“Better check they’re not forgeries,” said Greenleaf.
Passport in the name of Hans Breuckner, occupation: schoolteacher. No visas.
“We’ll check that, too,” said Greenleaf. “See what the Dutch think of it.”
“I can tell you now what they’ll think of it, John. It’ll be a forgery. Either that or stolen, but a forgery’s my bet.”
“Do we know where he was living?” asked Greenleaf.
“He hasn’t said.”
“Maybe this will tell us.” Greenleaf was pointing to a small key.
“It’s not a room key or house key, though, is it?” said Elder. “Looks more like the sort you use to lock a petrol cap.”
“Bit too big for that,” said Greenleaf. “Not a car key, though. My guess would be a lockup.”
“A lockup?”
“You know, a garage. I used to live in a block of flats, we all had a garage down near the road. And we all opened our garages with a key like this.”
Elder examined it more closely. “It’s British, by the look of it. You think he’s got a flat, then?”
“No, or he’d have a key for it, too. I think he’s rented a garage. Maybe he’s been holing up in it, maybe he’s just using it for storage while he lives elsewhere.”
“Storage... now what would he be storing in a garage?” Elder looked up. “I’m glad you came, John.”
Greenleaf shrugged. “Doyle would’ve told you the same thing.”
“But he didn’t. You did.”
There wasn’t much else of interest: a one-day travel card, a tube map, and two pages pulled from an A-Z, showing the center of London from Bloomsbury to Victoria to the Elephant and Castle to Farringdon.
“Can’t see any markings,” said Greenleaf. “Can you?”
“No,” said Elder. “But maybe there are pressure points where a pencil or something’s been pressed against the page. Better get it into an evidence bag and let forensics take a look. You know we got some glasses?”
“Glasses?”
“And a bottle. Our Dutch friend was nabbed in a wine bar.”
“That much I knew.”
“He’d been drinking with a young woman. The barman’s given us a description.”
“Witch’s latest incarnation?”
“Maybe. Anyway, there were two glasses on the table. We’ve got them.”
“So maybe we’ll end up with Witch’s prints?”
“If nothing else, yes. Not that we’ve got anything to match them against.” Elder turned to the desk sergeant. “Can we have an evidence bag for this map?”
“Right away, sir.”
Elder turned back to Greenleaf. “Give me an educated guess,” he said. “How long to check every lockup in the London area?”
“An educated guess?” Greenleaf did some calculations. “About four and a half months.” Elder smiled. “That’s always supposing,” Greenleaf went on, “we were given the manpower, which is doubtful anyway. All the time I’m on Operation Broomstick, the caseload’s just growing higher and higher on my desk. It’s not going to go away.”
“It’ll soon be over,” Elder said quietly. “One way or the other, it’ll soon be finished.”
The desk sergeant, returning with a clear plastic bag, was chuckling and shaking his head.
“What’s the joke?” asked Greenleaf, taking the bag from the desk sergeant. He held it open so Elder could drop the map inside.
“Oh, nothing really. Just some of the lads. Two would-be muggers, big bastards by the sound of them, they picked on this slip of a girl near Covent Garden. Only, she’d been to self-defense classes. Gave them a terrible pasting the way the lads are telling it.” He chuckled again, not noticing the fixed way in which Elder and Greenleaf were staring at one another.
“Did you happen to speak with her?” Elder asked calmly.
“Speak to her? She was here in the station till half an hour ago.” He saw the look on Dominic Elder’s face. “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Barclay sat that afternoon at his old desk in his old office. It seemed like an eternity since he’d last been there. He found it hard to believe that in the past he’d been satisfied with just his information base and his computer console. He was itching to be elsewhere, to be in the thick of things. But he knew Joyce Parry wouldn’t let him out of her sight. So he’d spent the morning trying to be professional, trying not to let it worry him or niggle at him or scoop away at his insides. He’d tried. At least he could say he’d tried.
He’d handed his report to Joyce Parry first thing. Not that there was anything in it she hadn’t heard on the trip back last night. He hadn’t left anything out: bugging Separt’s apartment, Dominique disguising herself and going to see the Australian, wearing a wire which Barclay had made for her. And then the journey to Germany, and Dominique’s revelation that nothing they’d done had been sanctioned.
He felt like a shit as he typed it all in, felt he was somehow letting Dominique down. But she was probably doing exactly the same thing, thinking much the same thoughts. Neither of them wanted to lose a good job. Besides, doubtless Joyce Parry would cross-check Barclay’s testimony against that given by Dominique. If he left anything out, anything she’d admitted to... well, that would only count against him.
Joyce Parry had listened to him in silence mostly, with only the occasional shake of the head or disbelieving gasp. And she accepted the report from him with a slight nod of the head and no words. So now he had to wait. He had to sit at his desk and wait to see if his resignation would be asked for, or a demotion agreed, or whatever. Maybe he’d end up sweeping the corridors. He hadn’t felt as nervous as this since he’d been a schoolboy, caught playing truant and left waiting outside the headmaster’s door. What he’d dreaded then was a letter home to his parents. The guilt and shame of having been caught. But now, uneasy as he was, he was pleased, too. He’d had a few days of real adventure, and if he could go back, he’d do the same again. He allowed himself a private smile. Maybe Mrs. Parry was right, maybe Dominic Elder was the kind of person who used those around him then tossed them away. It didn’t bother Barclay.
He’d tried phoning Dominique three times this morning, with no reply. The international operator couldn’t help. He wondered if the phone was off the hook, and if so why. He’d also forwarded a copy of his report to Profiling, as Joyce Parry had told him to do. See what the mind doctors could make of it. Something was niggling him, something he knew he’d been going either to tell Joyce Parry or to ask her. It had been at the back of his mind for several days — before Germany, maybe even before Paris. As a result, it had now slipped from his mind altogether. Something he’d been going to say. But what?
He shook it away. If he left well alone, it would come back to him. He stared at the wall above his desk: the venomous Valentine, the Fire Drill, and the quotation he’d pinned there on a piece of memo paper — this fluke called life.
He plunged a hand into his full in-tray. Reports to be read, classified, passed on. His daily bread. He’d been given a sod of a job, collating “trigger words.” It was a little known fact that the technology existed not only to monitor telephone calls but to zero in on calls containing certain words — trigger words. It was a miracle of computer technology, but also highly fallible. The word “assassination,” for example, was unlikely to crop up in a conversation between two terrorists, whereas it might in a chat between two gossipy neighbors. And the word “summit” posed problems, too, being a homonym shared with the abbreviated form of “something.” Yes, highly fallible but potentially invaluable.
Currently, specifically, there was another problem, in that “Witch” sounded like “which”... and people on the telephone said “which” an awful lot of times. Dominic Elder had requested that Witch become a trigger word, clutching at yet another straw.