He hesitated in order to let this offer sink in. To her left, Liz was aware of Bob Morrison shaking his head in disbelief.
“My client also has information relating to the killing of Ray Gunter which he is prepared to divulge, in full, to the appropriate parties. Understandably, however, he does not wish to incriminate himself in so doing.”
Whitten nodded, bulky in his crumpled grey suit. A crease appeared in the bristled back of his neck. “May we ask what it is that he fears incriminating himself of, if he divulges the facts relating to the Ray Gunter case?”
Honan looked down at his hands. “As I said, I’m speaking entirely without prejudice here, but I am led to understand that the relevant area of criminal law might be that relating to immigration.”
“People-smuggling, you mean?”
Honan pursed his lips. “As I said, my client doesn’t want to go down. He feels-not unreasonably, in my view-that if he testifies against Melvin Eastman, and then goes to prison, he will be killed. Incarcerated or not, Eastman has a long reach. My client wants immunity from prosecution and a new identity-the full witness protection package. In return he will give you the wherewithal to roll up Melvin Eastman.”
“That’s the trouble with British criminals,” Morrison murmured. “They all think they’re in a Hollywood bloody Mafia movie.”
On the other side of the glass, it was clear that Whitten’s patience with Honan was wearing thin. At the same time, thought Liz, he badly needed any help that Mitchell might be able to give him. According to Goss, Whitten had managed to stall the press for the time being, but he was going to need to be able to report a solid lead in the Gunter case soon, or risk accusations of incompetence.
“Let me make a suggestion,” he said. “That your client immediately and unconditionally tells us everything that he knows relating to the murder of Ray Gunter. Everything-as he is required to do by law. And that if we’re completely happy with his level of cooperation, then we can…” he shrugged heavily, “we can make the necessary… representations.”
“We can’t do any such thing!” hissed Liz, looking from Goss to Mackay for support. “If I have to get on to the DPP and the Home Office about this we’ll be bogged down for days. We’ve got to get Mitchell to talk right now.”
“Can you speak to Whitten?” Mackay asked Goss. “Tell him…”
“Don’t worry,” said Goss. “Don Whitten knows what he’s doing. This whole immunity thing’s just about the brief earning his fee. He’s got to be able to go back to his client and say that he tried.”
“Can I take that as a yes?” Honan was demanding. “An undertaking that you’ll…”
Whitten leaned forward in his chair. His glance flickered to the interview suite’s tape recorder and CCTV monitor. Both were switched off. When he spoke again it was so quietly that Liz had to crane towards the wall-mounted loudspeaker to hear him.
“Look, Mr. Honan, no one here present is in a position to offer Kieran Mitchell any kind of immunity deal. If he cooperates, I’ll make sure that the relevant people are informed of the fact. If he holds out on us, on the other hand, bearing in mind that this is not only a murder hunt, but a matter affecting national security, I promise you that I’ll do my level best to ensure that he never sees daylight again. And you can tell him that’s my best offer.”
There was a short pause, at the end of which Honan nodded, collected his briefcase, and left the room. Shortly afterwards Whitten appeared in the doorway of the observation suite. He was flushed. Sweat spots studded the pink expanse of his forehead.
“Nice one,” said Bob Morrison.
Whitten shrugged. “They all try it on. They know it’s a loss leader, we know it’s a loss leader…”
“Is he right about his life being in danger?” asked Liz.
“Probably,” said Whitten cheerfully. “I’ll tell him that if he goes down we can recommend he’s isolated from the worst of the nasties.”
“In with the nonces?” grinned Morrison.
“Something like that.”
When Honan returned to the interview suite five minutes later, he was accompanied by the duty sergeant and Kieran Mitchell. It was midnight.
31
Outside the bungalow, the woman sat in near darkness in the driver’s seat of the Vauxhall Astra. Her head leaned comfortably against the head rest, and her face was faintly underlit by tiny pinpoints of blue and orange light from the car’s hi-fi system. The local radio station’s midnight news had just finished, and the only mention of the Gunter murder had been a recorded comment by one DS Whitten to the effect that enquiries were ongoing and that the police hoped to bring the person or persons responsible to justice as soon as possible. The on-the-hour news had segued into a medley of easy listening and cocktail tunes.
The police know nothing, she told herself, snapping off Frank and Nancy Sinatra mid-croon. They have no coherent line of inquiry. As far as she could tell there had been no CCTV system at the Fairmile Café, and even if there had been they would have had trouble identifying the Astra. Black cars gave a notoriously poor signature at night, which was why the planners had told her to insist on one. But she was pretty sure that there hadn’t been a CCTV system there anyway; it was one of the principal reasons, she guessed, that the place had been selected for the RV in the first place.
The only possible weak links in the chain were the spent PSS round and the truck driver involved in the pick-up from the German ship. And the truck driver’s business surely depended on his absolute discretion; to betray his cargo would be to betray himself. On balance, she told herself, they were safe from the truck driver. It was the PSS round that worried her, as she was certain it would worry the police, and without doubt the anti-terrorism organisations too.
She had explained this to Faraj, but he had shrugged fatalistically and repeated that their task had to be performed on the appointed day. If the waiting increased the likelihood of failure, and of their own violent deaths at the hands of the SAS or a police firearms unit, then so be it. The task was immutable, its parameters unalterable. He had told her the bare minimum, she knew. Not out of mistrust, but in case she was taken.
Acceptance, she told herself. In acceptance lay strength. Remote-locking the Astra behind her with a muted electronic squawk, she walked quietly into the bungalow. The door to the bathroom was half open, and Faraj was standing stripped to the waist at the sink, washing.
For a moment she stood there in the centre of the room, staring at him. His body was narrow as a snake’s, but corded with muscle, and a long pale scar ran diagonally from his left hip to his right shoulder blade. How had he acquired a disfigurement like that? Certainly not in the operating theatre; it looked more like a sabre slash. Without the smart British clothes that she had brought him, he looked like the Tajik that he was. The son of a warrior and perhaps the father of warriors. Was he married? Was there, even now, some fierce-eyed mountain woman praying for his safe return?
He turned then, and stared back at her. Stared with that pale, incurious assassin’s gaze. She felt naked for a moment, and self-conscious, and a little shameful. She had begun to realise that, more than anything else in the world, she wanted his respect. That she was not wholly indifferent to his regard. That if this was the last human relationship she was to enjoy on this earth, then she did not want it to be a thing of lowered glances and self-abnegating silences.
Raising her chin a millimetre or two, she returned his gaze. Returned it with something like anger. She was a fighter now, just as he was. She had the right to a fighter’s recognition. She stood her ground.