‘Ok, well if he ever does get in touch, you be sure to call me, ok?’ Samms insisted.
Gerry shrugged her shoulders. ‘Ok, if you like.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Next morning Gerry woke up at early. She was still exhausted having lain awake until two o’clock in the morning and then slept only fitfully since then. Maybe she could get onto the computers at work and find something about Jasper White, Dean Furness and this whole Gilgamesh business. She showered and dressed, grabbed some breakfast and then rode the tube to the office. As she went through the security channel she was flagged up and one of the gate keepers beckoned her over.
‘Good morning Miss Tate. The system says you’re on leave so I’m required to ask you why you’ve come in and give you a secondary check.’
‘I’ve just come in to pick up some personal items,’ Gerry explained.
‘Ok. Now gaze into the scanner, please.’
Gerry waited impatiently while the computer confirmed her iris scans and then hurried to the elevator hall. She went to her personal locker in the basement physical training centre and took out her squash racket in case the same gate keeper saw her leaving. Next she found an empty conference room and switched on the computer. Rather than using her own password she logged on using the security code of a colleague named Sylvia Brookes whose password she had surreptitiously noted when they were on a case together some months back.
The CIA personnel records listed Dean Furness and recognition codes to be used in the event of a joint operation, but as he was not based in Europe there was no other information. Gerry filled in a request for further details citing the reason that an operation was being considered but she doubted that she would get any response, except perhaps a summons from Cornwall asking her to explain the request.
Jasper White turned out to be a senior figure in the CIA, an ex US Marine Colonel with an exemplary record and an expert on the Middle East, but Sylvia Brookes’ clearance level could reveal nothing further. Next she entered Gilgamesh into the computer but drew blank. She slumped back in her seat and gazed at the screen, then printed out the meagre information on White and Furness. She walked out the building past security with her squash racket prominently in view and set off for home.
Gerry emerged from the Richmond underground station in bright sunshine and wandered along The Quadrant and George Street wondering what to do about her recent contacts and occasionally gazing into the shop windows. Then she walked onto the green and sat down on a bench and thought about Phil and their life together. She watched young children playing together with their mothers looking on, or perhaps they were nannies, she decided when she realised that the women looked very young. She was aroused from her reverie by the sound of distant thunder and she saw the skies were turning black with rain. She began to walk home, wishing she was carrying an umbrella rather than a squash racket. As the rain came down she regretted her earlier dawdling and she was fairly soaked when she reached her road, then as she turned the final corner she came to an abrupt stop. Outside her building were three police cars and a crime scene van.
Gerry examined her options. She could go in and find out what had happened. She could return to the office and report that a crime had apparently taken place at her home and ask the duty officer to establish the facts, or she could get away as fast as possible and then find out what happened from a safe distance. She looked over at her car parked opposite and a hundred metres up the road; she would have to pass the two constables stationed at the entrance to her flat. She had nothing with her but the clothes she was wearing and the contents of her handbag and her squash racket, but option three seemed safest for the moment and she turned round and walked back down the road towards the town.
A silver Ford Mondeo drew up to the pavement beside her and the driver’s window slid down. ‘Get in, Gerry!’ the driver ordered. It was Jasper White. She opened the passenger door and climbed in.
‘What the hell’s going on? Why are they there?’ she demanded.
‘The body of a male aged about forty has been found shot in your apartment. You’re wanted by the police.’
‘Oh shit!’ said Gerry. ‘Who is it? It’s not Dean Furness is it?’
‘Let’s go somewhere we can talk,’ he suggested.
He drove to the river bank and parked the car and they walked to a large pub with a terrace overlooking the river. It was fairly quiet on a Tuesday afternoon before the working day had ended. Inside White found a corner seat suitably distant from any loudspeakers so that they could have a quiet conversation.
‘Have a drink?’ he asked.
Gerry considered her resolution not to drink alcohol while she was pregnant and decided to revoke it for the day. ‘Dry white wine, please.’
White returned after a few minutes with her wine and a clear bubbling drink for himself with ice and lemon which could have been anything from a sparkling water to a vodka and tonic. It irked her that she did not know what it was. He sat down, looked around, took a sip of his drink.
‘Do you have a cast-iron alibi for where you’ve been today?’
‘Not all of it,’ she replied. ‘You think I’ll need one?’
‘Do you mind telling me where you’ve been?’
‘Why should I tell you, Jasper?’
‘Listen to me hard arse! Dean Furness was a good friend of mine; we go back a long way. I think he came to London because he knew I would help him out. He asked me to find out about you; who you were, where you lived; what you were like. He was in some kind of deep shit but I don’t know the details. He spoke to me last night. He told me he’d seen you and we agreed that we would meet up with you this afternoon. I drove round to your place and found all this shit happening.’
‘Yes he came to see me briefly yesterday. He told me Philip was murdered in Abuja.’
‘Did he talk to you about Gilgamesh?’
‘Yeah he mentioned him. Is it some kind of code word? I didn’t have a clue what he was on about.’ Gerry put her wine glass down with a bang. ‘How do I know it wasn’t you who shot this guy Furness?’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ snapped White. ‘Don’t you care what happened to your guy Philip out there in Africa?’
‘Of course I do, you bastard, and Neil Samms told me that Dean Furness had him killed!’
White hesitated a moment. He noted her rapid breathing and clenched fist, the small white scars showing clearly across her knuckles. ‘You heard that Philip died in a road accident on his way to the airport… right?’ Gerry gave a small nod. ‘Dean was due to be riding in that car as well. He realised his head was on the block and he’s been running scared ever since. Samms is mistaken, and I wonder why he told you that.’
Gerry’s combative mood evaporated; she stared up at the ceiling fighting off the wave of nausea engendered by the repetition of the story of Philip’s death.
‘Look, unless you’re considering running off, you’re gonna have to talk to the police sooner or later,’ said White. ‘Maybe we should level with each other and take it from there.’
Gerry saw that his angry expression had been replaced by a look of concern. She sighed and nodded. ‘Ok, but first tell me why you’re helping me.’
White stared at her for a moment. ‘Because I want to know the truth, and if I thought for a moment you’d killed Dean, you’d be lying on the sidewalk back there.’
‘Well that’s pretty direct.’ She stared down at the table, twiddling her glass and then looked at him. ‘How did Dean contact you?’