Tracers

FIFTY-ONE

Jennings’ office was locked and silent. The street lights gave no indication of what lay inside, and the passing lights from cars and vans threw too many confusing shadows to allow more than a glimpse of vague furniture shapes through the windows.

‘Are we going in?’ said Rik, face pressed to the glass. ‘Ballatyne’s mob will have been through here already, won’t they?’

‘I know. But did they find anything?’

‘Good point.’ Rik turned away from the door and surveyed the street. He walked along to a builder’s skip thirty yards away and rooted around in its depths. He came back with a short strip of metal pipe and stamped on one end until it was flattened into the rough approximation of a burglar’s jemmy. When he was satisfied, he said, ‘You give me the nod, I’ll get us in.’

Harry shook his head ruefully. Rik was full of surprises. He let it go. It was either this or a brick, or spend too long trying to get through a rear window. Neither prospect appealed to him, and he was not that expert at picking locks. He waited instead for something heavy to come along. Eventually, a delivery truck rattled down the street, its diesel engine echoing loudly off the buildings. As soon as it was level with their position, he gave Rik the nod.

Rik grunted and heaved and the front door flew open, the crack of the ruptured frame lost in the blast of the truck’s engine.

Harry led the way inside the familiar office suite and switched on the lights. The rooms had been cleared, leaving the basic furniture. The military prints were still in place, and he guessed that the suite had been rented as seen. They set about checking each of the rooms by turn, knowing that even if Ballatyne’s people had swept the place, they might still have missed something.

The secretary’s office was bare, save for a small vase of wilting flowers in brown, scummy water. The desk drawers were empty and smelled unused. She had probably been a temp hired by the day. A tiny washroom at the rear held a soap dispenser, a kettle and some tea and coffee makings. No coats, no umbrellas, nothing that might contain a connection to Jennings’ whereabouts.

They went through Jennings’ desk, taking out the drawers and checking each one. Rik ducked underneath and felt round in the space where the drawers had been, checking the runners with his fingers.

When he backed out, he was clutching two bits of paper. One was a faded bus ticket, years old, which he discarded. The other was a National Car Parks ticket with an adhesive back. It was four days old. He showed it to Harry. It was printed with a time, date, location code, the fee paid and a number for enquiries.

‘I can check this later online,’ he said, ‘or try it now on the phone.’

Harry shrugged. ‘Go for it.’

Rik picked up the phone on the desk, listened for a dialling tone and dialled the number on the ticket.

‘Hi,’ he said cheerfully, when it was answered. ‘Look, my idiot brother went on a bender the other day and used my car. Trouble is, he left it in one of your car parks and can’t remember which one.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir,’ said the woman on the other end. ‘I’m not sure how we can help, though.’

‘Easy,’ he said confidently. ‘I’ve got the ticket and there’s a location code on it. He must have kept the ticket instead of leaving it in the car.’ He gave her the code and added, ‘When I get my car back, I’m going to charge him for the excess.’

The woman tapped keys and came back a few seconds later with the answer. He thanked her and looked at Harry. ‘Ruislip.’

It was a slim lead, but the only one they’d got. Harry picked up the phone and dialled Ballatyne’s number. The intelligence officer wasn’t there, but one of his colleagues offered to help.

‘I need Jennings’ car registration and model,’ he told the man. ‘And home address if you’ve got it.’

‘I’ll have to check this out with Mr Ballatyne, sir,’ the man said. ‘I’ll get back to you directly. Are you on a landline?’

Harry gave him the number and put down the phone. He had a feeling it wouldn’t take long. He was right. Ballatyne called back within three minutes.

‘What do you have?’ he asked.

‘Not much. A parking ticket from Ruislip. It means he’s got a vehicle. If we can trace that, we might find out where he is.’

‘Ruislip?’ Ballatyne sounded intrigued. ‘He rented a flat in Twickenham, but we’ve already checked that out and he’s gone. It’s being renovated, so there’s nothing to see. The landlord doesn’t have a forwarding address.’

‘Ruislip could be a bolt-hole he kept in reserve, then.’

‘Maybe. But if he’s got a car, we don’t know what it is. Nothing showed up on any of our trawls. He might have leased it through a blind company account somewhere.’

It was like the cottage in Norfolk, the Battersea flat and the place at South Acres: dead ends and blind alleys. Having the locations of the killings and anywhere he’d lived stripped bare and redecorated was a neat way of hiding all traces. He wondered aloud if that might provide a trail for Ballatyne’s investigators. Somebody must have paid for the work.

‘Probably a cash job, but worth checking,’ Ballatyne agreed. ‘I’ll get on to it.’

Harry rang off and said to Rik, ‘Looks like we’ll have to do it the hard way.’ He led the way out of the office.

There were few vehicles left in the public car park at Ruislip by the time they arrived. Since they didn’t know the make, model or colour of the car, they were, literally, operating in the dark.

A portacabin to one side of the entrance showed a light still glowing from inside, and Rik tapped on the door. It was opened by a large man in a yellow fluorescent jacket and dark uniform trousers. He was carrying a bag and looked as if he was about to shut up shop.

‘Hello, gents. Lost your keys?’

Rik handed him the ticket from Jennings’ office. ‘We’re looking for the car that forgot to display that,’ he said. ‘It might still be here.’

The man dropped his bag on a table behind him and studied the ticket. ‘This doesn’t tell me much. Hang on, though.’ He stepped back to check a ledger on the desk and leafed through until he found a note. ‘This is a guess, but there’s a car down the far end that’s been there a few days. They don’t usually stay that long unless by arrangement, and we’ve been meaning to get it moved. My colleague made a note because there was no ticket displayed. He’ll get towed if he doesn’t turn up soon. Are you the police?’

Harry flashed his ID. ‘We’re looking for a government official who failed to show up for work. We’re concerned about him and we’d like to take a look at the car.’

The man looked doubtful, but shrugged. ‘OK. Follow me. There’s no body in it, though, I can tell you that. We’d smell it, otherwise.’ He grinned at this attempt at dark humour and led the way across the car park to a dark-green Subaru parked against a fence. There was no tax disc in evidence.

Rik tried the doors. As was expected, they were locked. The boot wasn’t, and Harry asked the attendant if he could borrow a torch. He could have used his own, but he wanted the attendant out of the way for a few minutes.

‘What for?’ The man shifted from foot to foot. ‘I can’t let you go rummaging around in there — it’s still private property. You should shut the boot.’

Harry handed him his mobile and said, ‘Ring the last number dialled. Our boss’s name is Ballatyne. He’ll vouch for us and he’ll ring your supervisor if you ask him to. This is a matter of national security. We’re not here to nick the car.’

The man looked down at the phone, hesitated, then handed it back. ‘No need.’ He delved in his jacket pocket and came up with a large rubber torch, which he switched on. ‘I’ve only got my dog to go home to, and she sleeps most of the time. I could do with a bit of excitement.’

While he held the torch, they checked the boot. It held a faded blanket, a pair of walking boots and some old newspapers, but nothing of interest. Harry stepped round to the front of the Subaru and looked at the attendant. ‘If this is against your principles, you should look away now.’

The man smiled, a gold tooth gleaming. ‘Wait one second.’ He walked across to his portacabin and returned with a length of wire, which had been fashioned with a hook on one end. ‘This usually works handsome,’ he told them. ‘You’d be surprised how many owners leave their keys at the office. Don’t know how they do business, some of them.’

Seconds later, he stepped back from the car and clicked the door open with a flourish.

They searched the inside in detail, unearthing just a single piece of paper — a garage receipt from the car’s customer service folder, where it had been wedged behind the User Manual. The work had been for a damaged exhaust, and the customer address was in Harefield, Middlesex. The customer’s name was Parsons.

The date was a month old.

‘This has been sanitized and dumped,’ Rik said quietly, while the attendant was out of earshot on the other side of the car. ‘You ever had a car this clean?’

Harry shook his head. It was clear the vehicle wasn’t going anywhere. Whoever had owned it before had finished with it, and he was willing to bet that if it really was registered to someone named Parsons, it would turn out to be a cover name.

‘Harefield’s not far from here,’ the attendant offered helpfully, and insisted on giving them directions. ‘Shouldn’t take you long this time of night. I hope he’s OK, your bloke.’

Harry slipped him a note and thanked him for his help, and told him they would arrange collection of the car.

‘No problem.’ The man was happy, his evening made by the small interlude of intrigue. ‘I’ll secure it and leave a note for my mate. If you want to. . you know, look into another vehicle any time, and need someone to hold the torch, drop by.’