I could say the same about this evening, Webster thought, hoping that whatever she had to say would be good.
“Eventually he asks me if my father has been behaving strangely. How? I ask him. Since his friend died, he says, in Iran. Then he tells me that he knows, from a good source, that my father is in a lot of trouble. With some very nasty people.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. He just told me that it had to do with money, that I should be careful, and I should talk to my father. Then he went.”
“Did you believe him?”
“He’s never lied to me. And he was agitated. Like someone who’s said too much.”
Ava blew cigarette smoke out into the wind.
“Have you talked to your father?”
“Not for a while. I figured his problems are his own. We talk less than we did. But after what happened to Parviz I had to. In Como, after you’d left.”
“What did he say?”
“He was furious. He told me he had enough people prying into his affairs and he didn’t need another.” Her cigarette was only half smoked but she stubbed it out. “I told him that if he couldn’t protect his family he wasn’t the great man he thought he was.” She smiled, but Webster could see that she was scared. “Do you think I’m right?”
FOR SEVERAL DAYS AFTERWARD Webster wandered from place to place like an outcast, waiting, comfortable nowhere. Elsa was cool, quiet, and unconvinced by his assurances, which felt both more plausible and more hollow each time he repeated them. His home, he realized, didn’t tolerate dishonesty; it reflected it back at him, like some fairy-tale paradise that blessed the pure in heart and tormented the wicked. Had he been able, he would have taken himself off on his quest and returned, humbled, only when he had made everything right.
At least the contract was more practical at work. Hammer was being bright and businesslike, making it clear that while he hadn’t enjoyed their last exchange he hadn’t been offended by it, and that no harm would be done if the Qazai case could now progress efficiently to its conclusion. This was straightforward and reasonable. Concentrate on Shokhor, and finish the case. But Webster knew, somehow, that there was nothing there. He was sure that before Qazai had even thought of Ikertu, he had seen a copy of the allegations against him, and was confident they were nonsense; sure that he never expected some lowly detective to exceed his brief, not when he was being paid to do as he was told; equally sure that he was doing everything in his power to bend that lowly detective to his will.
In any case, Oliver had been through Shokhor’s phone bills and found nothing of interest—or at least nothing of interest to this case. The police in several countries would no doubt have found them enthralling, but there were no calls to Qazai, Senechal, Mehr, or any Swiss art dealers, and even though the records only went back two years and didn’t cover the period in question, Webster chose to see in them further support for what he knew already. Shokhor was not the story. The story lay somewhere else, and if he didn’t find it soon Qazai would ensure that it was never told.
So when he had tired of sitting at his desk, trying and failing to start a report that he never wanted to see written, and long before it was time for him to return home, Webster would leave the office and walk, with no destination in mind, and try to resist the urge to ask Dean or Fletcher whether they had discovered anything more since his last call. Even in that short period he developed a routine: an early swim, breakfast with the children, Ikertu until a little after lunch, and then what was in effect a long walk home, in a broad arc around the top of the city or following the river before heading north. Every day, London was hot and close.
Serious concerns contended with grave ones. A formal letter had arrived from the Italians asking him to appear in Milan for further questioning, and the date they had set was four days after the Websters were due to leave for their summer holiday in Cornwall. He had not yet told Elsa. His Italian lawyer was trying to come to an agreement with the police that Webster would not be arrested if he did attend, but described his chances only as reasonable; and, on the other hand, if Webster refused to answer questions now it would count against him if the matter ever came to trial—a trial he could not avoid. Signore Lucca had no advice about the most difficult aspect of the whole business, which was whether Qazai had the power to stop the process that he had in all likelihood started.
It was on one of these walks that Oliver finally called.
HIS OFFICE FACED SOUTH and didn’t run to air conditioning, or even a fan. A grubby cream blind was down over the window and Oliver, unusually, had taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He was still wearing his tie.
“You don’t want coffee, I take it?”
Webster shook his head, impatient to get on with it.
“I just had some luck with the banks.”
“Mehr?”
“Mister Mehr. Correct. I’ll be honest with you, Ben, it’s a while since I’ve done a dead man’s bank accounts. Got to think on your feet a bit.”
Webster did his best not to think about what sort of agility was being employed on his behalf.
“So Mehr only had a couple of accounts. One here, one in Jersey. My man in Jersey—good man—found some interesting stuff a few days ago, but I wanted to see where it led before I bothered you. Truss it up nicely if I could.”
Webster nodded.
“So.” Oliver leaned forward against the desk and clasped his hands, pushing the thumbs together. “Mehr does all right for himself. Did all right for himself. Lots of business, most of it what you’d expect. He buys from the Middle East, and most of the money coming in is offshore. Smallest transactions are in the low thousands and they go up to millions. It’s more or less random. And then every so often, you get a little flurry of big payments coming in. Last March, last May, July, October, there were millions in the space of two days. Round amounts, fairly regular. But nothing this year.”
He looked at Webster to make sure he was keeping up, then carried on.
“OK. So that’s not so odd. Maybe he’s buying stuff for the Qazai Foundation or some other big client. But if he is, they’re paying him in advance.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the money comes in, then goes out. He gets paid first, then buys whatever he buys.”
“So he’s being financed.”
“Perhaps. But it seems strange that he doesn’t take a cut.”
Webster looked at him, a faint, familiar thrill in his chest.
“The money goes straight through,” said Oliver, leaning back in his chair and linking his hands on top of his head. “If two million comes in, two million goes out.”
“Where does it go?”
Oliver smiled. “Deeper offshore. I’m working on it.”
The sun still beat against the blind, and Webster could feel sweat standing on his skin. He looked at Oliver and shook his head. He had known it. He had always known that there would be something to find.
“Is it Qazai’s money?”
“Give me time.”
Along the frame of the window Webster could see a thin band of low rooftops and brilliant blue sky. He tried to work out what this meant. That money had been deliberately cleaned; if anyone looked, it would appear that Mehr had been going about his business, buying artifacts.
“What’s he doing?”