Casanova (5 page)

4

SUNDAY, 09:10—09:15

STEPHEN BRADSHAW

Stephen Bradshaw, Military Intelligence (seconded), Head of Special Operations [ST Division] lit a cigarette with his Dunhill lighter and hunched over in his coat.

He dragged hard on the filter tip and then studied the gold lighter in his hand. It was old now with that worn cared for appearance like a vintage car. His wife had bought it for him as a birthday gift in the first few years of their marriage. He turned the lighter over and looked at the inscription. He couldn’t read it without his glasses. It didn’t matter because he knew what it said:
All my love, Susan x.
He put the lighter away in his outside jacket pocket and dragged once more on the cigarette.

Seeing him again was unexpectedly pleasant. In his position, Stephen Bradshaw met many men from the Special Forces. Few if any were good company. This one, however, was different. Despite Tenerife, Bradshaw couldn’t stop himself from liking the man. What did Churchill say?
I like a man who grins when he fights.
Bradshaw knew what Churchill meant. Susan wouldn’t understand. His wife rarely understood him and even less so in recent years. It would be easy to blame his work but he knew there was more to it than that. Susan had fallen out of love with her husband. Unfortunately, for Stephen Bradshaw he remained very much in love with his wife. He took another drag. The cigarette tasted old like stale bread. He threw it down and it rolled away across the pavement and dropped into the gutter. A stream of easy smoke gave away its position.

Bradshaw walked on, head down and shoulders hunched. The pavement was icy so he stepped carefully. He didn’t want to slip and fall. The conversation replayed in his head. It had gone as expected. He had prepared in case greater persuasion was needed. The task was simpler without it. For a second, a shard of doubt stabbed but then resolve toughened like a suit of
armour
. He held the feeling inside and it twisted like a dying man swinging on the gallows. Reservations were for the weak, he thought.

Bradshaw stopped walking. The taste in his mouth had improved. His stained fingers found the cigarette packet and the lighter. Between his lips, the filter had a calming effect. For a moment, he caressed his wife’s gift. His thumb rubbed gently while his thoughts wandered. The noise of a passing car returned him from his reverie. He flicked open the top and spun the ratchet. The gift ignited. He cupped the flame and pulled deeply. Again, he looked at the inscription and again, he remembered the words:
All my love, Susan x.
The lighter dropped comfortably back inside his jacket pocket. He dragged hard before exhaling slowly. He remembered the conversation again. The stale taste returned to his mouth. A further drag resulted in a grimace. Bradshaw threw down the lit cigarette, hunched over and continued on his way.

5

SUNDAY, 09:15—15:30

A few minutes after leaving Stephen Bradshaw in the street, I was back inside my apartment. I went to my laptop and switched it on. The screen lit up and I typed in my password. I pushed in the memory stick and waited for it to register; then I typed in the access code,
marzipan555
.

From the bedroom, I heard Charlotte’s voice call out, ‘Where’s my coffee and croissant?’

I ignored her and opened the first file. The laptop screen filled with a colour photograph taken outside an office building on Fleet Street. It showed a man exiting the building. I stared at the picture and staring back at me was the face of William Chester.

I thought of everything I could to give it a positive angle, but no matter how hard I tried, in the end, I had to concede that it wasn’t good.

I took Charlotte her breakfast of coffee and croissant, after which she soon left. I couldn’t concentrate on her; all I could think about was William Chester and the ST [
ST: sanctioned termination
]. I wanted to know why but I knew Bradshaw wouldn’t tell me. I wondered what Bradshaw knew or, whether indeed, he knew anything.

I returned to my laptop and read every file on the memory stick, and then I considered. I considered so hard my brain hurt. I didn’t know what to do. Finally, I decided to do nothing. I would wait. After all, I didn’t know where he was. William Chester was currently missing, so I couldn’t terminate him even if I wanted to. I would see what happened and then decide.

After taking a hot shower and with a half-f mug of coffee gripped firmly I decided to call Detective Superintendent Hannah Foley for an update on the murder enquiry.

I dialled her mobile number from the card she’d given me and she answered formally. I told her who I was and her voice lifted.

‘One five minute update coming up,’ she said.

This was good; this was going to help. I didn’t care what she told me as long as she didn’t tell me one thing, and that one thing was...

‘...and his name is William Chester,’ she said.

I managed to keep silent.

‘We’ve matched his DNA to a glass found in the flat and we have a positive ID from a neighbour that he was there on the day she was killed. We got lucky, his DNA was on the database following a traffic incident for which he was never prosecuted.’

I knew what was coming next.

‘And now he’s disappeared. His wife doesn’t know where he is, nor do his work colleagues; he’s some big city banker and they haven’t a clue where he is. He’s our man, I’m sure of it.’

‘It sounds like you’ve made good progress, I’m impressed.’

I wasn’t of course.

‘But just a friendly word of caution, make sure you check and double check everything; just because this man was at the flat and had a drink there doesn’t automatically make him the killer. He may have had opportunity but you’re also going to need a motive.’

‘Yeah sure, but he’s done a runner. That’s like an admission of guilt to me.’

‘Yes, maybe disappearing doesn’t look good but remember, don’t jump to conclusions, do the police work and do it right.’

She breathed out and said, ‘Yeah, no yeah, you’re right, of course. I’ll make sure we do it right. Thanks, thanks for your advice, I appreciate it.’

‘Did you find out anything more about the victim?’

‘No. I called in a favour at the Met but they’ve come back with nothing. It seems she’s a real mystery. Nevertheless, we’re going to keep on it. Something will turn up.’ She paused and then said, ‘Oh, I just thought, you didn’t leave me your number. If you let me have it I can call you with future developments.’

I didn’t really want her to have my number but it would seem odd if I didn’t give it to her. She jotted it down as I read it out.

‘Okay, thanks again, I’ll call you when I know more.’

‘Thanks.’

I drank my coffee and decided to call Meriwether. I would tell him what I’d just learnt about the police investigation and see what I got in return.

‘I’ve just spoken to young Miss Marple.’

I decided to tell him straight, well this bit of it anyway.

‘It’s bad news. She’s onto Casanova already, his DNA was on the database and she knows he’s disappeared.’

‘Bugger,’ Meriwether said. ‘That’s bad luck for us. If she goes public then the hounds will scent blood. We mustn’t have that. You’ll have to call her back.’

‘...and say what?’

Meriwether thought for a moment and then said, ‘Tell her you can find him for her. Suggest he’s left the country and that you’ll use the Interpol resources, Interpol’s own internet database, to track him down. Ask her to give you forty-eight hours before she goes public. Explain to her by doing it your way means there’s more chance of finding him because once he knows the police are onto him he’s likely to hide even deeper. If she goes for it, it’ll give us forty-eight hours to find him and sort things out.’

As I listened to Meriwether, I realised something.

‘You already know where he is, don’t you?’

Meriwether guffawed loudly and then replied, ‘Alice Chester and her two daughters left today to spend Christmas at a ski resort in Switzerland.’

‘You think he’s in Switzerland?’

‘What else is Switzerland famous for other than cuckoo clocks and overpriced wristwatches?’

‘Banks,’ I said.

I called young Miss Marple straight back. I rehearsed it in my mind before I dialled. It was important to get it right. If we didn’t get the time we needed then, in Meriwether’s words, we were buggered. I hoped he was only speaking figuratively.

Detective Superintendent Hannah Foley answered with the same formality as before. Again, I told her who was calling and again her voice lifted. It was a good start.

‘Did you forget something?’

‘I’ve been thinking.’

‘Oh, yes, what about?’

‘Maybe I can help you.’

‘Help me, how?’

‘If your suspect has done a runner, then there’s every chance he’s gone abroad, especially as money isn’t a problem for him.’

She came straight back with, ‘We’ve checked with the airlines but there’s no record of him leaving the country.’

I left a pause for a second or two before I said, ‘He probably chartered a private jet; that way he wouldn’t show up on any airlines’ passenger list; he’d only have to register with the jet company.’

There was another pause but this time from the other end.

‘Maybe, yes, it’s possible I suppose. I could check with the private jet companies.’

‘Yes, you could try that. He could be anywhere in the world by now.’

‘So how can you help?’

‘I could ask the research department at our headquarters in Lyon to interrogate our internet database for worldwide movement.’ I’d remembered the Interpol headquarters were in Lyon, in France from my VX briefing. ‘Your suspect would have had to have his passport registered in whichever country he landed. The authorities will have it recorded on an entry list somewhere. If that country recognises Interpol, and there are a hundred and eighty-eight members, then we can find it, and then we’ll know to which country he’s gone. From there standard investigative police work should be enough to locate him.’

I’d given my sales pitch and I waited. Young Miss Marple was thinking. The seconds dragged while she deliberated. At last, she said, ‘Yes, okay, let’s do it. How long will it take?’

Here was the rub. This was the hard part.

‘That all depends.’ I said. ‘The computer at Lyon will have to search through dozens of countries and thousands of entry lists. Once the parameters have been set on our computer and the online search has begun it could take several days, it just depends.’

‘I see; but it could be much quicker.’

‘Yes, it could be.’

There was a pause. I said, ‘In the meantime we don’t want to spook the suspect.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if we’re going to do the search and then look for him in which ever country he’s run to, then we don’t want him moving again. We need him to stay where he is.’

There was silence again while Hannah Foley thought. This was where I kept my fingers crossed.

Finally, she said, ‘We had planned on releasing his details to the press in an attempt to locate him that way.’

I interrupted and said, ‘That’s a good idea if he’s still in the country but if he’s fled and he hears the police are on to him then he’s likely to hide even deeper. It could take years to find him and just as long again to extradite him, depending on which country he ends up in.’

Again, there was more thinking and then she said, ‘Okay, we’ll delay our press release while you carry out your search.’

I almost smiled, but I maintained my seriousness and suggested, ‘Can you give us thirty-six hours?’

I heard her breathe in deeply before she replied, ‘Yes, okay, I’ll hold off for thirty-six hours.’

I allowed myself to smile.

D.S. Hannah Foley then ran through all the details she thought I would need to undertake the internet database search. I played along and wrote them down to ensure credibility. Once we had both agreed that I had all the necessary information, she prepared to end the call.

‘Will you keep me regularly up-to-date with your progress?’

‘Yes, of course. As soon as I hear from Lyon I’ll call you.’

‘Call me anytime, day or night.’

‘Okay, don’t worry I’ll call you; and if you find him in the meantime be sure to let me know.’

Her voice lightened and she said, ‘That would be nice, but I’ve got a feeling I’m going to have to wait for you.’

Immediately after the call was finished with D.S. Foley I called Meriwether.

‘We’ve got thirty-six hours.’

‘Thirty-six,’ he repeated. ‘Well done my boy. That should be plenty.’

Plenty for what I wondered. Why did I always have the feeling Meriwether knew more than I did and had a plan, of which I didn’t know the details? Before I could ask him to explain, he was talking again.

‘You better call in on me on your way.’

‘Call in on you on my way?’

‘Yes, as we’re a bit tight on time. I’ll brief you when you get here. Come straight away, your flight leaves in less than three hours.’

I threw some travel essentials into my holdall bag, the one that had the good shoulder strap, put my
pay as you go
phone, passport, driving licence and wallet containing my Interpol ID in my jacket pocket, the one with the thick lining, and left my apartment.

I took a cab to St. James’s Square.

Inside the club, Meriwether was waiting for me in the small study type room with the paintings on the wall and the worn leather chairs.

‘Ah good you’re here,’ he said, standing up and leaving behind an indentation in the leather cushion. Sitting beside him was a young man. He also stood and ran his hand through his foppish fair hair and smoothed the creases from the front of his jacket.