Liz Carlyle - 05 - Present Danger (15 page)

He turned his attention back to the letter.
Watch your back
. He certainly would, as he always did. He picked up his mobile and thumbed the auto-dial.

After three rings a reedy, youthful voice answered. ‘Hello,’ it said shakily.

He knew Danny Ryan was terrified of him. Good – he was going to keep it that way. ‘Danny, listen carefully. I’ve got a job for you.’

‘Yes, Mr P,’ he said, like a junior mobster speaking to
el capo
.

‘Here’s what I want you to do,’ said Piggott with deceptive mildness. Then he added in a voice of steel, ‘And this time you’d better not screw it up.’

24

‘Where’s Liz?’

Judith turned from her cupboard clutching a pile of papers to find Dave standing beside her.

‘She’s not back from Paris yet,’ she said, dumping the papers on her desk and looking up at Dave. Judith had known Dave for years and they’d worked together often before they both came to Northern Ireland. His cheerful, breezy approach to life had buoyed her up through some difficult times at work and when her family life had fallen to pieces. But now she stared at him, shocked by his appearance. His round, boyish face looked thinner, drawn and tired. There was no sign of the ever-present smile.

‘Dave. Are you OK?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he replied flatly, sitting down suddenly in her visitors’ chair.

‘Well, you don’t look it. What’s happened?’

He rubbed a hand over his face, brushing back his hair. ‘I expect you’ll hear on the grapevine, so I might as well tell you. I’ve broken up with Lucy.’

Lucy was a second lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps stationed outside London. Judith knew that she and Dave had been an item for two years or so and Dave had even hinted that they might get married.

‘It’s not been easy being apart, but I thought everything was essentially fine, but then last night I phoned her and she suddenly said that she wasn’t sure about us. She was thinking of leaving the army, she didn’t want to be hitched to my job, she needed time to think and she didn’t want to see me again until she knew her own mind.’ He looked at Judith glumly. ‘I think it’s the end for us. She’s probably met someone else and is trying to let me down lightly.’

‘Oh Dave. I’m so sorry. I thought you were both so happy.’

‘We were,’ said Dave. ‘But I think I’d better get used to the idea of life without her now. Anyway,’ he said, shaking his head and standing up suddenly. ‘I was looking for Liz to tell her that I’m seeing this bloke Milraud this afternoon.’

Judith’s eyes widened. ‘Where?’

‘At his shop.’ He looked at her. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Who’s watching your back?’

‘No one. It’s just a social call,’ he added. When she didn’t smile, he said, ‘It’s not a big deal, Judith. I’ve told him I’m a collector of antique derringers wanting to look at what he’s got. That’s all. He has no reason to suspect anything else.’

‘What on earth do you know about derringers?’

‘I’ve got all the guff on them from the internet. I reckon I can pass as a collector.’

‘Don’t you think you should check with Liz first?’

‘That’s why I was looking for her, but I’ll have to go ahead without her. Nothing’s going to happen – it’s a first meet. I’m just trying to get a handle on the guy and see if there’s anything in it for us.’

‘I think you should wait. Liz might have learned something useful about Milraud in Paris.’

‘Yeah, but he’s here now and he might not be for long. I don’t want to miss him.’

Judith hesitated, looking at Dave’s drawn face. She could see that he needed to be active to take his mind off his troubles, and active for Dave meant something that got the adrenalin flowing. But she felt uneasy. He was in the mood to take risks.

‘Shouldn’t you at least talk to Michael Binding?’

‘Binding’s virtually living at Stormont these days,’ he replied impatiently. ‘It’ll be okay, Judith. Stop worrying.’ And he walked off.

Later that day Dave drove into Belfast, parked in the car park at the Castlecourt shopping centre, then walked towards the University of Ulster. Milraud’s shop was halfway down a narrow side street full of coffee shops and clothes boutiques.

The shop was on a terrace of two-storey Georgian buildings of yellowing stone, once houses, now all shops. Miraud’s establishment was fronted by a long low window, in which a beautiful antique pistol was lying on a red velvet cushion, flanked by a pair of wooden-handled eighteenth-century derringers propped decoratively against each other. Looking through the window, Dave could see a large glass cabinet against a far wall, where more antique pistols hung from iron hooks.

Putting his hand on the highly polished brass handle, he took a deep breath and pushed. A bell rang, triggered by the opening of the door, and a woman looked up from behind a display counter at the far end of the shop. She smiled as she came out to meet him. This was obviously no ordinary shop and she no ordinary shop assistant. She was a slim middle-aged woman with beautifully cut grey hair, dressed in a plain black suit of some sort of rough silk, a thin gold necklace her only jewellery. Everything about the place murmured wealth and good taste.

Dave was glad he had dressed up a bit – no parka this morning, but a navy-blue blazer he had dusted off, a woollen v-necked jersey, an open-neck white shirt and sparklingly clean chinos. His shoes, a pair of black slip-ons, looked highly polished only because he so rarely wore them.

‘Can I help you?’ the elegant lady asked with a smile at once formal and genteel.

‘Good afternoon. I’m Simon Willis. I have an appointment with Mr Milraud.’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Willis. Please follow me,’ the woman said, and led him through a door marked ‘Private’ into an office where a man sat at a small mahogany desk, leafing through a saleroom catalogue.

Milraud’s face beneath his short hair was Gallic, with dark questioning eyes, and olive-tinted skin. He wore a maroon turtleneck sweater under a grey plaid jacket. He could have been anything from a Foreign Legion officer to a lecturer in philosophy at the Sorbonne. When he rose to shake hands, though he was much shorter than Dave, his body was more muscular, and there was an icy element Dave sensed behind the facade.

‘Would you like coffee, Mr Willis?’ Milraud asked as they both sat down.

Dave shook his head. ‘Thanks, but I’m fine. It’s good of you to see me.’

Milraud shrugged, as if to say this was his business after all.

‘You said on the telephone that you have an interest in antique arms.’

‘Among other things,’ said Dave. He wanted to put down a marker that Milraud could pick up at any time.

‘What sort of arms are you looking for?’

‘Derringers, at least to begin with. Eighteenth and nineteenth century. Continental ones especially.’

‘Belfast is not perhaps the ideal place to look for French and German weapons,’ Milraud said with a mild inquiring tone.

It was Dave’s turn to shrug. ‘You never know where things will turn up these days. Thanks to the internet.’

Milraud smiled in agreement, then said, ‘Yes, but the internet cannot magically transport a piece that’s residing in my warehouse to this shop. Not yet anyway.’

‘True enough,’ said Dave, then shifted in his chair to show he wanted to get to business. ‘Have you anything at all of that sort here that you can show me?’

‘Of course,’ said Milraud, giving a faint smile. ‘Even some continental items.’

He stood up and motioning for Dave to stay where he was, left the room, returning a minute later with a cherry wood box, which he put down on his desk. Lifting the lid, he exposed a small derringer sitting on a cushion of black velvet. He carefully took the gun out with both hands and handed it to Dave.

‘It is made by Sabayone,’ Milraud declared. Dave stared at the trigger intently and looked down the barrel, doing his best to act like a true aficionado.

Milraud chuckled lightly. ‘Probably the only one to be found in this part of the United Kingdom. Are you an admirer of his pistols?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Dave. ‘A master craftsman.’ He handed back the pistol carefully. ‘What would you ask for such a piece?’ he said, hoping that was the right sort of thing to say.

A shadow of a frown flitted across Milraud’s face, as if the intrusion of money into their conversation had a soiling effect. He said quietly without looking at Dave, ‘Seventeen thousand pounds.’

‘I see,’ said Dave, his eyes widening with surprise.

‘That is open to negotiation, of course,’ Milraud conceded.

‘Excellent,’ said Dave, smiling inwardly at the thought of Michael Binding’s face if he actually bought the gun.

‘You’re interested then?’ asked Milraud, no longer quite so diffident.

‘I might well be,’ Dave said with conviction. ‘It is certainly a lovely example. Do you guarantee its authenticity?’

‘Of course,’ said Milraud with a tolerant air, as if Dave’s hesitation was of no real importance.

‘I’d like to think about it. When could we meet again?’ asked Dave.

‘Well, tomorrow would be possible, I suppose. After that I will be back in France. Although Mrs Carson,’ and he gestured towards the front room and the lady in the silk suit, ‘can always negotiate on my behalf.’

Dave shook his head to show a surrogate wouldn’t do. ‘I’ll come back in the morning if that’s convenient.’

‘
A demain
, then.’ They both stood up and shook hands.

Dave said, ‘And perhaps then we could talk about more modern armaments.’

Milraud raised his eyebrows a fraction. ‘Why not?’ he said with an almost imperceptible shrug. ‘If you wish.’

That afternoon Milraud’s mobile rang and he answered it cautiously. ‘
Oui
?’

‘It’s me.’

‘James.’ He continued to use Piggott’s old names.

‘Listen, my friend, I’ve had a communication.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes.’ Piggott gave a dry laugh. ‘Someone’s suggested you’ve been talking to my old British friends.’

‘How interesting,’ Milraud said non-committally. Milraud had done business with Piggott for many years, and they trusted each other – as much as anyone could in their kind of business. But Milraud was always cautious, and this was a lethal accusation if it were believed.

Piggott said, ‘I was wondering whether anyone unusual had crossed your path lately. I mean, if I’m supposed to believe this message, someone should be making an appearance, if they haven’t already.’

‘Mmm. I think we should meet.’

Half an hour later the two men sat down at a table in a nearby cafe.

‘I had a man in the shop just before you rang. He phoned me out of the blue, claiming to be interested in antique pistols. Derringers in particular. I didn’t altogether like the look of him. I showed him a lovely example, and he made all the right noises, except for one.’

‘What was that?’

‘I told him the gun was made by someone called Sabayone. He agreed that Sabayone was a brilliant gunsmith.’

‘And?’

‘There wasn’t a gunsmith called Sabayone. I made him up just to test him.’

Piggott gave a laugh that suddenly stopped – humour was like rationed food to him, allowed only in carefully measured portions. ‘That sounds like our man.’

‘It’s possible.’

‘What was he really after?’

‘He dropped a heavy hint about modern weapons. I’ve arranged to see him again tomorrow morning and then I should find out. I’m sure he’ll come.’

‘Oh so am I,’ said Piggott. ‘You should see him, by all means. That’ll give us a chance to see him too.’

Piggott walked away from the cafe, relieved. He hadn’t ever really thought Milraud would double-cross him, but was glad to have that confirmed.

Yet he hadn’t come entirely clean with his old associate, for he’d avoided telling Milraud that Danny Ryan had reported back to him an hour before.

‘We did our best, Mr P.’

‘Meaning?’

‘We watched the shop, just like you said. There was only one customer this afternoon; he was inside for about twenty minutes. We got a good photo when he left. I followed him as best I could – you said it was better to lose him than get spotted.’

‘So you lost him?’

‘Not there. He was parked at the Castlecourt shopping centre. I picked him up as he left and trailed him as far as the harbour. He was heading towards the A2 when he got away from me.’

‘M2 or A2?’ The difference was important.

‘A2, Mr P.’

And Piggott nodded to himself. The A2 went north. Towards Holywood and Palace Barracks, he thought. He’d have put money on it.

25

Bruno was waiting for Liz when she got back to the embassy. He made a show of looking at his watch. ‘I was getting worried that you might have succumbed to Monsieur Seurat’s charms. From the time you took, it would seem you did.’

She laughed. ‘Bruno, I didn’t know you cared.’

He was not amused. ‘So how did you get on?’

‘Very well. He was most helpful.’

He extended a fistful of paper. ‘This came in while you were gone.’

She cast a quick eye at the pages. It was a long message from Peggy Kinsolving in London, marked
Strictly Confidential
. ‘Anything urgent in this?’ she asked dryly, as he had obviously read it.

‘Not that I can tell. Though this chap Piggott sounds a handful. You’d better come into my office, Liz.’

Upstairs she went through the document carefully while Bruno pretended to attend to some paperwork. Peggy had been her usual thorough self, going through old files that were inaccessible to Judith Spratt in Belfast. She had unearthed a goldmine of information on Piggott.
Liz
, a prefatory note declared,
the following summary is based on our own files, which have drawn
heavily on information from the FBI. Please also see the note I’ve attached at the end.

PK.

Piggott born James Purnell in 1954 in Boston Massachusetts. Changed his name to Piggott by deed poll six months before moving to Ireland three years ago.