Red Crystal (47 page)

The Italian authorities had promised to look at their own lists of undesirables to see if they had any who fitted the sketchy description Nick had sent them, but it was pretty hopeless. The situation in Italy was what one might call confused. The authorities didn’t really know the nature – let alone the names – of the new left-wingers they were up against.

So much for Black Beard.

Then there were Wheatfield and Reardon. Both had their lips sealed as tight as clams. Barring torture – which was unfortunately banned under the British system – there was no way of getting them to talk.

Dead end. Nothing.

And now his mind was like soup: turgid and thick and utterly useless.

He thought: Damn and hell!

At twelve-twenty a call came up from the incident room.

It was Kershaw. The ultimatum had arrived.

As Nick sprinted downstairs he reflected on Kershaw’s choice of word. Ultimatum. He shivered: it didn’t bode well.

The message had been phoned to
The Times
fifteen minutes before. It read:

Kershaw went straight off for a top level conference in the Commissioner’s office, leaving Nick, Conway and a group of detectives in the incident room. Everyone read the ultimatum several times. Conway murmured, ‘We’ll give in. We have no choice.’

Nick hoped not, but he could see the attraction for the government. Sir Henry would be returned alive and the terrorists would be out of the country. The only sensible solution … But
humiliating
. It was total surrender. He thought of the way Gabriella and her friends would laugh. The way they’d be encouraged to do it all over again somewhere else.

Nick rubbed his hand over his face. He was too tired to think any more. He’d had two nights without sleep. He wasn’t going to be any use to anyone in his present state. He stood up wearily and said to Conway, ‘I’ve got to go and get some kip. If anyone wants me I’ll be back in a few hours.’

On his way out he stared at the story board Ker-shaw’s team had drawn up. On a large sheet of paper that spanned almost an entire wall they had written the sum total of their knowledge, along with various suppositions and possibilities. Thus Linda Wilson’s name was prominent in black on the left-hand side, while the words
Soviet-backed? Self-motivated? Allied to foreign group?
were written in blue just underneath.

In the centre was a series of questions with answers, such as:
Why the Attorney-General? Because senior law officer. Motive for kidnap? Ransom or political demands (assumed)
.

On the right-hand side there was a scenario: Doorbell rings, Jenkins/Sir Henry opens door, three shots fired, Jenkins falls, hall and outside lights extinguished, Sir Henry abducted. Then there were various unknowns: vehicles used by abductors, route taken, destination.

God, if they knew the
destination
.

Then there were a list of facts: the approximate time the crimes took place, the ballistics details, the wounds suffered by DC Jenkins, the location of the pocket book. At the bottom someone had added:
N.B. Blood on underneath of Jenkins’ pocket book
.

Nick stared, trying to comprehend the meaning of the cryptic note.

Under
? Then the book had been placed on the floor
after
the blood had spread.

What else did it mean? He tried to progress the idea, but his mind wouldn’t function. He gave up.

He went back to his office to pick up his coat and took the lift down to the street. It was a blustery day with heavy black clouds scudding across the sky. London looked very grey.

He walked to the nearest bus stop, intending to take a number 10 over the river. There was a long queue at the stop and no buses in sight. He stood in line and wondered if it wouldn’t be better to walk.

Funnelled between the tall buildings the wind came roaring down the street in great gusts. People clutched at their coats. A man left the queue to shelter in a shop doorway. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small map, which he examined and then replaced in his pocket.

Nick stared at him.

Jenkins would have kept his book in his breast pocket. Could it have slipped out after he had fallen bleeding to the floor? Unlikely. In which case someone must have taken it out of his breast pocket and placed it on the floor afterwards.

But
why
?

A half-formed idea flew into Nick’s mind, and he grasped at it furiously. Maddeningly, it evaded him and in a desperate attempt to recapture it, he went through each thought one by one.

Why would they want to look at the book? To see what it had in it. So what would it have in it?

Information. Sir Henry’s movements that day.

It didn’t make sense. Why would they want to know that? Curiosity.
No
. They were in a hurry, they didn’t have time to be curious …

Come on.
Come on
.

A bus drew up noisily and the queue moved forward. Nick remained still, staring into space. People overtook him and clambered on to the bus.

Then he had it.

The idea came winging back into his mind and he cornered it.

They’d left the book
behind
. So everything had all been all
right
. They’d checked the book. They had checked the book to make sure there was nothing in it.

Therefore it was what
wasn’t
there that was important.

Since coming on duty Jenkins had kept a record of Sir Henry’s movements or had appeared to. Except for …

The last appointment.

Nick turned and ran back to the office.

As he went up in the lift, another thought fell into place, like a piece in a jigsaw.

Jenkins
must
have opened the door. He would never have stood on one side and let Sir Henry do it. What was more,
Jenkins had opened the door and let the people all the way into the centre of the hall
.

He wouldn’t have done that if they had been strangers. He would have challenged them on the doorstep.

Nick pounded into Kershaw’s office, but the commander was still in his meeting. Nick spotted Conway sitting in the incident room drinking a cup of coffee, and beckoned him over. Conway caught the mood immediately and hastily followed him into Kershaw’s office. Nick scribbled a note and left it on Kershaw’s desk.

‘What’s up?’ asked Conway.

‘We’re going to see Lady Northcliff.’

The room looked over the garden. She sat on the window seat, looking tired and pale in the grey light. Nick hadn’t realized how young she would be.

‘I’m very sorry to bother you,’ Nick began, aware of the disapproving gaze of the other occupants of the room: a chief inspector from Special Branch Protection Group, a senior member of the Attorney-General’s staff, and a woman of about Lady Northcliff’s age, presumably a friend.

‘No, please – I
want
to help,’ Lady Northcliff said immediately. ‘I’m glad … I don’t care how many questions you ask me.’ She shrugged apologetically. ‘If I looked disappointed it was only because I thought it might be news. When I heard the doorbell.’

Nick was silent. He hadn’t told her about the ultimatum. That was someone else’s job – someone very senior – and, on an entirely practical level, he didn’t want her distracted with worry until he’d had a chance to put his questions.

‘Lady Northcliff, what I’m about to ask may seem rather strange …’

The chief inspector looked even more threatening. The only reason Nick had got in for the interview was by saying Kershaw had sent him.

‘The thing is, are you or your husband acquainted with anyone with extreme political views? I mean, even
slightly
acquainted?’

You could have heard a pin drop. Everyone in the room looked vaguely horrified. Lady Northcliff frowned in concentration. ‘It’s so difficult to say,’ she began. ‘We meet so many people. At receptions and so on. It’s very hard to know exactly what their views are. I mean quite a few members of the Labour Party used to be, well,
more
left-wing than they are now.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Nick paused and wondered quite how to phrase the next question. ‘What about people you know well enough to see here, in your house?’

There was an awkward silence.

She gulped slightly. ‘Oh, you mean …’ Nick could almost see her thought processes working their way to the inevitable conclusion. ‘You mean – the people – last night – might have been known to us.’

The chief inspector frowned at Nick and narrowed his lips.

Nick ignored him. ‘Yes, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not suggesting that one of your closest friends is involved. I’m just asking if – by any chance – someone’s name was used to gain access to the house. Or an appointment was made. Or …’

She nodded. ‘No, you don’t have to explain … I understand.’ She put a hand over her eyes and thought for a long time. Finally she shook her head and sighed deeply. ‘No. I’m sorry—’

‘What about left-wing journalists?’

‘Well, journalists
sometimes
come here. And it depends what you mean by left-wing … Besides, they always make appointments a long time ahead. And Henry wouldn’t see one here during a weekday evening. He just wouldn’t. Not without telling me.’

‘Someone else then? One of these new activists. You know, the sort that go on anti-Vietnam marches?’

‘Well, I met that actress once. You know, the one who’s always making speeches …’ She trailed off. It wasn’t the sort of information Nick wanted and she knew it.

Nick tried one last stab. ‘What about an acquaintance, a friend, the son or daughter of a friend? Anyone who’s involved in fringe politics, or pressure groups, or anti-war campaigns.
Anything
.’

A shadow of a smile crossed her face. ‘Oh, well, there’s dear old Victoria of course.’

Nick waited.

Lady Northcliff suddenly realized he wanted to hear more and continued, ‘She’s a sort of cousin of mine, and – she dabbles in anti-Vietnam things. But very halfheartedly. She’s a bit of a lost soul, one way or another.’

‘But she comes here from time to time?’

‘Very occasionally. When she needs advice, generally.’

‘What’s her name, Lady Northcliff?’

‘Her name? Oh, Victoria Danby. But really, she’s perfectly harmless …’

Nick managed to keep his face completely impassive. ‘Well – perhaps we’d better just talk to her. Routine, you understand. Could you give me her address?’

‘Oh …?’ Then she shook her head as if bringing herself to her senses. ‘Yes, of
course
.’ She searched in her handbag and found an address book. ‘It’s Moscow Road, W2. Number 53.’

He rose to his feet. ‘Thank you, Lady Northcliff. Again, I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

Her eyes filled with disappointment at the realization that the interview was over and that she could be of no more help. She nodded a brief goodbye then turned to stare out into the windswept garden.

I
T WAS FOUR-THIRTY
and already dark. Gabriele drove into the airport tunnel and glanced in the mirror. There was no reason to suppose anyone would be looking for her, but it was an automatic reflex now to examine other cars.

The Mini whined its way up the incline at the other end. The sooner she was rid of the car the better. It belonged to the girl and she didn’t like the idea of using it any longer. More to the point, it was old and not very fast and probably unreliable. It had to go.

Also it had been essential to get away from the farmhouse. The place got on her nerves. There was nothing to do there. Except wait. And she was incapable of just sitting and waiting. She had an insatiable need to attend to each detail, to cover each possibility. Everything must be neat and tidy.

Taking a ticket at the barrier, she drove into the car park beside Terminal 2, and parked in a dark corner of an upper storey. She scraped back her hair and twisted it into a knot on the back of her head. As an afterthought she pulled a scarf out of her bag and tied it round her head. She pulled out a deep tote bag and hitched it over her shoulder. In it was the Skorpion: she took it everywhere now. She liked the idea of carrying it into crowded places, as if it were a harmless piece of luggage. The Kalashnikov was far too bulky for this sort of work, and she had left it at the farmhouse.

As a back-up she had a handgun, a Walther 38, in her coat pocket.

She locked the car and dropped the keys in a waste bin some distance away. As she walked across the bridge to the terminal building, she slipped on a pair of dark glasses.

The arrivals floor was thronged with people. There was a long queue at the Hertz desk, so she moved on to the Avis desk. There were three people ahead of her. They seemed to be taking a long time. She glanced around.