‘You “had” a source?’
‘Katya was found strangled in the kitchen of her digs two mornings ago. The uniform thought it was a burglary gone wrong but it doesn’t ring true to me. There was no sign of forced entry, nothing taken. One of her flatmates found her when she came home from work.’
‘Do you see a connection with the club?’
‘Yes I do, not that I can prove it.’ He hesitated, then finally said, ‘The thing is, when we arrested the girls we took Katya in, too. But she was released hours before the others were. I don’t know why – she was the only one sprung early. It would have looked peculiar. I didn’t ask for her to be let go, that’s for sure.’
Liz sensed he was very upset by this. She said encouragingly, ‘Maybe Forensics will find something.’
‘I don’t think so. The killer was very careful. Her place was in the Greater Manchester area and the CID guys there have made it a low priority.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Either because they reckon it’s a one-off and won’t lead anywhere, or because they know where it leads and have been warned off.’
‘What does that mean?’ She didn’t like the sound of it at all.
‘Ask your friend in Manchester Special Branch.’
He’s not my friend, thought Liz, but there was no point in saying this. She asked, ‘This woman Katya, did she have a Bulgarian passport too?’
‘I don’t know what passport she had, but I know she wasn’t from Bulgaria.’
‘Then where was she from?’
‘One of those funny ex-Soviet countries – the ones that end in “stan”. Hers was called Dagestan. At least that’s what she told me. Never heard of it myself. Have you?’
‘Yes,’ said Liz flatly. She had heard of it quite recently. ‘Listen, I wonder if you can help me with something.’
‘Just say the word,’ said Halliday so breezily that Liz wondered whether perhaps there had been some vodka in his tonic after all.
‘You remember I told you that we’d learned that Jackson was connected to an arms dealer.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Well, we’ve now had confirmation that he’s involved.’ She hesitated, then decided she had to trust him – so far at least, he had been completely straight with her, unlike her old friend McManus. ‘I think there might be a connection between his role in this arms deal we’re investigating and his usual business at the club – bringing in the women, I mean.’
‘What kind of connection?’
‘Not sure yet.’ Liz was working largely on intuition now; she couldn’t give Halliday any specifics because she didn’t have any. She went on, ‘That’s where you could be of help. Can you keep an even closer eye than usual on what goes on at Slim’s?’
‘Yeah, I can do that. But what am I looking for?’
‘I know it sounds rather pathetic but I can’t actually tell you. Anything that looks stranger than usual. It’s about bringing stuff into the country. Importing stuff that could be arms but it probably wouldn’t look like that.’
‘If you seriously think he’s into weaponry, it would probably be wise to run it by Manchester SB, just to be diplomatic.’
‘Do you have to? I thought you said Slim’s was on your patch?’
There was a pause, then Halliday said, ‘No, I don’t have to if you’re not going to.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I see you don’t trust McManus either.’
The overnight team outside Dinwiddy House had had a busier time than expected. At twenty past seven in the evening Zara had emerged, dressed now in a black hoody and jeans and carrying a small backpack. He had walked to Euston Station and after collecting a ticket from a pre-paid ticket machine, boarded a train for Manchester Piccadilly. Two of the team had accompanied him, while the Ops Room had dispatched another team to Manchester to be ready to meet the train, in case he stayed on all the way to Manchester.
Which he did. At Manchester the original team handed him over to the new team, which went with him, first on the metro to Manchester Victoria station and then on a local train, from which he got off at Eccles.
By this time it was past eleven o’clock and Liz in bed was on a conference call link to the Ops Room in Thames House. ‘Eccles,’ she said. ‘What on earth can he be going there for? Does anyone know anything about Eccles?’
Peggy, in her flat in Muswell Hill, a few miles further north from Liz, was in on the call and also searching the internet. ‘Eccles is part of Salford, about four miles from Manchester. The interesting thing is that it has quite a large Yemeni community. There have been Yemenis in Eccles since the 1940s,’ she read out from a website. ‘Large numbers came in in the 1950s. There’s a Yemeni Community Association. Perhaps he has friends there.’
Meanwhile the team in Manchester was reporting that they had followed Zara to a small terraced house, No. 31 Ashby Road. The door had been opened by a lady, probably in her late sixties, in traditional Muslim dress, who had kissed Zara and welcomed him into the house. They hoped Liz did not require overnight watch on the house, as it was a very quiet neighbourhood and therefore it would be difficult to remain unobserved. Liz had agreed that they could stand down for the night; it seemed most unlikely that anything was imminent. She and Peggy would meet in Thames House at seven in the morning and decide what to do next about Zara.
Chapter 31
Miles woke up slightly hungover, the after-effect of a long evening at the French Embassy, and discovered that his mobile phone was ringing. ‘Hello,’ he said tentatively; the screen read ‘number unknown’.
‘Ah, the croaky voice of a man who’s had a good night out.’
It was Bruno Mackay. At the best of times, Miles felt a mild antipathy towards his British Intelligence counterpart, and right now there was a jauntiness about the man he could do without.
‘What can I do for you, Bruno?’ he said shortly.
‘I’ve had a communiqué from London. It seems there’s been some progress. Better if we talk face to face, old man? I’ll see you at Sharim’s café in an hour.’
Miles made it in fifty minutes, feeling slightly revived after a long shower and a shave. He drove cautiously into the old city, keeping an eye on his rear-view mirror; after their experience on the road from Donation’s farm, he felt that his car might be a marked vehicle. Parking in a Diplomatic parking bay, under the eye of a policeman, he walked along the pavement until he saw the wide awning of Sharim’s – and Bruno, in a white cotton jacket and pink tie, sitting at an outside table.
Miles joined him. Bruno gave a commanding wave and a waiter scurried over with a fresh pot of coffee and a cup for Miles, who watched while the man poured out the syrupy local brew. Miles added two sugar cubes from the little clay pot on the table. As he stirred them in with a tiny wooden spoon, he said to Bruno, ‘So what’s the news?’
‘London’s identified the guy they sent the photographs of. The one at the meet in the Luxembourg Gardens that we were going to ask Donation about. His name is Samara and he’s Yemeni. He’s doing a Master’s degree at London University, the School of Oriental and African Studies, SOAS we call it. On the surface he looks perfectly legit. Only quite obviously he’s not. I’ve been asked to check out his credentials here, and I thought you might be able to help me.’
Why? wondered Miles, but then Bruno said, ‘You’re a bit better placed to ask, I think. If you get my drift.’
And Miles now understood. Official Yemeni–American relations were blossoming. A cynic might say that the United States was propping up a weak local government to further its own interests, but for whatever reason, a request for help from the American Embassy was likely to get a quicker, more favourable reaction than if the Brits had asked.