Dead Line (18 page)

‘No,’ he replied and leaping to his feet he said, ‘I’d like another cup of coffee.’

There’s something here, thought Liz while he was in the kitchen. I’m sure there is. Her head was beginning to ache and she didn’t feel up to a long interrogation, so she decided to exert a bit of pressure. While he was in the kitchen she leaned forward and put a photograph on the coffee table in front of Marcham’s chair.

When he came back he picked it up. ‘It’s Alex,’ he declared. ‘I read about his death in the papers. What’s he got to do with you?’

‘You knew Mr Ledingham, then?’

Marcham nodded. ‘Of course. For a while I knew him fairly well.’ He added regretfully, ‘Lately, we hadn’t been in touch while I’ve been travelling.’

‘Could you tell me how you came to know him?’

‘I’d be happy to,’ he said, looking unfazed. But Liz sensed he was acting - a good performance so far, she thought, but a performance all the same.

‘Alex was very interested in churches. So am I. Not perhaps to the same degree - he was something of a fanatic.’ There was a patronising, distancing effect to this. ‘We met at a Hawksmoor Society meeting. Alex was very active in the society, particularly in its efforts to raise money for renovating the Hawksmoor churches in London. To some purists, of course, renovation is a dirty word, but not to Alex. Or me for that matter. And for a time I was rather involved as well.’ He gave a slow smile, as if confessing a juvenile aberration he had outgrown.

Liz was getting impatient. This wasn’t leading anywhere. So she said, ‘You were in Kosovo, weren’t you?’

Marcham looked startled. ‘Yes, I was. Why?’

She ignored the question. ‘You were there as a reporter, as I understand. For the
Observer
, and the
Los Angeles Times.’

Marcham seemed less complacent now, but was struggling not to show it. He said archly, ‘You’ve been doing some research, Miss Falconer.’

You can thank Peggy Kinsolving for that, thought Liz. She continued, ‘You were in Kosovo on assignment, but could you tell me why Alexander Ledingham was also there?’

Silence hung in the room like a weight. For a moment, Marcham stared at Liz, and she could sense his antipathy. He said slowly, ‘A pity you can’t ask him that question.’

‘Yes, but that’s why I’m asking you.’

Marcham sipped his coffee mechanically. He said, keeping his face burrowed in his mug, ‘Alex was very het up about the Serbian churches that were being destroyed. People forget that the violence cut both ways - and Alex was keen to do what he could to preserve the Orthodox places of worship.’

‘Even if it meant putting himself in danger? Lots of people are appalled by war without wanting to see it for themselves.’

‘Alex wasn’t one to be put off by danger. He’d knocked around a bit. He was gentle, sure, but he didn’t scare easily.’

Liz said pointedly, ‘Did your being there have anything to do with it? My understanding is that you two went around together in Kosovo.’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’

‘Oh, really? I gather you were virtually inseparable.’

‘For a time we were very close.’ He added, unnecessarily, ‘I’m not married, you know.’

He gave her a knowing look. She didn’t care if Marcham had been intimate in that way with Ledingham; she wanted to know if he’d been there when he’d died.

‘So he was there as your… companion?’

Marcham didn’t look at her, and Liz felt he was milking the drama for all it was worth. He clearly thought a confession that he and Ledingham had been lovers would seem shameful enough to persuade her that this was the secret he was hiding.

‘I understand. But I doubt other journalists brought their partners.’

Marcham thought about this. Then he said, ‘He was desperate to come. He was obsessed with the churches. He had all these
theories
. He started by thinking there was a code in Hawksmoor’s churches - then it became a code in almost every baroque church of the time. I tried to tell him it was nonsense. Alex started to like to have…’ he paused.

‘Sex?’ asked Liz, determined to get on with this.

‘How delicate of you, Miss Falconer,’ said Marcham with a flash of his former insouciance. ‘But yes, for lack of a better word. Sex.’

‘But that night in St Barnabas, the, um, sexual part of things seemed to have been solitary.’

‘I know,’ said Marcham. ‘That was because of me.’ He looked stonily at his hands in regret. ‘That sort of thing wasn’t my scene. He said I should take a walk and come back when he’d… finished.’ He shivered in distaste.

‘And when you came back from this walk, what did you find?’

‘He was dead. He’d misjudged, apparently… only I wasn’t there to save him.’

As he said this, he broke down. Between sobs he managed to say, ‘If only I’d stayed, it never would have happened.’

‘I’m sure no one could blame you,’ said Liz, ‘but why did you put him in the box?’

Marcham looked up, red-eyed. ‘What else could I do?’ he asked plaintively.

At last, thought Liz and she said, ‘Mr Marcham, you realise that concealing a death is a very serious offence. I shall have to report what you’ve said to my police colleagues. But I would just like to go back to my earlier question. Are you sure that on your various travels you have never undertaken any covert task for an intelligence service or anyone who might have been acting on their behalf? I am in a position to help you in various ways,’ she added unspecifically, ‘if you have anything to tell me.’

But by now Marcham was sobbing uncontrollably and he just shook his head.

Liz had had enough. The interview hadn’t gone the way she’d planned and she hadn’t learned anything to move her inquiries on. The police would have to deal with Marcham now.

THIRTY-ONE

Wally Woods looked more bleary-eyed than usual that Friday afternoon when he came into Liz’s office. She still had faint traces of bruising round her eyes, but Wally looked a lot worse. ‘I can’t blame work,’ he declared, in response to her question whether he was all right. ‘Our dog’s just had a litter and she’s not a very good mother. I was up half the night feeding the puppies. Makes a change from watching some hairy-faced youths in a terrace in Battersea.’

Liz laughed. She liked Wally: he was an old hand, who’d survived all the changes of targets and technology without fuss or resistance.
They also serve who stand and wait
seemed to be his motto, and Liz respected both his competence and his interest in maintaining it.

‘So what’s up?’ she said.

Wally waved a manila envelope. ‘I wanted to show you some photographs we took yesterday. We’ve been following this chap Kollek from the Israeli Embassy, as you know. Nothing unusual at first - he seems to have lunch twice a week with that woman you told us about, but everything was above board. Then three days ago it changed.’

‘How was that?’

‘I wish I could tell you,’ said Wally wistfully. ‘We lost him.’ He shook his head in frustration.

Liz could sympathise. Following a target who was determined to lose you was never an easy job.

‘Do you think he knew he was being followed?’

Wally shook his head. ‘I think he was just being very, very careful. In the end, we couldn’t stay with him or we’d have been spotted. I knew you didn’t want that.’

‘No, you’re right,’ said Liz, a little discouraged. Kollek must be Mossad - why would a trade attaché carry out sophisticated counter surveillance? She wondered who he could have been meeting.

‘Cheer up, Liz. That’s not the end of the story.’ His voice was brighter now, and Liz looked at him hopefully. He said, ‘Yesterday we followed him as he left the embassy mid-morning. He took us as far as the Oval cricket ground, but that’s where we lost him - when he went inside. Don’t know if you like cricket, Liz, but the One Day Internationals are on, so the place was packed.

‘By this time I and the other back-up cars had got there as well. It took us two hours of searching row by row, but we found him,’ Wally said proudly. ‘Sitting in the corner stand with a drink in his hand, and a programme, acting like he’d grown up watching cricket. Which seems a bit unlikely for an Israeli.

‘Nothing happened for an hour or so, but then another guy came and squeezed in right next to Kollek. Dressed up - more Lord’s than the Oval.’

‘Oh no,’ said Liz, her heart sinking. Israeli penetration of foreign intelligence services was legendary. ‘You’d better show me the pictures then,’ she said, though she already had an image in mind.

Wally passed over the envelope he had been holding, and said, ‘I don’t know who it is, but I reckon he’s American.’

The first picture had been taken from below. Kollek was caught prominently, holding a large plastic cup - gingerly, it had to be said, like someone trying to fit in. She looked at the men on either side of him: on Kollek’s left sat an Asian man in a yellow windcheater; he was staring intently at the play, seemingly oblivious to his neighbour. Kollek was turned towards the man on his right, his head tilted down as if he were listening carefully.

‘It’s the tie,’ she said numbly.

Wally looked at her curiously.

‘Look at the stripes,’ she said, pointing to Kollek’s other neighbour. ‘They go the opposite way from ours. That’s how you can tell he’s a Yank.’

‘I’m afraid he left at lunchtime, Liz. He tends to work at home on Friday afternoons these days.’ The tone of Wetherby’s secretary made it clear they both knew the reason for this -Joanne.

‘Right. I’ll ring him there.’

‘Do you want the number?’

‘That’s all right - I’ve got it. Thanks.’ Liz thought for a moment. She was loath to interrupt Charles at home, but felt he needed to know at once.

‘Charles,’ she said when he answered, ‘it’s Liz. I am sorry to ring you at home, but something’s come up.’

She listened for a moment. ‘The morning’s fine - that’s no problem. Of course I can. No, I think I’ll drive down.’ She paused, then wrote down the directions he gave her. ‘Got it,’ she said as he finished. ‘Ten thirty will be fine. See you then.’

She hung up, relieved he’d understood the urgency at once. It was unfortunate to disturb his weekend, but there it was - and it wasn’t as if she’d had anything planned herself. It would be odd seeing Charles at home. More to the point, she wondered what Joanne would be like. Well, she thought, at last I’m going to find out.

THIRTY-TWO

There was little traffic this early on Saturday morning, which made it a rare pleasure to meander south in the Audi through the centre of London. Shops were just opening, and along Bayswater Road artists were hanging their pictures from the iron railings of Hyde Park ready for the weekly art sale. Liz drove south through Earls Court and over to the Hammersmith roundabout, then crossed the river at Chiswick with her window down, though a cloudless night meant a chill hung in the air.

Within a quarter of an hour she entered the leafy, affluent belt of the Surrey suburbs. The houses grew larger, as did their gardens, separated from each other by the occasional woodland or pony paddock. It always amazed her how many pockets of green had been preserved within twenty miles of Westminster.

At Twickenham she crossed the river again; the Thames was snake-like in this stretch. As she got further on, traffic started to build up in the high streets and on the outskirts of towns, as cars headed for the shopping centres, or ‘retail parks’ as they described themselves on the signposts.

After Shepperton she looked at Charles’s instructions and took a small road, then a smaller lane; she could sense the river was not far off. Taking a final left onto a track that ended in a cul de sac, she parked, and looked across a large lawn to a mid-sized Arts and Crafts house, with high wooden gables. A small sign on the front gate said
Mill Run
.

She walked along a path of paving stones with rose beds on either side, and up some steps to the front door. Ringing the bell, she waited until eventually she heard light steps approach in the hall. Then the door opened.

A woman stood in the doorway, wearing a simple blue cotton dress with an unbuttoned cardigan. She was thin -too thin; this must be Joanne. She had a handsome, gentle face, and her hair, chestnut turning grey, was tied back in a pony tail. Her eyes were a rich, deep blue and set wide apart, which made her look vulnerable.

‘Hello, I’m Liz Carlyle. Here to see Charles.’

The woman smiled. ‘I’m Joanne,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘Do come in. I’ve just put the kettle on.’

Liz followed her down a hall that stretched past a large oak staircase. The house seemed lived in, and comfortable.

In the kitchen a tabby cat lay asleep in a basket next to an enormous, ancient-looking Aga. There was a refectory table in the middle of the room, half-covered by sections of newspaper and a jar of marmalade. It was quiet, peaceful and sunny.

‘What a pretty cat,’ said Liz, wondering where Charles was.

‘That’s Hector, though he’s too old for the wars now. Coffee or tea?’

‘Coffee please,’ said Liz, and sat down at the table while Joanne filled two big blue and white striped mugs.

‘Charles had to go out,’ she explained, as she joined Liz at the table. ‘We’ve had a minor family emergency.’ She smiled to make it clear nothing dire had happened. ‘One of my sons broke his foot playing cricket. He’s decided to come home for the weekend so we can suffer with him.’ She gave a small laugh. ‘Normally he’d walk here from the station, but his foot’s in a cast, so Charles went to fetch him. They’ll be back soon.’

Liz looked around the cosy room. It had old wooden cupboards, copper pots hanging from hooks along one wall, and a vast cork board covered with notes and phone numbers and a crayon drawing of a horse.

‘It’s very nice to meet you at last,’ said Joanne. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’ She gazed penetratingly at Liz, but her voice seemed friendly.

‘Likewise, and I’ve seen your picture. Charles has one on his desk.’

‘Really?’ She seemed pleased. ‘I wonder which it is.’

‘You’re by a river, with a straw hat on. The boys are on either side of you, and each one’s holding an oar.’