Eduardo da Costa was in the arms procurement office of the Brazilian defence ministry. He was forty-three, a former soldier who reached the rank of colonel before taking his current position two years ago. His military career had been dogged by allegations of brutality.
Ibn al Siddiq was a minor member of the extensive Saudi royal family; he owned oil wells and racehorses. He’d had a distinguished career in the Saudi air force. The black mark against his name concerned the ill-treatment by one of the Siddiq wives of an African maid who travelled to London with the family. To avoid a diplomatic incident Siddiq paid the girl off and sent his wife home. Prince Ibn was in his early thirties and lived with his wives and children in a small palace outside Dhahran.
‘As well as being able to deal with the consequences,’ Colwyn continued, ‘these five have some
history of violence; except for the Saudi, who was covering up for his wife. I wasn’t sure whether to include him or not.’
Hilton was running a jaundiced eye down his sheet. ‘Are these names in any particular order?’
‘Ye-es,’ said Colwyn slowly. ‘Likeliest first; but don’t put too much weight on that. Is a man who may have tried to rape a girl, but just might have misunderstood the signals he was getting, more or less likely to have murdered a prostitute than someone with a reputation as a thug in his country’s military? I don’t know. Anyway, favourites don’t win every race. These five men are more fanciable than the other forty-three at the conference, but it’s still possible the killer is a rank outsider.’
‘We have to start somewhere,’ said Liz supportively. ‘It looks to me our best bet is to find these five and try to rule out four of them.’
Colwyn gave an eloquent shrug. ‘Ideally, yes; in practice, I doubt if we can. Only two are still in the hotel; the others have already left the country and gone back to places where we can’t count on the cooperation of the local police. The man who killed that girl believes he’ll be safe once he’s home: he was probably airborne before the body was even found.’
‘You’re saying the job’s impossible,’ Liz said baldly. She’d toyed with the notion herself, but she still didn’t like the taste of it in her mouth.
‘Not impossible, no. We may be able to identify the killer. But unless he returns to this country at some juncture, that’s probably all we can do.’
‘But if we can’t arrest the principal, how do we stop the mechanic who’s cleaning up after him?’
DI Colwyn had a round, open face on which deception sat uneasily. ‘I’m not sure we can. I think the mechanic’ll do what he’s been paid to do.’
‘Kill Philip Kendall. And possibly Maddie Cotterick.’
Hilton took a deep breath. ‘All right, so it’s going to be uphill work. But we can’t just decide it’s too difficult and not bother. Maybe the man who hired him can recall the assassin if it’s in his interests to do so. We have to give him an incentive. Nobody’s fireproof: the back-home interests who were happy to protect him while his identity was a mystery might be reluctant to go on helping someone who’s been publicly named as a murder suspect.’
Liz elevated an eyebrow. ‘Can we do that? With a foreign national who may be here representing his government? Won’t the Foreign Office have something to say about it?’
‘The Foreign Office,’ said Hilton heavily, ‘can only comment on what they hear about. You gave me a lesson on keeping secrets earlier today, Inspector Graham. Now let’s see if the three of us can keep this one.’
For perhaps the first time, Liz saw clearly what Edwin Hilton brought to the job that was worth a detective superintendent’s salary. It wasn’t charm or an affable manner, it wasn’t the sort of intuition that had got her out of some tight corners or the deep perceptive understanding of the human condition that was the secret of Frank Shapiro’s success. It was
moral courage. Her respect for him rocketed. He just might cost the three of them their careers, but it was the right thing to do and she saluted him for it.
‘We still have to pin the tail on the donkey first,’ said Hilton. ‘One of these five men is probably a murderer. Finding out which one is still the name of the game.
‘Inspector Graham, get on to the hotel, have those five rooms emptied and sealed. Get SOCO back there. He’s looking for physical traces - fingerprints, a hair in the plughole, a tissue in the bin - that we can match to samples taken from Mrs Atwood’s room. That’ll tell us who we’re dealing with even if we can’t get at him. Meantime I’ll call in some favours at Scotland Yard. They may be able to bring some pressure to bear. Have you had any experience of them, Mrs Graham? - they’re a devious bunch of so-and-sos. They’ve a specialist in every imaginable discipline. I dare say they’ve got a whole desk devoted to Making Foreign Dignitaries Amenable.’
He turned again to DI Colwyn. ‘James, you stay on the computer. Find out where those five men are now - what flights they took, if they went straight home. If we get a name, and it turns out he felt safe enough just getting out of Britain, instead of going straight home he thought he’d do a bit of shopping in Paris or Berlin first, he may not be beyond our grasp yet.’
It was after ten and the roads were full of lorries: long distance, short haul, artics and rigids. For once Donovan was glad to see every one of them. Partly this was because, with a wheel at each corner himself, their immodest slipstream caused him no problems today; but mainly it was because, if Maddie Cotterick was right and still despite all their precautions someone had followed them, he’d have equipped himself with something more manoeuvrable than a 36-ton bulk carrier.
He felt safe ignoring anything that needed two minutes’ notice to turn, confined himself to registering the cars around him. There weren’t that many of them: most of the traffic was travelling the other way, heading for the coast. There was a white saloon ahead, a navy-blue hatchback a little way behind, a charcoal-grey Porsche bombing up the outside lane. He kept an eye on the Porsche until it passed, but it showed no interest in him, continued on its urgent, throaty, illegal way until it disappeared into the distance.
He found himself closing on the white saloon. He waited his moment, then accelerated past. He
thought that, if he was allowed to, he could quite get used to driving a Jaguar. He watched the saloon in his mirror but it didn’t speed up to keep pace with him. Soon enough it dropped out of sight.
Beside him Maddie had slumped in an inelegant collapse, arms folded tightly across her chest as if she was cold. A glance at her face showed her thoughts turned inwards, gnawing at her. While there had been things to do - setting up the meeting, vetting him, marking his card - she had been able to avoid dwelling too long on why she thought it was all necessary. Now they were on their way back she had nothing to do but think. From the tense little frown between her brows and the way she was chewing on the inside of her lip, her thoughts gave her no comfort.
Donovan was looking for something to say to cheer her up - and since he had never made cheering people his mission in life he had no ready stock of suitable remarks - when she broke the silence herself. He thought she was saying aloud what she’d been worrying about for some time.
‘What I said before, about you risking your neck to protect me. Was I kidding myself?’
Taken aback, Donovan barked a little laugh. Then he shook his head. ‘No. That’s the job, it’s what we do. But only when it comes to that, and thank Christ it doesn’t very often. Mostly what policing is about is just being there. For every fight we have to break up, we prevent an awful lot just by being around. But if you’re worried I’ll run out on you if
the going gets rough, forget it. I won’t let anything happen to you.’
‘That’s easy to say when you’re not facing a man with a gun!’
‘I’ve faced men with guns before,’ said Donovan, with a studied nonchalance that was more transparent than he probably supposed.
‘Really? Were you scared?’
He thought a second, opted for the truth. ‘Shitless. But I’ve never left anyone in the lurch yet, and I won’t start with you.’
‘Even if it means getting hurt?’
‘If it comes to a direct choice, then yes. But …’ He was about to add that it wouldn’t come to that, it almost never did, the point of a police escort was not to stop the first bullet but to ensure that the target stayed away from people with guns. But Maddie forestalled him by bursting into tears.
‘I know. I believe you. God damn it, I
know
you would - your Superintendent did it, damn near lost his life doing it, and for that little shit Kendall! That’s what makes it so awful. I don’t think I can bear it.’ Clenched so tight the knuckles had turned white, her fists were hammering on her knees almost hard enough to do some damage.
Donovan had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. There was nowhere safe for him to stop, and anyway it was wiser to keep moving. But he snatched repeated glances at her, bent crying over her punitive fists. The sight disturbed him, more than he would have guessed. Perhaps because
she wasn’t the sort of girl to cry over nothing. ‘Maddie, what is it?’
At first she only shook her head bitterly at him. But when the sobs abated and her hands lay exhausted in her lap she tried to explain. ‘Linda was my best friend, had been since we were six years old. We’d lived together, looked out for one another. And I took her there - it wasn’t her job, it was mine. But I let her die so I could escape.
‘I’m nothing to you, but you’d risk your life for me. I loved Linda, but I let a mad bastard beat up on her, and then take her out and kill her, and all I could think about was getting away myself. Even when I was safe I hadn’t the guts to call you people and tell you what had happened. Ironic, isn’t it? - I wouldn’t be in this mess if I had.’
Donovan could be a savage taskmaster, but his highest expectations were always of himself. It wasn’t condescension, he genuinely saw no irony in the fact that she needed more from him than she had been able to offer her friend. It wasn’t even that, as a man, he was stronger than her: it was what she said before, the money. For centuries Irish soldiers had toiled, suffered and died in the service of England’s army for no better reason than that they had taken the King’s Shilling. It was no criticism to say that their loyalty had been bought. They did the job they were paid to do or died in the attempt. In every sense, Cal Donovan was their heir. Another hireling.
Maddie Cotterick was a hireling too, but dying was no part of her contract. He didn’t blame her for being so scared at the prospect that the only thing
that mattered, the only thought her brain could encompass, was her own safety.
He didn’t know what to say to her. He still knew precious little of what had happened; perhaps his sympathy for her pain was misplaced. But the pain was real enough, and you don’t need to know what has made a child cry to want to hold it until it stops. He mumbled, ‘You don’t have to do this. Flay yourself like this. You didn’t kill her. Probably you couldn’t have saved her.’
‘But I’ll never know that, will I?’ she wailed. ‘Because I didn’t even try.’
Donovan was fighting two urges, one less familiar than the other. He had no brief to question her, but procedure wouldn’t have stopped him hearing her story if he thought she needed to tell it. He was used to ignoring procedure when it suited him.
He was less accustomed to feeling like this: as if he wanted to comfort her. Most of the people he dealt with were upset, but he didn’t often feel moved to do anything about it beyond taking their statements and trying to nail the culprit. Conventional wisdom did not see him as a sympathetic man; though people who knew him well enough knew that when his compassion was stirred he felt more deeply and reacted more strongly than many a more obviously sensitive soul.
But there was something about Maddie Cotterick that troubled him, and he wasn’t sure what it was or even which girl it was: the independent, unconventional straight-talker who made her living on her back because it pleased her to do so, or the girl in the
sprigged dress and white loafers, her strong regular features pleasing rather than pretty, the sort of girl you could have known for years before it finally struck you what good company she was. Or maybe trying to separate them like that was itself an artifice, a way of being comfortable with who she actually was. Because actually she was both.
‘Listen,’ he said at last, ‘if it’ll help, tell me what happened. It isn’t an interview, I won’t ask you any questions, but if you need to get it off your chest we’ve got an hour’s drive ahead of us, it’ll feel a long way with you bottled up like a pressure cooker. If you talk about it, maybe you’ll start to understand it better. Maybe you’d see there was nothing else you could have—’
His voice, low with an uncertain gentleness, stopped as if guillotined. He was looking in the mirror.
Shapiro had been sleeping. Partly it was the drugs, partly the trauma, but he found he was likely to drift off any time he wasn’t actually being prodded or poked or talked to reassuringly. He didn’t fight it. It passed the time, and in his current state there was little else he could do to fill it. Except worry, and when the medical staff thought he was worrying they came and talked reassuringly to him some more.
It wasn’t that he was ungrateful. But he’d got the message by now: they didn’t know any more than he did. Only time would tell to what extent he would
recover the use of his legs. That being so, passing time in the easiest way possible seemed sensible.
This time as he woke he was aware of someone beside his bed. He had the feeling whoever it was had been there for some time. He cranked round his gaze until he found the figure sitting in the utilitarian hospital chair, so familiar and so unexpected that for a moment it stole his breath away.
Angela had been watching him for half an hour, waiting for him to stir. She had seen his lax, heavy body, undignified in its awkward position, slowly firm and organize itself as his floating persona returned to animate it. Or at least, most of it. There was still no movement under the sheet that covered his legs; but there was something different from when she was here yesterday. Even the still bits looked as if they belonged to him now. When she first saw him, barely conscious, the bottom half of him had seemed dead; or not even that, more like a rough prosthesis. As if someone had stuffed a pair of pyjama trousers and bundled them under the sheet to approximate an appearance of normality.
‘Hello, you,’ she said softly.
For a moment he just breathed, taking her in. He hadn’t seen her for two years. He had her address in Bedford but he’d never seen her house. She looked a little older. She looked tired. He was so glad to see her the tears sprang to his eyes and he had to sniff them away in an unconvincing simulacrum of a yawn.
‘Have you been there long?’
‘Not long. I didn’t want to wake you - I thought the sleep would do you good.’
‘Did I make the news, then?’
‘You did, but I already knew. Mr Giles called me. I came straight over, but you were too groggy yesterday to notice. I stayed at your house last night. I hope you don’t mind.’
They’d shared everything for over twenty years: how could he mind her being in his house? ‘Do you like it?’ He’d had no use for a family home after his family scattered, had moved into the stone cottage five years ago.
‘It’s charming. It’s what you need.’
Shapiro snorted. ‘It’s what I used to need. Now I need a bungalow.’
But she knew him too well to tolerate his self-pity. ‘You could always get a stair-lift put in.’
He stared at her, fully intending to feel hurt. But her magical blend of affection and pragmatism was exactly what he needed. He found himself smiling. ‘I’m glad you’re here. I’ve missed you.’
Her own smile had a dimple in it. ‘I noticed. You never could see the point of vacuuming under things, could you?’
He considered that dirty pool. ‘I have a woman—’
One fair, perfectly arched eyebrow climbed.
‘I have a cleaner,’ he elaborated sternly. ‘She’ll be offended if she finds you inspecting under the furniture.’
‘That’s the idea,’ said Angela. ‘She’ll be offended; and then she’ll get out the extension hose.’
‘Can you stay?’ he said. ‘For a while.’
‘As long as you need me.’
Shapiro tried to make a joke of that too, but before he could get it out his face started to crumple. ‘Oh God, Angela. How am I going to
manage?’
Her long hand grasped his and held it tight. ‘The way you’ve managed all the other difficult things you’ve had to do,’ she said fiercely. ‘With courage. With strength. With intelligence and good humour, and the sort of personal reserves that get deeper the more you draw on them. You’re a brave man, Frank Shapiro, and you’ll get through this. Maybe in a wheelchair. Maybe on a stick. Maybe on your own two feet, with just an interesting limp to remind people what kind of a man you are. That isn’t actually the important thing. If there is a permanent disability it may take you months, even longer, to get its measure and come to terms with it, but that still isn’t the important part. The thing to remember is that you will.
‘Whatever you’re stuck with, however unfair, you will come to terms with it. You’ll get past it to where the rest of your life is waiting. It may not be quite as you’d imagined it, but then, whose ever is? You’re the same man you always were, you’ll make a life worth having. Even in a wheelchair. I don’t mean to minimize the enormity of that, I can imagine how it must seem to you. Like a mountain in your way. But don’t underestimate yourself. You’re an impressive bloody man, Frank, I don’t think you always realize how much. How much people admire you. Well, now you’re going to give them something new to
admire. Either how quickly you get back on your feet again, or how well you cope without.’
His thick fingers inside her long ones were trembling. His voice broke up. ‘I don’t feel impressive,’ he whispered. ‘I feel frightened.’
‘I know,’ said Angela, holding him. ‘But that’s what courage is. It’s not about not being afraid. It’s about overcoming fear. And you will. I know you, Frank, I know you will.
‘But you don’t have to do it yet, and you don’t have to do it in front of me. I don’t need impressing. I know what you’re made of.’