“Try me.”
“First you should know that the English cops are trying to cut you out of the loop. They found something and apparently haven’t told you.”
“I haven’t heard from them, so you’re probably right.” Hugo instinctively leaned back as the train flew into a tunnel with a loud whump. “I think we hit the English Channel, so I’ll call when we get to France in about twenty minutes.”
“OK, but before you go, you might want to know what they found.”
“You’re being a tease, Bart. What is it?”
“Not just what, but who. They found that reporter’s car with a body in it.”
“Whose body? Harry Walton’s?” When he got no response he looked at his phone. The signal had gone. He snapped it shut with a silent curse and settled back for a tortuous twenty minutes. His scribbled notes sat on the table in front of him like an unfinished crossword, a crossword where even the clues were starting to be withheld.
The train hit France at a hundred miles an hour, climbing into the lap of the French countryside only to accelerate onto the specially designed high-speed rail line, keeping the train tight to the contours of the land, sweeping up over rises and swooping down through its shallow valleys.
Hugo got Bart back on the line.
“Sorry, boss, wasn’t meaning to play games with you; I figured they’d have routers on the train and we’d be able to talk.”
“No problem. So tell me about Walton. I assume it was him in the car?”
“They think so. He’d been burned to a crisp, so they’ll be running dental matches, maybe a DNA check if they can. But the body size was right.”
“Any other signs of injury?”
“Like bullet wounds?”
“Anything.”
“Not that I know of.” Bart hesitated. “Boss, what exactly is going on?”
“I wish I knew. Too many people disappearing and dying, I can tell you that much. Where was Walton’s car found?”
“In a church parking lot, in Wakefield.”
“A church?”
“Well, not exactly a church. They were buildings owned by the Church of England.”
“But not an actual church or graveyard?”
“No. I looked at some photos, knowing about your little incident in the country, and you wouldn’t even know they were owned by the church. Sorry.”
“OK, thanks,” said Hugo. “Let me know as soon as they confirm the ID.”
“Will do.”
“And not that it matters, probably, but did you find much about Walton?”
“A little. Let me get my notes here. You writing this down, or want me to send these to you?”
“I’ll make notes, so just run through it for me.”
“OK. His father was a soldier in the first part of World War Two, sent home when he lost a leg. Mother a housewife who died when he was five. He had no siblings, grew up with his father, religious about going to church. And his dad had an interesting job after the army thing. He was an executioner, how about that?”
“Delightful,” said Hugo. “A grim reaper with a wooden leg.”
“Right. Seeing that got me reading about the process, and apparently they had two at every execution, and half a dozen on the Home Office books. They’d call them up when they had a neck to stretch.”
“Delightful, as I said. And Harry Walton, what was his career path?”
“Started work on the Hitchin Gazette, stayed there a few years before moving up to London to work shifts at the tabloids. Kept a roof over his head by working at some of the tourist attractions like Madame Tussauds, where there’s a wax figure of his dad, the last executioner, and the Tower of London. A whole year at Tussauds, actually, but he’s been freelancing for a few years.”
“No dirt or criminal history?”
“Nope, at least not as such. Only one odd thing, maybe not even that odd. Lucky, I guess you’d call it. He was a lottery winner a couple years back, which means he doesn’t have to work much. Must have taken some time off after the win because he wasn’t writing. Quit for about a year, best I can tell.”
“Can’t blame him for that. And Pendrith?”
“Hard to find much on him, I guess because of his background. Most of his official stuff is under wraps, but from regular web searches I didn’t see anything of interest. Not that I know what I’m looking for.”
“Me neither, Bart, I’m sorry. What are his major issues?”
“Politically? Well, he’s big into law and order. But then, who isn’t? Before he was elected, he was all about reinstating capital punishment but apparently read a bunch of studies and converted, said it was a waste of money and barbaric. Some thought it was a cynical switch of opinion to get elected, some thought it was real. I guess the electorate thought it was real and he’s stuck with the new view ever since, always voting against reinstatement. Let’s see, he also favored the recent wars in the Middle East, but he doesn’t like how much they cost. If I had to guess, I’d say budget issues were his next main concern. Tight bastard.”
“Not a bad trait for a politician,” smiled Hugo. “Anything else?”
“Not on him. But I spoke to your buddy Upton, he called for you. On the down low, it seemed like. Anyway, he faxed me a copy of Dayton Harper’s autopsy report.”
“He did?” Hugo was suddenly excited. “And?”
“Dead from one shot in the heart. No drugs in his system, no other signs of physical harm. GSR on his hands, and his fingerprints on the gun.”
“That can be done postmortem,” Hugo said. “What else?”
“I’m looking at it now. Nothing except minuscule bits of clothing and … huh, paper, found in the wound.”
“Paper?”
“That’s what it says. Maybe he had a notebook on him, bullet went through it?”
“Maybe.” Hugo thought back to their conversation in his apartment. “You know, you might be right, I’m pretty sure he carried one with him. Do you have a list of his belongings, stuff found on him at the churchyard?”
“No, just the autopsy report.”
“OK. Any other news?”
“Nope. Oh, they resolved the Ginny Ferro debacle. The ambassador stepped in and told our people to stop being silly, so the Brits are doing the autopsy. Or have done it, I have no idea which.”
“Can you find out?”
“I can try.”
“Good enough. Thanks for your help, and keep your cell phone charged, I may need you again.”
Hugo hung up and sat back. He looked out the window, the new information percolating as the rolling lands of northern France flashed by. He was far from any real answers but was beginning to see the ends of a few roots, to recognize patterns that might be coincidences, or might be meaningful. He checked his watch. Thirty minutes to Paris, so just enough time for a cup of coffee. Maybe even enough time for Bart to call him back about the body in the Mini, a call that he was fairly sure would confirm a growing suspicion: whoever had burned up in that car, Hugo had a powerful feeling it wasn’t Harry Walton.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Pendrith’s address had taken some finding, but Bart had managed it, giving Hugo a street name and number for an apartment in the Latin Quarter, on the second floor of a four-story building on the busy Rue Monge, just south of the River Seine.
As the train pulled into Gard du Nord, Hugo thought about walking or taking the metro so he could see and experience something of the city. It was a fleeting thought; he just didn’t have time for that. Instead, he took a cab from in front of the train station, asking the driver to drop him at the metro stop closest to the Sorbonne University. He settled into the back seat, a few minutes at least to watch the city pass by.
Something about Paris had grabbed Hugo the first time he’d come ten years ago, and he’d been back every chance he got, even if for a day or so. It was, to his mind, the most visually appealing of the world’s cities, its center devoid of the ugly concrete blocks that passed for buildings in cities like London and New York. He loved the language, too, and had taught himself to speak it to the point where he was a notch or two below fluent. And he liked the people, despite what others said about them being rude, not minding their insularity because he liked his space, too. His favorite pastime in Paris was to sit at a café and people watch, amuse himself by making up stories about those who passed by, using the clues people carried with them or wore on their back.