26
So tell me,” said Liz, when she and Goss were established, once again, in the saloon bar of the Trafalgar.
Goss considered. “Going on the evidence of that tape, I’d say we were still in the dark. I think Ray Gunter was one of the two people in the cab of that truck, and I think he followed whoever was in the back to the toilet block, and got himself shot. The question is, who was in the back? Don Whitten, I know, thinks that we’re looking at a people-smuggling operation, and that the person that Gunter let out was part of the cargo, but there isn’t a shred of evidence to support that theory. All sorts of people travel in the backs of trucks, and most people-smugglers take their cargoes to one of the cities, they don’t drop them off at rural transport cafés to be collected by people in saloon cars.”
“Looked more like a hatchback to me,” said Liz. She felt slightly guilty for keeping the Special Branch officer in the dark about “Mitch,” Peregrine Lakeby, and the Zander calls, but until she had spoken to Frankie Ferris, as she was due to do this evening, she could see no sense in sharing what she had discovered. What had happened, she was now almost certain, was that a low-level Melvin Eastman people-smuggling operation had been hijacked in order to bring a specific individual into the UK unannounced. Someone who, for whatever reason, couldn’t risk coming in with a false passport. Eastman’s “Pakis and ragheads” rant suggested that the individual in question was probably Islamic, and assuming that this was the case, the use of the PSS pistol suggested a specially armed operative. Whichever way you looked at it, it was worrying.
“Two haddock and chips,” said Cherisse Hogan breezily, depositing large oval plates in front of them and returning a minute later with a bowlful of sauce sachets.
“I hate these bloody things,” said Goss, tearing at one of the sachets with his large fingers until it more or less exploded in his hand. Liz watched him without comment for a moment, and then, taking a pair of scissors from her bag, neatly decapitated a tartare sauce sachet and squeezed it on to the side of her plate.
“Don’t say it,” warned Goss, wiping his fingers. “No brain versus brawn gags.”
“I wouldn’t dream of any such thing,” promised Liz, passing him the scissors.
They ate in companionable silence. “Beats the Norwich canteen,” said Goss after a few minutes. “How’s your fish?”
“Good,” said Liz. “I’m just wondering if it was one of Ray Gunter’s.”
“It’s had its revenge if it was,” said a familiar voice.
She looked up. Bruno Mackay stood at her elbow, car keys in hand. He was wearing a tan leather jacket and carrying a laptop computer in a satchel over one shoulder.
“Liz,” he said, extending his hand.
She took it, forcing a smile. Did his presence mean what she thought it meant? Belatedly, she glanced at Goss, frozen opposite her in an attitude of enquiry.
“Er… Bruno Mackay,” she said, “this is Steve Goss. Norfolk Special Branch.”
Goss nodded, lowered his fork and guardedly extended his hand.
Bruno shook it. “I’ve been asked to come up and share the strain,” he explained with a broad smile. “Lend a helping hand.”
Liz forced a smile of her own. “Well, as you can see, the strain’s not too unbearable yet. Have you had anything to eat?”
“No. I’m ravenous. I might just go and have a quick word with Truly Scrumptious over there. Would you mind…” Dropping his keys proprietorially on the table, he marched off to the bar, where he was soon locked in intimate consultation with Cherisse.
“Something tells me you’ve been stitched up,” murmured Goss.
Liz emptied her face of her feelings. “No, I’ve just had my phone switched off. I obviously missed the message that he was on his way.”
“Get you anything?” Bruno called out cheerfully from the bar.
Liz and Goss both shook their heads. Cherisse’s eyes were shining, Liz noted with irritation. Mackay, meanwhile, looked roguishly at home.
“Bit of a personality, then, your chum?” Goss remarked drily.
“Indeed,” Liz confirmed.
The rest of the meal was distinctly unrelaxing. There were too many listeners-in at nearby tables for any discussion of the case to be possible. Instead, Mackay quizzed Goss about the area’s competing attractions. Treating him, thought Liz, like a Norfolk Tourist Board representative.
“So, assuming that I was in the market for a weekend cottage, where would you advise me to buy one?” asked Mackay, pocketing the credit card with which he had just, with cavalier nonchalance, paid the bill for the three of them.
Goss regarded him levelly. “Perhaps Burnham Market?” he suggested. “That’s very popular with the Range Rover set.”
“Ouch!” Mackay displayed his preternaturally white teeth. “That’s me well and truly put in my place.” He stood up and reached for his keys. “Liz, might I just detach you from Steve here for an hour or two? Ask you to bring me up to speed?”
“I’m due back to Norwich at two o’clock,” said Goss. “So I’ve got to make a move anyway.” He gave Liz the ghost of a wink and raised a hand to Mackay. “Thanks for lunch. Next one’s on me.”
“Cheers,” said Mackay.
“Will you just excuse me a minute?” Liz murmured to Mackay when Goss had left the bar. “I’ll be right back.”
She called Wetherby from the public phone outside on the sea front. He picked up on the second ring, and sounded tired.
“Please,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he answered. “You have to have Mackay with you. I’ve no choice on this one.”
“Fane?”
“Precisely. He wants his man there. In fact he insists on him being there, as indeed he has every right to insist.”
“Full disclosure? Full data-sharing?”
The briefest of pauses. “That was the agreement between our respective sevices.”
“I see.”
“Make him work,” suggested Wetherby. “Make him earn his keep.”
“I certainly will. He’s here for the duration?”
“For as long as it takes. He’s reporting direct to Fane, just as you are to me.”
“Understood. I have a meet with Zander tonight that I’m hopeful about. I’ll call you afterwards.”
“Do that. And take our mutual friend to the meet.”
The phone went dead and Liz stared for a moment at the receiver in her hand. Conventionally, agent RVs were only ever conducted by one officer at a time. Shrugging, she returned the phone to its cradle. Strictly speaking, Zander was no longer her agent, but Special Branch’s. And reading between the lines-interpreting the pauses rather than the words-she knew that Wetherby wanted her to continue playing her own game, whatever the notional ground rules. At the same time, however, she was under no illusions that Mackay would be sharing everything that he and his service knew with her. He would also be playing his own game. For that reason, it made sense to be the one who initiated the data-share.
“My room’s called Victory,” grinned Mackay, when she went back into the saloon bar. “I thought you might like to know that!”
“Fascinating. You’ve booked in already?”
“I have indeed. With Miss Scrumptious.”
“I hope you’re not teasing her,” said Liz. “She’s a potentially useful source on this one, and I’d like to keep her onside.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t frighten her away. In fact I have the feeling I’d be very hard pressed to do so.”
“Hooked already, is she?”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant that she’s not a girl who gives the impression of scaring easily.”
“I see. Do you want to walk while I brief you, or sit upstairs? Sea breeze or gas fire, in other words?”
“Let’s walk. I suspect that today’s lunch wasn’t the first outing for that chip oil. I could use some air.”