‘I can’t say I’m surprised to hear you say that. Milraud’s not one to give up easily. It sounded unlikely to me too; I’m sure some vital parts are missing. I just don’t believe he wanders around the world having meetings with people he doesn’t know anything about. He wouldn’t have lasted as long as he has, with me on his tail, if that’s how he did business.’
‘I know. And I can’t understand why the Arab Spring rebels would want to buy small weapons at a high price from someone like him. Surely they are getting all they need from Iran and Hezbollah and the like.’
‘Why don’t you stay the night and we can talk about it in the morning?’
‘I’d love to, but I can’t. Peggy rang to say there was some new information about the black man. One of the Special Branches think they know who he is.’
‘Let Peggy deal with it,’ he said, as he stopped the car at the station.
She touched his hand on the wheel. ‘No. I want to do it myself. I want to be sure Monsieur Milraud isn’t going to get away with anything now we’ve got him. For your sake, as well as my own.’
She kissed him on the cheek, jumped out of the car and was gone into the station before he could say anything.
Liz got up early in the morning and was at work by eight. Peggy Kinsolving, another early riser, was already there at her desk in the open-plan office.
‘Here’s the number to call,’ Peggy said, handing Liz a piece of paper. ‘It’s DS Halliday from Cheshire Special Branch. He said he’s fairly sure he knows the black man.’
Halliday wasn’t in his office until ten, but when he answered the phone he sounded cheerful and eager to help. ‘I’ve had your photo. I’m pretty certain I know your guy. It looks like Lester Jackson, who owns a club in Wilmslow. I’ll send you one of our pictures of him, so you can see what you think. He’s well known to me and my colleagues.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘He’s a tried and true bad guy, involved in trafficking drugs and women. But the frustrating thing is we’ve never managed to pin anything on him – not a single thing. The only trouble he’s been in that I know of was years ago. Some teenage scrapes, and one arrest for burglary – but he was underage, and I don’t think he even saw the inside of a young offenders’ institution. He’s never done time as an adult.’
‘You say he owns a club. What sort of club?’
‘It’s called Slim’s. In Wilmslow, which is in my bailiwick here in Cheshire. He gets quite a lot of the football fraternity in the restaurant and there’s gambling and girls, and drugs, of course. Sometimes it gets a bit wild at the weekends but nothing too bad, just some young footballer drinking too much or snorting too much coke and getting involved with the paparazzi.
‘There’s an upstairs operation as well, with girls providing special services, as you might say, but we’ve had no complaints and we’ve never bothered them up to now. Recently Immigration have been sniffing around. They’ve a strong suspicion that some of the girls may have been trafficked, probably from Eastern Europe, and they think he may be selling women on, because his own upstairs operation isn’t very big. Between you and me they’re planning a raid pretty soon and I’m helping them. I’ve got my eye on one of the girls as a possible inside source. The club’s in Cheshire, like I said, just inside our border, but Jackson lives in Greater Manchester’s area. You should talk to them; they know him pretty well. How’s he come across your radar anyway?’
Liz said cautiously, ‘We’re investigating a dodgy-looking arms deal on the Continent and it’s possible he may be involved.’
‘Guns? Jackson’s crooked as a dog’s hind leg, but as far as I know he’s never sold weapons. Still, there’s always a first time – he’s not somebody who would turn down an opportunity.’
‘If I wanted the Manchester angle who should I contact?’
‘You should probably call the Deputy Head of Special Branch there.’ His voice sounded unenthusiastic.
‘Not the Head then?’
‘No, he’s new. It’s his deputy who knows Jackson. He says he’s been helpful in the past.’
‘What. You mean he’s a source?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. But you’re better off getting the story from him.’
Halliday sounded oddly wary and Liz decided not to press the point. ‘OK, the Deputy Head it is. What’s his name?’
‘McManus. Do you want me to ring him first?’
‘Not Jimmy McManus?’ said Liz before she could stop herself.
‘Yes. That’s him. Do you know him?’
‘No, not really,’ she said, trying to recover from the surprise. ‘I met him quite a time ago. I’ll ring him myself,’ she added, though her heart was sinking at the prospect.
When the photographs came through Liz looked at them carefully, trying not to jump to conclusions. Some had been taken in the street, some in what looked like a restaurant but was probably the club. But there wasn’t any doubt – it was the same man. The same handsome face, with wide-set thin eyes, a sharp chin made sharper by the width of the high cheekbones. Afro-Caribbean, almost African but lighter-skinned, just the dark side of café au lait. Hair neatly cropped and, in all the pictures, very smartly dressed.
‘What do you think?’ asked Peggy, looking over Liz’s shoulder, unwilling to hope for too much. ‘Could it be our chap?’
‘“Could be” is the understatement of all time. He’s our man all right.’
‘But do we have any real evidence he’s one of the bad guys? Maybe he’s just a respectable businessman holidaying in Berlin.’
‘No. Milraud admitted he had a rendezvous with him and that the mysterious Arab set it up. What he hasn’t told us is why he met him and what they said to each other – nothing, according to him, except to arrange another meeting, but I don’t believe it. That’s just one of the things he’s holding back. So far we don’t have anything on Mr Jackson, and the Germans couldn’t hold him just for standing in front of a picture in a gallery, but I’m convinced he’s in it up to his neck. A Mercedes that comes out of nowhere, a private jet that diverts to God knows where, and most of all the contact with Milraud – that’s enough for me. And Halliday says he’s a tried and true bad guy.’
She looked at Peggy, who seemed convinced. ‘Now,’ said Liz, looking pointedly at her phone, ‘I’ve got someone else to ring to try and find out more.’ And Peggy took the hint and left Liz alone to make the call.
Chapter 22
‘Special Branch. McManus speaking.’
The voice was familiar, even after all these years, but it was more subdued, as if its owner had lost some vitality. Liz said brightly, ‘Hello there, it’s Liz Carlyle from MI5. I’m assuming I don’t have to say “remember me?”’
There was a long pause, followed by the quick sharp laugh she remembered well. ‘You can say that again. Hello, Liz. I take it this is a business call.’
You bet it is, she thought firmly. ‘I sent round a photograph recently asking for information. I’m surprised I didn’t hear from you. It’s been identified as one Lester Jackson. Apparently you know the man.’
There was another, shorter pause.
‘Yes, I do. I didn’t see your photograph. What’s he gone and done now?’
‘I was hoping you’d tell me. Has he got form?’
‘Strictly speaking no. But this isn’t Little Lord Fauntleroy you’re asking about. Why are you looking at him?’
‘He’s cropped up possibly in contact with someone we’re investigating on the Continent,’ she said cautiously. ‘We’re trying to work out what role he might be playing.’