A Sentimental Traitor (26 page)

Harry had called saying he was stuck on a bench with a bottle. Jemma found him in sunshine by the Serpentine, with nothing more than a bottle of water.

‘You bastard,’ she scolded, but smiled.

‘I wondered what would get you here quicker, telling you that I cared, or that I was drunk.’

‘What are you doing here, Harry?’

‘Measuring the bench up for size. For when I sleep on it.’

She might have told him not to be so ridiculous, that things would be fine, something would turn up, but she knew it would be nothing more than bromide, and Harry would know it, too.

‘This is also my office,’ he declared, moving up. ‘Please, come in.’ He patted the wooden slats beside him.

‘I can’t stay long,’ she said, taking the seat. ‘I’ve got an evening function.’

‘Is that what they call it nowadays?’ he asked, his voice mean. Hurt.

‘What do you want, Harry?’

‘I’m celebrating. This morning I got a call from a TV producer asking me if I’d consider starring in a television series.’

‘Sounds fascinating.’

‘He said I would be perfect, it could rehabilitate my reputation, but I declined.’

‘Why?’

He smiled, a tight, bitter expression. ‘It was for
Big Brother
.’

She wanted to cry out. Hadn’t he been humiliated enough?

‘And I’ve found Sloppy,’ he added.

‘And?’ she said, brightening.

He gave her an outline, but as she listened she started stubbornly shaking her head.

‘No investor hands over a quarter of a million pounds, watches it being poured into an abyss, then quietly disappears into the night.’

‘The man wasn’t Mr Anderson, and neither was he an investor. He set Sloppy up.’

‘Harry, I don’t—’

‘Don’t you sense a pattern, a rotten smell? Just like you can smell a muck spreader even with the windows closed.’ He held her hand, squeezed it between both of his. ‘Mr
Anderson was a set-up. Emily was a set-up. You were beaten up, too, Jem.’

‘But what’s the connection?’

‘Me,’ he said softly.

‘Why, Harry?’

‘Not sure. My past, I suppose, catching up with me. I’ve made a good number of enemies in my time, Jem . . .’ Destroyed men. Killed more than a few. She didn’t need the
details, not now. ‘Someone is targeting me. Trying to obliterate me.’

‘And doing a damned good job of it, too.’

‘But that’s the point, they’re doing almost too good a job. This isn’t casual or amateur. Someone very powerful is behind all this. Which got me thinking –
what’s the first thing you do to worm your way inside someone’s life?’

‘If you’re a journalist, or a private detective, say?’

He nodded. She twitched her nose in concentration.

‘I’d . . .’ She blinked. ‘Hack your phone.’

He reached into his pocket and extracted his own. ‘These things can tell you almost everything you want to know about its owner, if you’re clever enough to get inside them. Know
Sloppy handled my money. Know about you. Know everything that was necessary to skin me alive.’

She looked uncomfortable. ‘Can you tell, for sure?’

‘No, but I know a man who can. Old friend. Think it’s about time I had a drink with him. Can I borrow your phone?’

She handed it across. He made a call, arranged to meet at a bar in an hour.

‘Thanks, Jem,’ he said, handing the phone back to her. ‘Should be fun. Think about it this way – the fight-back begins!’ A brief, taunting smile wriggled across his
face, the first she’d seen in a while. ‘Oh, but I’m sorry, you can’t stay, can you? Your “evening function”.’

Her nose wrinkled again, this time in disgust. ‘God, but you can be such a smug bastard, Jones.’ She sighed, shaking her head in defeat, already thumbing the text buttons on her
phone. ‘How do you spell “pathetic excuse”?’

Glen Crossing was a man whose waist had seen leaner days. Much leaner. He liked to lay the blame on his kids and the diet of crap they shared with him, but since leaving the
Army he had pursued a lifestyle that befitted a senior corporate executive, and both salary and belt size had increased substantially. Twenty years earlier he’d been the best squash player
and telecommunications wonk in the regiment. He was still the best telecommunications wonk.

As Harry walked into the hotel foyer, Crossing waved at his old friend from his post at the bar, rising to greet him, buttoning his jacket as he saw Jemma in tow and trying to hide the midriff.
Stuffy hotel bars weren’t the preferred habitat for either of them, but the early summer weather had taken hold and most of the usual drinking joints were packed and noisy, and Crossing had
assumed that whatever Harry wanted to see him about so bloody urgently was unlikely to be the sort of thing he’d want to have to shout across a crowded bar. ‘Harry, my old mucker, so
very good to see you. And . . .?’

Harry introduced Jemma.

‘Anew lady in your life,’ Crossing declared.

‘We’re just friends,’ Jemma said.

‘Then he’s a damned fool,’ Crossing replied.

‘Thank you,’ she smiled, accepting the compliment.

‘Let me buy you both a drink,’ he announced.

‘Er, no thanks, Glenny. I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.’

‘And why the bloody hell not?’

‘Wouldn’t be able to return the favour. I went down with Sloppy.’

‘Well, bugger my boots,’ Crossing sighed, his exuberance deflating rapidly. ‘Only one thing for it. I’ll have to buy the whole bottle.’ He busied himself ordering
drinks. ‘I’d heard whispers about Sloppy, of course, but I had no idea he’d taken you with him. Life’s rather left you hanging on the old barbed wire, hasn’t it, my
friend? Goes without saying, if there’s anything I can do . . .’

‘One thing.’

‘It’s yours.’

Harry produced his phone and laid it on the bar. ‘I think someone might have tampered with it, Glenny. Copied the information. Might even be listening to phone calls.’

‘How wonderful. You handed it over any time recently?’

‘Every time I’ve been to the gym, through a scanner, been laid out cold in a bar. You know how it is.’

‘It’s possible to set these things up as remote microphones, listen to conversations, even when the phone appears to be switched off. Israelis are brilliant at that. Trouble is, it
really buggers up the battery life.’ He put on a pair of heavy-framed reading glasses and began peering at it, his face puckered in concentration. ‘So you want to know whether
there’s mischief afoot.’

‘Can you do that? How long will it take?’

The eyes came up from examining the phone to give Harry the most withering of looks. ‘About ten seconds, if you stop prattling on.’ He produced a paper clip, bent it, and used it as
a tool to prise out the SIM card. ‘You know what your UICCID serial number is, Harry?’

‘My what?’

‘No, most people haven’t the foggiest. Nerd stuff. It’s like knowing the chassis number of your car. Who ever bothers with it? Unless you’re good, very good, like
me.’ He looked up through his glasses. ‘Yep. You’ve won yourself a major prize.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Someone’s had a go at this. Or should I say, more likely
is
having a go at this. The serial number on your card isn’t one of the regular ones your phone should
have.’

‘I still don’t understand,’ Jemma intervened, trying to peer over his shoulder at the small chip.

‘This card isn’t the original,’ he said, holding it for her inspection between his finger and thumb. ‘Looks identical, except for the dodgy serial number.’

‘Which means?’

‘Well, only reason for doing something like that is to nobble you. My guess is that your calls are on permanent divert to another number where they are almost certainly being intercepted.
All your SMS stuff, and data, too. Inbound and outbound. Pretty much everything. You wouldn’t notice, the increased delay in connection is barely a nanosecond. Standard practice in the City
nowadays, they have to do it by law.’ He fiddled some more, head bent, muttering technical stuff that was gibberish to Jemma, until he raised his eyes in triumph. ‘Yup. They’ve
definitely screwed around with your IMSI. This one belongs to one of the small specialist mobile operators.’

‘Can you find out who’s doing it?’ Harry asked.

‘Now that might take a little longer. About a minute or so.’ He produced a notebook from his bag and began clattering with the keys. ‘Just checking your account, Harry . . .
Gotcha! Your inbound calls are being routed to this number.’

‘Which is?’

Cross peered closely at his screen. ‘Registered to a company that I very strongly suspect is a dummy.’

‘I get the feeling that if we followed the trail it would take us somewhere exotic and untouchable like the Caymans,’ Harry said.

‘Which is about as useful as sticking your head in quicksand.’

‘Is there no way of tracking it down?’ Jemma said, struggling to keep the disappointment from her voice.

‘Oh, yes. If we involved the security services and they got a warrant. But otherwise . . .’ Crossing shook his head, and Jemma sighed. But Harry’s brow remained rapt in
concentration.

‘Then we will have to find out for ourselves,’ he said, very quietly, but with an edge that made her feel she was in the presence of something dangerous, as if she had walked into a
darkened room and found the eyes of an untamed animal peering at her.

‘How do you plan to do that, Harry?’

‘By rattling their cage a bit. In fact, by rattling it so hard their teeth fall out. Preferably through their bloody ears.’ Then he paused. ‘Trouble is, I suspect a few of my
own teeth are going to have to come out first.’

A cloud passed across Jemma’s face. She knew he wasn’t joking. She excused herself, headed for the ladies. The two men watched her retreat.

‘You want to make secure calls, Harry, get yourself another mobile. One of the cheap throwaway jobbies,’ Crossing said, his eyes still on Jemma.

‘Thanks, Glenny. I owe you.’

‘Be happy to take that young lady of yours in compensation.’

‘You know something,’ Harry sighed, ‘so would I.’ He sat inspecting his phone. Even while he was staring at it, the thing began to vibrate. A blocked number. He tapped
the screen to answer it.

‘This is Detective Sergeant Arkwright, Mr Jones.’

Harry froze, had difficulty locating his wits. ‘What can I do for you, Sergeant Arkwright?’

‘
Detective
Sergeant Arkwright,’ the policeman corrected him. ‘Your case file, it’s been sent to the Crown Prosecution Service for review.’

Harry felt as though a hundred horses were stampeding across his stomach.

‘As a result of that review, we have decided not to take your case any further, Mr Jones. We’re closing the investigation.’

‘Could you say that again? Very slowly?’

‘It’s closed down.’

At last Harry found himself able to take a deep breath.

‘But why? Tell me why?’

‘The witness, Miss Keane, has withdrawn her allegations. So, until such time as any further evidence might come to light—’

‘It won’t. I’m innocent!’

‘—we will not be taking the matter any further.’

‘What you mean is that I needn’t have lost my seat.’

‘I will be informing Mr van Buren of this, too.’

‘And will you be prosecuting Emily Keane for making false charges and wasting police time?’

The detective hesitated before replying, his voice a little less officious. ‘Take my advice, Mr Jones, forget all this. Put it behind you. Get on with your life.’

‘And how, Detective Sergeant Arkwright, do you expect me to do that?’ Harry spat.

There was a brief silence, then the phone went dead.

Harry sat staring at the phone, for how long he couldn’t afterwards tell. He was still sore from the thundering hooves. Yet, as indescribable as was his relief, the anger within him was
unfathomable.

Forget? Forget Emily Keane? He’d play roulette with the Devil before he’d do that.