but he knew Sandra wouldn’t have suggested it if she hadn’t trusted the woman — she had too much to lose. ‘Two murders, both people traced by us, yet all he’s fixated on is Silverman, as if he’s the answer to the Holy Grail.’ He pushed back the passenger seat and stretched his legs. ‘This is no more about a runaway professor than my Aunt Fanny.’

Rik was nodding. ‘He was more pissed that we’d gone after Param than at the fact that the poor bugger got knifed. You want me to go back in and poke something sharp up his nose? I’d enjoy that.’

‘Tempting, but not yet. Best make sure we get paid first.’ He was considering the second way Jennings could have known what they were up to. At the same time, he was trying hard not to connect dots which might have no relationship to each other. Paranoia was a deadly result of this game — of any game where secrets were a major part of the background, a currency, almost. He’d got used to it in MI5, managing to compartmentalize each part of the job so that he didn’t indulge in pointless speculation. Others he’d known had not fared so well, ending up with careers and marriages in ruins, fearful of their own shadows. But a pattern was beginning to form around everything they were doing which he didn’t like the feel of, and all his antennae were now quivering. First Matuq, then Param. . and the growing feeling that Jennings wasn’t as put out by the deaths as he should have been. And if he wasn’t put out, it meant he wasn’t surprised. That only led to one conclusion.

He was having them followed.

Harry’s phone buzzed. It was the dispatcher from the cab firm.

‘The driver’s here,’ said the man without preamble. ‘His name is Nasir. But don’t hold him up — it’s mental here and I’ve got drivers off sick. I need him on the road.’ There was a rumble of conversation at the other end and another man’s voice came on.

‘I help you?’ he said warily. His voice was heavily accented, but with an overlay of London vowels on certain words. ‘Is no problems, right?’

‘No. No problems,’ Harry assured him. He turned on the mobile’s loudspeaker. ‘We’re trying to trace a man who has gone missing, Mr Nasir. You picked up two men from Heathrow’s Terminal Two on the twenty-seventh, at around two thirty. It was a pre-booked collection. Do you remember that?’

There was a short silence, then, ‘Two men? Yes, I remember.’ In the background, someone shouted and a door slammed. ‘Was a booking. I pick up two passengers.’

‘Good. Where did you take them?’

‘I collect from terminal as arranged, on time. But passenger was impatient. First he say go to Slough. Not a problem for me. But then later he change his mind and say Southall, then he say Hillingdon. Also not a problem. I am flexible.’

‘Where in Hillingdon? It’s important.’

‘Sure. You know ski centre? I drop them off in car park and they get into a Suzuki four-wheel drive. Nice car. Very strong. I am thinking of buying one for my son when he graduates.’

Harry knew the place. Hillingdon Ski Centre was a short hop from the Western Avenue, the main route into the city from the M40. ‘OK, that’s good, Mr Nasir. Did you see the driver of the Suzuki?’

‘No. I did not notice. Sorry.’

‘What was the colour of the car?’

‘Yellow. Like canary. You want the registration?’

Harry wondered for a second if Mr Nasir was being sarcastic. Then he realized the cab driver was serious.

‘You’ve got it?’ He grabbed a scrap of paper and a pen.

‘Sure. I have a memory for all numbers like this,’ Nasir explained proudly, and carefully recited the number. ‘My son also — he is going to be a systems analyst.’

‘What name did they use for the pick-up? I forgot to ask the dispatcher.’

‘Ah, of course. Moment, please.’ There was a clunk as Nasir put down the phone and spoke to someone in the background. Then he came back. ‘OK. I have it. The pick-up was in the name of a Mr Barrett. The younger man, I think. But that not his real name.’ Nasir gave a knowing chuckle. ‘No, sir.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because Barrett is very English name, no? But the man who spoke to me. . the young man, he is not English.’

‘What language did he speak?’

‘At first, always English. But after, until I drop them off, he does not speak at all.’

‘What about the other man?’

‘Not him either. No words. They sit like strangers, yet they are together like brothers. Even when I speak to them, to engage in small chit-chat, you know, they do not answer except with noises. But, as they walk away, I hear them speak. First the older man, I hear him ask the other where they are going and how much longer it will be as he is tired after his journey. The younger man tells him — seriously but most respectfully — that he must not speak and soon all will become clear.’

Harry experienced the sinking of disappointment. He’d been hoping for something more definite. Then something occurred to him. ‘Was this in English?’

Mr Nasir sounded surprised. ‘No, sir. Not speaking English now. They are speaking my language. Very normal for them, I can tell.’

‘I don’t follow. Your language?’

‘Yes, sir. These two men come from my country, my province. From Karbala, south of Baghdad.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, sir. Men are native-born Iraqis.’